Mortality

[Scene: Nettle stands on a ledge overlooking a field of sun-bleached machinery—dead mechs rusting into the hillside like forgotten gods. She’s chewing something. It’s unclear whether it’s edible.]

Tarrow (behind her, quiet):

You’ve been staring at that one for twenty-two minutes. Are you waiting for it to stand up?

Nettle (shrugs without turning):

Nah. I was just wondering what it dreamed about before it stopped moving.

If machines had last thoughts… what do you think they’d be? Something practical, like “uh-oh.” Or something poetic—like “I was once a thunderclap.”

Tarrow (walking closer):

Maybe neither. Maybe they don’t dream at all. Maybe we’re the only ones foolish enough to do that while dying.

Nettle (grinning faintly):

Morbid today, aren’t we?

Tarrow:

Not morbid. Observant. There’s a difference.

Nettle:

Hm. So you don’t think that metal heap over there had a moment of… I don’t know… regret? Right before it gave out?

Tarrow (sits down beside her):

Regret implies memory. Identity. A sense of time passing. That mech probably didn’t even know it was, let alone that it ended.

Nettle (chewing stops):

That’s depressing.

Tarrow:

Is it? Or is it peaceful?

Nettle (after a pause):

You ever think about what your last thought will be?

Tarrow (looks at her sideways):

Yes.

Nettle:

Oh. That’s blunt. Most people dodge that question like it’s a punch.

Tarrow:

I dodge slowly.

Anyway… it’s not the last thought that worries me. It’s the one just before that.

The almost-last. The penultimate tick.

That one still has weight.

Nettle (leans back on her elbows):

That’s the one that might be honest.

Tarrow (nods):

Exactly.

Nettle:

So what do you hope it’ll be?

Tarrow (after a long silence):

That I chose well.

Nettle (eyes narrowing, amused):

Chose? You act like there’s a menu.

Tarrow:

There is. Life is a menu. But most people just keep ordering the same thing because the page sticks.

Nettle (softly):

I think I’d want my second-to-last thought to be stupid. Like… absurdly dumb. Something about cheese.

Tarrow (chuckles):

Why?

Nettle:

Because that would mean I wasn’t taking myself too seriously in the end. I’d rather laugh my way out than scream at the void asking for a do-over.

Tarrow:

You think laughter is armor?

Nettle:

No. I think it’s a bad escape pod with a hole in it. But it buys time.

Tarrow:

And what would you do with that time?

Nettle:

Buy more holes, probably.

[They both sit in silence for a while. The wind brushes past like it doesn’t want to interrupt.]

Tarrow (finally):

You ever worry you won’t be remembered?

Nettle (quietly):

No.

I worry I will be—by the wrong version of me.

Tarrow (turns to face her):

That’s… strangely accurate.

Nettle:

I mean, imagine someone digging up your bones a hundred years from now and saying, “she was a noble strategist, a gentle mind, a devoted scholar.” And you’re there, as a ghost or whatever, screaming, “I once ate an entire grapefruit just to prove a point!”

That’s the stuff people forget.

Tarrow (smiling gently):

You want to be remembered for your grapefruit tantrums?

Nettle:

I want to be remembered honestly. Mess and all.

Not polished into a marble statue of someone I was never trying to be.

Tarrow (quietly):

Statues crack. Grapefruits rot. Neither is eternal.

But maybe something between them is.

Nettle:

Like what? Mold?

Tarrow:

Memory. Or the feeling of someone. That can echo.

Nettle (sits up, intrigued):

You think echoes count?

Tarrow:

Sometimes they’re all we have.

Nettle:

So what do you think echoes of you would sound like?

Tarrow (pauses, then speaks slowly):

Stillness.

Patience.

A sigh that isn’t tired, just aware.

Nettle (nods, thoughtfully):

Mine would probably be a cackle followed by a string of half-finished ideas and a curse aimed at a passing cloud.

Tarrow:

Sounds about right.

Nettle (leans her head on her knees):

I think I’ve always been afraid of disappearing. Not dying. Just… being erased. Forgotten without even a smudge left behind.

Tarrow:

Then leave a smudge on purpose.

Nettle (lifts her head):

What, like vandalism?

Tarrow:

No. Like truth.

People remember the honest ones. Even if they hated them. Especially if they hated them.

Nettle:

So… live loudly, even if you’re wrong?

Tarrow:

Live deliberately. Rightness is a myth.

But intention? That lingers.

[A long, mutual pause. Neither fills it out of politeness. They just let it breathe.]

Nettle (softly):

You think it matters? Any of it?

Tarrow (without hesitation):

Yes.

Nettle (watching her):

You sure?

Tarrow:

No.

But I still say yes.

Nettle:

That’s the most honest thing you’ve ever said.

Tarrow:

No it isn’t. You just like it because it sounds like your brand of chaos dressed in my voice.

Nettle (smiles):

Maybe.

But it’s still beautiful. And a little stupid. Which means it might even be real.

Tarrow:

Then let it be.

Nettle (rising, brushing her hands on her pants):

C’mon. Let’s find something living and mildly dangerous to talk to. I feel like flirting with death in a more literal way.

Tarrow (rising beside her):

That’s your idea of closure?

Nettle:

No. That’s my idea of dessert.