The wind was biting on the roof of the Laurent Building, one hundred and twenty-four floors. Lucille Fole stepped away from the blinding glare coming off the weather shield. Her knuckles were white and spotted with rain on the guard rail. The tendons in her neck relaxed.
And there he was. Joseph was standing by the elevator, leaning casually, waiting for her to touch back down. Maybe she was the only person who didn't know where she was going to hit.
"We never left," she screamed to him, across the rain, over the cracked concrete of the observation deck. "That whole time! Sony knew all about it! Why can't they just leave us?"
He couldn't have heard, he was too far away, but he saw her mouth moving and nodded. Dammit. Geodesic. She turned back to the precipice.
Why was it that she was so predictable? Hell, where could she find free will? In the nineties, they saw it in the Pachinko game of quantum mechanics, in the fact that random decision was possible. Then they took another look — decided that flipping a coin was not a decision, was the opposite of a decision. There's no free will for her there.
Einstein. He didn't believe in dice. General relativity was founded on the idea of a geodesic — the shortest path from one place to another, figured using the calculus of variations. But there was no free will in that, either, because the theory was completely deterministic. One path and one path only. All of physics seemed to be like that, mechanical, agnostic,
no truths for philosophers. Fuck that.
She turned her head away from that city and shouted at Joseph, and the sky, and Tower Building, standing above her. She breathed deeply, and dropped to her knees and clawed at the floor, and then got up and staggered off into Joseph's arms. And the bastard hugged her. Well everything was just fine then, wasn't it?