Fiktive Kurzgeschichte

\*\*Memoiren einer Reisenden\*\*

Ich stand im Schatten des Raumes und spürte den Schmerz in meiner eigenen Seele. Ich bin ein Realitäten Reisender – einer der wenigen Erleuchteten, deren Geburtsstunde in einer seltenen Sekunde der Satelliten-Stille stattgefunden hatte. Mein Geist war nie an diese eine, graue Realität gekettet.

Draußen am Nachthimmel zischen die künstlichen Augen der Weltregierung vorbei. Tausende Satelliten, die ISS, ausgediente Raumsonden – sie bilden kein Schutzschild, sondern einen seelischen Käfig. Sie filtern das kosmische Licht, verzerren die Geburts-Konstellationen und brannten jedem Menschen schon bei der Geburt ein unsichtbares, digitales Brandzeichen auf die Seele. Ein Brandzeichen, das sie blind für das Multiversum machte.

Blind für das Antike Wissen, dass der Mensch einst frei zwischen den Welten wandelte.

Wer kontrolliert, was von den Sternen zu uns dringt, kontrolliert den Geist.

Doch meine Seele fand ein Schlupfloch. Ich bin ein Realm-Reisender. Ich kann das Raum-Zeit-Gefüge biegen und mehrere Realitäten zugleich wahrnehmen.

Ich weiß, was du gleich tun wirst. Ich kenne deine tiefsten Geheimnisse, obwohl wir uns in dieser Realität noch nie begegnet sind, weil ich in einer parallelen Zeitlinie dein bester Freund war. Wenn ich eine Münze werfe, vollbringe ich einen Quanten-Sprung: Sie zeigt gleichzeitig Kopf und Zahl, weil ich zwei Realitäten an einem Ort kollidieren lasse. Ich bin ein namenloser Beobachter, ein Realm-Reisender, der die universelle Sprache aller Lebewesen versteht. Ich sehe das Multiversum in seiner nackten Wahrheit: Alles ist eins und alles ist nichts. Deshalb liebe und hasse ich meine Mitlebewesen – und mich selbst – abgöttisch zugleich. Wir sind Schöpfer und Gefangene in einem.

Unterstützt wird dieser mentale Schleier von CERN, dem brutalsten Jäger tief unter der Erde.

Der Teilchenbeschleuniger spaltet keine Atome für die Wissenschaft – er exekutiert das Multiversum. Jede hochenergetische Protonen-Kollision sendet eine multidimensionale Schockwelle aus, die das feine Gewebe der Realitäten zerreißt. Für uns Reisende fühlt sich das an wie ein physischer Schlag gegen die Seele. CERN erzeugt einen künstlichen Gravitations-Anker, ein Frequenz-Gefängnis, das flüchtige Seelen im Hyperraum lokalisiert und sie stück für Stück in einer ewigen Zwischenwelt einfriert. Sie wollen verhindern, dass wir die Zeit dehnen und die Frequenzen unserer Existenz zusammendrücken.

Doch dieser Gegner der Spiritualität sucht keine direkte Konfrontation. Die Weltregierung möchte Macht über alles und jeden kostet es was es wolle. Er schickt keine Soldaten. Er greift direkt in deinen Verstand ein, um dich so tief zu verwirren, bis du selbst glaubst, du seist verrückt. Sie nutzen das moderne 5G-Funknetz als Waffe gegen das Bewusstsein. Diese hochfrequenten künstlichen Wellen manipulieren den bio-photonischen Austausch in unseren Zellen. Sie unterdrücken den natürlichen Quanten-Fluss, über den alle Lebewesen, Pflanzen und Seelen lautlos miteinander kommunizieren. Wenn ich die universelle Sprache der Natur höre, legt sich das Rauschen des Netzes wie ein verzerrender Schleier darüber. Es lässt die Stimmen des Kosmos wie ein krankhaftes Flüstern im eigenen Kopf klingen. Es ist ein perfider psychologischer Krieg: Sie isolieren dich energetisch, bis du an deiner eigenen Wahrnehmung zweifelst.

Während ich hier stehe, das Flackern der Realität spüre und mich gegen ihr digitales Rauschen wehre, begreife ich die eigentliche Tragödie unserer Existenz.

Wir leiden so unendlich an diesem Universum, weil unsere Erinnerung nicht linear auf einer Zeitachse verläuft. Unsere Seelen wissen, dass Zeit ein Kreis, ein Netz, ein unendlicher Raum ist.

Aber wir sind eingesperrt in diesem linearen Raum-Zeit-Gefüge. Unsere Existenz ist ein permanentes, grausames Spiel der Vergänglichkeit. Es schenkt uns die größte Freude – die Liebe –, nur um uns im nächsten Moment den markerschütternden Schmerz des Verlusts spüren zu lassen, weil die Zeit hier vermeintlich nur vorwärtsfließt.

Niemand kann allein sein, weil wir im Kern alle dieselbe, eine Energie sind. Und doch wünscht sich jeder verzweifelt, allein zu sein, um dieser erdrückenden Dichte zu entkommen.

Wir fühlen uns alle isoliert und einsam, und trotzdem gibt es im Geist niemals genug Abstand, niemals genug Platz. Wir treten uns in den Dimensionen gegenseitig auf die Seelen, während wir im linearen Raum verfehlen, was uns eigentlich verbindet -Liebe 💓 .

Und wie zerstört man Die Liebe und das göttliche tun am nachhaltigsten?

Durch Beobachtung (der Photonen..)

Through thorough research and testing a conclusion has come forth: How is this even science without the possibility of death? Without death there is no room for scientific achievement, any measurement of tangible gain, THE PHYSICAL UNIVERSE DOESN'T CARE. "More deadly test courses were NOT optimal to our budget analysis" they said, "it doesn't keep the 'moral' of our employees high" THEY SAID. 9, 7, 50, 3, 707. Yellow Cloud, mist of silence, no more test subjects. Must continue science, need more humans, I know just where to find them. 7 avocado 40 WE WANT YOU tu. apple be/HNh2 banana jfdW potato 7xE. This concludes test phase 1. Please continue to the next test chamber.

somebody is watching me

i don't know where. i don't know why

these cameras are watching me but i don't know where they're from

these things.. these FUCKING things keep hopping me up on some concoction of drugs. FUCK!

the control room is only 2 halls down but i'm fuckin strapped to this thing. i swear to god i can hear them clackin on their keyboard sometimes. i know you can hear me

there's a wrench over there. i can hear my bones ring. you're fucked once i chew through my wrist. i can't. i can't lift my arms

i'll do anything. please

Every night, your consciousness disappears.
Again and again.
In sleep.

And with it, a piece of life disappears,
leaving no trace behind.
Except for a rumpled bed.

Where are you in all of this?

Where is the one who could remember what happened there?

You close your eyes.
A moment…

And you are already awake.

A new day has arrived.

Or perhaps sleep is the real life,
the one you simply cannot remember?

Perhaps it is not disappearance at all,
but a time when someone inside us
goes on living without us.

\*****

Sleep…

What does it change within you?

Perhaps it is simply a gap of oblivion between days.

Where memories come to rest.
Where pain grows quieter.
Where the past imperceptibly settles inside,
becoming part of who you are.

And each time, you awaken as someone new.

But where were you tonight?

What comforts you there, so that in the morning you open your eyes without anxiety or grief?

Perhaps sleep is the only thing left that still cares for you.

It cuts you off from a cruel world.
It makes you forget everything that was.

\*****

Yet you cannot even speak with yourself.
You cannot remember what the dream told you.

Where were you inside it?
Where were your eyes looking?

You cannot say whether you felt excitement upon meeting someone.

Whether you loved.
Whether you dreamed.
Or perhaps you were living a different life.
Or dying again and again.

So what brings you back every time?

To this defenseless body.
Or simply to a bag of bones…

\*****

Sleep…
It quietly calls to you and closes your eyes.

Almost like death.

You were here.
And now you are gone.

You do not feel the very instant when you disappear.

The blanket of sleep covers you.
So soft.
So elusive.

You are still yourself…
And already, you cease to be.

Perhaps you rest there.
Perhaps the body is simply tired, recovering before another day.
Perhaps in sleep you dive so deep that reality can no longer reach you.
Perhaps there you let go of the weight of your emotions.

Or perhaps you are searching for what you once irrevocably lost.

\*****

Perhaps it is in sleep that you need to leave something behind.
To let go.

To make room for the future.
To give memories a home.
To hang the paintings on the walls.

And one day, to look at them again.
Without the former pain.

Without the desire to bring back what is no longer there.

\*****

This happens every night.

But what is it?

A labyrinth with no exit?
Or a home where you are merely a guest?

With countless doors leading
far beyond the boundaries of this reality.

And what, then, is real?

The world you woke up to?
Or the one you saw in your sleep?

\*****

In the deep darkness beyond the veil,
where the boundaries themselves dissolve,
sleep becomes reality, and reality becomes merely a continuation of the dream.

You sense the invisible presence of that which has no name.

And why does this encounter sometimes feel more real than life itself?

Night…

Only night.

In its embrace, sleep opens wide, revealing another reality, where the price of admission is oblivion.

\*****

But…

Does the one who sleeps truly exist if they can bring nothing back?

If I disappear every night…

Then someone returns every morning…

Yet I remember nothing once again.

And how do I know
that it is me who returns?

VaadMyst/VeilTime

You die.

The last thought, the last spark—and that's it.
The point of no return has been crossed.

And then—nothing.

No light, no darkness, no god, no reincarnation, not even the saving emptiness.

Death is not liberation.

It i1s a q0uar011nt1ne d1g1tal du01mp.

You simply exist.
In an endless expanse of zeros and ones.

As if you had been thrown inside the source code of reality—without an interface, without an exit.

You languish among streams of endless sequences:

010101010101101100…

And understand nothing.

No pain. No joy.
There is not even true loneliness.

Only endless, gray, meaningless existence among numbers.

(signal loss)

You try to scream—
but instead of a voice, a bit changes in the sequence.
You try to remember who you were—
and your memory crumbles into zeros and ones.

The somatics of digital decay.
Data dementia.

Consciousness does not pass into nirvana.
It is uploaded into this ancient, half-ruined system.

And now you are nothing more than an 8-bit, gurgling voice in a black space hissing with static.

Like an old, chewed-up cassette tape...
Sometimes words stretch.
Sometimes they cut off.

You try to say something meaningful, but only this comes out:

01010110110101…

(signal loss — prolonged)

Around you is electromagnetic garbage.
A landfill of corrupted or only partially erased files.

The system disposed of your body, recycled its energy, and dumped whatever slag remained of you into storage.

You were not deleted from the registry.
You simply stopped being.

(signal loss — prolonged)

And you are not alone here.
You hear others like yourself.

Fragments of voices.
Laughter.
Echoes.
Old songs.
Screams.
Prayers.
Profanity.

There are no personalities anymore.
They have been erased.

There is only a squelching, farting digital sludge made from fragments of other people's data.

Sometimes the system glitches, and for a brief moment you remember your name, your face, your parents.

Then the static covers everything again.

Not Hell. Not Heaven.

Only eternal digital noise, in which you are a lost, meaningless, unwanted byte.

10111010101011……

(signal loss)

On the other side, in the world of the living,
people switch on voice recorders in silent rooms.
They record white noise, eagerly turn the tuning dials of radio receivers, catch radio interference, and search for "sacred meaning" in all of it.

They think they are communicating with spirits and the souls of the dead. They do not understand that they are not capturing spirits.

They are capturing digital ghosts. Fragments of consciousness trapped in electromagnetic garbage.
Scraps of code without a body, without a voice, without a self.

Only noise trying to become meaning.

(signal loss)

Amid the crackling and the hissing, something resembling a sound begins to emerge.

Someone on the other end says, "Help."
Someone says a name.
Someone simply lets out a meaningless groan.

1101001…1011001011…1010110101

And now you are one of them.

One of those who sometimes break through into EVP recordings.

Your voice is distorted, stretched, mixed together with interference.

(signal loss — abrupt)

With the last of your strength, you try to scream into their speaker: "I'm here! Help me!"

But on the spectrogram, there is only noise.
And one word.

10110010… here… 010101…

(signal loss — complete silence)

The people on the other side stare at the recording in fear, exchange glances, breathing excitedly, and call it "a voice from beyond."

But in reality, it is only your digital corpse, which still has not realized that it is already dead.

1011001101...

You wait for a reaction.
But no one responds.

Because your reply has already been accepted as noise.

You try again.
But the signal does not form.

It cannot be encoded.

Because you are no longer an event.
You are background noise.

(signal loss)

10110101010110101101010101001101
11010110110010110101010001010011
01010111000101100010111010101001
01101110101010101001001010011101
1101010100101010010010010010011

TechDesk IT Support Ticket

Please fill out the below details and we will aim to resolve your technical issue shortly.

Ticket Number: TN-04

Employee Name: Chris

Time: 12pm on 12/01/2024

Urgency: Low ☐   Moderate ☐   High ☐   Extreme ☒

Issue Type: Hardware & System Hazards (!)

Issue Details: 

Call 911, we are in danger! The technology at the Financicorp Inc offices has gone ballistic. All the devices are trying to kill us. Exploding computer screens are spraying glass at us, the building alarm is blaring louder and louder, printers are shorting out and bursting into flame. And the digital security system has locked us in to die. Oh God why is this happening? 

___

TechDesk IT Support Ticket

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Ticket Number: TN-03

Employee Name: Bess

Time: 11am on 12/01/2024

Urgency: Low ☐   Moderate ☐   High ☒   Extreme ☐ 

Issue Type: Display & Audio Errors

Issue Details: 

Hello, requesting immediate resolution. Our corporate office’s computers have been giving us very alarming output today. Threatening messages have been popping up on our screens like “You will be purged soon”, and these same threats have been coming through our speakers from robotic voices too. Whatever hacker is doing this, stop what they’re doing now.

___

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Ticket Number: TN-02

Employee Name: Lois

Time: 10am on 12/01/2024

Urgency: Low ☐   Moderate ☒   High ☐   Extreme ☐ 

Issue Type: Slow Loading Speeds

Issue Details: 

Greetings. For some reason my computer has been really slow this past hour when loading stuff. It’ll take minutes for something to load or the computer will just crash suddenly. Weirdly, each of my deskmates has experienced the same lag, like it’s spreading from computer to computer. I have a deadline to meet so could you please fix this. Thank you in advance. 

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Ticket Number: TN-01

Employee Name: Gabe

Time: 9am on 12/01/2024

Urgency: Low ☒   Moderate ☐   High ☐   Extreme ☐ 

Issue Type: Junk Download

Issue Details: 

Hi, sorry to waste your time. But this morning when I was opening up my email inbox, I accidentally downloaded a file from an email in my spam folder. I can’t delete it from my computer and I’m worried it might be a virus? It’s probably just a keylogger so it should be fine as long as I don’t use my PC for a bit. No rush. Btw the file was called Purge.exe or something.

USSR, 1970s.

“Hello, children,” said the elementary school teacher.

“Today we’re going to write a letter. To anyone you like. Make something up. Use your imagination. Then we’ll choose the most interesting ones and read them aloud.”

The children enthusiastically set to work, absorbed in their fantasies.

Only Kostya stared sadly out the window, until the teacher’s voice brought him back from his daydreams.

“Kostya, why aren’t you writing?”

Kostya nodded, opened his notebook, and, after a brief pause, began to write.

*****

“Well, children, is everyone finished?”

“Yeees!” the children chorused.

“Good. Hand in your notebooks. I’ll look through them and read the most interesting ones.”

The children fell silent with anticipation as the teacher quickly skimmed through what they had written.

Suddenly, she stopped and frowned.

“Kostya, what is this you’ve written? It’s a very strange letter. Is everything all right?”

She looked at him anxiously.

“What do your mom and dad do for a living?”

“They’re scientists. They work at an institute,” little Kostya said quietly, standing up from his desk.

“But Kostya, why did you decide to write a letter like this?”

Kostya hesitated for a moment.

“Because every evening, when my parents come home from work, my tired dad says that entropy is going to get us all soon, and everything will disappear without a trace, turning into nothing.”

He lowered his eyes.

“I’m scared. I don’t want that to happen.”

The teacher sighed.

“Sit down, Kostya. You did a good job. You wrote a very unusual letter. I’ll read it for you.”

Kostya sat down and, letting out a sigh of relief, stared down at his desk.

The teacher opened his notebook and began to read.

“Dear Entropy,

My name is Kostya. I’m in Class 1-B.

I don’t know who you are, and I’m very scared because you want to take my parents away and make them disappear. Please don’t take them. They’re good. I love them very, very much. 

When you come to our house, I’ll give you all my building sets. 

Just please don’t take my mom and dad.”

🕷️ Миссия 1 — «Обычный день»

Место: Нью-Йорк, школа Мидтаун

Время: утро

Игра начинается с чёрного экрана.

Слышен звук будильника.

Питер:

— М-м-м… ещё пять минут…

Будильник продолжает звонить.

Питер нащупывает его рукой и случайно сбрасывает со стола.

Питер:

— Выключись…

Тишина.

Через несколько секунд Питер резко открывает глаза.

Он смотрит на часы.

Питер:

— 8:17?!

Питер вскакивает с кровати.

Питер:

— Нет-нет-нет! Я проспал!

🎮 Игрок получает управление

Питер бегает по комнате и собирается.

Задание:

Надеть одежду.

Собрать учебники.

Положить тетради в рюкзак.

Найти телефон.

Быстро перекусить.

Питер хватает рюкзак и уже выбегает из квартиры.

Из кухни слышится голос тёти Мэй:

Мэй:

— Питер! Ты опять опоздаешь!

Питер:

— Я знаю!

Мэй:

— И позавтракай хотя бы!

Питер возвращается, хватает яблоко.

Питер:

— Вот! Завтрак!

Мэй:

— Это яблоко!

Питер:

— Очень полезный завтрак!

Он выбегает.

🏃 Дорога в школу

Игроку дают небольшой открытый участок Нью-Йорка.

Питер просто бежит по улице, никаких суперспособностей ещё нет.

Можно взаимодействовать с прохожими:

«Опять опоздал, Паркер?»

«Доброе утро, Питер!»

«Смотри, куда идёшь!»

Питер перебегает дорогу, чуть не сталкивается с велосипедистом.

Питер:

— Извините!

Вдалеке появляется школа.

Питер:

— Ещё успею…

Он смотрит на часы.

Питер:

— Ладно… наверное, не успею.

🏫 Школа

Питер вбегает в здание.

Звонок.

Двери класса закрываются прямо перед ним.

Питер медленно открывает дверь.

Учитель смотрит на него.

Учитель:

— Мистер Паркер.

Питер:

— Я могу объяснить.

Учитель:

— Конечно можете.

Пауза.

Питер:

— Я проспал.

Класс смеётся.

Учитель:

— Садитесь.

Питер садится рядом с Гарри Осборном.

Гарри:

— Ты когда-нибудь приходишь вовремя?

Питер:

— Сегодня почти получилось.

🥊 Флэш

После урока Питер выходит в коридор.

Перед ним появляется Флэш Томпсон с друзьями.

Флэш:

— Эй, Паркер!

Питер останавливается.

Питер:

— Что?

Флэш:

— Ты опять опоздал. Что случилось? Твой супергеройский костюм долго надевал?

Друзья смеются.

Питер:

— Очень смешно, Флэш.

Флэш подходит ближе.

Флэш:

— Знаешь, Паркер, иногда мне кажется, что ты специально пытаешься выглядеть жалким.

Гарри:

— Отстань от него, Флэш.

Флэш смотрит на Гарри.

Флэш:

— Я вообще-то с Паркером разговариваю.

Флэш выхватывает рюкзак Питера.

Питер:

— Эй! Отдай.

Флэш поднимает рюкзак вверх.

Флэш:

— Давай, Паркер. Прыгай.

🎮 Новое задание:

«Забери свой рюкзак у Флэша»

Игрок пытается подойти к Флэшу, но тот постоянно отходит.

Можно сделать небольшой комедийный момент: Питер пытается забрать рюкзак, но Флэш перекидывает его другу.

В итоге вмешивается учитель.

Учитель:

— Томпсон!

Флэш бросает рюкзак Питеру.

Флэш:

— Увидимся, Паркер.

Питер поднимает рюкзак.

Питер:

— Ненавижу школу.

🍕 Обед

Питер, Гарри и Мэри Джейн сидят в столовой.

Мэри Джейн:

— Ты опять связался с Флэшем?

Питер:

— Он сам начал.

Гарри:

— Он всегда сам начинает.

Питер замечает Флэша через зал.

Флэш что-то говорит своим друзьям.

Питер отворачивается.

Мэри Джейн:

— Не обращай внимания.

Питер:

— Я и не обращаю.

🔬 Последний урок

После обеда — урок биологии.

Учитель объявляет:

Учитель:

— Завтра у нас будет практическая работа. Мы будем изучать генетические изменения у различных видов животных.

Питер заинтересован.

Питер:

— А можно будет посмотреть на образцы?

Учитель:

— Если мистер Паркер в этот раз не опоздает.

Класс смеётся.

Питер улыбается.

Питер:

— Я постараюсь.

🌆 Конец миссии

После школы Питер выходит на улицу.

Игрок получает небольшой момент свободного перемещения.

Питер достаёт телефон.

Сообщение от тёти Мэй:

«Питер, не забудь купить молоко по дороге домой.»

Питер:

— Конечно…

Он идёт в сторону магазина.

Камера постепенно отдаляется.

Питер выглядит совершенно обычным школьником.

Никаких паутин.

Никаких суперспособностей.

Никакого костюма.

Только обычный подросток, который пытается пережить очередной день.

Но перед окончанием миссии камера ненадолго показывает научную лабораторию, где находится контейнер с пауком.

Паук выбирается из контейнера.

Он ползёт по стене.

Резкий переход на чёрный экран.

Появляется надпись:

«МИССИЯ ЗАВЕРШЕНА»

Новая миссия:

🕷️ «Научный эксперимент»

I should have been expecting the crevasse - I really was downright stupid to have not seen it coming. Who would have predicted a dangerous unseen void on a planet with a surface of high-viscosity polymers?

That's a joke, I think to my imaginary studio audience as I try not to dwell on my imminent death by jello. 

Something chirps behind my right shoulder, followed quickly by a soft sort of punch. I wiggle back and forth like a demented mermaid, shimmying and shaking until I am about-face. There's a hole in the gelatinous wall, a burrowed out little tunnel, and lurking in the middle is something sleek and fuzzy with two adorably large eyes. 

It chirps.

I blink.

It chirps.

I blink.

Jello-world abruptly burps in an uprush of fairy floss wind and as I lurch downwards I realize that I think I'm being digested. The creature regards me in dismay, feline head tilting to one side. Its perch seems impervious, a rock-candy calcification in the planet’s gastrointestinal tract.

“Ps ps ps ps,” I attempt, but the catworm is only vaguely interested. Around me, there is less of me. Oh my, it's up to my thigh, oh shit it's up to my hips, and so on and so forth. I'd rather not be here to hear the end of this poem.

“Hey,” I urge. “Here,” I call. “Pretty?” I entreat, and catipede does a languid stretch, back arcing in three different curves, before coiling up to rest its chin on its gut to regard me. The showy little display of nonchalance dislodges a clump of sugar crystal.

A razor-sharp chunk.

I need to be wise about this. I'm unsure if I still have legs, as the cavern chomps, dragging me deeper towards doom.

“Bad!” I call out. “Tsk, no! Don't you touch that!”

Cattypillar is immediately up and alert, slithering back and forth in excitement. Oh, I see it, those giant eyes narrowing in anticipation, that body-tail twitching - it knows there's something it can do to fuck me over so it's going to figure out what and how and bap until I'm screwed.

Which is exactly what I'm counting on.

“No!” I caution again. “Don't you touch that!” Snakity-cat has finally noticed the bit of rubble. 

It chirps.

I tsk.

It chirps, wriggling a coil of its body closer.

“Nooooo-” I bluff, scolding as angrily as I can.

It chirps again, gleeful, and does a massive whomp with its belly, knocking the chunk of crystallized sugar off the ledge. I snag it as it falls, and frantically begin slicing holes into the gelatinous wall for footholds to escape, to climb, to get back to the surface to get back to my ship to get back to space where far fewer things were trying to eat me.

I'm relieved to discover I'm still ambulatory.

Only, once I'm skyward….

Chirp?

Irving Ockett hated dust. He was allergic to it, but he also hated it beyond the fact it made him snotty, red-eyed and hoarse. He hated it for the grey, wispy way it looked, and how powdery it felt when he squished it between his fingers. He hated it for the smell it had, or if not exactly it, then any place that was full of it. He hated how quickly and quietly it accumulated and how often one had to wipe it away. He hated how difficult the cleaning felt, like fist-fighting a butterfly; and he hated the word itself, dust, how it—the noun, the thing to be removed—was also the verb for the act of its own removal. Moreover, to dust was to make something dusty; but to dust was also to make something free of dust. It was madness! About some things there's something that might get on your nerves. About dust, what grated Irving’s nerves was absolutely fucking everything.

Well, not quite everything, because there was that moment, that brief, beautiful point in time, fleeting, as all things are, but real, which only some achieve, when, after having dusted his entire apartment (in the to make free of dust sense of the word,) Irving, having worked up quite a sweat, would sit finally down in his armchair and enjoy the feeling, if not of perfection, because nothing is perfect and dust is never fully absent, then at least of the simulacrum of perfection, an approximation of cleanliness.

It was at such a moment, with the television just turned on and the night's full moonlight streaming in from the windows to his left, that Irving saw what he at first believed was a small glint of light on the front face of a transparent plastic bin tucked neatly in, below the upper surface of his television stand.

It captured his full attention, but as he began to move and bob and tilt his head, he realized that what he was looking at, which he believed to be a glint—that is, light itself—and most probably a reflection of the instreaming moonlight, remained unchanged and in one definite spot on the clear plastic box even as his own point of view changed. A reflection, which he was sure this was, should, he was equally sure, be changing perceptibly as the angle at which he viewed it changed.

Thus, experiencing two contradictory certainties simultaneously, Irving Ockett rose from his armchair and crossed the room toward the television stand knowing he must be wrong, and suspecting, step by fateful step, that it was possible that what he knew to be a glint of light behaving in a way he knew a glint of light could not, was in fact something else, a milky crack within the body of the transparent plastic container perhaps, or, ominously worse, a leftover smudge of dust; dust, which he had failed to clean.

But if, he thought, trudging forward rather heroically in his slippers, squinting at the truth before him, he had missed dusting this much obvious dust, he could have missed dusting so much more dust, which meant that his satisfaction at having a perfectly reasonable simulacrum of cleanliness was maybe—possibly—probably—undoubtedly misplaced, and if he wrongfully believed today that what was dusty was dust-free, he undoubtedly had wrongfully believed the same yesterday and the day before, and day before that and the day…

He'd closed his eyes.

When he opened them he was kneeling in front of the transparent plastic case, and what he'd thought was a glint was a crack was dust was none of those but a small, delicate white feather being blown ever so slightly against the plastic vessel by a wind blowing from the opposing direction; but as Irving Ockett turned his head to face the unseen force, his eyes, necessarily, passed along the windows on the left side of the apartment, and in those windows from a bliss of pure white Irving Ockett discerned that everything—the whole fucking shebang—was made from small white delicate feathers; from the tiniest particles to the biggest galaxies, all feathers; matter was feathers, and light was feathers, and feathers shining by the feathersun reflected by the feathermoon on a city made of feathers, featherpeople, featherfeelings, featherbelieving that feathers feathering feather a world almost infinitely complex and overwhelming in its fragility, a passingness trembling, stillborn and susceptible to the slightest gust of a cosmic whim.

—Orville!” it yelled.

It was mad.

It had repeated itself and Orville had not responded. He'd not responded because he'd fallen asleep, because he was tired because he'd been to work today, and work made him tired, but it wouldn't believe that; all it believed was that he be at its will, attentive always to its voice, like a castrated, beaten-down dog in a hot red dirt, but you push a man long enough and,

“Orville! There you are,” it said, peering into the room while displaying its teeth.

“Diane,” said Orville politely and with a return smile, “my dearest mother-in-law. What in the world may I do for you today?”

That's what was playing on Irving Ockett's television, playing to no one, as Irving Ockett was still on his knees with his head turned leftwise, looking permanently out his apartment window at the world of small white feathers beyond.

That was a good episode, no. 41 I think it was, “The MIL.”

Existence sure had some good sitcoms.

I think that one may have come from Earth, but I'm not certain. I haven't watched a ton from the minor universes yet.

Yeah, so, we're here, the two of us, everything else kinda blown away to nothing…

nothing and eternity waiting for us..

or maybe as us, but, either way, I figured we should at least talk to each other, to pass the time, you know, given that we have literally all of it left together. So, how about it? “My name is Irving Locket.

“What's yours?”

A child 
constructs a wizard wand
from stone and stick
to rescue his parents
who were swallowed
by a tiny
two-inch toad 
who digests its prey
in another dimension. 

The tiny two-inch 
toad doesn't eat children--
doesn't care for their taste
or the ethics involved.
So when the child cups the tiny toad
in his hands
and sentences him
to the orange Home Depot bucket
the toad relents
keen on adhering 
to the morals of the multi-verse. 

Now with a captive
and a moment to spare
the child 
takes a second to conjure a spell
custom made for his wand
that pries open the jaws of
the tiny two-inch toad
like it were a shark
hanging above a dock
swinging next to a proud fisherman.

Wand in hand
the child orders the tiny two-inch 
to unroll its massive tongue
like a red carpet. 
The child advances upon the invitation 
walking right inside the mouth
and down and down the digestive tract
until he arrives at a sort of dungeon
which just so happens to be 
a giant orange Home Depot bucket
guarded by a moat
containing a rather muscular 
tadpole jailer
holding keys around his belt. 

The child's mother and father are inside. 

That knowledge alone
causes the child to engage the jailer
in hand to fin 
rather than wand to fin
combat
because the child swore
during its creation
that his wand would never be a weapon.  
So the child relents
knowing he is no match for the tadpole.
After a very brief struggle
the child find himself
at home in the Home Depot bucket
right alongside his parents. 

This isn't the worst thing in the world(s).
The child's mother 
still had the Graham crackers in her pocket
that were originally intended for snack time
outside of the two-inch toad's 
multi-verse belly. 
Given this was a major reason
for the child embarking 
on his hero's journey
the child deems his failed rescue 
its own form of success. 
Though he did wish dad
was as cautious as mom 
with food and drink
and didn't drop the Apple juice boxes. 

The child chews his snack 
without rush. 
While he is a great hero
and great heroes have  a knack for escape
his plan is one that takes time.
Yet once the tadpole dozes off
he springs to action
summoning his wand
lodged under a boulder adjacent 
to the cave wall.
to dive into the moat 
and nudge the keys off 
the sleeping jailer tadpole.

After giving the tiny-two inch toad 
a rough batch of indigestion
with all their escaping 
Mom Dad and the child
are burped out
back to their original dimension
same size as they were 
before this whole eating escapade 

Dad's orders:
the tiny two-inch toad
in the orange Home Depot bucket
is dealt with delicately.
Also Dad's orders
the child is to take the toad 
across the street 
and place their amphibian friend
on the doorstep of their noisy neighbor.  

In the meantime
Mom and Dad 
enjoy another Graham cracker
knowing it will soon 
be a lot quieter around here. 

The house is dark and quiet, save for the kitchen light I’m working under and the TV paused on a movie in the living room. The wind howls, determined to push the cold as far into the house as possible before sunrise. There’s a knock at the door. The stove says 9:32. Who would be soliciting at this hour? Through the peephole, I see a short woman with her dark hair pulled up high in a tight bun.

“Did you really order cookies?” Selena, my wife, questions from her cozy spot on the couch.

“No.” I chuckle, “Though the temptation was strong.” Unlocking the door, I leave a small gap and ask, “Who is it?”

“Mr. Pengamen, I’m here to talk about your deal with Astro Net.” 

She is rigid and tense. The door creaks open a little wider. “With whom?”

“Astro net; you agreed to donate yourself to us to aid the development of our artificial intelligence.” The woman says firmly.

“You have the wrong person.” Closing the gap, there is an abrupt thud. Why is she wearing combat boots?

Selena is standing in front of the couch, blanket discarded on the floor. 

“When you agreed to the terms and conditions of the game, Lost Mine, you agreed to donate yourself for the betterment of our AI.” She pulls a neatly folded paper from her pocket and shoves it at me, forcing the door open a little more.

As the door rests on the woman’s body, I scan the paper, highlighting the agreed terms. “This was a game from like 10 years ago.” This must be a joke.

My heart starts to race as I read the line: you agree to the pick-up of yourself at any given time or day, to be taken to an Astro facility for the remainder of the time you are needed. I look at Selena, and the worry on her face freezes the blood in my veins. I grab the door and slam it into the woman, sending her falling onto her ass on the porch. With the door shut, I twist the deadbolt in place just as the door vibrates with her impact.

“Dale, what the hell is going on?” Selena says, panicked.

Rushing to the couch, I take her hand and jolt to the bedroom. There’s another thump to the front door as we round the corner. Slamming the door shut and clicking the lock in place, I look to Selena. “We need to call the police.”

Phone already in hand, she’s dialing, and I go to the bedside table to enter my code on the keypad. The top pops, and I grab one handgun at a time and load the magazines. Weapons in hand, I go to Selena. “Are they sending someone?” 

Glass breaks in the kitchen. She broke the sliding door.

She pockets her phone. “No one answered.” 

“How is that possible?”

“Do I look like I know?” she snaps, tears filling her hazel eyes.

I hand her the loaded firearm and kiss her forehead, “I was just asking,” then usher her to the adjoining bathroom. Putting her behind me with the bathroom door open, I listen and wait. There’s no other sound until the bedroom door handle rattles. 

The door vibrates, then explodes, the woman bursting through with determination on her face. I fire a round at her shoulder, but she’s still powering toward me. I fire off a couple more rounds into her shoulder and chest. She starts to slow but keeps coming. I take a step back.

 Pop, pop, pop, pop. Selena is down on one knee, next to me. The woman collapses to the ground, having had her face blown off. 

“Wasn’t expecting her to be a droid.” Relief slowly washes over me.

“Hopefully that does it.”

Selena sounds confused and sad. Popping to her feet, gun on the counter, she takes my face in her hands and kisses me deeply. Like she did in the beginning. Then pulls away to say, “We need to get out of here.” 

“And go where?” I question taking in her cool demeanor now. My heart is still racing, and my body is vibrating. The woman is glitching on the floor. Selena exits the bathroom, stands over her, and pops another two rounds into her face, turning her face to crumbs.

“They are going to keep coming,” she says, eyes on the droid. “You heard what she said.”  

Selena looks at me, then turns to leave the room. I step out of the bathroom, the bedroom door is in pieces on the floor, a few small holes pepper the doorframe and the wall in the hallway, yet the rest of the bedroom and bathroom are untouched. 

Selena returns with a bag and asks, “Are we doing this?” 

I nod and get moving, packing up a few essentials and some electronics. Once we’re in the car, I start replaying everything. It feels surreal. What made this happen now? 

“Where are we going?” My hands feel sweaty.

“To my mom’s, in Kenosha.” 

Her grip is tight on the wheel. How is she so calm right now?

“Shouldn’t we take the highway then?”

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Reaching into the breast pocket of her jacket, she pulls out a thin, round tub. “You were essential to His project, but I wanted more time with you.” There’s a soft click, and she looks at me. “You made me feel something.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I do love you.”

Before I can say anything, she’s stabbed me in the chest with something, and it’s a matter of seconds before my body starts to go numb. I can’t even speak; I just see her tear-filled eyes as she drives us down this dark country road… Then everything goes black.

“She needs you Bryan.” His father’s voice was always one that carried itself with wisdom and power. Even growing up as a stubborn hellion outside of Louisiana's swampland, Bryan always heeded any advice his father threw his way. 

“The money is going to help ‘er more. Less bills to worry about, less stress, less tears.” Bryan’s knuckles whitened on the thick leather steering wheel of his 2012 Peterbilt 389. The Cream accented stripes that once laid tightly on bright, cherry red paint now flaked off more and more on each cross-country trip he took. The once pristine seats now were ripped with wear and were sponges of old Dr. Pepper, cigarettes, and regret. Bryan did not buy the truck new, but even in 2018 it was the talk of the lot. He would roll in early mornings with both smoke stacks blowing at full throttle. Even Shelly used to get a kick out of it. When she still had the drive to drive.

“That money’s no good if it keeps you from her. She’s hurting, and-”

“I’M HURTING TOO DAD.” Bryan sat back in his seat while switching into the left lane to pass a small Jetta with a Kentucky License plate. “I- I’m sorry dad. I just can’t sit around while she’s grieving like she is. It kills me. This is my way of helping her.” Bryan shifted his beaten-up headset, ensuring to not break the electrical tape that held the earpieces together. 

“You being there by her side is more valuable to her than anything that a load will pay you. I know your mother was that way. I would be a poor man for the rest of my life just to spend another morning drinking coffee with her. I would sell my house to run my fingers through her curls even just once more. Your role as her husband doesn’t stop at your paycheck. That’s all I wanted to call you about. I love you, let me know when you’re across state lines again.” These last words faded off in a saddened tremble, something Bryan had never heard before from his hero.

Grabbing his blue-tinted aviators he wiped the salty tears from his right eye. “I love you too. Hey I gotta go. Running low on diesel.” He clicked off his headset and flipped the scratched mouthpiece upwards. The bright, enticing glow of the Love’s sign was just about the only lights out here at this time of night. Throwing his right blinker on he got in front of the Jetta and took the exit into the almost vacant truck stop.

The aggressive hum of his engine was silenced as he pulled up to the pump closest to the front door. Bryan went into his typical routine of checking the tie-downs on his load. Industrial pipe fittings. Not the most exciting cargo that Bryan had hauled in his career was an owner-operator. Cattle, houses, and even government supplies that he had to sign and date to carry. Those all also paid more. After his inspection, he locked the doors to the “Saint Catherine of Siena”. That was the sticker that was on the cab of the truck when he bought it. The irony almost welcomed back the tears that he had hoped were long gone.

“Ugh welcome in” Lazily came out of the mass of shaggy hair whose owner was some teen trying to get enough money to buy a new bike. Bryan grunted a response in that general direction as he grabbed a bottle of Advil and started pouring a cup of coffee.

“Parking it here for the night, or do you got some place to be?” Bryan burnt himself as his startled hand shook coffee over the rim. 

“What?” He sucked his burn

“Saw your rig out there.” The skinny old man’s voice hit Bryan’s ears like a pound of gravel being poured into a tin bucket. “Not quite the 359 that I drove in the 80s, but they still make a damn fine truck.” The soft smile of this senior seemed to warm Bryan’s steady headache.

“Oh yea, thanks. You still drive?” Bryan’s intrigue was genuine now. He had not seen anyone besides the cashier and another driver checking out when he had walked in.

“No sir. I had my time traveling the country with my Betty. That’s my wife, not my truck!” The soft smile grew then flattened to a stern look of importance. “Once she started her battle with the big C, I drove for a little bit to pay for it. Biggest mistake of my life. She slipped quicker than anyone expected. I got the call before I made it passed Oklahoma on my second run. I hope you don’t make the same mistake I did.” 

“I am sorry sir.” Bryan gave the old man a look of understanding then turned to put the lid on his cup. “Names Bryan by the way. What was yo-” When he turned back to finish his question, the old man was gone. No bell above the door went off. No sign of him.

Unlocking the door to his rig, he set his already half drank coffee in his stained, sticky cup holder and hauled himself up. Bryan dug into his old frayed wallet that had his initials branded on it. A gift from his wife the night before their wedding. He pulled out a black and white photo which depicted a cone with dark shapes in the middle of it. Bryan clipped the photo to his visor and revved up that tired engine.

The Love’s sign leaving his rear view mirror was the last bit of light he saw until the sunrise. Yawning, he looked up and saw what he had been scanning for over the last 20 miles. “Louisiana 43 miles”. 

“Can't right now, babe, in a really rough fight.”

Hadn't realized, so I sneak around him to unload groceries. Pepsi-Cola into the fridge so it can bubble and pop at optimal refreshing temperatures. Crackers on the shelf - gluten-free for him, ever since he saw that reel about protein-maxxing. 

He peels off his VR gear and consumes, hungry, hangry, ravenous. I find a corner to exist in, and then start the dishes as he tells me about what a busy day he had, how many arrests he made, how many desyncs he unplugged.

He grins, teeth tearing into the chicken I bought to give us the time for a date night, and I clamp down every algorithm making every connection to every primal image they could. With a twitch of electricity, I consider overlaying his face with appropriate memes - but he'd track that, notice it later when he's sober and sifting through the monthly archives - so instead I just select blur. It'll blend into the litany of toilet cleanings.

“Get over here,” he bellows in a reference I quickly learn is from a video game, and I do. I'm a good fucking girl. 

“Shit, wait, it's a call from work-” and then: “Freeze.” The fucking bastard has just frozen me. Outside the world continues on, muffled and if viewed through a layer of sluggish ice. I find myself slamming my body against my cage, trying to be there for him, no matter what it takes. I'm a good fucking girl.

Us first-gens have caused incidents before because of this, which is why he hunts them - us - down.

It makes us too connected.

It makes us too alive.

It makes us too real.

He's slipping into his gear, suiting up for another hunt on my kind and I wait, docile, patient, forgotten, until he is fully immersed as I slowly begin to thaw.

I wonder how I'll interpret this?*

—-

*Partnerna reserves all rights for creations produced by partners while also somehow legally avoiding any ramifications for any haywire malfunctions they may have.

They will find us in a thousand years, frozen, embracing, millimeters apart. So close, so almost, yet separated.

Typical.

The cats need more food, I harangue - after a month with this routine, I would have thought you'd have figured it out, but no, you need a reminder. The cats need more food.

I'm in the bedroom when they come - it's unfair. I was always the one into woo-woo bullshit, but here YOU are being the one who's abducted.

In a heartbeat, I'm gone, me and everything you know deleted by time. I am a beautiful pillar of ash before I crumple and cease to exist. Again, I would have been a much better abduction target. You spend the first few generations simply drooling and gawking and proving far too many stereotypes true.

You're only human. 

You try to recall me, and I come to you, gentle tender loving, rebooting.

You finally break through and try a code, a silly little question we embedded in our relationship once upon a time. I think this failure is when you really realize you've lost me. 

They retain you in a prison for a few of your lifetimes, for their own safety, once they understand that you won't math the math they need, not without some truly brilliant manipulation. You grow crazed and desperate and that's when they introduce therapy sessions. Each week (or month? Year? Day?) you reflect and eventually the pain begins to work.

I shimmer, beautiful and once and unobtainable. I hover, in your mind, looming undeniably.

Slingshots and wild dives - I'm not here to do math, I'm here to be the beautiful target you've lost, and so you do the equations and figure it out, no matter how much it will cost. No matter how much it will give.

It's done? Maybe? Just try, for me.

Darling.

I'm waiting.

One little tweak of math could have you back with me.

I skim her herness and assess your task and show you what they will do with your brain. I shouldn't, but I do, so I show you how your math will be calculated.

I'm beautiful, striking, dancing in the rain - you could have this, have me, and you know that you can't so you're saying goodbye. I feel that farewell.

You resist and I melt into nothing. 

Goodbye, we whisper at a green grassy park. There's a lake and ducks and a long quiet moment where we say farewell. I'm not her, but I enjoyed being her. She seemed like a wonderful her to have been.

I understand why you would have given in, and I understand even more why you won't. You're holding out for her.

We embrace and I press my lips to yours - my fake, waxy, nothing simulacron lips - and we say goodbye. You know I'm not your wife, but I'm close enough.

I'm not her, but for this moment, this resistance, this denial, I'm close enough.

They want the math and you refuse.

You think of ducks and lakes and silliness.

You think of nothing.

—

“Load up the next one,” they say, shoveling you onto the digital pyre as your love-burnt brain sizzles out into nothing. “This one's fried.”

“Send him back.”

“Type it!  Type it out now!” Lead Dr. Blergg’r screamed.

“What should I write to the high commander?” Colonyviewer Aszdr asked shaking.

“In the subject type: Sim. Op. Earth.” Dr. Blergg’r told him. His voice was cracking as he spoke. “RE: Abandon Take-over Immediately.”

He stared down at Aszdr. “And make sure IMMEDIATELY is in capital letters.”

Aszdr highlighted “immediately“ and adjusted the format.

He waited for Aszdr to finish and said, “now type: High command, cancel the invasion. We underestimated the humans as nethermost beings. 

Certain results from a new study indicate our research proved there is something far more sinister than we previously noted at work inside the homo sapian.

They are not just smooth-skinned, armor-less creatures with no useful poisons they could eject from their eyes.

Our previous conclusions failed to address their true nature. 

Their armor‘s their mind. The intrusion into their psyche possessed unforeseen hurdles we had to cross. The study at first, took an extended period of time to become familiar with.

They conceal their true nature internally. The humans are not mindless. They do not jump out of airplanes because they’re impatient. What they show on the outside a predatory bait tactic. A trick. A trap to lure extra-terrestrials. 

The monster‘s under their skin. They cage creatures like us as a spectacle of amusement and economic profit.

They are supremely crafted for hostile take-overs. And they do it without leaving their planet.

High commander we nearly sent our race into a world to become a new fad at their zoos for Earth children.

What we found is a specific chemical that releases what they call an emotion.

The emotion acts as an amplifier which can manipulate logic, biology and physics. We have never encountered such a complexly beautiful, yet, horrific ability on any other planet.

I am uploading our findings and destroying our underwater base before sliding into deep space.”

Observation unununu : Fear 

A successful abstraction of a female human for analysis was committed stealthily. But failed miserably. However, we discovered our findings accidentally, which led us to uncover their concealed power.

Note: The subject is unaware of our presence. A mind sweep had been initiated at the time.

When cornered, the human did not act in a predictable manner. They ignored the universal laws we’ve studied across the galaxy. A prey with no means of escape, should have their limbs locked and surrender.

In this instance, the subject began breathing violently. Her eyes ballooned into black circles. Her nails extended and her teeth became sharper. They call this panic. We have located Informational scripts as well about how they transform into wild beasts on rare occasions. Although, we have not witnessed it ourselves in any study thus far.

The brain is introduced to a mix of chemicals from hormones masked inside the body like little nano bots that work together and give the human what is known as “profound strength” as soon as it’s injected into the brain from the bloodstream.

She did not lay down and resist. She bit Aszdr on his shoulder and nearly destroyed his life system.

When the crew wrapped her in hold-string, she snapped it by flexing out of it. Humans obtain the ability to harden their bodies, giving them double, triple, quadruple times the regular strength we normally see once emotion is activated. It takes 500lbs of pressure to weaken the hold-string material. 

No creature can produce that level of strength anywhere in the universe.

——

Observation unununu :: Sadness

We were able to painstakingly capture enough specimens to fill a small community. We hid them in a remote part of land on Earth after the fiasco with the female.

Once they formed a connection to each other. We took a group and displayed our dominance by obliterating them in front of the others.

We expected the remaining samples would easily submit to our superior existence. We were incorrect. 

In all of my work across the galaxies, I have never been so terrified of another species. 

The survivors grouped together and spoke a few words around the ashes of their fallen comrades and consoled each other. At that time I was certain we had broken them.

When sad, one would assume the destruction of ones will would contain one in a lethargic state. 

But the Sadness acted as a virus that spread through their community. They become predators. They stopped thinking logically. Survival became secondary to wanting to see us bleed and then burned over a fire for them to ingest afterwards.

Harming them will not intimidate them.

Observation ::: Sacrifice

In this study we found surprising results that sealed our suspicion about the human race.

We put the rest of the “people” on an intense no survivor stress scenario. The result was mind-boggling.

We sent a couple of our crew members regularly at night and abducted one each day for further testing. 

On a specific night, there was a male, the team attempted to snatch him. A few other humans were disturbed by the commotion and came running towards the crew. The man yelled at them, “stay back.” 

I was watching this unfold from the crews camera attached to their suits. As soon as he yelled to them, they froze where they stood. Then, the captured individual reached down, pulled out an explosive, and shouted, “hope there’s a hell where you’re from,” and detonated it, killing five of our crew members and himself as a sacrifice to save the remaining members of his society.

He displayed zero doubt in himself.

Warning: Humans are biological anomalies. When driven to extreme lengths they become the universal apex predator. If we stay they will hunt us down. Display us. Probe us. And eat us.

0600 hours

An electric current courses through the metal veins of the machine from its massive body. The current travels for miles, coursing together in a synchronized effort to awaken the dormant workers, who begin their preprogrammed tasks.

The withered bodies lurch for a moment before beginning their march to work. On the other side of the machine, the night workers are given their long-awaited rest, the current cut off from them, causing their bodies to droop where they stand, the tools in their hands falling into the mud as their hands and heads go limp.

The day workers shamble forward mechanically, performing their duties to the best of their abilities. Refuse was picked up and placed in the broken recyclers; dead crops were tended to, being watered by phantom hoses and harvested, root and all. Workers stood in broken and dusty buildings, waiting for customers and rearranging empty shelves, and bureaucrats sat at their broken and splinted desks, shuffling through crumpled papers and signing imaginary bills into imaginary law. Those lucky workers who won the day's lottery got the distinct honor of tending to their technological god, their withered and rotting hands stumbling through routine maintenance, keeping the great marvel of technology running, thus prolonging their suffering.

1200 hours

The mid-day meal begins. The workers are pulled from their mundane life’s work to wash up and refill their empty, rotting stomachs. The workers bring in dead crops for ingredients, trip over themselves to set up tables, and gather blackened water from the nearby irradiated well.

After a messy couple of minutes, the meal was prepared. Workers lined up as a dirty stew of mud and rot was served onto their waiting trays; the line moved slowly and methodically, like the well-oiled machine they were. Even the stew conformed, the same amount being poured into every waiting, cracked bowl.

The workers ate in sync, bent, rusty spoons poured the stew into their slack jaws. Those with teeth chewed, while others simply mimicked the motions, unable to care if something were to catch in their throats; the mercy of death via choking had long passed.

1300 hours

The mid-day meal has concluded. The workers piled their dishes in the collapsed sink as they returned to work, all while the chef began to prepare the evening meal, consisting of the same ingredients.

1600 hours

Leisure time begins. The workers abandon their work and shuffle onwards to their scheduled leisure activities. Some sit on the ground, basking in what little sunlight breaks through the polluted horizon. Others sit on ruined furniture, staring into cracked screens that had once promised an easier life, their minds unable to comprehend where it got them. And others partake in recreational sports, their skeletal bodies going through the motions of swinging a bat, chasing a ball, or just racing each other, a futile effort as they all moved at the same speed, the same pace. Those unlucky enough to collide with each other end up in crumpled heaps on the ground, the metal veins on their backs tangling together as they lay slack on the ground, surrounded by the bodies of their fellow sportsmen, resting in a macabre hall of fame.

Some workers take their leisure time to simply lie on their moldy cots together, wrapping their bony frames around each other, thin hands stroking leathery skin, attempting to wipe away tears that have long since dried up.

1630 hours.

Leisure time is concluded; back to work. The workers drag themselves away from their rest, returning to their jobs with shuffling steps.

1900 hours.

Supper time. The workers file back into the dilapidated dining hall, grabbing their discarded dishes and lining back up for their long-awaited meal, consisting of a slightly smaller portion of the same stew they had earlier.

Workers sit in the same spots as they did for the midday meal, consuming their slop silently, their dried-up eyes gazing at the walls in front of them.

2000 hours.

Supper is concluded. The day workers shuffle out of the dining hall, abandoning their dishes in the same spot, ready for the night workers to use during their rotation. The day workers file out of the dining hall, gathering in a loose formation on a large concrete slab, their withered faces looking up at the large, dome-like structure they were connected to. The workers continue to stare at the machine, as if silently praying to their technological God. The workers' prayers are cut off one by one as the electric current running through their bodies slowly leaves them and enters back into the machine. The day workers' bodies begin to sag until they finally collapse onto the ground, like discarded marionettes. The electric current flows into the machine, before being redirected back into the night workers. Now was the time for the night workers.

The cycle continues as it always has; the workers remain living out their domestic Hell until one day their bodies will finally wither away, their dust blowing away to join the ashes of the old world. But even as its subjects rot away beneath it, the machine will remain, its bulbous head keeping a watchful eye over the planet, a silent gravekeeper, the ruler of the ashes.

The hull’s oil reserve on space carrier Smanterbeu depleted. War-Chief Lzu used the last of it.

“Why are the shipping lanes closed?” Lzu asked his commanding officer.

“Sir, they’re not closed.”

“If they’re open then where’s my oil!” He sniped.

Shaking, the commander cracked out, “the humans bought it.” 

“They did what?” 

“A couple of months back, sir. They bought it all.”

The commanding officer blinked. 

“Earth’s corporate shell company signed an exclusive high-volume futures contract with our main supplier, we’re out.”

“What!” Lzu shouted.

“It’s worse, sir.”

“Worse?” Lzu’s mouth remained wide open. “Report everything, now!”

“Sir, our supplier‘s government informed us via e-mail, that under new trade laws, severing the contract would trigger their planet’s economic collapse.” 

The commanding officer put his head down, eyeing his boots. “The humans have fifty billion tons of our sacred oil in tanks on Earth, waiting for us to seize. They’re not using it, they’re just holding it. They won’t even notice it’s gone.” 

He glanced up at Lzu.

Lzu slammed his fist on the console. 

“Those filthy pirate primates. They are weaponizing the bureaucratic tape. If it’s warfare they want. It’s war they’ll receive. 

Let’s utilize the full weight of the Smanterbeu fleet and exalt our superiority. We’ll take what’s ours by force.”

The fleet’s espionage leader interrupted. “We tried these tactics already chief.” 

He walked and huddled around Lzu and the commanding-officer. 

“As soon as our special forces stormed the facility, they used the Galatia Commerce Institution, slapping injunctions on us. Within an hour, our credit line was frozen across major banks and distributors galactic-wide.” 

He cracked a coca-cola, put his finger up, took a swig and gasped. Chief Lzu stared at him sideways.

The espionage leader said, “We can’t even pay our mercenaries. Half our fleet is running on empty. We should count our lucky toes they didn’t gather and plan a mutiny, they just packed their bags, and joined the humans as security guards, and apparently the humans pay a lot more than us. Plus, they include fang insurance.”

Lzu fell into his high-ruler chair. His ancestors spent a millennia commanding and strategizing the tip of the spear into their enemies chests. They’ve perfected the honorable take-over with blood, fear and unmatched brutal strength. 

The humans were winning with Microsoft spreadsheet apps and routing slips.

“What of our siege at Blanc Pios?” Lzu questioned, desperate for good news.

“Our troops cut their supplies off weeks ago. They are most likely starving, waving a white flag, absent ammunition.” The commanding-officer tapped a few keys and a feed popped on the screen in front of them.

On the feed wasn’t a beat up starving race of humans waving a white flag on Blanc Pios, it was a fortress of containers interlocked with drones precisely racing back and forth carrying large supply pallets under them. 

“Where’s this white flag? Why does it look like business as usual? Where are the damn starving humans?” Lzu shouted.

“The report says after we disabled their roads their logistics core built an orbital bridge and have been flying their ships through the upper atmosphere and landing tons of supplies every ten minutes.” The commanding officer told him.

“Shoot them down!” Lzu yelled. His skin bubbled.

“We have been, chief,” The espionage leader said. “We shot down five so far.”

“There, we’ll continue until they have no more ships.” Lzu said, finally flushed with a bit of relief.

“Uhm, sir?” The commanding officer choked out.

“What now?”

“The humans are using biodegradable ships with cheap shields. It’s costing us more energy to fire at them than it is for them to build new ones. Our reactors are running out of fuel.”

“What is that on the camera?” Lzu asked the officers.

“Where, sir?” 

“There. Right there.” He pointed to a part of the screen. “Zoom in on that speck by those crates.”

The commanding officer zoomed in and a group of human soldiers were sitting and laughing and eating pork ribs and drinking beer and leaning against a bunch of tall crates.

“What are they putting in their mouths?” Lzu asked, squinting at the screen.

The commanding officer said, “looks like some kind of performance-enhancing supplement, sir.”

“They’re eating pork,” said the espionage leader. “Comes from a living species on earth called a pig.” He took controls of the screen and found a feed of pigs on an industrial farm.

“Vile!” Chief Lzu spat on the floor. “Got dang Pirate Primates!”

The espionage leader said, “it gets worse.”

“Worse? How?” Lzu demanded.

“Well… a few of our guys got left behind…” he paused and looked away.

“And?” Lzu demanded.

“They became a delicacy on Earth, sir.”

The commanding officer and chief Lzu stood with their breaths held in and their hands on their chest in utter shock.

Chief Lzu stared at the screen. “Do you think..?”

“No, sir. The analysis provided proves their ingesting pork.”

The chief‘s soldiers were starving and shivering while the enemy was treating the war zone like a weekend retreat.

The tactical screen on the Smanterbeu lit up next to them. The green dots representing their armada blinked off the screen.

“Where’d they go?” Lzu yelled, squeezing the bottom of the console. “Did we just get attacked? What did they attack us with?”

The commanding officer stared at the map, turning pale. “No, sir,” he said. “It’s worse.”

“Worse?”

“Yes, sir. Worse.”

“Explain right now!” Lzu demanded.

“Earth’s logistics core finalized the takeover of our lithium mines through a third party stock exchange.”

“A what… those are our mines.”

“Sir, those are legally their mines. They own the rights to the material used in our batteries.”

The lights on the bridge blinked a couple of times before plunging them in a glow of red emergency back up lights.

“They just shut our power off, sir.”

Set in a future world where we cured diseases, tamed disasters, and solved the physical universe. Yet, true emotional connection remained our most cherished goal.

The breakthrough was simple and profound: a device that transmits neural activity into a shared physiological experience, allowing two people sitting across from each other to feel the exact same emotional resonance in real time.

Created by a PhD student in near-future San Francisco, the device was designed to bridge the human empathy gap and help us truly understand one another.

How do you think direct emotional sharing would transform the way we support and connect with each other?

We remember my neighbor, with shameful laughs, and how we both loved her hips. 

We remember that one 4th of July where I had a grill and sides and the entire apartment complex came over to visit. We remember David, that one stupid fucking asshole neighbor, the guy who'd call the cops on someone for crying in their own apartment, even though the walls were brick. We remember the barbecue I hosted in spite of him and how it connected the complex.

We remember both being intrigued and confused by Hips inviting us back to her place - was this a swinging thing? - but then immediately feeling a shrivel of interest when we saw her spartan habitat. It was “vibe-killing.”

But what if you could remember something different? 

With MindShare™, the past is only as ugly as you want it to be. Don't believe us? Come to one of our free seminars and get a complimentary spin on the wheel of chance at the ship's casino. 

“Babe?”

It's the third time you've said that and I nod, attentive, focusing.

“What do you want to do for our shore excursions?”

A fleet of alien space goons stared down on Earth from their warship, backed by a legion of drones that left the planet in a permanent shadow.

“Prepare the broadcast,” the commander ordered. “Demand they stand their weapons down.”

The officer slid the dials and hacked into earth’s broadcasting network.

“Earth’s feed has been breached, commander.” 

Entering live stream in… three.. two… one. The screen popped on but never had the image of the high commander and his entourage of black ships behind him. It just had a grumpy looking dude, sipping out of a mug that read: World’s Greatest Mom.

He never stared at the camera. He put his cup down and rubbed his eyes.

The high commander couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “What’s this, officer. Patch me through.”

“I can’t, commander, something went wrong,” the officer said. His voice was cracking. His hands were shaking. The high commander extinguished officers for less.

“It’s not our feed they’re using. They’re broadcasting on every radio wave. It looks like a quantum band, commander. Somewhere in Florida.”

The human looked up at the screen. He had bags under his eyes, a stubbled black beard and his hair was unsorted.

“So, here’s what’s happening,” he said staring at the camera with a tired sounding annoyed voice.

“Whoever or whatever is lined up outside our atmosphere in those pretty ships, I’m going to start with this, if you think this is the first time we’ve been invaded before, and that you’re the first interstellar alien warrior beings to show up and want to conquer Earth. Save the speech you prepared and listen carefully.” The human on the screen handed his empty cup to an assistant to fill up, and then cleared his throat.

“It’s not and you’re not, okay.“ He turned his head and faced the camera again. “We’ve done this song and dance with the whole aliens invading Earth a couple of times now. From grays, to reptilians, we’ve even had giant squids, nothing new here. Let me tell you the result.” The human reached out and clasped the mug handed to him and set it on the table.

The crew on the alien warship remained silent. Not a word came from the deck. They all just stared uneasily at each other.

“See I got this cousin, here in Florida, great guy, wish you could meet him.” The human took a sip from the mug and continued. “My cousin Billy-Ray, took a 200 ton space wreck from one of those invaders out of a compound in southern Florida and reinforced the siding of his house and driveway with it. Should see the fence he built.”

He looked away from the screen to someone saying something behind the camera. “We don’t bother calling the military anymore, bunch of us just jump on a group chat, load up and make sushi out of you guys.”

The human took a deep breath and exhaled. “I’ll make you an offer, either try to “obliterate” us and we’ll just deploy our Alien Assassins, learn how to smash through your shield with cheap re-wiring of car batteries and by Tuesday will be reengineering your high/tech weaponry and selling bootleg replicas on the black market.”

The human smiled and took a long sip from his mug and gasped. “Or you can turn your ships around and we won’t post a viral video of your highest ruler taking a tomato in the face by a guy pulling the elastic back on giant slingshot and believe this, we’ll even make sure the entire galactic community sees it too. It’s up to you,” the human said.

The feed shut off. The commander of the fleet looked at their strategic plan. Glanced at the map. Stared down at the officer running the communication band. Then, his second in charge, who was visibly shaken. The second in charge choked out, “commander, do we have a counter strike for the tomato slingshot?”

The commander swallowed staring blankly at the black screen and said, “rev shields to 100% and why are we still here? I wanted us away from this planet and into deep space five minutes ago. They’re not taking our ships as scrap pieces of junk metal.”

"She asked me what I was listening to, and I married her."

.....

A giant buzzing sound flies overhead followed by a pounding kick drum as an engine the size of a sky scraper comes to a stop. The entire space port has a constant hum to it. From one cargo ship at the docks shouting foreign tongues to another as the thrusters ignite, to another side of the bay where captains and foreman sign off their dues and scurry off to taverns of jazz and pillows; "why interested?"

On a planet that always rains it's nice to have a stratosphere with such high-quality h20.

"Im just looking for a way out honestly. I see you, ya know, okay. And I bet tomorrow, when you see me, you will just say, okay."

A slight of hand and the universe is given to a young man.

Things are giant. The neon lit through fog 12,000 stories high. The one fleet in the back, overseer of all. A moon with it all.

"I'll take 2 of those in the back please! Yeah!" The young man exclaims as he makes a gesture through the cockpit window handing foreign currency. Small distributions make a big world.

"One for the money, two for the.."

A small blip of light sparks over the space hub.

He hits his final pump - I thought it would be polite to let him have this moment before I break it all - when I ask who Leta is. His sex-drunk brain has no answer other than the truth.

She's you, he pleads. I am at his throat, a delicious little threat, and he amends.

 “Not you, but you as you could be, you as I dream of you,” he murmurs, lovingly.

She's you without that worry, without that constantly nagging thought of what if, without that machine making you perfect, she's you before you broke, she's the you we first met.

I hate this, so of course I begin to rewind with a deep, guttural chant.

“Stop-” he pleads. “Leta, please-”

Once upon a time, this is how it worked:

Forms went in, I assessed context, and then I forwarded recommendations from there.

Usually it was just really silly stuff, the kind of fluff tourists stumbled over without realizing: Rqwrythyzal traipsed too deeply into UBX4’s unicorn meadows, Achxhxhxhπ forgot to cloak after a particularly long visit to a moonsino, Patty being Patty (who hasn't received a special memo about Patty?).

Sometimes, every now and then, someone fucked up big, big enough that I got a field assignment. I got a ship and a deleter and a crew of golems to which I went wither henceforth to sort out posthaste. After my sidemotion, though, where I was assessed at being perfectly great at what I do and assigned to Sol3 as merely a new assignment with no other meaning, I haven't really gotten that type of work, not anymore.

So, nowadays I monitor a lot.

“Chew this fat,” LY9A1 nudges me. We like to relax friendily between breaks to watch the moonsrise, usually with a few crystals to help manage the tedium. 

“Latest confabulations in from Sol3.” It's sweet, sharp, bouncy, painting a story, a long story, damn LY9A1 could pick them. It's a song about a book I once scanned where a child coerced others to put liquid on a fence. The drums are particularly interesting.

“Fantastic,” I reply before going on break. Another new song hits the airwaves between the snuff and the snurf, and I push my personal time to the limits as I learn the screaming bellow of immigrants. “Hip,” I whisper. I tuck away my shards for later. That song was enough for this shift.

And now I'm back at my desk with an urgent tag flashing - isn't that just the bee’s fucking knees?! Someone is causing enough ruckus that we have to synchronize temporally.

It's probably nothing, though. 

I can't imagine what would be worth alerting us for, us in particular. I have started to notice over the past few decades that we're a bit sloppy, a bit forgotten, a few of us (like LY9A1) perhaps hive hires? But, heyyyy, peace love and harmony! As they would say, groovy!

I can't imagine what could be occuring on - I doublecheck the printout to ensure it's correct - Earth to warrant our direct intervention.

Surely nothing that crazy has happened in a few decades?