"Nothing is more important than the work you put in, day in, day out," Verne Aadh's parents had drilled into his mind since he was a child. And now sitting inside their cubical garage, those words never made more sense.
Verne's creation was psyched up, ready to change his wide world's perception of reality. All of his colourless half-century life's regrets, remorse and sorrows were being extinguished by the river raining from cloud nine at the moment. He no longer needed the loaded revolver lying on his desk next to the device.
The soundproof garage had a metallic smell to it, a half-empty beefy toolbox lying among other instruments of great value to him. There were broken glass pieces and dry bloodstains at the fore of the garage door. His desk was attached to the wall adjacent to the garage door and a small window glanced above him, through which a Verne could see and hear a crow cawing repeatedly at the violent sun.
He lifted a Monster drink to replenish his mortal body and upon a mouthful of violent sucking on its edges, finally decided that it had been consumed to the very last drop and hooped it into the dustbin in the corner. He missed the shot, the overflowing wasteland of the dustbin unfortunately only granting him a certificate of participation.
The device, which was invented to communicate to parallel realities, was now finally entering into its alpha-testing session. It formed the shape and width of the accountant's calculator, lead in colour with two buttons-START and END, colourised in the green and red colours respectively, and placed vertically below a tiny display screen.
Verne's was thinking of a profound citation to announce upon pressing START. Or should he say something comical and funny? He made up his mind to the former. Imagine if Elon Musk had said, "Finally I get to create my version of Westeros," upon SpaceX's successful voyage to Mars. It would have been a cringe-worthy moment capable of cancelling him back at Earth.
He pressed START and heralded, "Problems of huma-," he was cut off to another voice screaming, "I outdid Bran fucking Stark, motherfucker." Two red dots appeared on the army green screen, two centimetres in height, and length ran across the device. At the extreme right of the screen, it read "CONNECTED".
"What?" both questioned in overlapping accordance, "Holy Khaleesi."
Verne asked, "For ease of conversation can we agree to you being addressed as Verne Two?"
"Not a chance, you're Verne Two," an unsparing reply. Verne's mind was busy multiplying possibilities.
"So let's start about life on your earth, and kindly refrain from skipping any details." Verne Two entreated.
"Let's start about," Verne mimicked. "There are a great number of answers to that question."
"Okay," Verne Two quickly understood the ambiguous nature. "How's the country?"
"It's pretty fucked, still," Verne replied.
"Wait, you're in twenty-twenty six, July fifteenth right?"
"Yes."
"Okay. And it is morning, eight A.M?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Continue about the country and whatnot."
"Okay, the country's more divisive than ever. Discrimination on different bases still exists. Our leader's an idiot, the privileged class is still full of shit, suicide rates are spiking, the fight for the illusion of power between countries is still going on, crops are getting infested and I'm getting depressed talking about this."
"Sweet Mother of Dragons, the world's gone nuts!" Verne two squeaked.
"Your world also?" Verne asked, nearly comforted at the mutual familiarity of the two worlds. Verne Two was reluctant to answer. "You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," Verne backed up.
"No, it's fine," Verne Two assured. "Life's never been better on this planet. Discrimination has been squashed, the country's leader is doing a commendable job, jobs are being given on merit and people are genuine in their care about other people here."
"That's excellent," Verne said melancholically and pondered. The revolver didn't seem as submissive as it did a few minutes back. "What's your personal life like?" he asked.
"It's great. I've been happily married for the past twenty-two years."
"Fuck!" Verne exclaimed. "Good for you, good for you. Who's the lucky lady?"
"Her name is Sayani and we've been together since college. We have a young boy, Ashish is his name."
"Fuck, I broke up with Sayani two years after college to further my career, which didn't burst through the ceiling as I thought it would, or as my parents had promised. And I remember about her telling me about the one-child limit. She was a gorgeous lady," Verne sighed.
"She's so amazing. You have no idea the life you missed out on." Verne didn't respond. "She completely transformed my life." He revolved the revolver and comprehended instead. He silently wished that the garage would collapse and kill him at the moment. "Verne, are you still there?" Verne Two resounded.
"I'm here, just thinking."
"What about?"
"Maybe I shouldn't make this technology public," Verne blurted.
"Why not? It's potential for solving problems is boundless," Verne-Two countered.
"I mean, do people really need it?"
"Forget about the people, and think about the money you'll receive. Money with which you're life can turn around."
"I mean, most people feel insignificant already. Now think of what would happen once they realize that there are infinite versions of themselves, a lot of them who grabbed what they wanted and are happy, not miserable as they are."
"You do have a point, but don't you want to have a good life?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you ever want to get out of your parent's basement? You're fifty years old. For your sake, get your life together."
Verne ignored the obvious, "Money isn't going to get me my life back. I've been doomed from the start. This world's been doomed from the start."
"Whatever." Verne Two was keen to change the subject. He thought of an interesting topic and realized the best was right at the top of his head, "I heard the last season of Game of Thrones is getting rebooted. They're going to make another three seasons to stay faithful to the books and the writer's vision."
"You got to be fucking kidding me," Verne cried.
"The less than ideal post-show careers of the cast probably helped in bringing them together."
A gunshot reflected in feedback. The lingering active Verne stared into the silence of the machine, choked up at the cost of fabrications.
"It wasn't true. None of it," he lamented.