The Advancement of Mateo Matic: September 22, 2398

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The agents are on the case. Cheyenne’s murder was a terrible tragedy, but in the end, it hasn’t changed anything. They still need to find Meredarchos, who is hiding out in Andile’s former body, and they still don’t know where he’s going. His motives are difficult to understand, to say the least. Why sneak into the Lofts, and how did he do it? Why kill her? For the Insulator of Life? If he’s as powerful as he sounds, death is probably not something he’s really ever had to worry about.

Angela calls Leona, Mateo, and Ramses into the security room. She’s been studying the footage, and might not have slept last night. At first, she was focused on making sure that Ramses didn’t do anything, or his body, anyway. After she cleared his name, though, she apparently wanted to go back through, and look more closely at the feeds. “How did he get in the building?” she poses.

“We don’t know. How?” Leona asks right back.

“I’ve seen every frame from every camera,” Angela begins, “and he doesn’t. He doesn’t step one foot in this place.”

“Okay... Do you need to sleep?”

“I’m fine, I’ve had some coffee,” Angela says. Coffee indeed, the trashcan is full of coffee pods. She takes another sip from her current cup of the stuff. “The reason I didn’t see him enter the building is because he was already inside.” She switches the monitors to the feeds from the fifteenth of this month, which is the day Rothko broke out of the blacksite, and—probably unintentionally—freed Meredarchos. It is here where they see him pick the lock on the side door, and enter the building. “I looked into the operation records from SD6. He came straight here. He knew exactly where we lived and worked, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do.”

“What did he want to do?” Mateo asks.

Angela begins to step through the timeline. They see Meredarchos walk right up to the lab, let himself in using a badge that shouldn’t exist, and which he definitely shouldn’t have, then approach the Insulator of Life. He touches the top of it, and disappears in a flash of life.”

“Where did he go?” Alyssa asks. She wasn’t in the room before.

“That I don’t know,” Angela answers, all jittery. She tries to take another desperate sip, but Mateo takes it away from her.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“Whatever, you can’t control me, I’ll just wait until you leave. Now, that’s not the interesting part. Here’s the interesting part.” She jumps back to the feed from two days ago, dragging one particular camera over to the main screen, so they can see it better that’s showing the outside of that side door. “Okay, so watch her—I mean him—leave.” Meredarchos does indeed leave the building, and walk out of frame. “Right quick, look at the distant viewer...there. Did you see that? His arm—well, I mean, Andile’s arm—appears in frame for a second, and then he goes back out. So it looks like he’s leaving, right? Wrong. He comes back. Now, we don’t see him coming back, but I know that he did. Because look at this camera.” She switches to the loading dock camera, where nothing happens. “Uhuh. See it right? Right?”

“See what?” Mateo questions. “Nothing happened.”

“Run it again,” Leona asks, leaning forward, and squinting at the screen.

Angela nods. “Okay.” She does so. “There! Aaaaaand there! And there, and there, and there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” Leona acknowledges.

“I see it too,” Ramses says. Of course the three smartest people in the room see what the other two don’t.

“What is it?” Alyssa asks them.

“There’s a leaf on the pavement. The wind picks up, and pushes it maybe a centimeter to the left. It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. And it keeps repeating. This footage is on a loop. In fact, it loops the same five seconds over and over again for twenty-five minutes. That’s enough time to step out of the blindspot, and into the dock through the regular door.”

“I thought that’s why you guys put those lava lamps all over the place,” Alyssa points out. “Don’t they prevent loops from happening?”

“There are none outside. It’s not a mistake,” Leona tells her. “We made a conscious decision to not put them on the exterior.” Having lamps on the outside would draw too much attention. It seemed safer to assume that anyone wishing them harm from the outside, would try to make their way inside, where cameras would be waiting. That seemed good enough...unless they had explosives. “They would look suspicious. People would be asking why the hell they’re out there.”

“So, what does this mean?” Mateo poses. “Meredarchos snuck in here to kill Cheyenne for the thing he already had in his possession a week ago?”

“It’s all about Erlendr,” Leona realizes. “He knew that he wouldn’t be able to keep Ramses’ body forever, because we would figure it out, and we would spend untold resources to get him back if he escaped with it again, so he came up with a plan to get himself into Andile’s body, which is extra, and thusly less important. Because apparently Meredarchos has the ability to store full substrates in the Insulator, which we were to understand is not something it’s capable of.”

“So both Meredarchos and Erlendr are in Andile’s body?” Alyssa guesses.

“Either that, or Meredarchos just took the Insulator with plans to use it on some other poor unsuspecting soul later,” Leona suggests.

“That doesn’t explain why he came back into the building,” Angela reminds her. “What did he need in the basement? We swept the whole place, nothing was taken.”

“You didn’t sweep everything,” Ramses reveals solemnly.

“What are you talking about?” Leona asks.

“Okay, don’t get mad, but I found something in the basement when we first got here that I decided to keep secret in case I needed to store hazardous materials. I don’t have all my memories of when Erlendr was in my head, but I get fragments back. I think he put something in there.”

“Something, like what?”

“Something like...Trina’s body?”

“Oh my God,” Alyssa exclaims.

They all take a field trip to the basement to see whether what Ramses believes is true. He remembers digging in the dirt, and coming down here with something approximately human-sized, so he just put two and two together. Now he needs proof. He removes the false panel, and opens the secret refrigerator door, but they don’t find Trina’s body in there. Instead, they see Andile’s.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 5, 2398

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Leona braces herself for another day of work. She loves the lab itself. The technology here is so—with no better way to say it—weird. Due to religion, of course, as well as other variables, there are some things that were just straight up never invented. Other things were invented too early. According to what limited research she’s been able to do during her downtime, none of these early inventions has been as ridiculous as, say, aerosol deodorant before the wheel, but she finds it fascinating to read about them nonetheless. For instance, unlike in the main reality, where the electric vehicle, and the combustion engine, were invented around the same time, the latter predates the former by nearly a hundred years on this planet. This was how people drove around in the 20th century. Also unlike the main sequence, once car batteries became efficient enough to last two day’s worth of the average daily commute on a single charge, the transition period between the two form factors was extremely short. This was probably because the people who originally sold petrol-powered vehicles were also responsible for manufacturing the battery-powered ones, so they saw no reason to stifle progress. Who could have guessed that all the corporations would have to do to maintain their oligopolies would be to innovate deliberately, and noncompetitively?

One major scientific advancement that this world randomly doesn’t have is reconstructive surgery. We’re not just talking about elective surgery where someone wants to change their appearance because they think it will make them more attractive. Skin grafts, deformity corrections, even sexual reassignment surgery; none of these things exist here. Leona so far can’t figure out why. When she’s brought it up to her coworkers at both of her jobs, people seem amenable to the examples, and they can’t explain why they haven’t been done before. Another thing this culture seem never to have invented is sexual harassment seminars. What Leona believes is that all harassment training is focused on protecting children. Apparently, once someone reaches the age of seventeen, they’re expected to fend for themselves. They should be able to reject unwanted advances on their own, stand up for themselves against bullies, and brush off inappropriate comments. Well, that last one is even more complicated, because her definition of inappropriate is very different than whatever these people have decided on.

This is why Leona hates working here, and if this one thing were to change, it would make it worthwhile. They wouldn’t even have to repair the shortcomings of society in a greater respect. All they would have to do is let her do what she needs to do to help them, and not try to interfere, or be involved. This would be so much easier if she could work alone. She’s the one from the alternate reality. She’s the one who has seen all kinds of wondrous technology. Many people in this lab may be smarter, but none of them can match her experience and knowledge. Having to deal with this one particular colleague who has been assigned to learn from her has made her almost want to quit. After a productive conversation with Marie and Angela, Leona has resolved to do something about it today. Marie reminded her that the lab needs her more than she needs it. Yes, she wants to know what happened to their powers and patterns, but not at the expense of her dignity and self-respect.

As soon as she steps off the elevator, she sees him. He’s trying to hand her a cup of coffee, as he does every day. He thinks it’s sweet, but from him, it feels like an attack. Plus, she doesn’t really drink coffee—especially not the kind from the Third Rail, which no matter the variety, always tastes at least a little sweet—and she’s told him this numerous times. It’s not that he doesn’t understand, he just doesn’t care. He expects this to become a lovely story they’ll tell their grandkids one day; that he just kept trying, even though she never accepted. Oh, hahaha, that’s so cute. She’s about to preemptively tell him yet again that she doesn’t want any, but he begins a different subject. “Aww, come on. Where’s that teal blouse I like so much? Your tits look so great in that.”

She stops and stares for a moment. Then she takes one of the cups from his hand, aims it towards him, and squeezes. He screams in agony. “Yours look great in that.”

“Fucking bitch!”

She ignores him, and walks right up to Petra’s office.

“What’s that ruckus down there?” Petra asks.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay.” She’s always so trusting, it’s bizarre.

“Did you receive my latest numbers?”

“Yes, I did!” Petra exclaimed. “They’re very promising. I don’t think you were lying about your ability to develop actual fusion technology.”

“I wasn’t. So...you’re impressed?”

“Very much.”

“You might even say that you value my contributions.”

“Of course.”

“You wouldn’t be super happy if I—oh, I dunno—quit?”

Her smile disappears. “Are you going to quit? Have you been in talks with India Tech? They may have lots of money, but they can’t give you what—”

“It’s not about money. It’s about this place. It’s about him.” Leona just sort of glances towards the bottom of the door.

“Him?” Petra asks before realizing she already knows the answer. “Oh. Him.”

“He’s still harassing me, and I’ve had enough of it.”

“I know, I’m sorry. You’re not the only one complaining, but I can’t report him to Staff Support just for bringing you a beverage every morning. Can you imagine how that conversation would go? He’s too nice. That’s not illegal, or against policy.”

“It should be!” Leona catches her breath. “At least in this context.”

“I know he won’t stop bothering you. I’ll try to talk to him again.”

“I only want you to have one more conversation, and it’s either going to be an exit interview with me...or with him.”

“Is this an ultimatum?” Petra asks.

“Absolutely. You can fire him, or I quit. You’re not going to entice me with more money, or a bigger workspace, or even less time having to work with that man in person. It doesn’t matter to me anymore. I want him gone. I want him humiliated, and out of a job, and I want him to hate me for it.”

“This is a big ask, Magnus Matic.”

Leona nods, not disagreeing with her. “Fusion, or one little asshole with a big mouth. You can only have one.”

“Well, when you put it like that...”

“Great. And bonus, if you do it soon, I’ll finally have enough time to complete the simulations, and then I can start on some real design specifications. You’re welcome.”

Microstory 1364: Budge

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Co-Anchor: Thank you for tuning in this morning. I hope you’re already having a great day. Our first guest lives just outside of Hillside, and she has a special treat for us. Why don’t you introduce yourself, and your little friend?

Budgie Owner: Hello, I’m Budgie Owner, and this is my budgie, Kaleidoscope. I call him Kale for short, though. Say good morning, Kale!

Kale: [...]

Co-Anchor: Aww, is he shy?

Budgie Owner: I guess he is. I’m sorry, he’s not usually like this. Say hi, Kale!

Kale: Hi, Kale!

Budgie Owner: There we go. Good bird, Kale. Here, have a treat.

Kale: Thank you!

Co-Anchor: Aw, that’s adorable. Now, I understand that Kale does a lot more than just say a few words, right?

Budgie Owner: That’s right. I’m a retired engineer, and I rigged my house with a bunch of pulleys, levers, and other simple machines. The mechanisms are really sensitive, and easy to maneuver, so Kale here can actually do a lot of things for me. He can open doors, and crack the window. He can turn off the lights, and even start the coffee before I wake up.

Co-Anchor: And does he? Does he do that unprompted?

Budgie Owner: He has his own little alarm clock next to where he sleeps that chirps at him. It gives him enough time to start my coffee, yes. Don’t worry, though. He’s not my slave. He’s my best friend. I don’t make him do anything that’s too hard for him, or that he doesn’t like.

Co-Anchor: That’s lovely. So, he doesn’t live in a cage?

Budgie Owner: Oh no, birds aren’t meant to live in cages. He flies freely in and out of the house.

Co-Anchor: He always comes back, though, right?

Budgie Owner: Well, when I say he flies out of the house, I really just mean around the house. He doesn’t go exploring in the woods, or anything. There are a lot of predators out there, so neither of us wants him going too far. He just likes to feel the sun in his face sometimes. He always waits for me to open the door for him, and makes sure to stay in my line of sight.

Co-Anchor: I imagine clean up is quite a bit of work, if he can do his business wherever, instead of in a cage.

Budgie Owner: He has a special area for that. I’ve trained him to return to what I call his throne when he needs to do that. He’s very intelligent, as all parakeets are.

Co-Anchor: Are parakeets and budgies the same thing?

Budgie Owner: They are, it’s just a different name. I use them interchangeably.

Co-Anchor: Great. So, you have a demonstration for us?

Budgie Owner: Yes, the station has been kind enough to recreate the bare bones of my living room, and I’m gonna have Kale do a few tricks for you.

Co-Anchor: That’s wonderful. Whenever you’re ready.

Budgie Owner: Okay. I’m setting you down now, Kale. Go ahead. Breezy. Kale, breezy! Breezy!

Co-Anchor: And that’s a codeword?

Budgie Owner: Yes, that’s supposed to prompt him to open the window, to let some air in.

Co-Anchor: Perhaps he knows this isn’t really his house.

Budgie Owner: Oh, he definitely does, but we were just practicing before you went on the air. I’m not sure what’s made him so shy. He loves to perform, even for strangers. I just can’t get him to budge.

Co-Anchor: Ah, budge. I get it. Well, we’re going to go to a commercial break, and when we come back, I’m sure Kale will be more than ready to show us what he’s made of.

Microstory 997: Flexibility

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When I was a child, I had certain routines that I would perform in order to get things done. I would have  a routine for getting up in the morning, and getting ready for school. I would have a routine for learning in school, one for coming home, and one for getting ready for bed. As I grew up, my routines changed, because they had to. I had different classes, with teachers who had different expectations, and I had a different schedule. I didn’t much think about how much my life was changing over the years, because it happened gradually. My family moved around a lot, and even when we were in the same house, the school district kept rezoning, so I was still moving all over the place. Thank God for all of that, because I would be an absolute mess without this training. One thing that autistic people like me often struggle with is change. We don’t like someone introducing a complication in our routines, because we haven’t had proper time to prepare for them. They must be tested, for efficiency and comfort. You can’t just spring something new on us and expect things to go smoothly. Routines are designed to be effortless, so they can alleviate stress, and allow us to focus on what’s important. If you force us to rethink something, that stress goes back up, because now we’re focusing energy on something we thought was fine as is. I’m not saying other people don’t have stress, but we have more, because the smallest thing can feel incredibly overwhelming. Though I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, I’m ultimately glad I wasn’t diagnosed until I was an adult, because if my family had fully understood what I was going through, they would have worked hard at protecting me. They would have walked on eggshells, and tailored my environment, and that is not what I really needed, even if I would have thought so back then. It was difficult for them, dealing with me, having to figure out how to communicate with me so that I wouldn’t freak out about something they perceived to be trivial. It was difficult for me too, as it took years to learn things most people puzzle out on their own, and flexibility was never my strong suit. It was simple to me; when you say we’re leaving for church at 9:30, then I will be ready at 9:30; not 9:25. As hard as it was for us, though, I think it made us stronger people. At least, I know that’s what it did for me.

One of my biggest challenges was acknowledging the fact that no one ever says what they mean. Ever. It’s always attached to a lie, or an embellishment, or an ambiguity, or imprecision. Sometimes it’s on purpose, and sometimes it’s accidental, but nothing in this world is at face value, except for playing cards. I think I’ve brought this up, but I’m still coming across articles about very successful people who are trying to reveal the secret to their success. Do this before bed, and sleep this long, and sing your to-do list underwater, and write yourself a million dollar check, then burn it in effigy. Setting aside the fact that no secret trick can work for everybody, or even that many other people, the problem with the premise is that it’s all about meticulousness. You have to measure out your life perfectly, and do it in the same way across some arbitrary temporal pattern. So many people tell me I should write in the same place, at the same time, under the same conditions, every single day, like I’m on birth control, or something. That’s the exact opposite of what you should do. The real trick is flexibility. The freedom to accept where you are, and what you have at the moment, is so much less stressful than requiring your environment to be just so. I still have loads of stress, but I would have so much more if I didn’t train myself quite deliberately to tolerate and appreciate the inconveniences; both big and small. People spend a lot of money on making their lives easier, which is fine, to an extent. Likewise, to an extent, it’s a lot cheaper to simply adapt yourself to the complexity. When it stops bothering you that the barista keeps giving you two sugars, instead of one, you can move on with your life, and just drink a sweeter coffee in the morning. I am not the poster child for flexibility, but I am a huge proponent of it, because I know the problems that rigidity causes, better than most. Change is good. Complications are good. The biggest favor you can do for yourself is to take every problem as an opportunity to learn rather than trying to find a workaround that really just adds more work anyway.

Microstory 920: Youth Programs

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If there’s one thing I’ve learned since the beginning of this series, it’s that creating a list is a lot easier than expanding upon it. I’m ashamed to say that it took me a long time to come up with ninety-seven things that I love. Yes, that means I still have two empty slots that prove how negative of a person I really am. I tried looking online for ideas, but people are...what’s the word? Basic. People are basic. They like rainbows, and the smell of coffee in the morning. They like curling up with a good book, and—my God, this isn’t a joke—long walks on the beach. I’ve not been to a heck of lot of beaches—being landlocked in Kansas—but even on those few, never did I see a single person taking a long walk. Anyway, the point is that I love the idea of youth programs. I like that children are being engaged, and that they’re learning, and gaining new experiences, and that they have a safe place to go. I don’t however, have much experience with them, though. When my sister and I were younger, we were often placed in programs during the summer, so we would have something to do, and because our parents needed to work. It wasn’t until I was older that I discovered kids go to summer school because they have trouble completing requirements, or understand material, during the regular year. I’ve also been to summer day camp, sports camp, and participated Boy Scouts activities. They had me do these things because, like I said, I didn’t have anything else, but also to try to figure what I liked, and where I excelled. I was well provided for, well-educated, and I lived in a safe environment, but not everyone has that. While I don’t personally carry a connection to any sort of youth program (except for that one time in middle school when a group of us went to pair up with elementary school students at an underfunded school, for literally one day), I did want to take a moment to give them a shoutout. Thanks for looking out for our kids. We’re gonna need them if we ever wanna clean up this mess.

Microstory 831: Devil and the Deep Brown Sea

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People think I hate everybody, but that isn’t entirely accurate. I only hate certain types of people; generally those who aren’t self-aware, or aware of how others feel about them. I’m talking about people who smile because they’re awake, or volunteer so they can tell all their friends about how much they volunteer. I’m talking about the phonies, the hypocrites, the judgmental jerks masquerading as empathetic altruists. The douchebags, elitists, oversharers, good ol’ daydreamers, emoji-users, PETA donators, hunters, and Trump voters. I don’t like fist bumps, anyone who says yaaaaas, Nazis, or climate change deniers. And worst of all, I hate talk shows. Being on, or even having to sit through, a talk show would be my worst nightmare, my hell. I guess it’s no surprise that when I found myself on my way to an actual hell dimension, that’s exactly what it was. I’m in a transparent bubble, floating around in what I guess you could call limbo. On one side of me is the real world. All those things I’ve listed are there, but it’s also got things I love. My family, my favorite music, and the greatest city in the world. Alyssa Milano and Emma González are there, fighting the good fight, along with millions of bright millennial activists, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation. To the other side of me is actual hell. I can see it playing, and hear the muffled voices of the hosts, growing clearer and clearer. They’re talking about some “lifehack” that doesn’t make things any easier than traditional methods. One of them is taking a sip of her coffee, and giving the audience a thumbs up, which causes an uproar in clapping and cheering. The other is shaking his head, pretending that one of these days...right in the kisser. I keep trying to swim towards the real world, but it’s becoming more difficult the harder I try. The coffee talk hell wants me, and it’s not going to stop until it gets me. I have to get out of here. I have to escape. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about anything bad I ever said about the world I live in. From now on, God, if you promise to send me back, I’ll only focus on the positive things in my life, and try to accept the things I cannot change, or whatever. Just please don’t make me experience even one more second of this show. Then my bubble bursts, and I begin to fall away from both worlds, into the empty void, forever denied my wish for a second chance. But it sure beats a talk show, and for this, I will literally be eternally grateful.

Microstory 455: Floor 31 (Part 2)

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Negotiator: Get me on the line with Snowglobe Collective.

Assistant: Ma’am, are you sure about that? I thought we were going to let that go.

Negotiator: One of us is a world-class negotiator, and the other just has an associate’s degree.

Assistant: I have a bachelor’s.

Negotiator: Really? What the hell are you doing here?

Assistant: Well, it’s more compli—

Negotiator: Just dial the phone.

Assistant: Here.

Negotiator [on the phone]: Loreto, how are you doing? Listen, I had a chat with my associates, and it looks like we’re open to making a deal.—No, no. I assure you that things have not gotten worse.—Okay, yes. It’s true that we’ve experienced some further loss, but that has nothing to do with the company. Alpha committed suicide in the atrium...and the elevator crashed.—We had nothing to do with that. You think a window company employs anybody who knows how to install an elevator? Have you ever seen a construction company that also makes elevators. Those are always third parties, always.—I understand that, but it’s not a symptom, it’s a freak occurrence.—Of course our asking price will be dropped. I do recognize that these recent problems devalue the organization, I’m not an idiot.—No, if you wait to close the deal, the price won’t go down even further. You can’t just wait until we starve to death. We will get through this, with your help, or without. If you don’t make this deal now, the scandal will blow over and we’ll come back stronger than ever.—I honestly believe that. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. I’m not a liar. Look, we both know that you need this more than I do. If this company goes under tomorrow, I’ll just find another job. This is to your benefit. It’s kind of stupid that a company called Snowglobe Collective doesn’t own any subsidiaries.—Okay, well any relevant subsidiaries. You need something big, you need it now. Come to the table and we can hammer this out like men.—It’s an expression.—Loreto, Loreto, just listen.—If I sound desperate, it’s just because—hello? Hello? Shit.

Assistant: Did he hang up?

Negotiator: Yes, Assistant, he hung up. Just get me my coffee.

Assistant: We’re not allowed to leave the floor.

Negotiator: Don’t we have a machine up here?

Assistant: Not yet.

Negotiator: Go downstairs, tell anyone who gives you trouble where they can stick it, then order me a bloody espresso machine!

Frenzy: Spending Time (Part XII)

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I catch a bus to Ace’s apartment since I have no identity, and public transportation still allows for such a thing. I still have to do some walking, which is honestly getting to be a pain. I’ve been through a lot over the last two days, and I really just want to go to bed. Assuming Ace is some kind of time traveler, and already knows what’s going on, he’ll probably let me crash at his place again. If he’s not, then I’m about to make an ass out of myself. I go up to his unit and knock on the door.

A woman answers. “Can I help you?”

“Um, does Ace live here?” I ask before adding, “or Horace, that is?” I remember him calling himself that once.

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard that name.”

“I must have the wrong address. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” she answers. “Hey, are you one of those Frenzy runners?”

“I am,” I say. “I’m training.”

“Well, good luck next year.”

“Thanks,” I say before she closes the door.

Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he doesn’t live here yet. A lot can happen in four years. Hell, he might have moved in a month before we first met in the future. Now I truly have no one. I could seek out Lincoln Rutherford, the one person I know for sure understands time travel, but I’m hesitant to do that. He was clearly freaked out to see me before, and I’m not so sure I can trust him. Still, he might be my only option. That will have to wait, though. It’s getting late, and I still have to find somewhere to sleep.

I wander the streets for nearly an hour, trying to find the best place to curl up in a corner and wait out the night. Homeless shelters are regularly closed and replaced. I do not recall where to find one back in 2022. I notice a coffee shop up ahead, and decide that that’s where I want to be. I’ll find some warmth for a few minutes before they kick me out, and someone may even let me borrow the internet so I can find a shelter. I walk in and see serendipity sitting by the fireplace. Maybe The Gravedigger, or even Rutherford, is looking out for me. How else would you explain this? Of all the coffee shops, in all the world, I walk into his. Ace is reading what looks like a very deep and thought-provoking book, and sipping from his tea. I was going to ask him for answers, but seeing him like this makes me realize that he has no clue what’s going on. Whatever he learns about this world, he’s not learned it yet. For now, he’s just a normal guy. A hot normal guy with some kind of pastry that looks better than any food I’ve ever seen.

“You can have it,” Ace suddenly says without looking up from his book.

I look behind me like an idiot. “Are you talking to me?”

“There are several other people here, so I must be talkin’ to you.”

“I’m sorry?”

He laughs and closes his book. “It’s before your time. I can practically smell your hunger. If you need something to eat, that’s available. I didn’t realize it had raisins, so I’m not gonna eat it.”

I don’t like raisins either, but I’m starving. Worried he might change his mind, I quickly grab it and swallow it up. Only afterwards do I feel embarrassed and ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Your fine.” He reaches back and takes some paper money out of his pocket. “This place doesn’t give you shit when you pay with dolla dolla bills. That’s why I come here.”

“I...I can’t take your money.” I continue to stammer, “in—in fact, I sh...should be going.” I stand up. I really want to stay with him, but this isn’t right. We’re not supposed to meet for another four years. The longer we’re together here, the more likely it is he’ll remember me when he meets me before the Frenzy. That will just be confusing for him, so I have to cut this short and let it go. It’s time to face the fact that I’m alone in this time. No one can help me, and nor should they try. Even though I don’t consider this my fault, it’s my mess, and I can’t expect anyone to help clean it up.

“Wait,” he stops me. “What’s your name?” he asks, just so that he can get to what he wants to say.

“Serkan,” I reply instinctively. No, I should have used an alias. I’ve made it even worse; must be Tuesday.

“Serkan,” he starts off, “I don’t like to sugarcoat things. I don’t know where you come from, or what’s going on. But I can see that you need food, and you need money. I have those things. I’m actually pretty well-off. I’m not here to judge or question whether you deserve to be in this situation, but what I can do is help. Maybe it was even fate. Of all the coffee shops, in all the world, you walk into mine.”

That’s a direct quote from a thought I just had. “Can you read my mind?”

He laughs. “Can I dowhatnow?”

I don’t want to press it. “Never mind.” I take the wad of cash from his hand. “I very much appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I go up to the counter and wait in line, but as I’m doing so, I find myself frequently look back at Ace. He’s watching me as well. He’s four years younger than last I saw him, which means that he’s only a few years older than me at this point. That’s no big deal...no big deal at all. I probably don’t look like a silly little child to him, and the way his eyes focus on me makes me feel like he recognizes this as well. I try to look up at the chalkboard to determine what I should eat. It has to be filling, cheap, and as healthy as possible. As a coffee shop, it doesn’t have too many options—

Before I know it—and I’m not talking about time travel; just a form of autopilot—I’m in Ace’s apartment. We don’t even get out of the entryway before we start making out and tearing each other’s clothes off. I’m kissing him more passionately than I ever have anyone before. I’m kissing him like an adult. He undoes my Frenzy suit and tugs it off my shoulders. Now I’m standing here topless, like a surfer who hasn’t yet put his wetsuit all the way on. He starts kissing down my chest, drawing closer to the finish line. I laugh in my own head at the metaphor.

He comes back up and looks me in the eyes. “My name is Ace, by the way. Horace.”

“I know,” I say, in the heat of the moment, then I go back to kissing him on the neck.

“What?”

“I mean...that’s a great name.”

“Oh,” he tries to say through the desire.

“I’ve never brought anyone home before,” he says when we wake up in the morning.

“I ain’t never been broughten.”

He chuckles. “You must be hungry. You never did get that crumpet, or whatever, last night.”

“I got something better. But yes, I could go for some quiche, or something.”

He tilts his head. I’ve messed up again. I’m not supposed to know about that. “Funny. I’m kind of known for make an amazing quiche.” He stands up and starts some morning stretches.

“Then I guess I came to the right place.” Despite my time travel taboos, I’m doing pretty well. I’m smoother than I usually am. It must be the sex. I’ve had it before, but not like that; not with a guy like Horace... “What’s your last name?”

“Reaver. Horace Reaver.”

I nod. “Serkan Demir.”

“I feel like such a slut not telling you that before hopping into bed.”

“Then I suppose we’re both sluts.” I sit up on my knees and kiss him again. “I’m all right with that.”

I can feel his lips smile while still attached to mine. “What makes my quiche so good is that it takes an hour to make. I better get started.”

I fall back and rest my head on both my wrists. “I can’t wait that long,” I say in a cutesy voice.

“I’ll make some toast too, and I think I still have a couple hard-boiled eggs in the fridge.”

A few minutes later, I walk over to the kitchen area wearing pants and a shirt I stole from his wardrobe. I sit at the counter and eat my appetizers while watching him do his thing. “I’m not homeless,” I blurt out.

“Okay,” is all he says, not wanting to overstep.

“I just...I can’t go back home.”

He peers at me. “Do they not accept you as you are.”

“Oh, no. It’s nothing like. I was a gay baby. I never needed to come out to my family. I can’t really explain why I have to stay away from there, though. I just have some things I need to work out on my own.”

“I understand that. I mean, I don’t understand what you’re going through, but you and I are okay.”

This guy had sex with someone he thought was homeless. He brought him home to his house with fancy television monitors and a bunch of clothes, and then he slept with him. He may not make the wisest decisions, but he’s someone I can trust, and I already knew that. I can’t do this on my own. If Horace Reaver won’t help me through being marooned in the timestream, then no one in the world will. I have this urge to explain myself, so that he doesn’t think my parents kicked me out, or something. I need him to know who I am; why I’m here. “I’m a time traveler.”

“What?”

“I was in 2026, and then I fell in a grave, of all places. When I crawled out, I found myself in 2022. I don’t know why or how it happened, but I can’t get back. It looks like I’m gonna have to go the long way ‘round.”

He stops cooking and studies me. “Are you telling the truth?”

“I know it sounds crazy...” I start to say.

He puts down the spatula and goes over to grab his phone.

“I understand if you have to call the authorities, or a mental hospital, or whatever. You should know, however, that last night was real. That meant something to me. I’ve never met anyone like y—”

“Ulinthra?” he asks into the phone, cutting me off. “How fast can you get to Kansas City? I think we’ve just found the proof we were looking for.”

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Microstory 275: Perspective Fifty

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Perspective Forty-Nine

I can tell that there is something wrong with my sister and her fiancé. She would kill me if she knew I was telling you this, but she is nearly completely disinterested in sex. She’s always been this way, and it’s always strained her relationships. She likes the company of others, but this causes problems, because people who would be all right with a sexless marriage are few and far between. I guess she needs to find one of her own kind. Me? I have the opposite problem. I’ve recently diagnosed myself with sex addiction, and it would be dangerous for me to date one of my kind. But I don’t want to be with an asexual either, or worse, alone. I just need to find a balance. Of course, I’ve been attending support group meetings. The problem there is that I have to go two towns over so that no one I know catches me there, but that means there are plenty of men and women with my same problem, literally ready and willing. Hooking up with them would be easy, with no strings attached, but it would be a cliché. I’ve done really well so far. Others in the group have approached me, unable to hold back their urges, but we get coffee and talk, and it makes us both feel better. People will say that this particular support group could never be effective, by its very nature, but it has helped me immensely. Everyone in the group comes from a different background, and so we spend a great deal of the time just learning about each other. In fact, it’s sometimes better to stay off the subject of sex. Part of the issue—well, I should say my issue, at least—is that I think about sex too much. These people’s stories are fascinating, and it feels good to sort of have this safe space to explain myself. My sister has her own sources of stress, and we don’t have the kind of relationship with our parents where we tell them everything. I would go to my friends with my truth, but I fear being judged by them. If there existed a way to tell someone my secret, and then go back in time to stop myself if they react poorly, I would be fine. Wouldn’t that be great. I actually tried that the other day without thinking. I was trying to hand a customer back his computer after fixing it when I dropped it on the floor. As a computer nerd, my immediate thought was to find the undo button. The guy asked me what I was looking for, and I was honest with him, so we had a good laugh, because he was apparently not worried about his ruined equipment. He gave me his number, but I don’t know if I’m ready to use it.

Perspective Fifty-One

Microstory 239: Perspective Fourteen

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Perspective Thirteen

I think I’m in love. No, that’s not right; I definitely am in love. My father’s friend comes into his diner all the time, and I get to watch her from afar as I pretend to do my homework. She’s absolutely stunning and perfect. My heart skips every beat when I see her. The way she looks at the menu every single day, even though she always gets the same thing. Country fried steak and eggs with a side of hash browns, and extra browns in place of the short stack of pancakes. And a coffee she takes black, like a badass. What an angel. My friends think I’m idiot for going after an older girl when there are plenty of girls my age who’ll go out with me. But those are all basic bitches. I need a woman who’s been there. I need a woman who has that experience. I need a woman who knows what’s up. Sure, she’s twice my age right now, and I get that she doesn’t have eyes for a fourteen year old, but it won’t be like that forever. Ain’t nobody gonna be complaining when I’m sixty, and she’s seventy-six. She’s just come into the diner like she normally does, but something is different. She’s dressed up more than usual, and she’s wearing a ton of makeup. I’m not into that. A woman is beautiful as she is, in her birthday suit. There must be some reason? Is she into my father? Is she trying to impress him? Gag. No, that can’t be it; she’s being just as dismissively polite to him as she always is. He’s so clueless. I love the guy, but he’s a dummy. I redirect my attention back to her and realize what’s happening. Another woman has just come in and they’re hugging. It’s like they haven’t seen each other for years, and their tight embrace lasts just a second too long. Great, now I actually have some competition. Who is this woman? She can’t give her what I can. I haven’t ever seen her before, so she must not be important. But still, she has to go.

Perspective Fifteen