A tale of woe

Here, first click this* to add some type of atmospherics to the story.

DSR sat in the simple comfortable lounge room, the earth tones of the couch and coffee table played easefully against the craze of coloured book spines that rose above him on the deep wooden shelves around three of the walls. The fourth wall, glass, allowed warm sunbeams to pick at the dust motes in shafts giving the room the enduring sense it must be the last warm day of Autumn. But the room gave no comfort to DSR. DSR knew something was wrong. He knew it deep inside. Where the dark unseen things slither to-and-fro. Where past shows of light can be left stored, unstirred in the gloaming and sometimes even forgotten about.

DSR hadn't forgotten about the light yet but he'd also known something was wrong for some time. It just wasn't the type of thing he could tell people about. Something so intrinsic to ones being often remains hidden, should remain hidden even to oneself. As internally unquestioned as the behaviour of the madman howling under the bright orb of the moon.

But DSR knew there'd been little changes in behaviour. He lived to work, that was his way, but of late his professional demeanour had slipped. Not only in that his usually graceful body seemed to have lost something of it's youthful glow but now, tattered at the edges, his once remarkable vision, celebrated as being able to see what others could not, to capture the essence of something well before his rivals had tuned into the action, carried disturbing jumps in reality. Each tic would cause the left most side of his vision to befuddle slightly and loose a small high pitched oscillating squeal causing a moments deafness before the sounds of the world jumped back into audible focus.

Of course, none of this could be seen during the course of DSR's work. No-one around him clued into the slightest difference from his usual impressive style. But despite his outwardly regular behaviour DSR also knew that all his work was reviewed; and as he sat there in his comfortable surrounds, somewhere close by, someone would be pouring through that days work and was bound to discover a raft of hidden anomalies.

Then the phone calls would start. Probably had already started. There would be a slight frustration in the voices of Professionals from both sides of the negotiations; but that would change, the tone would become increasingly serious when they realised that this was something quite out of the ordinary. Soon they would only be asking one question, what to do with DSR? Money was a factor in DSRs line of work. He knew it and so did they. They were unlikely to abandon him until they recognised his rehabilitation would cost more money than he could bring in. Then would come the dreaded 'upgrade'. Which was fine for them. They would adjust and continue. Find a new, maybe even better way. But DSR? He would be gone. There was certainly no retirement in this line of work. After everything he'd seen he would have to be disposed of, without ceremony, without regret.

So despite his internal decrepitude which called into question everything DSR had stood for, DSR sat, unthinkingly soaked in his last rays of lights, and waited for the phone to ring to tell him it was all over.

Possibly, the last placement of DSR**

I hate it when expensive equipment fails... my poor, poor DSR-PD150P. I really can't afford a new camera. It's going to cost me at least half of my contract earnings just to cover equipment rental. Grrr. I hope DSR can be fixed... and soon!

*Music by the ever awesome Ticharu otherwise known as Plum Flower Embroided-boy or something like that.

**Modified without permission from the Fraggles voice of wisdom; Marjory the Trash Heap.