The Advancement of Mateo Matic: August 2, 2398

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One of the first things that Bridgette learned about her father was that he was after two interrelated things. He wanted to collect unusual people, and special objects with unusual properties. Based on what she was able to gather from a distance, he didn’t accidentally see something he wasn’t supposed to, or get read into an organization already involved in this stuff. He was obsessed with the occult his entire life, and it took him half of it to get anywhere with his investigations. Aliens, vampires, cryptids, superheroes, and time travelers. He didn’t know for a fact whether any of these things existed, but he was convinced that one of them had to, or one of the many others in a long list of fictional possibilities. Was there a secret society of five people who ran the whole world from the shadows? Did immortals travel the world with swords, cutting each other’s heads off? It had to be something, and he had to find it, and find it he did.

Once Leona realized that Winona’s father, Senator Honeycutt had figured out the secret of reality, she called it The Masquerade. But this suggested that there was some kind of organized system to all this, like the Archipelago from Sense8, or the chaotic network of salmon and choosing ones from the main sequence. It doesn’t seem to be like that here. Leona Reaver, Delaney and Andile; even Alt!Mateo; none of them has ever found anyone like them. If there are other time travelers here, they’re scattered throughout the world. They may even be separated by time, up to billions of years. There is no network, no I know a guy thing going on here. At least that’s what they have believed this whole time. Even Marie, in all her dealings as a covert agent with the U.S. government, hasn’t found evidence of such a thing. Until perhaps now.

They call him The Dealer, and the only thing Bridgette had about him in her notes is that he moves around a lot, and if you want to do business with him, you’re going to need a referral. It took three days of calling and texting for Marie to procure one from Bridgette’s initial contact, but here she is in Mount Zeil in the Northern Territory. Like Lebanon, Kansas in the main reality—or Gothenburg in this one—for the United States, it’s the center of Australia. It also happens to be around 270 kilometers from Uluru, which is on Mateo’s list of important temporal locations to check out.

Marie ducks down to clear the top of the entrance. All kinds of knick knacks, tchotchkes, trinkets, and baubles sit on the shelves along the wall. What she would guess to be a massive aboriginal mask sits in the corner. The man behind it probably thinks that she doesn’t see him, and expects her to look around on her own while he watches to get an idea of what kind of person she is. She examines a few items, but there is nothing of interest to her, except for one thing. “Nothing in this shack is of any real value,” she begins, taking the black hat from its shelf, and raising it up. “...save for this.” She places it upon her head, faces the mask in the corner, and extends her arms to the side to present the new her. She’s transformed herself to look like a famous actor that anyone in the world would recognize.

The Dealer knocks the mask away from himself, and stands up. “You got it to work. How did you do that?”

“Let’s just say...I keep hydrated.” The Health-slash-Death waters are still technically in her system, and can allow her to tap into the temporal energy necessary to make the McIver hat work. It’s not enough to teleport, but this thing has its own power. Marie studies his face for a few seconds, and then transforms herself again, now to become a mirror image of him.

He slowly slinks towards her to get a better look. “Brilliant.”

She removes the hat to return to her true visage, and sets it back down. “Where did you get it, and where did you get the Insulator of Life?”

He gingerly sets the hat upon his own head, and frowns when he looks in a nearby beauty mirror to find that it still doesn’t work for him. It is unclear how he knew beforehand what it was supposed to do, or that it was supposed to do anything at all. Now he studies her face. “How well do you know history?”

“Not as well as someone my age should. Why?”

“I was born in 1991, right smack dab in the middle of the bloodiest battle of World War II. My mother was a soldier, who’s unit leader didn’t give a crap that she was nine months pregnant with me. She still had hands, which meant that she could still hold a gun. He was pissed when she went into labor, partially because of her, but also because the rest of her unit came together to protect her, instead of pushing forward with whatever mission they were on. When my cries rang out to the sky, it is said that everyone on both sides stopped shooting simultaneously...and they wept. The war ended that day, because of me. My first act in this world was potentially saving millions.”

“That’s...a haunting story.”

The Dealer smiles. “This isn’t about me, or my mother. It’s about the unit leader. You see, he wasn’t from around here, and when I say around here, I mean—”

“He was from another reality.”

This surprises him, but then he remembers just a minute ago when she activated the McIver hat without giving it a second thought. “That’s what he told me on his deathbed, and also that he was my real father, though I guessed as much when I heard we shared a first name. I don’t know why he didn’t raise me, or why he didn’t have the instinct to protect his baby mama during the war. I know that she wasn’t raped, though. They were in love at one time, to a certain degree. Anyway, he died right in front of me before he could say much more, but just before his last breath, he gave me a key to a safe deposit box. I found the glass insulator thing in there, and a few clues to other objects. Do you wanna know how old he was?” It was rhetorical. “I couldn’t get the exact date he was born, but it was somewhere in the neighborhood of over 500 years ago. It’s all because of that little green object that doesn’t even give off any energy readings. As far as I can tell, it’s nothing but glass.”

“You’re being surprisingly forthcoming with all this,” Marie notes.

“I have to be. Someone needs to keep going. Someone needs to find the truth about this world, and I won’t be able to do it for very much longer.” He reaches up to his hair, and pulls it all off. He’s completely bald underneath. “Shortly after he passed, World War III began, which I believe to have been the worst. Biological weapons gave an estimated three million people cancer. I only survived because of the insulator.”

“Why did you give it away? You know you have to stay close for it to work.”

“I’m tired,” he explains. “I’m done. That’s why he gave it away, and I’m sure whoever Bridgette gave it to will also only last a few centuries.”

She nods, respecting his position. “I’m Marie. What’s your name?”

“Lawson Junior. I was apparently named after my father, and he was named after his mother, Laura Gardner.”

Microstory 1712: Crabby Cancer

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According to one wild theory of evolution, the crab is the ultimate physical form. Every species that is destined to survive will eventually transform into some kind of crab. Of course, being intelligent humans, we have always dismissed such bizarre arguments, which have no basis in scientific fact. This truth didn’t stop us all from turning into crabs, it just wasn’t due to evolution. Our first hint that an alien race was upon us was subtler than we would have assumed. We saw no great ships appear in the sky. No portal from another world opened up on the ocean floor, or in a secret underground military base. It began as faint images in the wind, as if the air were opaque, and blocking beings on the other side until moved. The images grew clearer, and were joined by whispers. It was obvious that something existed beyond our normal range of perception, and was finally coming to light. The world’s governments tried to step in, but there was nothing they could do. The beings were spread out all over the globe, and could not yet interact with us, so there was no way to contain them, or even prepare to. Some areas were denser than others, so we huddled around the safe zones—mostly deserts—only to discover this to be a fruitless endeavor. The aliens could move, of course, because why wouldn’t they? After a few months of watching...waiting, the first Karkinel proved itself to be physically present when it took hold of a child, and ran away with it. That kid was never seen again, and that’s when the military went to work. They handed weapons to everyone they could, and gave us permission to shoot any crabbo on sight. Many human deaths resulted from this mandate. If the Karkinel wasn’t completely corporeal, the bullets could pass right through it, and land in someone innocent. This period of limbo did not last long, but it was the first of many failures.

Once the rest of the aliens had arrived, the war began. They tried to take people, while the people fought back with everything they had. It was the greatest threat our species had ever encountered, and we weren’t going down easy. Even so, it was an impossible dream. Whenever one crabbo was killed, another was waiting to take its place. That was when we realized what they were doing. They weren’t trying to kill us. They were trying to make us like them. They were infecting us with their crabbiness, and letting a cancerous disease spread throughout our bodies, turning us into them. The process was sometimes gradual, but sometimes incredibly rapid. Children, in particular, took too well to the process. There was every chance that a human fighter ended up killing a Karkinel who was once that first young boy to be taken. Now the war shifted. No longer were we using guns and bombs. The only way we were going to win was if we managed to undo the Karkinel transition, and restore our brethren to their rightful human state. Barring that, maybe we could prevent survivors from suffering the same fate. This was yet another failure. Scientists worked on the problem for years, but were never able to come up with a vaccine, let alone a cure. This was not surprising since we had already been trying to cure cancer for decades to no real luck. It is not without hope, however. We may not be able to stop the carcinization, but we can do something about how it effects the brain. I’m not sure if you can understand me yet, but you will be our first test subjects. With this treatment, your minds will become human again. Your bodies will still look like crabs, but you’ll think more like us. And you’ll fight...for us.

Microstory 1259: Tasha Rutherford

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Catalina Lenz was born and raised in Wyoming, but she wanted a change of pace after college, so she literally spun a globe, and decided to move wherever her finger landed. She immediately realized she didn’t want to live in another country, or the middle of the ocean, so she had to spin a couple dozen more times before finally landing on Kansas City. She would come to regret not trying for one more spin, or for giving Western Australia a shot. Not long after she moved, she got herself mixed up with the street gangs, particularly a high ranking member of the Business Ends, which once controlled a lot of Downtown KC MO. His anger and desire for violence increased proportionately to the drop in power he and his men had over the city. Another gang was taking over, and he took his frustrations out on Catalina. But she stayed, because she had spent almost every dime she had to travel across four states, and hadn’t ever found a way to support herself. Then she learned she was pregnant, and everything changed. Now there was this other person who couldn’t survive without her. She knew she had to get out to protect her daughter. If only she had realized that someone had already come up with a protocol for this, the plan would have gone much smoother. There was only one person she knew she could trust, but he had already done so much for her, and she didn’t want to burden him, or place him in danger. She snuck out on her own, and made her way to a little village in Illinois called Makanda. That wasn’t where she was trying to get to, but she felt it was safer to stay out of the big cities, which had more security cameras, and she could only travel so far in one go. This was where her ex-boyfriend’s lieutenant caught up with her, but also where she met some really nice people who had a way to help.

They ended up contacting the man who would have been able to help her back in Kansas City had she known anything about him. His real name was Duane Blackwood, but his nickname was The Forger. He was able to provide Catalina and her baby with new identifies, transforming them into Tasha and Sabine Rutherford. This was more than just just a few slips of paper, and a convincing passport. Duane had the ability to send data, and sometimes memories, through time. Birth certificates, hospital records, report cards, parking tickets, job applications, ID cards, even tourism photos; all these and more were believably sprinkled throughout history so that Tasha Rutherford was an undeniably real person, with a true background. The Forger also provided her with a little bit of seed money, so she could get her start somewhere else. Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, she ended up choosing to live in Perth, Australia, and loved it there. She kept a low profile, but her granddaughter certainly did not. In the future, most diseases were eradicated, but some were trickier than others. Cancer could be essentially suppressed using medical nanotechnology, but that wasn’t really a cure. People who underwent these treatments lived fulfilling lives, no longer actively aware of their condition, but this was still just managing the symptoms. Marcy Rutherford and her team started developing their cure for colorectal cancer in the 2080s, and finished it by 2095. Their efforts proved to be invaluable in research beyond this one form of cancer, as the unique method they used to combat the cancer cells could be adapted, and reapplied to other forms of cancer, and even some other diseases. Thanks to other medical advancements, Tasha lived long enough to see her granddaughter’s amazing accomplishments, and be thankful that she was afforded a rare second chance.

Microstory 1143: Mahala Davidyan

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Out of everyone in the Freemarketeer faction, Mahala Davidyan was one of the least capitalistic, second only to Ramses Abdulrashid, though the question remains if Ramses was ever that open-minded, or if he managed to improve a great deal, due to his exposure to Brooke Prieto and her friends. Mahala was never much for change, even though the entire point of her faction was to completely alter the way the economy operated. She didn’t outwardly question her parents’ convictions, because she didn’t really have any of her own, but she didn’t exactly agree with them either. No one was forcing her to stick around, but she saw no reason to live any other way. If there was one thing the Freemarketeers did right, it’s that they didn’t force anyone to be part of the group. Anyone born into it was given the choice to leave with no social controversy. Mahala didn’t leave, though she probably should have. And that’s not just true because of how badly things turned out. After decades of scarce recruitment, and zero progress towards their goals of a capitalistic society, the Freemarketeers realized the only way they would be able to live how they wanted was if they did it somewhere else. The ship that was trying to transport them to a nearby exoplanet, however, suffered a cataclysmic malfunction, prompted by their own resentful leader. They thought they were rescued when a comprehensive network of portals opened up, and spirited them away, but they soon found them in a complicated situation when the same exact thing kept happening. Parallel timelines are nearly impossible to stabilize for an extended period of time. Most potential outcomes only last for microseconds, which is why they’re known as microrealities. For most universes, this is completely irrelevant on a practical level, because people aren’t conscious of the path they might have taken, especially since they’re not the only ones walking down the metaphorical path. When you’re dealing with time travel, it’s entirely possible to access these short-lived realities, and even steal from them. They’re about to collapse, so it doesn’t matter much anyway, except when it becomes cancerous. For some reason, the technology that rescued them had a malfunction of its own, and kept trying to rescue them, over and over and over again. It just kept drawing alternate versions of the same people from microrealities, and transporting them to the planet of Dardius. Every day, a new batch of alternates would arrive. This was causing problems for the planet’s natives, and for the Freemarketeers, and war broke out for resources. Both sides knew that nothing was going to get better if they didn’t start communicating with each other. Mahala was chosen as the Ambassador to Dardius primarily for her apathy. It was a strange tactic, but the truth is the Freemarketeers wanted a solution just as much as the Dardieti. They didn’t want to keep fighting either, so if Mahala could negotiate a peace, and they would have to make sacrifices, then fine. This is what she did, and after years of fighting, the war was finally over. But that didn’t mean all of the issues between them were resolved. Mahala’s job as an ambassador was just getting started.

Microstory 1070: Bessie

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Seven years ago, I was diagnosed with a terminal disease. I know what you’re thinking; this story is going to end with Viola somehow curing me, and giving me a second chance at life. Well, I don’t know if cancer was out of Viola’s scope, or she just didn’t want to, but that’s not anywhere close to what she did. She didn’t help me by chaperoning my doctor visits, or bringing me art supplies, or setting me up on a pity date with my crush; the hottest guy in school, who doesn’t even know I exist. She helped me by teaching me that my life wasn’t a waste unless I let it be like that. I don’t know when I’m going to die, but I haven’t beat the odds, and lived past my due date, or anything. At this point, my doctors think I have another good couple months in me, but it was far too soon to come to such a conclusion before. The truth is that I’m ultimately going to have a short life, and it is for that reason Viola told me I needed to make sure it counted. The average human lifespan is roughly eighty years, so most people have all that time to help others, and contribute to society. Since I don’t have that kind of time, I have to squeeze it all in now. Understand that this is not a universal truth; like the sicker you are, the more you have to volunteer, or something like that. She was clear this directive is specifically meant for me, and has nothing to do with how others should be living their lives. As far as sick kids go, my experiences weren’t all that bad. Take note of the first part of that sentence, because it has still been a right shitty life. But my parents were both independently born into wealth, and never needed to work a day in their life. Sure, they’ve missed out on some interesting trips because of me, but there was no financial ruin, nor tough decisions. They got me the care that I needed, and it was relatively painless. Relatively. So I had time, and Viola wanted me to use that time to give to others; not give back, since I’ve never really gotten much from the world, but still give. I’ve done a little of this, and a little of that, but Viola claimed I would one day come up with a single great idea, and that day came two years ago.

My family has all this money, and since they live in a one-story house in the middle of the midwest—and haven’t had time to spend it on luxury and experiences—most of it is still just sitting in their bank accounts. I managed to convince them to take all that money, and invest it in a charitable organization. And then head that organization at least until good successors can be found. Most people give to causes that directly impact their lives. Talk to the director of any charity, and they’ll tell you their brother has autism, or their child was killed in a school shooting. This doesn’t mean people are selfish, and only want to help themselves. It just means, when they sit down to think about what matters most to them, there’s usually a logic to it. Well, not me. Personally—and I know this is a massively unpopular idea—I think there’s plenty of money going into cancer research. The reason it feels like we’re not going anywhere is that this money is being used for inefficient and ineffective systems. I won’t get into all that, but the point is that I am not my cancer, and the world doesn’t really need another cancer organization; it just needs to do better at supporting the ones it already has. My passion is prison reform. I can’t explain why it’s so important to me. I don’t have an incarcerated family member, and I didn’t spend time teaching inmates how to sew, or some crap. I just think it’s a major issue, especially in this country, and I want to do something about it. Unfortunately, like I said, I don’t have much time left, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get it started. I’m charging my parents to use their money to start a new organization, based upon ideas that I’ve been working on for months. We have to lower our prison population, protect the ones who do belong there, and focus on reform and aid, rather than just tucking them under out of sight. I’ll never know whether what I create will do any good, but at least I’ll die with the assumption that it will. I guess that’ll just have to be good enough.

Microstory 1054: Dolly

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I liked Viola, and that’s saying a lot, because I don’t like anybody. My apathy for everything in the world started several years ago, and as much as I want to, I’ve never been able to get past it. I keep encountering these people who are so passionate. They’re passionate about their family, or their friends, or school, or work. They have ambition, and hopes for a good future. Unfortunately for me—and for everyone that has to deal with me, for that matter—I just can’t get there. I don’t go around trying to bum everybody out, but I also can’t bring myself to get excited about anything, and people can sense that when I’m near. I can’t help but think about the many tens of billions of people who have come before us, and died. Pick up any history book, and you’ll find only a handful of people who are named. It’ll discuss all the wars, and famines that affected tons of people’s lives, but it doesn’t mention those specific lives. You might think that would be absurd, and I would totally agree with you, because that’s the point. Those handful of people are the only ones who truly matter, while everyone else is just blurry faces in a busy painting. But even those lucky few don’t matter much either. Think about how much humanity has improved, and what we have accomplished. Now think about how everyone’s story ends, or even simply the fact that it always ends. Everyone’s life is fleeting, so your only hope is to have some impact on younger people, who will go on once you’re dead. But so what? They’ll die too, having spent their whole lives trying to do the same thing you did. It all just keeps going, and the more time that passes, the less you’ll be remembered. There is no objective, and no reward. It doesn’t matter if you cure cancer, or save an old lady from a fire, because she’ll die, and so will the cancer patient. I hear you’ve been interviewing people according to how well they knew Viola, but I don’t know why you spoke with half the class before me, because I never met her. She never took pity on me, and tried to sit at my table at lunch one day. She didn’t play pool with me, or cure me of some affliction, or teach me to sing. In fact, the times I was paying attention, I got the distinct impression that she was actively avoiding me. I once saw her duck into this janitor’s closet when she saw me coming down the hall. That’s why we’re in here, to show you that she would rather come into this disgusting place than risk passing by someone she didn’t like, but whom she wouldn’t have had to worry was going to try to talk to her. Whoa, did you see that! Sorry, I just saw her face in that mirror. She was standing right behind me. It’s suddenly gotten quite warm in h—Alma. This is Viola. As great of a host that Dolly is, I don’t have long with her body, so listen carefully. Talk to Ida before Carrie. And Earl before E—what was that? You were sitting down. How did you stand up so fast? What the hell is going on?

Microstory 899: Tragic Magic

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A long time ago, before motor vehicles were invented, the pathways between buildings were narrow. The people of the time could not conceive of the need for wider roads. A couple individuals needed to be able to pass each other going opposite directions, but not much else. As technology progressed, the city of London grew larger, as did its streets. But the city center was still the same as it ever was, leaving little room for practical living. But the buildings were old, and made as beautiful architecture. Londoners did not want to destroy them, and build anew, so city officials struck a deal. Witches were commissioned to widen the streets with magic, by adding an extra dimension of space in between the space that we perceive. Normal people cannot detect this higher dimension, so we interpret it as nothing but emptiness. Over time, the memory of this act faded from people’s minds. Those who were around when it happened died off, and their descendants did not believe the stories. Eventually, even the stories stopped being told, and we were left with a normal city that only a few surviving believers were aware was actually held together by magic. Now in modern day, those original wonderful buildings have been upgraded, dismantled, and replaced, but the magic remains. Even amongst those who know the truth, only one family is aware of what happened to the witches. Some believed them to be immortal, and to still be living up to today. Others thought their descendants now protected the city. Both are right. Both are wrong. The witches have been passing their souls down their own generational lines all this time. Out of each family, three children are born. Two must live on, and live full lives. The other must relinquish their body, and agree to be supplanted by one of their own parents, sometime after adulthood, but before age-related fertility problems threaten the cycle. But of course, this has led to diminishing returns, and the last full-powered witch died yesterday.

It has always been my family’s responsibility to care for the remaining powered witches, but there is only so much we can do. With no equal mate, the last witch was incapable of conceiving any children who could bear the burden of her power. She married a nice man, and raised three lovely children, but they could not possess magic. So when she finally passed on, the London spell automatically dissipated, as did all other magical spells. The central buildings were suddenly sent hurtling towards each other. A great many people were killed or hurt in this, but most of the buildings themselves remained intact; if only closer together. Two buildings, however, were not so lucky. I met my wife three dozen stories up in the air, above the street. For whatever reason, the architect responsible for both of our respective buildings decided later to construct extensions from both of the penthouses, so they were only a few meters apart from each other. This allowed us to carry on conversations from opposite buildings. I was attending to the last witch’s body when magic turned off. The penthouse extensions crashed into each other. My father and wife, who were chatting up there, were quite nearly killed. But this was not the only spell affected. The last witch used magic to cure my wife of her cancer, as a sort of profoundly beautiful gift, but her illness returned upon the end of magic. A toy tiger that had been passed down the family, and presently belonged to my son, turned out to be a real tiger. We still don’t know which witch transformed it, when exactly, or why. As my father and his daughter-in-law were trying to make their way off the extensions, the tiger ran across it, and tried to attack them. My father was forced to pull it off the edge, sending both of them falling towards their deaths. But there was one more gift the witches bequested to us before their end. I had with me a secret reserve of magic that I was told would be good for one further spell. I used it to save my father’s life, as well as the tiger’s, landing them both safely on either side of a fence in the nearby zoo. But a second spell cast itself, completely out of my control. It turned my son into a new witch. And it was he who put the buildings back to where they belonged, repaired all the injuries and deaths caused by the temporary loss in magic, and erased everyone’s memories of the whole thing. But we don’t know what to do next.

Microstory 780: Fever

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It starts with a fever, just like any regular illness, but then it turns into something new. Something bad. Something you’ve never experienced before. It will not simply take your abilities away, which is something that’s already happened to you. Why, that’s what got you into this mess in the first place. They gave you this drug, and claimed it would enhance your abilities—which it ultimately did—and the only downside it was supposed to have was that you would lose them temporarily, while your body reworked itself into something even greater than it was when you were born. What they failed to tell you was that this drug was created by someone who failed to leave any notes or research. The people who gave it to you, not only didn’t concoct it themselves, but actually don’t know who did, so even if it had undergone extensive testing, there was no documentation for them to study. They didn’t realize at the time, but this enhancement drug had terrible long-term effects. Without treatment, if used more than once, the drug will cause your abilities to turn on you. Cosmo Drexler, who normally has control over the acceleration of moving objects, becomes trapped in a temporal bubble of sorts, unable to move beyond a snail’s pace. Tamra Shore, whose body constantly replenishes itself, while slowing her aging, develops rapidly progressing cancer. Pyrokinetic Diane Ghoti’s body overheats, Peyton Resin becomes stuck in rock form, and supervisor Valary Sela goes blind. Scientists began researching possible cures for the virus immediately, but have been unable to come up with an overarching cure. Though all anomalies will be affected by the pathogen, in some way, their symptoms will always present themselves in different ways. This means that, though a virus is what delivered the corruption to the body, in the first place, that is no longer the problem. Now your body has been genetically altered with the bad code. Even if they found a way to combat the virus, it wouldn’t help anyone showing symptoms, for the virus in them is already dead anyway. It’s their respective bodies they need to worry about now. Everyone gets a different cure, based on their abilities, and symptoms. And we all know whose cures they’re gonna work on first. Are you one of the elite?

Microstory 583: New Home Hair Management Products

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One thing that everyone deals with is their hair, whether it be the lack there of it, or that it’s too long, or just its general unruliness. While other companies are working on trying to cure cancer, or develop faster supersonic passenger aircraft, one has decided to help with something a little simpler. Antubian Product Co. has created a so-called revolutionary new product line that claims to provide for everyone’s hair needs, whatever they may be. This line involves multiple kinds of products, to be used differently, and sometimes in tandem. A series of microinjections, for instance, can (oversimplistically speaking) jumpstart hair follicles, and engender growth. The irony in this is that the device only works once the subject has first been shaved in all desired areas. Another subsection of products gives its user command of the color of their hair. While traditional dyes have taken time and effort, the new Antibus shampoo goes in during a shower, and is complete by the time you get out to dry. Other products can shorten, and even restyle, your haircut at will through static charges and texturizing gels. Antubian, Inc. has had a colorful past. It began as a scrap metal broker before becoming an entertainment company. It then abruptly transitioned into a pulp fiction publisher, spent a brief amount of time as a ‘supernatural threat eradicator”—where it was tried in court for fraud, until finally landing in the car restoration industry. It has spent the last seven years restoring antique and classic vehicles up to working condition, with as much retention of the original operating functions as possible. It has only been in the hair business for the last seven months, but has already come up with an impressive array of products. Whether any one of these products actually works is something that still needs confirmation from our field reporters. As mercurial as founder and Chief Vision Officer, Lovro Antubi has been known to be, his ventures have proven to be largely legitimate. There is even evidence that his supernatural phase may have shown some level of merit. As time goes on, Antubi tends to move on from one project in favor of another. Instead of selling, or even spinning off each company to start another, he simply sells the patents and intellectual property themselves, and begins to focus on something new. Join us next week when our field testers release their analyses and reviews of the new Antubian haircare line.

Microstory 482: Floor 3 (Part 2)

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Food Service Worker 1: Food Service Worker 2, what the hell are you doing?

Food Service Worker 2: I’m doing what I always do for breakfast.

Food Service Worker 1: We can’t serve breakfast. We’re on lockdown. Didn’t you hear the announcement?

Food Service Worker 2: Of course, but that won’t last forever, and when they lift the lockdown, people will be hungry.

Food Service Worker 1: At least three people died. They’re not lifting it anytime soon. And when they do, they’re gonna send everybody home. Stop getting food out, you’ll just spoil it.

Food Service Worker 2: You don’t know they’ll send us home. We have to be prepared.

Food Service Worker 1: Part of the charm of all this tragedy is not having any responsibilities. Don’t create work for yourself, or for me.

Food Service Worker 2: That might be the absolute worst thing you’ve ever said. I’ll check the list.

Food Service Worker 1: Very funny.

Food Service Worker 2: No, really. There’s a list.

Food Service Worker 1: What are you talking about? Of all the things I’ve said that you don’t agree with?

Food Service Worker 2: No.

Food Service Worker 1: Oh, okay.

Food Service Worker 2: Of all the things you’ve said that no one in the world agrees with...except maybe white supremacists and Donald Trump.

Food Service Worker 1: Oh, don’t compare me to a man like that. Talk about saying terrible things. I can’t believe you’ve kept track of everything you hate about me. What would Food Services Manager have to say about this? Maybe I should go have a little chat with her right now.

Food Service Worker 2: Who do you think started the list?

Food Service Worker 1: Why are you telling me this?

Food Service Worker 2: I didn’t think you mind. You hate everybody anyway.

Food Service Worker 1: Well, why are you telling me just now?

Food Service Worker 2: It has just now come up.

Food Service Worker 1: I don’t hate everybody.

Food Service Worker 2: Yeah, you kinda do, and I don’t think you want to get into this.

Food Service Worker 1: Now I definitely wanna get into it.

Food Service Worker 2: All right, fine. All you talk about is how you used to work in this magical restaurant in New York City, and now you’re slummin’ it with the garbage people in a corporate cafeteria. I’ve got a little secret for ya, Food Service Worker 1; everybody likes tater tots. Not a human on this planet doesn’t like deep-fried grated potatoes. Not even your precious New York one-percent.

Food Service Worker 1: What about fruitarians?

Food Service Worker 2: And you’re contradictory. Do you think I really meant literally no one on the planet? Christ, you’re impossible.

Food Service Worker 1: I don’t have time for all this hyperbole. I’m goin’ out for a smoke; that is, unless you need me to do anything, like serve more potato grease cylinders.

Food Service Worker 2: No, but I think our soft drink contractor is bringing his puppy today. Maybe you’d like to give it a good kick? [...] Enjoy your kiss with cancer!

Microstory 378: Imagination

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Life Extension

When I was in elementary school, I made up this story about how I was an alien. I remember my mother and sister sitting me down for an intervention to make sure I understood that I was not really from another planet. What’s funny is that I found out decades later that I’m autistic, which is often described as the feeling of being normal, but just having been born on the wrong planet. In the meantime, however, I had to discover that the stories I made up were the result of my imagination, which would be better manifested in written form. I have other flawed character traits that I’ve, sometimes subconsciously, rerouted so that they would help me write stories. Just about everything I do is designed to fuel my need to write fiction. Despite being an extremely quiet introvert, I like to try new things. I would actually try a hell of a lot more if I had money to throw around, like skydiving, archery, or futures studies. Every experience helps me understand how the real word works so that I can manipulate those truths and reapply them to my fictional worlds. My imagination is my greatest skill, and I’ve even rerouted that to help me deal with real life issues. Imagination is responsible for literally every single invention that has ever been invented ever. There was a need, and there was at least one person realizing that need who could see the solution when most people couldn’t. Too heavy? Put it on wheels. Too dark? Light a candle. Too sick? Cure smallpox. For someone like me, imagination is all that matters. Imagination tells me what happened to my characters, and how they dealt with it. For progress, however, imagination is only half the battle. True advancement comes from the ability to transform imagination into practical application, and not always by the same person. Not every imagined solution comes from someone in a position to actually do something about it. If you have an idea—even if you think someone smarter than you must have already either come to the same conclusion, or debunked it—find a way to get the word out. Hell, you might just have a vital component to the cure for cancer. Never stop dreaming.

Complexity

Microstory 317: Quality of Life

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Disease Prevention

Many people talk about quality of life when someone has fallen into a medical state not conducive to typical daily activity. This may be due to a terminal disease that allows some semblance of normalcy, but often at the expensive of life-prolonging treatment. It can also be used in regards to a loved one who is too incapacitated to even communicate their thoughts. But quality of life is an ongoing process every individual goes through regarding their personal needs and desires. Everyone needs to decide how they would like to live their lives; what they’re willing to risk or do without, and what limitations conditional factors have on their choices. It’s no secret, and also wholly unavoidable assuming the status quo, that rich people are more capable of living high quality lives. One of my favorite quotes comes from a television program called Switched at Birth where a less fortunate character is explaining themselves to another by saying, “you live in a world of money. Money means choices. No money, no choices.” It’s important to remember that there will always be someone with less than you, and also someone with more. This is not an inherently bad thing; it’s just the way that things are. There is a grand difference between giving up on your aspirations, and accepting what you’ve been born into by making the best of what you have. An impoverished person can have a higher quality of life than you may think. It depends on their perspective, and their priorities, among other considerations. This concept may sound like it belongs further down the list where I’ll discuss more psychological and emotional requirements, but I decided to place it here because it’s something you need to think about while covering more basic needs. You could have everything you ever wanted, but if you never thought about this, you may find yourself wanting for even more.

Neuropsychological Function

Microstory 316: Disease Prevention

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Sleep

Disease Prevention is one of the hardest things to accomplish. The work is never finished, and not everyone has access to the same resources. The impoverished population often has ways of finding shelter, water, and even food. They can make clothes out of something, and can carve out some time for sleep. But cleanliness and preventive healthcare are two things that cannot be achieved if the wrong environmental factors are at play. Healthcare professionals have outlined five levels of disease prevention, each subsequent level being more difficult to attain than the last. The first step in creating a population, not entirely free from disease, but protected against preventable medical conditions, is education. People must be aware of the risks they face when engaging in certain activities. They need to know that bacteria can thrive under unsanitary conditions. They need to know how to recognize the signs and symptoms of diabetes, heart disease, and sexually transmitted diseases. They need to know the dangers of alcohol consumption, why smoking is unhealthy, and why exercise is important. This all may see obvious to you, but you probably grew up in a developed nation, and were exposed to a degree of education. But just being aware of the risks of certain lifestyle choices, and knowing what diseases you could contract, is not enough. There is so much conflicting information out there that it’s either hard to trust anyone, or it’s easy to choose whatever lines up with your preconceived notions. One thing to remember is that literally everything causes cancer, so unconditionally cutting out anything you read about that in an article isn’t practical. Preventing disease comes from exercising regularly (steadily, not necessarily intensely); eating natural foods (but not shying away from anything that tastes good: that doesn’t mean it’s bad); and seeking medical check-ups, as feasible. Completely avoid recreational drugs, relieve stress as possible and legal, and—above all—find balance.

Quality of Life

Microstory 111: Serenity Theodo

Click here for the list of every Bellevue Profile.

When an honorary member of Bellevue first laid eyes on a list of anomalies that was compiled by someone who was once able to sense and track people, he found out that one of his former patients was on it. Serenity Theodo was five years old when she was diagnosed with an extremely rare form of leukemia that had, until then, not been seen in a child. The doctor gave her one month to live. Her parents agreed to treat the symptoms with drugs, not to prolong her life, but to make her as comfortable as possible. Still, she remained bedridden in the hospital throughout the barrage of treatment, and was unable to enjoy her life during those times. To the surprise of the medical community, the cancer never went away completely, but the symptoms lessened over the years. For some of the pain, Serenity simply learned to deal with it better than most people. When she was a teenager, she discovered that she had the ability to phase through objects. Her parents were horrified, especially after her recovery. They belonged to a religious order that treated what others might call a miracle as a curse, so they were already frightened and suspicious of their daughter for having survived a deadly disease. It is, however, the Amadesin way to playact at all times; to hide hate for others behind a mask of overexaggerated compassion. They pretended to be learning about her ability by testing her limits. Instead, they were searching for her weakness. They found it. For an unknown reason, anomalies have difficulty using their abilities around the metallic element of bellmei. Jaklyn Simonds cannot teleport from a room lined with bellmei, Jayson Casy cannot disintegrate bellmei, and Bernard Maly would not be able to climb up a wall made of bellmei. Once Serenity’s parents discovered this trick, they built a cage under the garage in their basement made entirely of bellmei, and even claimed to their neighbors that she had succumbed to her disease. After more than a year of being trapped, Serenity was able to communicate long enough to the neighbor boy so that they could make a plan to break her out. He smuggled tools into her cell and provided a distraction by crashing his car into her house. She managed to pull enough bellmei down to phase through the wall and escape. She remained in the safety of a facility designed to protect Amadesin defectors for years before her family caught up with her. Fortunately, the Bellevue member she once knew as her doctor was keeping tabs on them, and was able to intercept before her parents had the chance to take her back to hell.