Orfyn

 

 

In the last week of dreams, I’ve been in Bat’s basement—technically, his dead mother’s basement—and done nothing but hang out in the world’s most comfortable recliners, listening to cool music and talking about paintings. It would be great if this were my old life. But he’s supposed to be mentoring me in … something.

Lately, he’s been asking me these bizarre questions like: Why do you think Picasso was so obsessed with fawns? and Don’t you think Andy Warhol was a big phony? and Isn’t it time to bring nudes back into mainstream art? And the whole time we’re together, Bat plays this video game. His avatar, who looks like a troll version of himself, walks through a garden. That’s it. No sword fights or car chases or snipers. Just walking. It’s weird.

“You know, the other Nobels are trying to change the world,” I say.

Bat stares at me blankly, which is pretty much his normal expression.

“You’re my Mentor. We’re supposed to be advancing the state of art.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, we were brought together to beat the machines and keep humanity in art.” Saying it out loud makes it sound like I’ve lost my mind. But I’m saying this in a dream created by Bat after his brain patterns were implanted into my head. Reality isn’t in play anymore.

“Is that what they told you?” he says with the concern of someone selecting socks.

“That’s why we’re here!”

“If you say so.” He directs his avatar to circle a tree. “Is that really what you want to do?”

“No,” I admit. “I came here because I want to learn from you.”

“What do you want to learn?”

He’s got to be messing with me. “Bat, you do realize you’re my Mentor, right?”

He shrugs with the innocence of a little kid. “I don’t always grok everything that’s going on, but I know this isn’t the only world. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember there’s another one. I know the important things, though. I know you painted this.” He nods to the screens, and a new image appears: Christ, his Disciples, and the Stanley Cup.

Take This Cup.

“How … how do you have my painting?” I manage to ask.

“Didn’t you give it to me?”

“Noooo.”

“You must’ve been thinking about it.”

Prickles run down my spine. “You know what I’m thinking?”

“Didn’t think so.” Bat studies my painting. “I think it’s my favorite. Really. Of all time.”

If this whole situation isn’t strange enough, he’s telling me he likes my painting over a basement full of true masterpieces. “I painted it on a brick wall in Brooklyn. It was gone that same day.”

His mouth turns down, and he shakes his head. “What a loss. Hey, want a grape soda?”

“No, I don’t want a grape soda. I want you to teach me how to be a great artist.”

“No one can teach you to be great. You’re going to be great, or you’re not.” Bat takes a long swig of soda, burps loudly, and starts typing.

As I watch his fingers race across the keyboard, a terrible thought hits me. “What did you do for a living? I mean, before.”

“Pretty sure it was games.”

“You got paid to play games?”

“I created them.”

I suddenly want to barf. “Bat, aren’t you a painter?”

He takes a moment to look around and nods in satisfaction. “I think I painted this basement.”

I want to strangle him—except his body is already dead. “During the procedure, I saw an artist painting a picture. Wasn’t that you?”

“Me? No.” He scratches at his stubble. “Maybe I commissioned it for you. You know, as a gift. Did it seem like Rauschenberg? I bet I chose Rauschenberg.”

My dream-self takes a deep breath to keep from screaming in frustration. “So, are you or are you not an artist?”

“I’ve always considered myself to be an electronic artist.”

“What does that even mean?!” I get up and wave my hand at the screens. “All you’ve done since we’ve merged is waste time playing this stupid video game. You’re supposed to be a Master and teach me how to become one.”

“My game isn’t stupid. Did you notice all the greens?”

The screens display the garden from his game, but now the view has expanded to include a forest that goes on forever. The electronic sunlight filtering through the electronic leaves highlights what has to be a hundred shades of green. It almost feels like I could walk right into it. It’s impressive, but it’s still just a game.

“A painter can play with perspective,” Bat says. “But can you shift the scene one hundred and eighty degrees?” His chubby fingers hit a half a dozen keys, and suddenly I’m looking at the back of the same trees. “Can you alter the light to reflect the time of day?” The sun slides lower on the horizon, casting long shadows. “How about make a plant grow?” I watch as a dandelion rapidly goes through its life cycle, ending with its seeds drifting in the wind.

It finally dawns on me that Bat created this game. “It’s cool, it really is, but no one would consider it art.”

“A lot of people don’t call what you do art, either. But I always did.”

Okay, now I feel like a total jerk. “I’m sorry, Bat. I really am. It’s just that you’re supposed to be my Mentor. We’re here to do something important.”

Bat pulls himself out of the recliner, heads over to the screens, and stares into the forest behind the screen. “Let me ask you this. Why did you paint what you did?”

“I wanted to blow people’s minds.”

“Then my advice as your Mentor is: go paint something that blows someone’s mind.”

When I wake up, my first thought is that Mr. Blue had to have known the truth. Why did the Darwinians choose Bat? Everyone else has a Mentor who’s trying to make the world better. Then I get it. Gaming programmers make a ton of money. My pride at being chosen withers and dies faster than Bat’s dandelion. The Darwinians never wanted me. They only needed a sixteen-year-old, and it was a whole lot simpler if that body belonged to an orphan.

If all this is true—which I’m pretty sure it is—the Darwinians sold out, Mr. Blue lied about why I’m here, and Bat bought my body. I’m nothing like the others.

I can never let them know.