His account of Flavio Fergal was an exercise, in leaving things out. Devon portrayed an icon, magnetic yet fundamentally innocent; an artist-philosopher exploiting society's weariness. The bookshop was noted the shared tea left out. He submitted it. A minor cultural surveillance file. Pamela replied with a confirmation. Her focus had moved to a trafficking network trading analogue novels—a genuine offense.
Still Flavio's words lingered. "You are already one of us." They resonated in that area beyond his thoughts, an area expanding daily. His assigned Engagement Exercises— reality treks, competitive data challenges—seemed like twisted impersonations. His score fell to 65%. A caution alert surfaced, recommending a meeting, with a Cognitive Engagement Coach.
Afterward the invitation appeared. Not addressed to him personally. Blossoming throughout every public medium, in Rotterdam, a sleek simple design.
AN AESTHETIC EVENT
LOCATION: MARKTHAL, ROTTERDAM
TIME: 12:00 – 13:00
PIECE: 'MONOLITH (DURATIONAL)'
ARTIST: FRONIE FELICITY
No description. Only a note: "Observation is participation."
From his office Devon observed the excitement growing. News feeds were disdainfully entertained. "Troublemakers aiming to lunch!" "Artistic. Public disturbance?" Social mood analytics indicated rises, in annoyance and intrigue. A handful of voices few conveyed a slight optimistic curiosity.
At 11:55 Devon shut down his monitors. "Field observation " he recorded in his log. "Direct threat evaluation." He didn't ask for approval.
Rotterdam's Markthal stood as a cathedral of abundance. A soaring vaulted space adorned with a -saturated digital mural of enormous fruits, flowers and foodstuffs. Sellers promoted genetically-modified strawberries, fragrant Indonesian curries and lab-crafted cheese. The sound was tangible—a cacophony of trade, laughter, countless languages and curated streams celebrating market energy. Engagement Scores were consistently elevated here. It served as a shrine to the Post-Somnum Consensus: existence, as consumable excitement.
Devon navigated the throng his attire seeming more like a mask. The environment's intensity struck him at once a barrage on his senses that tightened his jaw. He noticed other Aesthetes, out of uniform yet identifiable by their serene motionless expressions, among the bustling crowd. They remained inactive. Just stood by.
At midday a solitary pure bell sound echoed throughout the hall. It wasn't loud. It pierced through the clamor, with sonic clarity. Every head swiveled.
Close to the fountain an area opened up. Not, through compulsion. As individuals moved aside.
Fronie Felicity remained still. She was a lady, with elegant features, clad in unbleached linen fabric. Clutched in her hands was an object—a dark orb. She. Uttered a word nor smiled. She set the orb down touched its surface once and moved back.
Out of the sphere a quiet expanse emerged.
It wasn't a silence one could hear. It was a stoppage. The vibrant changing mural on the overhead in that zone halted on a solitary subdued depiction of a grey cloud. Every augmented reality label, price blink and personal alert glow within a ten-meter range vanished. The clamor of the market inside that bubble was wiped away swapped for a void that felt like it was drawing at the eardrums. Light, inside the perimeter dimmed, shedding its shine.
And at its center, the sphere itself was just that: a matte, dark grey, motionless ball. It was nothing. It was an absolute zero of event.
For an instant the nearby crowd simply gazed. Perplexity.
Then, anger.
A fishmonger, his holographic catch-sign turning inactive yelled. "Hey! You're ruining my trade! Get that away!" He advanced to the edge stretched out his hand. When his fingers crossed the barrier he jerked back recoiling as if struck by ice. Not agony,. Deep unease. A breach of anticipation.
A visitor chuckled anxiously capturing footage on her phone. Devon observed at a look that the stream displayed merely a fuzzy crackling area where the orb appeared.
"This is against the law!" a man, in a business suit snapped. "Blocking the public! Somebody contact Municipal Vigilance!"
Yet nobody acted. They were apprehended. Angry, indeed.. Also… captivated.
Devon observed faces. First came shock, which shifted into confusion and then into a hesitant attention. People were gazing at emptiness. At an incident that wasn't happening.. Since there was nothing visible they started noticing everything else. The nervous tapping of the fishmonger's foot. The gradual float of dust, in a ray of sunlight that now appeared genuine not enhanced. The plain unembellished breath of the artist, Fronie, standing guard her expression a mask of focused stillness.
A youngster, around four years old slipped away, from her mother's grasp and walked directly to the edge. She didn't go beyond it. Instead she settled down legs. Gazed into the quiet. Her restlessness ceased. Her little face relaxed into a look of serene focus.
That was the instant everything shifted.
The sphere wasn't an assault. It was a mirror. It bounced back the clamor surrounding it rendering that clamor suddenly… unnecessary. Cheap. Draining.
Devon sensed it within himself. The chaotic market surrounding him this peak of interaction now seemed empty a feeble pretense. The genuine, the powerful resided in that realm of calm. His breathing grew deeper involuntarily. The rapid pace of his heart started to ease. An urge, intense, than hunger gripped him—a desire to cross that boundary to stand in that emptiness and allow the burden of his watchfulness to fade away.
A city enforcement officer appeared, her expression serious. She came up to Fronie started talking and indicated various regulations. Fronie simply stared at her made a subtle motion, toward the sphere. The officer's speech stumbled. Her gaze was captured by that orb. Her authoritative confidence faded, leaving a confused weariness. She made no arrests. She just remained there observing emptiness.
The sphere remained for an hour. During that period trade, around it decelerated. Discussions quieted. No one departed. Instead they assembled, a mute expanding crowd surrounding a shrine of emptiness. A few remained furious.. Their fury no longer held its conviction.
At one minus five minutes Flavio Fergal showed up next, to Devon. He avoided glancing at Devon. His gaze was fixed on the crowd.
"They arrived expecting spectacle " Flavio whispered, his tone barely audible. "Instead they encountered anti-spectacle. It is more unsettling. More authentic."
"What's that?" Devon inquired, his voice hoarse.
"A hole. A brief gap, in an existence that is otherwise completely occupied. Observe them. They are recalling something. An internal void they were instructed to occupy."
The bell chimed again. Gently.
The sphere shut down. The clamor, brightness and digital dazzle of the market surged back into the area with a nearly overwhelming force. People recoiled, squinting, as if emerging into a more unforgiving reality. The child, near the edge started to weep but with a profound forlorn sadness.
Fronie Felicity moved ahead picked up her sphere and left. No nod. No clarification.
The crowd gradually broke up in silence. The usual noise picked up more yet it seemed strained, hollow. Individuals glanced at their engagement scores surprised by the declines and variations. They appeared embarrassed like someone discovered in a moment.
Devon's communication device chimed. Pamela. Her tone was tense lacking its bureaucratic ease. "Duncan. Where are you? Have you watched the streams? That wasn't art. It was a weapon. A subtle elegant weapon. I need Flavio Fergal's entire network charted. Find that artist. Hold them for causing public unrest. This is a threshold. Do you get me? This is the start."
Devon observed Flavio disappear into the dispersing crowd. He glanced at his hands. They remained calm. For the time in many years his thoughts were not rushing toward a resolution. Instead they were fixated, on one truth.
He was unwilling for the sphere to finish.
He had wished to reside within it.
"I understand," he said to Pamela, the perfect analyst once more. But the words were a lie. He no longer understood anything, except the profound, terrifying beauty of surrender. The war was not against sloth. It was against this aching, human want for peace. And in that moment, he knew which side he was quietly, inexorably, beginning to root for.