Panic Button

Epilogue

Let us open a window on the world.

Zooming in, we might find a city — there, there’s one. Let’s look closer. A fleet of black cars is processing towards a large municipal building, a monument of red brick, glass and slate roof tile. Hundreds of insect forms are lining the entrance to the building, dressed in their finery.

Let’s zoom in a little closer.

The insects are mourners, crowds of them, come to share in their collective grief — over people they didn’t really, actually know. The cars stop, and the invited guests clamber out. They trail into the building — it is a church hall.

Why not open another window and take a peek inside?

Floral tributes are everywhere in great stifling bunches, sitting atop pedestals. A huge projector screen displays slide images of the passengers of Deppart Airlines Flight D-665, and their dead friends and family members. Living relatives and friends, some already sobbing into handkerchiefs, take their seats in neat rows.

The ceremony begins, and a man steps up to a lectern to address the crowd. He is in his fifties, and wears the collar and cloth of a priest. His facial expression can barely contain his pent-up anger and emotion. He glances at his dear wife, gaining strength enough to speak from the look in her eyes. He is Father Rhys — Gwen’s father.

“Our hearts go out to the families and friends of those affected by these terrible events,” he says.

He looks almost relieved to be getting the words out, his voice cracked with regret.

The slide changes on the screen to one of Mike, the unfortunate young man who had his arms hacked off.

Look over there, on the front row to the left.

There’s a man in his twenties, just like Mike. His face burns red with anger and grief. He doesn’t look like he’s slept for days, poor lad. This must be Mike’s brother, the real Max Nichols, who carelessly had his identity stolen and so was not aboard Flight D-665. Perhaps he doesn’t feel so lucky to be alive, knowing what happened to the others — knowing what happened to his brother.

“And our prayers are with those lost souls who continue to watch… and share the events via the Internet…” the priest continues, his tone somewhat bitter.

Behind Max, on the very back row, two young boys are oblivious to Father Rhys’ words. They are engrossed in watching something on a mobile phone screen. They each have an ear bud inserted into one ear, so they can both hear the audio.

Let’s take a closer look, shall we? All we have to do is adjust our viewing angle.

There, they are watching the viral video from the plane, whispering to each other in quiet excitement as another passenger dies before their young eyes.

On the projector screen, the slide changes to a portrait of another of the passengers.

“We must pay tribute to…” This time the priest falters, struggling to speak the words. “Jo Scott.”

It’s as if the words are stuck in the poor man’s throat.

“Whose brave final actions saved countless lives…”

He pauses again. We all know why. We all know he’s seen the video along with pretty much everyone else on the planet. Maybe he just can’t get it out of his head, the image of Jo Scott breaking his daughter’s neck. Perhaps that’s how he will always remember her, as a murderer — not as the selfless heroine who crashed the plane into the sea, saving the All2gethr headquarters and its staff.

A young woman weeps silently, seated to the far left of the gathering. She looks up at the image of her sister Jo, trembling with barely suppressed rage. The woman is Maddie Scott, returned early from her travels. It will take a long time for her to come to terms with the fact that she was absent when her entire family were killed. It may take even longer for her to face up to the cold hard fact that she chose not to have any contact with them for weeks.

“We will never forget our loved ones,” Father Rhys struggles on, “Cut down so early in life…”

Tears flood from his eyes now, and he almost collapses over the lectern beneath the crushing weight of his grief. His wife rushes from the sidelines to help him down from the podium. And in the hullabaloo, the slide on the screen changes to one of Sophie Scott, the young girl who is still reported missing…

Let us zoom out now, and leave these people to contemplate the hard-earned lessons of their grief.

From high above, the world can look like such a peaceful, idyllic place. Vast blue oceans kissing the shores of lush green landmasses — a world of infinite possibilities.

But we see a different picture.

We know the world is host to an insect scourge. Their networks of roads and cities crammed with buildings, all conjured from the minds and hands of human beings. They swarm the planet like an infestation, driven by dreams of avarice, fuelled by greed.

And not content with polluting this world, they have seen fit to create another. A virtual world that presents a pathetic fallacy of utopia.

How they wish their second life in that world could be better than the lifetime they spend trapped in their frail bodies. But this virtual world is merely a mirror for their many failures, an extension of their rot and sin, a dumping ground for their basest desires. Like the toxic waste it seeks to bury in the real world, humanity’s virtual crimes will out.

There is an Alligator wrapped around that world, his sinewy tail and razor talons gripping it tight.

His eyes are like orbs of fire, with dark slits at their core, and they see all. He sees us. He knows what we do, and pieces together the breadcrumb-trails of data we so carelessly leave behind. He is watching, waiting.

He is watching you.