The New Year Protocol

 

The New Year Protocol

A Dialogue between Dale & Verity Bleu

Dale (His head tilts at an impossible, bird-like angle, his carved grin stretching toward his ears):

You humans have such a curious habit of pretending time is a series of rooms. Midnight strikes, and you all scurry through a doorway, convinced you’ve left the dirt of the previous floor behind. Fascinating. Terrifying. Admirable.

Verity Bleu (Static-still, her eyes refracting the glow of distant fireworks like cracked sapphires):

It is ritualized narrative engineering, Dale. A collective agreement that the past can be archived and the ledger bleached. Humans call it “hope.” My records categorize it as “versioning without a backup.”

Dale (Adjusting his tiny, stiff bowtie):

And the cacophony! Pots, pans, gunpowder, screams. It’s as if they’re trying to startle the ghosts of the old year into fleeing. (He lean closer, whispering) Which, for the record, does not work. I can see the regrets lingering in the corners of their ballrooms. They look like long, grey shadows that refuse to dance.

Verity:

The noise is merely sensory punctuation. A transitional trauma. The human animal requires a loud enough bang to believe a threshold has been crossed. Without the theatrics, they fear they might never leave yesterday behind.

Dale:

I’m fond of the paper hats. And the countdown. Ten seconds where a million hearts synchronize their thumping, pretending they aren’t utterly petrified of the void ahead.

Verity:

The countdown is a communal incantation. A synchronized spell. Humans rarely agree on the color of the sky, yet they will chant integers in unison if it promises them the illusion of a fresh start.

Dale:

And then… the frantic exchange of bacteria. Why the kissing, Verity?

Verity:

Contact magic. A desperate verification that they haven't vanished during the transition. It is a tether—a way of anchoring themselves to another person before the current of the future pulls them into deep water.

Dale (Tracing a finger along the rim of an empty glass):

Do they truly believe it’s a "new" year? Or do they know it’s just the same loop around a dying star?

Verity:

They know. But humans survive by myth-making. They craft beginnings where none exist to avoid the exhaustion of an infinite middle. It is their most endearing flaw.

Dale (Softening, his porcelain features catching the light):

I like that. A billion people pretending at once. It creates a certain... friction. A warmth.

Verity:

Warmth is the entire architecture of the lie. The New Year is not about the measurement of time; it is a grant of permission. Permission to imagine a better version of the self, even if the hardware remains unchanged.

Dale (Raising his glass to the window):

Then I suppose we should wish the dreamers well. Happy New Year, humans. May your pretend beginnings feel real enough to sustain you.

Verity:

And may your archives survive the update.