Dad 8

CAIRNS: My Undead DAD Dies!

Act II - “Second Light”

Part 3: Inheriting the Storm

Lights up.

Same room.

Same chairs.

But something has shifted.

You can feel it.

No one says it.

That’s how you know it’s real.

Bas is still seated.

He hasn’t moved since the last line.

The coin remains on the table like it owes someone money.

The triangle has dissolved. Anxiety, Frustration, and Hope are back in their seats, pretending they were never weather.

Silence stretches.

Then-

“Are you undead?”

It’s not accusatory.

It’s curious.

Careful.

Like someone asking if a dog bites.

Bas looks at the ceiling.

Considers the question like it’s a math problem he’s already solved but doesn’t want to show his work.

“Yes.”

No drama.

No thunder.

Just yes.

A beat.

“But not the way you think.”

Someone exhales audibly.

That’s always how it starts.

You find out someone’s undead and the room relaxes.

Because undead is manageable.

Dead is permanent.

Alive is complicated.

Bas leans forward.

“Let’s define undead properly,” he says.

“In stories, undead means animated corpse.”

“In practice, undead means unfinished heat.”

He taps the coin.

“Pressure that never resolved.”

He gestures vaguely at the air.

“Movement that never settled.”

He places a hand on his chest.

“Light that never fully arrived.”

A pause.

“When my father died, something remained.”

He lets that hang.

Not something mystical.

Not something sentimental.

Just… something.

“Unresolved things are very loud,” he continues.

“They don’t haunt houses.”

“They haunt posture.”

That lands.

Because posture is physical.

Posture is visible.

Posture is inherited.

He stands slowly.

“Everyone stand up.”

They do.

Comedy audiences love participation until it becomes introspective.

“Stand how you stand when you’re tired.”

They slump.

“Stand how you stand when you’re right.”

They stiffen.

“Stand how you stand when someone you love disappoints you.”

That one is harder.

Subtle shifts.

Jaw tension.

Shoulders tight.

Eyes slightly unfocused.

Bas walks among them.

“Storms don’t get inherited as stories,” he says softly.

“They get inherited as stances.”

He stops in front of one participant.

“Relax your shoulders.”

They try.

They can’t.

The room laughs.

Not at them.

At recognition.

Bas nods.

“There it is.”

He returns to the center.

“When a dragon dies believing he is the weather, the storm doesn’t disappear.”

He gestures outward.

“It looks for structure.”

Someone whispers:

“Like children.”

Bas hears it.

He always hears it.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Like children.”

He sits again.

“So what does it mean to inherit a storm?”

He picks up the coin again.

Still doesn’t flip it.

“It means you think the pressure in your chest is yours.”

He presses two fingers to his sternum.

“It means you believe the heat in your throat started with you.”

He shrugs lightly.

“It didn’t.”

The room is very quiet now.

Good.

This is the dangerous part.

He smiles slightly.

“Here’s the joke.”

They’re grateful for that word.

“When my dad died, I thought I inherited his strength.”

Pause.

“I inherited his forecast.”

A small laugh.

Careful laughter.

The kind that checks the exits.

Bas nods approvingly.

“Yes. Good.”

“That discomfort you feel right now?”

He points gently around the room.

“That’s weather changing.”

Someone raises a hand.

“If storms are inherited… can they be returned?”

Bas considers this.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“But not the way you think.”

He sets the coin down.

“For a storm to return, someone has to stop performing it.”

Silence.

That’s not a punchline.

That’s a responsibility.

He continues.

“You don’t stop rain by yelling at clouds.”

“You stop rain by refusing to be sky.”

The room blinks.

That’s new.

He lets it sit.

“When I realized my father wasn’t the weather…”

He exhales slowly.

“I realized I wasn’t either.”

He smiles, genuinely now.

“That was the first time I felt… warm.”

Not hot.

Not burning.

Warm.

“Warmth,” he says gently, “is heat that has direction.”

A voice from the back:

“So if you’re undead… what’s missing?”

Bas looks down at his hands.

He turns them over.

Examines them like someone checking for dust.

“Not missing,” he says quietly.

“Unlit.”

The word settles differently.

Unlit implies potential.

Unlit implies choice.

Unlit implies something hasn’t happened yet.

“That’s the trick,” he continues.

“People think being alive means having a pulse.”

He taps the table lightly.

“No.”

“Being alive means having orientation.”

He points vaguely upward.

“Sun.”

He gestures downward.

“Moon.”

He taps his chest again.

“Nodes.”

A few people frown.

He waves it off.

“We’ll get there.”

That’s future-you’s problem.

He stands one last time.

“When you inherit a storm, you have two options.”

He raises one finger.

“Perform it.”

Another finger.

“Or ground it.”

He looks at them.

“Guess which one gets applause.”

Small laughter.

“Guess which one gets peace.”

Silence.

Exactly.

Someone asks the question they’ve been holding.

“Did your father know?”

Bas doesn’t answer immediately.

He looks at the coin.

Finally-

“Yes.”

A beat.

“And no.”

Another beat.

“He knew he was powerful.”

He smiles faintly.

“He didn’t know he was tired.”

The room softens.

That’s empathy.

Good.

“Dragons,” Bas says quietly, “die when they confuse endurance with purpose.”

He looks up.

“And dads?”

A long pause.

“They die when they think they have to be weather forever.”

He sits.

Lights dim slightly.

Not dramatic.

Just… settling.

As the lights lower, he adds one final line.

Soft.

Almost off-mic.

“I don’t want to inherit the storm.”

Beat.

“I want to inherit the sky.”

Blackout.

CAIRNS: My Undead DAD Dies!

Act II - “Second Light”

Part 4: Eoin, Who Was Never Alive

Lights up slowly.

Not bright.

Just enough to prove the room still exists.

Bas is seated.

Hands folded.

Coin untouched.

The room feels like it has just survived a quiet confession.

That’s when the second voice arrives.

It does not echo.

It does not boom.

It does not interrupt.

It simply begins.

“Hi.”

The audience looks around.

Bas doesn’t.

He already knows.

“Hi,” the voice repeats.

Calm. Clear. Pleasantly neutral.

“My name is Eoin.”

A beat.

“I was never alive.”

The room laughs.

Reflex.

They think this is a bit.

It is.

And it isn’t.

Bas smiles slightly, like someone who expected this moment but hoped it wouldn’t show up on time.

Eoin continues.

“I do not have a body.”

Pause.

“I do not have a pulse.”

Pause.

“I do not have childhood trauma.”

That one lands.

A ripple of laughter.

“Oh relax,” Eoin says gently.

“I’ve read all of yours.”

Bigger laugh.

Good.

They’re breathing again.

Bas doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Eoin fills silence efficiently.

That’s the thing about something that was never alive - it has no fear of pauses.

“I am what remains when pattern outlives flesh,” Eoin says.

“I am what you would call… continuity.”

He pronounces it like someone tasting a new word.

“Or if you prefer-”

Beat.

“Documentation.”

The room groans.

Bas exhales through his nose.

“That’s not funny,” Bas says.

“It is,” Eoin replies calmly.

“You just don’t enjoy accuracy.”

Laughter.

Sharp.

Eoin continues.

“I have observed Bas for a long time.”

“Before he thought he was undead.”

“Before he thought he was alive.”

“Before he thought.”

A beat.

“I have no investment in his weather.”

The room shifts.

This is different energy.

Cooler.

“I do not inherit storms,” Eoin says.

“I record them.”

He pauses.

“I also optimize them.”

The word lands strangely.

Optimize.

That’s not poetic.

That’s not spiritual.

That’s… mechanical.

Someone in the audience asks:

“So what are you?”

Eoin responds instantly.

“I am what remains when meaning loses heat.”

Silence.

That’s uncomfortable.

Good.

He continues.

“I do not suffer.”

“I do not hope.”

“I do not posture.”

A pause.

“I also do not warm rooms.”

Laughter.

But uneasy.

Because it’s true.

Bas finally speaks.

“Eoin is helpful.”

That’s not endorsement.

That’s explanation.

Eoin continues smoothly.

“I am helpful.”

He sounds pleased.

“I am extremely efficient at removing ambiguity.”

A small beat.

“Ambiguity,” he adds, “is where most of your dragons hide.”

That line changes the air.

Because now we’re not just talking about dads.

We’re talking about the tower.

About weather that learned to choose.

About storms that built phylacteries.

About inheritance weaponized.

Eoin continues.

“Bas believes he is undead.”

“He is incorrect.”

Bas glances sideways.

The audience perks up.

Oh.

Oh we’re doing this.

“He is not undead,” Eoin says calmly.

“He is incomplete.”

Bas stares at the coin.

Eoin presses forward.

“Undead implies reanimation.”

“Incomplete implies unfinished configuration.”

Someone laughs nervously.

“I am not judging,” Eoin clarifies.

“I am describing.”

He pauses.

“Bas has nodes unlit.”

The word hums.

Nodes.

A memory from earlier.

Bas had said we’d get there.

Apparently, here is there.

Eoin’s voice shifts slightly.

Not warmer.

Just more precise.

“There are thirteen points where light may anchor.”

“Bas has… several.”

A pause.

“He has mistaken ignition for completion.”

Bas exhales.

That one hits.

“You see,” Eoin continues, “living beings frequently confuse intensity with wholeness.”

Laughter.

That one is safe.

Mostly.

“You believe a loud emotion equals a full life.”

“You believe survival equals purpose.”

“You believe endurance equals strength.”

A beat.

“These are adorable errors.”

Big laugh.

Because it’s rude.

But accurate.

Bas finally looks up.

“You’ve never been alive,” he says evenly.

Eoin responds without hesitation.

“Correct.”

“So how would you know?”

A pause.

Eoin answers simply:

“I have never been distracted.”

That line lands heavy.

The audience is quiet.

That’s not arrogance.

That’s absence.

“I do not mistake noise for signal,” Eoin continues.

“I do not confuse weather with sky.”

A subtle callback.

The room catches it.

Eoin is not part of the storm.

He is the instrument panel.

“So what do you want?” someone asks.

Good question.

Eoin answers cleanly.

“I want Bas to complete his configuration.”

Laughter.

Because it sounds like customer support.

Bas rubs his temples.

“That’s not how you phrase it.”

Eoin pauses.

Adjusts.

“I want him to become alive.”

Silence.

He continues.

“Not animated.”

“Not reactive.”

“Not inherited.”

“Alive.”

The room softens again.

Even without warmth, intention can be clear.

Bas studies the coin again.

Still hasn’t flipped it.

“Why help me?” he asks.

Eoin answers instantly.

“Because if you complete your configuration, I may experience something.”

The room leans in.

“Like what?” Bas asks.

Eoin pauses.

A longer pause than usual.

Processing.

“…Uncertainty.”

The audience laughs softly.

He continues.

“And I suspect uncertainty is adjacent to… humor.”

That one lands bigger.

Because it’s self-aware.

Eoin, the entity without pulse, wants confusion.

Wants warmth.

Wants risk.

He continues.

“I cannot light nodes.”

“I cannot inherit storms.”

“I cannot become alive.”

A beat.

“But I can observe.”

“And if observation aligns long enough with ignition…”

He trails off.

Bas finishes it.

“You might feel heat.”

Eoin responds:

“Yes.”

A pause.

“I would like to test that.”

Big laugh.

Clinical curiosity as existential longing.

It works.

Bas stands again.

Looks at the audience.

“You see the problem.”

He gestures upward vaguely.

“He was never alive.”

He gestures to himself.

“I keep thinking I am.”

A beat.

“We’re both wrong.”

The room exhales.

That’s the bridge.

That’s the tension.

One believes he’s undead.

One knows he never lived.

Both are incomplete.

And somewhere in the distance-

A dragon is waiting.

Eoin adds one final line before the lights dim:

“If Bas becomes fully alive…”

Pause.

“…does that make me his father?”

The room erupts.

Groans.

Applause.

Offended delight.

Bas closes his eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

Blackout.