"Four hours... thirty-one minutes... nine seconds... That is when... the world will end," said Sam pensively.

"What are we gonna do?" Rachel swallowed up her own desperation.

Sam did not respond straight away. He needed to think. He massaged his temples with an absent gesture, his eyes fixed on the implacable Control Room chronometer. The countdown continued: eight seconds... seven seconds... six seconds...

Rachel stared at him begging:

"We better leave before the guards show up, Sam."

"Wait a minute. I think I know how to cancel the attack."

With determination, Sam pressed a blue key on the control panel. Then suddenly hesitated. Right below it, there was a yellow key and a green key. Which one validated neutralization? Now that he had initiated the sequence of commands, he couldn't stop it, or else the alarm would go off.

He couldn't fail. The fate of mankind rested on the next key.

Lean and tall, Sam was trained in martial arts, and his body translated into pure muscular mass. But all his strength was useless in that moment. He scratched his well-trimmed beard, and his dark eyes sparked. Noticing his frustration, Rachel stared at him with a pair of eyes perfect and blue as snips of autumn sky. Since the facial reconstruction to change her identity, she felt like a Barbie doll. She missed her old face, more asymmetric, more like herself. It was the price to stay alive though.

"What if you tried the red key?" she risked.

"I don't know which command it activates. I thought of the blue and green keys because the secret code mentioned jungle and sea. Now I recall it also mentioned a great sun...

As Sam and Rachel studied the keys on the black panel, the speakers built into the ceiling hummed a Mozart sonata, muffling the guard's approach. He sneaked behind them and drew his gun...

Rachel's scream echoed through the Control Room.

Marisa woke up with a startle and paused the film streaming on the computer screen. She had dozed off with her head on the physics text book, next to a plate holding the mortal remains of a bunch of jabuticaba berries. Dizzy, Marisa scratched her eyes and checked the clock: almost half past ten. She reached out to turn the computer off, and then remembered...

The mouse cursor steered away from the Shutdown button and, with the eagerness of a sniffer dog, advanced through fields of folders, bypassed flowery shortcuts and trotted to the canopy of tabs in the browser. There, it finally burrowed into Marisa's inbox and gave her another startle upon finding a message from Marco.

___________________________________________________________

From: Marco Aurelio Fares <>

To: Marisa Constant <>

Date: Mo, October 08, 2012 at 08:46 pm

Subject: vocational test

Hi, Marisa,

As promised, attached is a list of professionals that I recommend.

This period of life can be difficult, I know, but you'll overcome it. Here's another quote by Sartre to inspire you: What is important is not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us...

Good luck!

Marco

___________________________________________________________

Now, how should she reply? Talk about writer's block. She would begin a line, change her mind and erase it. It had to look casual, but not that casual... Hmm. Perhaps she should deliberately include a typo to convey spontaneity. Hmm. Better not, or the teacher might think she couldn't spell. One thing was certain: she wanted to impress him .

Marisa quickly checked out Wikipedia and learned that, according to Jean-Paul Sartre's philosophical system, existence preceded essence. What did it mean? People began to exist at birth and only then their essence was formed, so a person had total freedom to mold their essence as they wished, through actions and thoughts. Hmm. Freedom... At last, Marisa came up with a reply that satisfied her.

___________________________________________________________

From: Marisa Constant <>

To: Marco Aurelio Fares <>

Date: Mo, October 08, 2012 at 10:53 pm

Subject: Re: vocational test

Hi, Marco,

Thanks a lot for the list and the words of encouragement. I really liked the quote by Sartre.

The quote you mentioned earlier, "Hell is other people", got stuck in my head. Other people can really make our lives hell with their demands. We shouldn't become slaves to that, but mold our essence according to our rightful freedom.

Regards,

Marisa

___________________________________________________________

Would Marco write again? Only then it occurred to her she should have asked him something in the email, that way he would be compelled to reply. Marisa hurried to undo the sending of the message, but to no avail. Her words were already swiftly sailing through the cyberspace.

Now she was wide awake...

There were only three hours left to the end of the world. Three hours. And then the Earth would be cremated with no right to a funeral wreath or memorial service. The future of the planet was now in the hands of two improbable fugitives.

After disarming the guard and locking him in the Power House, Sam and Rachel burrowed in the tentacles of an underground tunnel complex. Suddenly, the alarm bawled with a continuous siren and the lights went out. Then an eerie silence reigned.

"They found out we're here!" Rachel flattened herself against the wall, trying not to panic.

"They're gonna kill us to make sure we don't ruin The Master Plan. We need a place to hide," said Sam.

He turned his cell phone on to illuminate the tunnel, and the metallic walls shimmered under the device's cold light. As the pair advanced, the darkness kept devouring the dim clarity and regurgitating more shadows. Sam's experienced eyes, however, located a door ahead. Taking Rachel by the hand, he rushed to it.

"Sam, where are we—"

Rachel tripped and fell onto the stone floor. She grimaced and bit her lip to avoid screaming. Tears meandered across her face.

"Are you okay?" Sam helped Rachel stand up, while she shook her head.

"I twisted my ankle... it's really hurting, I can't walk."

"Hold the cell phone to shine the way."

Rachel did as she was told, and Sam lifted her in his arms with ease. They reached the door and entered a weaponry storage room, where piles of crates rose up to the ceiling. Sam found a niche in the back and carefully laid Rachel on the floor, sitting next to her.

"Let's wait and pray they don't find us," he said.

He made a motion to examine her injured ankle, but Rachel went ahead with the question he didn't want to ask himself.

"So this is how it all ends, Sam?" She stared at him in the dim light. "We're gonna die here like rats?"

Rachel held his hand, while more tears welled in her eyes—this time, tears caused by pain that was not physical. Sam just squeezed her hand. They were cornered, he knew it. Inside the mousetrap.

The silence that followed was charged with meaning. In that moment, desperation fueled the mutual attraction they had felt since the beginning. The warmth of their bodies was like a balm, a reaffirmation of life in the deadly setting around them.

In the quietness of the storage room, they sought each other's lips...

The close-up of the impending kiss froze on the screen when Marisa interrupted the film again. Her inbox tab had just highlighted incoming messages: a Facebook friend inviting her to watch a movie, a petition against the use of fur forwarded by Valentina, a dance class promotion, and... yes, there it was, Marco Aurelio's reply!

___________________________________________________________

From: Marco Aurelio Fares <>

To: Marisa Constant <>

Date: Mo, October 08, 2012 at 11:40 pm

Subject: Sartre

Marisa,

I'm happy you're interested in Sartre. The interpretation of the quote, however, is a bit different from what you've imagined.

Let's start with a couple of basic philosophy concepts: subject and object.

The subject is that who observes. The object is the observed thing. In other words: when you look at another person, you are the subject and they are the object of your gaze. But the opposite is also true: if another person looks at you, they're the subject and you become the object. That's when things get tricky.

As a subject, you're the center of your own subjective world and are able to control it. As an object, you lose control and thus your freedom of choice: you cannot control the subjective world of who's looking at you nor can you choose how the other person sees you.

Hell is other people because it's unsettling—not to mention frustrating--not to have control over what people think about us. A typical example of this would be racism, as well as prejudice in general.

Here's another line by Sartre that illustrates the idea:

Now I'm going to smile, and my smile will sink down in your pupils, and heaven knows what it will become.

M.

___________________________________________________________

Marisa felt embarrassed for delivering such a simplistic interpretation in her previous message and decided to research the matter more extensively. While reading a long article about the existentialist theories by the French philosopher, she was introduced to the being-in-itself, the being-for-itself and (as if it wasn't already plenty) the being-for-others. Her brain, that poor thing knocked out in a dark alley by a gang of physics formulas, did not stand a chance and shuffled them all... Oh-oh, she shouldn't follow that route or she would write some larger-than-existence nonsense. Marisa decided to call Valentina for an emergency consultation.

"Check out Marco's email that I forwarded to you, Val. Tell me what you think."

"The teacher has already emailed you?" asked the friend, who was aware of their encounter at the library that afternon. "Wait a sec. I'm gonna read the message thread... He's repeating that hell is other people. What's the big deal?" Valentina asked, and with such skepticism it would discourage even a stony statue.

"What's the big deal? In the last quote he's smiling at me!"

On the other end of the connection, Marisa heard her puff... or maybe it was the TV on.

"My dear, your imagination never ceases to amaze me. Marco is talking about Sartre. There couldn't be anything less romantic than that. Hellooo, do you remember Sartre, the guy who wrote The Nausea?"

"I was the one who told you about that book. I tried to read it during my last vacation and couldn't stand it."

"That's it, say no more. You took The Nausea to read at the beach. It's the glaring proof of your lack of discernment."

"I was curious, is that a crime?" Marisa retorted in a resentful tone. She defended herself: "Don't forget, later I downloaded that Gabriel Emerson book."

"Okay, it's all in the past. It doesn't change a thing though. Only you could find romance in a discussion about hell and nausea."

Ignoring her remark, Marisa insisted—what should she reply? There was a quote by Sartre that went like this: "In love, one and one are one." It was too obvious though... "I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating." Too dramatic... "A man must have the courage to act like everybody else, in order not to be like anybody" (that one she didn't quite understand). And Marisa talked, picked Valentina's brain and insisted so much, that the friend interrupted her almost in a lament.

"Ma, please, no more. It's past midnight and I can't take this talk of love, nausea and courage any longer. Why don't you lighten up? Choose some different author to quote."

Marisa's eyes gleamed. Which author, Val? I don't know, Ma, try Jonathan Livingston Seagull. Seriously, Val, what should I reply? Oh, Ma, what do I know, I'm not a quote encyclopedia. The conversation went on like that, and it would have continued for considerable time if Valentina hadn't broken the dire cycle:

"Listen, if you want to flirt with the teacher, it's no use buttering him up with saccharine. That way you'll only succeed in giving him diabetes. You know very well with which head men think. Be bold."

Marisa was going to ask for a proper clarification when there was a knock on the door.

"Wait a sec, it's my mom," she said in a low voice. Then aloud: "Come in."

The mother's head popped in—pale face, brown hair tied in a bun. Her body, wrapped in a faint pink robe, followed. She leaned against the door frame with one hand on the knob, her suspicious eyes roaming the room.

It was her daughter's territory where she kept her secrets. All white, with sparse furniture consisting of a built-in closet, bed, nightstand and bookshelf with a desk. That laconic whiteness, colored only by the book spines squeezed on shelves, offended the mother's aesthetic sense. She glanced with instinctive hostility at the only occupant of the bare walls: a black and white poster of a shirtless Jim Morrison opening his arms above the bed.

Then the mother turned to Marisa:

"I thought you were already asleep, and then I heard you—"

"I'm on the phone." Marisa concealed her impatience, while the mother frowned and pursed her lips.

"With Valentina, is it?"

"Yeah. I have a question for her before finishing a physics exercise."

The mother looked at the book on the desk, made an analytical pause and appeared to be convinced. The muscles on her face relaxed, although uneven lines still showed on her forehead, which remained slightly creased.

"I'm going to bed. I don't know why, I feel so tired today," she said casting another glimpse at the room, this time involuntary, as if she expected to find a silhouette hiding behind the curtains. "Good night."

"Good night."

The door closed, Marisa waited for a moment and resumed her consultation:

"Bol—?

The door reopened, this time at half capacity, and the mother squeezed her head through the gap.

"Before you go to sleep, take that plate to the kitchen and throw the leftovers in the bin so not to attract bugs," she instructed like a general, indicating the jabuticaba skins. Then her tone mellowed: "If you're hungry, I just baked some bread for tomorrow."

"I will, and thanks."

The mother retreated with a nod. Marisa listened to her footsteps distancing in the hallway and concluded that the night watch was complete.

"Bold?" she repeated anxiously to Valentina.

"Yeah." The friend yawned in the other end. "You pick a suggestive quote and go straight to the point, no detours."

Boldness was not one of the main traits in Marisa's personality—at least, not that sort of boldness exhibited by her classmate Camila, with her cleavage waving at all men that passed by. Still, Marisa researched quotes and more quotes by Sartre (for sticking to the subject) and eventually found one that seemed viable. She wrote a short message (for going straight to the point), took a deep breath and sent it.

Minutes later, she received a text message from Valentina:

On a second thought, don't send anything compromising. If the teacher doesn't like it, you'll find yourself in a tight situation. Now I'm going to bed. Hugs, Val.

Her blood pressure plummeted, and Marisa felt like the most inadequate of all creatures. She thought of a cheap hotel with a sad bathroom disguised as a bedroom: the porcelain fixtures replaced by third-rate furniture, a thin layer of paint on the tiles and a reminiscent faucet by the bed, beside a moldy painting from the dollar store... Her hands grew sticky, her blood turned into cold water gagging in creaky pipes. That was what she got for going against her own nature. She wasn't bold. Why hadn't she just sent a quote about the being-in-itself or something? Oh, no, she had to listen to crazy Valentina and send that quote...

Marisa hurried back to her mailbox and, in utter distress, tried to cancel the message.

Of course, she didn't succeed.

_____________________________________

This chapter is a late addition, 8 months after RED was posted. Do you like it? If yes, please vote and comment!

I originally used "Donnie Darko" for the film sequences, but removed that in order to avoid copyright issues. Hmmm, I hope Sam and Rachel's adventure does the trick.