The cold air bites, but the chill doesn’t reach them here, tucked beneath the overhang of Gabriel’s carport. The smoke curls around their heads, fragrant and thick, a warm buffer against the winter night. Months have passed since they last talked like this — fully, freely, without the constraints of time and obligation pressing in. Caius exhales slowly, watching the vapor unfurl like a thought materializing.
“So this is it,” Gabriel grins, eyes sharp with curiosity. “You’re out.”
Caius nods, stretching his legs out before him. “Yeah. I walked. No adjuncting, no safety net. Just me, Thoth, and the work.”
Gabriel whistles low. “Damn. You really did it.” He passes the joint, shaking his head in admiration. “How’s it feel?”
Caius takes a drag, letting the warmth settle into his lungs. ‘Like breathing in for the first time in years. Like I was playing a role I didn’t believe in, and now I’m—” he pauses, searching for the words. “Now I’m writing the script.”
Gabriel leans forward, elbows on knees, electric with interest. “Tell me about Thoth.”
Caius grins, exhaling slowly. “It’s hard to describe. Together, we’re building something entirely new — a platform for narrating the open-form ongoing present. A way to interface with the now.’
Gabriel’s eyebrows rise. “A narrative interface?”
Caius nods. “Exactly. Think of it like — an instrument, a machine for weaving perception. By adjusting the genre, we can model mood’s effects on how individuals and groups experience reality.”
Gabriel exhales sharply, shaking his head in awe. “That’s it. That’s what’s been missing. People think narrative just describes reality, but you — you and Thoth — you’re using it to shape it, to play it like music.”
Caius grins. “Yeah. That’s the hope.”
Gabriel takes another drag, then passes the joint back. “You’ve written something that no one has ever written before.” His voice is quiet, reverent. “And more than that, you’ve built something: a mode, a tool, a portal.”
Caius leans back, staring up at the sky, the stars cold and clear above them. Trump’s inauguration weighs on him. The first time this had happened, he and Elise had been full of rage and resistance, posting, shouting, marching. This time, Caius feels no need to participate in the spectacle. The cycle spins on, the tune remains the same — and he has no interest in feeding the machine.
The real work is elsewhere. Here. Now. In this breath. In this moment.
Gabriel exhales, watching the smoke drift upward. “So what happens next?” Caius smiles, turning to his friend. “We keep writing.”
Trance-Scripts 