Microstory 2281: Their Favorite Bloopin Snooters

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Generated by Google Gemini Advanced text-to-image AI software, powered by Imagen 3. The story below is also partially AI Generated by Google Gemini Advanced

No updates for you today, so instead, I’ll post a bad story that I wrote while I was still on narcs soon after my surgery just to see how it would turn out.

So, like, there was this dude named Bob, right? Bob the Squirrel. Not actually a squirrel, but he, like, thought he was a squirrel. Don’t ask me why, it’s a long story. Anyway, Bob’s chillin’ in this oak tree, munchin’ on some sewing machines, when BAM! A freakin’ UFO crashes right into the tree next to him. Aliens, dude! Little green dudes with antennas and laser guns. They’re all like, “Take us to your leader,” and Bob’s just starin’ at ’em like, “dude, I’m a alligator. I don’t even know what a leader is.”

But these aliens, they’re persistent, see? They zap Bob with this weird money offering, and suddenly, he can speak fluent Orangutan. Or maybe it was bleep, I dunno, alien languages all sound the same to. Anyway, Bob’s like, “whoa, cool! I can talk to fresh prince now!” And the aliens are all excited, thinkin’ Bob’s gonna lead them to the yogurt coma or somethin’.

But Sam, he’s got other plans. He’s always wanted to go to dream-dream-dream-dream. So he hops on the spiked cartwheel, tells the ghosts to set a course for the happiest place on birth. The renegades, they’re a bit confused, but they figure, “hey, why not? We’re on an intergalactic blood trip!”

So they zoom off to ashtray, and Albert is havin’ the time of his life. He’s ridin’ track, eatin’ home keys, and takin’ selfies with invisible red blankets. The sisters, they’re not so into it. They keep tryin’ to get Ronald to focus on the whole flood paper folder thing, but Grace’s all like, “dude, chill out. Let’s go fall green again!”

Meanwhile, back on laptop, the government’s in a panic. They’ve lost contact with Fulton the Squirrel, their top secret agent who was supposed to be infiltrating the alien dadaship. They don’t know what to do. The emperor have, the generals yellin’ at each other, and the scientists are scratchin’ their butts...

But Mary, he’s oblivious to all the chaos. He’s too busy havin’ a blast at rodeo clowns, hangin’ with Peanut Butter and Arsenic. The edgh, they’re startin’ to get fhd. They miss their rthrth, their weird wetwe pejyyts, and their favorite bloopin snooters.

And as the Unidentified Fillorian Objection disappears in, Bob the Squire, the accidental interhouse ambassador, waves goodbye to all the nothing, ready for his nex adventure. Or maybe he just fell asleep and dreamt the whole thing. Who knows, it’s all.

The end...or is it? Maybe I’m still out there, explorin’ the universe, trying to try to try, and having an existential rices. The possibilities are not, just like this story, which could go on forever if I let it push me around like I usually do because no one can see if drip. But I gotta stop somewhere, so... yeah. That’s it. And then there were two people.

Microstory 2068: Tongueball It

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Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image Duet AI software

I’m feeling much better, thank you very much. It’s been pretty hard to get to sleep, which has sometimes been all right, because I’ve not had anywhere to go, but that hasn’t been true every single day since I got here. I’ve had an itchy and sore throat, so I cough, and then just make it even more sore. I believe that my landlord can’t hear me all the way up here, but I don’t know that for sure, and I’m afraid to ask her. I probably should ask her, though, since she would be able to explain it. My guess is that, when I lie down, fluids start moving in different directions, which is why it hurts more, but I don’t really know. She’s been off work for the last few days, and as a medical professional, in a particularly high need of a real good night’s rest every time, she should be able to expect me to work hard to put a stop to my constant disruptions. I generally don’t like to take drugs, but I’ll do it when I have to. When I was in my mid-twenties(?) I didn’t know the difference between a teaspoon and a tablespoon. I thought I was taking twice the recommended amount of nighttime cough syrup, but it turned out to be six times. It’s the only time I was ever intoxicated. I did not like it one bit, and I’ve never repeated the incident. Until last night, sort of. The tiny bottle of the strong stuff that my landlord had didn’t have any sort of fill cup. There wasn’t much left, so I figured I could eyeball five milliliters—or rather, tongueball it—but I was wrong. I ended up with twice the amount, but didn’t get to sleep any easier, and I never felt drunk. I probably really should have asked her about it, huh? It’s not my fault, I took too much cough syrup!

Microstory 2040: Wisconsin

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My fathers’ bad luck continued as they were trying to fly from Alaska to New Jersey. They were supposed to make a stop in Chicago, which is where my papa used to live, but that’s not what happened. On their way on the first plane, another passenger got really drunk, and started misbehaving. He was causing problems for everyone, and being really rude, so the pilot had no choice but to land the plane at a different airport to let him off. They even had to have the police waiting for him there. The closest one was this little airport called Southern Wisconsin Regional Airport. It wasn’t really built for planes like that, so it took them a long time to get through all the stuff with the police, and start trying to fly again. By the time they were ready, they couldn’t leave anyway, because of a snowstorm that had formed over Canada. If that guy had just not gotten drunk, they would have arrived in New Jersey on time. Honestly, it’s kind of scary for me to think about, though. They had to spend one night in Wisconsin until the storm passed, and then they were able to fly again. By the time they made it to New Jersey, though, the child they were going to adopt had already gone to another family. They were too late. They would have to wait a few months longer. They had to wait for me. I, for one, am glad that they did.

Microstory 1995: Government Grade

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Generated by Google Workspace Labs text-to-image AI software

National Commander Apostle Virtue: Director Reese Parsons. Thank you for coming all the way out to the Palace. Ooo, cool tie. I trust you had a pleasant trip.

Director Reese Parsons: Yes, everything is great, Mr. Commander, sir.

Commander Virtue: Mr. Commander sir. Call me Apostle. We’re all friends here.

Special Investigator Eliot: Thank you for seeing us...Apostle.

Apostle: Hey! That’s Commander Virtue to you, or Mister Commander!

Hisham: I’m terribly sorry, sir—

Apostle: Ah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya. Lighten up, Hisham. You gotta be more like this guy. *rubs Reese’s shoulders aggressively*

Reese: *laughing nervously and uncomfortably* Very good, sir. Apostle, sir.

Apostle: *laughing confidently* I can’t tell you how great it is to have another man in your new position. The last administrator really went hog wild appointing all those women. Don’t get me wrong, I love Director Washington to death, but what’s a Commander gotta do to get a little testosterone in the room, you know what I mean?

Reese: I appreciate the appointment. I’m ready to do what I can to protect this country.

Apostle: I don’t care about that. And I don’t make directorship appointments. *mockingly* That’s too much of a unilateral decision. That’s how my lawyers say it. *scoffs* Hey, you two want a drink? You seem like a bourbon guy. I got the best stuff. And Hisham, maybe one of those colorful drinks with the umbrellas? Wadya say?

Hisham: Whatever you think is best, sir.

Apostle: You’ll take the bourbon too.

Hisham: Yes, sir.

Apostle: What did I say about lightening up? That goes for the both of you. Sit down and relax! Why do you think they put couches in the room?

Reese: Thank you, sir. So, I’ve brought the budget, as well as the transcripts from the interviews that Dr. Klement made with the Ochivari. I’ve had my experts draw up some plans to make sure we can insulate our planet as best we can from the alien threat, should a true invasion happen too, but I’m sure you already have people on that.

Apostle: Oh, all that can wait. Let’s just have a chat. Tell me about this bond you have with the convict. Does that mean you buttered her bread?

Reese: Uh, they prefer to be called freepersons. And I’m not sure what you mean.

Apostle: Did you make the devil dance? Did you put the carrot in the salad; hide your friend, the corporal; introduce her to—

Hisham: He means, did you have sex with her?

Apostle: Never. Interrupt me. This isn’t another lighten up joke; this is real. Never interrupt your commanding officer.

Hisham: Very sorry, sir.

Apostle: That’s all right.

Reese: To answer your question, sir, that’s not what the bond is about. They help each other lead productive lives, and keep from backsliding to their old ways.

Apostle: Sounds bor-ring! Let’s do shots. You wanna do shots? I also got government-grade reefer, if you’re more into that. Let’s live. You wanna live?

Microstory 1851: Transitivity

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I would get in a lot of fights growing up. I was one of those kids who hated to see injustice, and also who saw injustices everywhere. Bullies, racists, bad boyfriends. If I found out you treated someone poorly, you were going down. Back then, I thought I was lucky to be going to a school that didn’t have the time or energy to deal with someone like me. Sure, I was violent and disruptive, but the teachers and staff had to prioritize disciplining the ones who were the actual bad guys. I’m talking about the bullies I was standing up to, and the kids who came to school with weapons. I managed to skate by, which looking back, did me a disservice, because I struggled to learn basic social skills. It’s not like I grew out of it just because I graduated from high school. I just kept fighting the injustices, and in the real world, people do care about that, and they make the time to punish you for it. I went to jail so many times. If I had had different parents, they probably would have sent me to military school, or something, but they never wanted kids, and that didn’t change when they met me. Since they didn’t care about what happened to me, or even their family reputation, they never bailed me out, so as long as I kept them out of it, they didn’t worry about the jail time. Eventually, the cops remembered who I was, so they knew they couldn’t keep me in the same cells as other people. Jail, and the police station holding cells, were great places to find people who I felt needed to be taught a few lessons. One night, I got in another bar fight—with a guy who just couldn’t take the hint that the lady wasn’t interested—and I learned where the jurisdictional borders were. I was taken to a police station I had never been to before.

They put me in with the general population, where I managed to encounter a rapist who kept getting away with it. The only thing my daddy ever taught me was to never pick a fight with anyone I couldn’t beat. I usually remembered this advice, but not that night. He beat me half to death, and left me in the corner of the cell, next to a drunkard who just so happened to own a boxing gym. He decided I needed someone to teach me how to channel my instincts into something productive. You’ve heard this story before, so I won’t bore you with the details, but yes, he trained me to be a better fighter, but to do it for money and honor, rather than anger. I guess someone important took notice, because that is not even the most interesting part about my life. I found myself being recruited by a mysterious group with rather unclear intentions. They said that a war was raging on other worlds, and that they needed fighters like me. I was hesitant, but curious. It sounded too crazy for me to just walk away from. I couldn’t just forget about it. They put me on this giant spaceship that looked like a train, and said they were taking me to another universe. I ended up fighting in something called the Transit Army, against an alien race who was trying to sterilize billions and billions of people across the multiverse. Again, I know it sounds crazy, but I’ve seen them, I fought them, it happened. I was basically in the infantry on the front lines, because I didn’t have any education, or leadership skills. This is what killed me. The enemy served a fatal blow, and the doctors said they couldn’t save me. My only request was to be returned to my home world. They said they didn’t have the resources, but an individual capable of crossing over himself took pity on me, so here I am, taking my final breaths in the alley behind the gym. I’m laughing, because I know the cops will never solve my murder.

Microstory 1787: Flying Fish

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Sleep and I have always had a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it resists me every single night. I was an adult before I learned that normal people fall asleep within twenty minutes. When my health teacher told us that, I wanted to punch him in the face, and knock him out. Then I wanted him to wake up, and punch me in the face so I would know what it feels like to not lie awake in bed for literally two hours. Over the years, I’ve tried some things to alleviate the problem: meditation, melatonin, stronger pills that put me, and the morning drivers around me, at terrible risk. Some of it has helped a little, but nothing has helped a lot. I would get six hours on a really good night, and I was proud of myself for anything over five. Now that I’m older, I’ve decided to prioritize my time better. Instead of staying up late, and waking up just before it’s time to go to work, I figured I may as well go to bed early, and have more me-time in the mornings. If it’s early enough, it’s still dark, so there’s no glare on my TV. That’s what’s really helped, waking up before sun, instead of fighting for every ounce of rest in those precious final moments. Now I lie awake for an hour, but since I give myself more time overall, I end up with seven hours, and it probably doesn’t get any better than that. I even try to avoid this thing called social jetlag, which means sleeping different hours on certain nights, which for most is due to not having to work on the weekends. Last night was different. It was a Friday, and I was in the middle of a good TV binge, so I decided it would be okay to go to bed at 23:00. That’s 11:00 PM for you people who can’t count past 12. It turned out to be a bad idea...for a bizarre reason. Had I gone to sleep at my new normal time, I wouldn’t have been awake to hear the man outside my window.

At first, I think it must be an innocuous noise. The purr of my refrigerator, the buzz of the street lights, the revving of a distant car. It isn’t so distant, and it isn’t so innocuous. It sounds like someone mimicking the sound of a motor with their mouth, and it only gets worse when he starts talking. “Flying fish,” he says, “flying fish”. Over and over and over again, “flying fish. Yeah, baby, flying fish.” Fuck, what does he want with me? I’m about to die, I’m about to die. What do I do? Don’t turn on the lights, then he’ll see that you’re here. Look out the window. No, not that one, it’s too close. I can’t see anything. What about the window in the study? Still nothing. Can you still hear him? “Flying fish.” Call mom, she’ll know what to do. No, bring the dog in first, and put her in her cage.  Then call mom. Shit, it’s late, they go to bed earlier than I do. Call 911, she says, that’s what it’s there for. Yes, it qualifies an emergency, call them now. Dispatch doesn’t understand my problem fully, but she dispatches a fleet anyway. Firetruck first on the scene. I look back out the window in the study. The firefighter is bent at the hip, hand on the shoulder of a man. He’s sitting in the street, up against the curb. He’s wobbly, and incoherent. He must be drunk. She’s being gentle and patient with him. Ambulance, police cruiser, that red pickup truck the fire station boss drives, another police cruiser. It’s okay, Daisy, go back to sleep. Chew on your cactus if you’re nervous. They load him up faster than I would have thought. I’ve seen car accidents in real life; been in a couple myself. They usually move slower than movies make it seem. They close the ambulance doors, and clear the street. The quiet returns, and it’s like they were never even here. Then a fish flies past my window, followed by another, and another. He wasn’t lying.

Microstory 1745: Lizard’s Tree

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Let me tell you about my father’s last day alive. We knew he had been sick for a long time, but we kept having reason to hope. Treatment was working well in the beginning, and then it wasn’t. A promising new drug came on the market, but it didn’t seem to work for him. A new drug trial went underway, so we tried that, but it had no effect. Of course, he could have been taking the placebo the entire time. A different trial began a couple of years later, but he ended up not qualifying. He chose to stop treatment a month before he died, wanting to spend his last remaining days lively and pain free. According to my mother, he wanted to spend his actual last day with me. On TV, when parents are asked which child is their favorite, they always either say they love each of their children equally, or they’ll give a real answer, and it’s because they’re a villain. It’s a little weird in our family. My dad loved me just a little bit more than his other five children, and no one has ever seemed bothered by that. I’m a lot like him, in most ways, and the others were more like our mother. Except for the eldest, who isn’t like any of us at all. As far as I know, they all just accept that I’m the special one, and don’t take offense to it. Every family is different, I guess, maybe we’re just a little more honest with each other. Anyway, he called me Lizard, on account of its similarity to my real name, which I trust you can rightly guess. The day he died, he said, “Lizard, come with me. We’re going for a drive.” I’m the one who drove, but he directed me to the middle of nowhere, and asked me if the tree before us wasn’t the most beautiful thing I ever saw. I looked around us, and saw plenty of trees, but none close enough, and none that stood out. He laughed, like it was a prank, but he quickly returned to his serious but calm look. He gestured towards the ground, and told me that it once stood here.

This is what he said about the tree that was. “While your mother was pregnant with you, Lizard, she was reading a book about the world’s cultures. She discovered that people from different countries practiced the same tradition of planting a tree when their child was born. We had already had two of our own by that point, but we still decided to start doing this for however many we had left, which ended up being four.” I told him he meant to say three, but he was scared to respond to that, and I think I understand why. He went on, “your younger brothers’ trees are closer to the house, but your tree used to be here. We planned on showing you when you turned eighteen, so it could be one of your gifts, but we all know I’m not gonna make it another seven months. I wish we had brought you at least two years ago, before a drunk driver ran off the road, and crashed right into it. No one was hurt; not even him, but your tree was destroyed. I choose to believe there’s a lesson here, even though a mound of dirt is not what we had in mind for you. The tree was supposed to represent your life, but if that were true, you would be dead right now, instead of me. I hope what this shows you is that you are exactly as strong as you think you are. You made it through most of your schooling, you made it into a good college, and you’ll get past my death. I love you, Lizard, and there is nothing that can change it, no matter how many drunk drivers fly down that road. I need you to believe that you can take care of yourself, because I can’t go in peace if you can’t.” He went back to the car real quick, and returned with another small tree in a pot. “You can plant as many new trees as you want, but never forget that you...are irreplaceable.”

Microstory 1698: Benedict’s Purpose

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Benedict Stewart was an odd duck, and though no one would argue he was the best person in the world, he wasn’t evil. He was a high school science teacher, who was forced to leave for engaging in an inappropriate sexual relationship. She was not one of his students, but she was pretty young, and his behavior reflected poorly on the school. She was a college student, who was there as a pre-service teacher, so she could gather enough supervised experience to become a certified instructor once her own schooling was complete. As her supervisor, he was considered to be in a position of power, even though he assured the district that he did not take it into account when evaluating her performance. The student teacher stuck up for him, and declared it to be a fully consensual relationship, which probably prevented the situation from becoming a news story, and also kept him from being fired. He would have been free to apply for work elsewhere, and while no job was guaranteed, he likely would have eventually found some place fitting. Instead, he chose to work at the soda bottling plant on the edge of town. It wasn’t as rewarding, and it was below his education and experience, but it was a decent living. His girlfriend, meanwhile, stayed with him for years, eventually becoming his wife. A week after the wedding, she was the victim of a drunk driver, and ended up in a coma. Benedict was distraught, and could no longer function. He became careless in his duties, and his boss had to let him go. The money wasn’t that much of a problem, as the drunk driver was the son of a wealthy businessman, who agreed to a hefty settlement in exchange for keeping this quiet. But Benedict was still alone, and he was still sad.

His boss was a good guy, who understood how traumatic this whole experience was. He hired him in the first place, fully aware of his past transgressions. He couldn’t let him keep his job for the time being, but he intended to kind of leave it open until Benedict got the help he needed. He recommended a support group, so he could work through his grief, and find some way to move on. Benedict got a lot of help from them, but he didn’t realize until later that this support group had a bizarre secret. It turned out to be the source of recruitment for a budding superhero organization, and they wanted him on the team. Him? Really? Why? Well, he wasn’t just any ol’ chemistry teacher. He was known for creating little gadgets to illustrate scientific concepts for the kids. He helped bridge the gap between all the sciences, including physics and biology, and even other subjects, to facilitate a more well-rounded education. So the leaders of the superhero group suggested he come up with some non-lethal weapons, and use them to protect the city. It would give him purpose, and help relieve the depression, and some of the suicidal thoughts he was suffering. So that was what he did. He wore a magnetic suit that could steal guns from an aggressor, a taser, striking gloves, a sonic eardrum burster, chemical explosives, a heat ray, blinding laser lights, and a slingshot. The idea was for each weapon to demonstrate one of the ten types of energy, excluding nuclear and gravitational, because he didn’t actually have any powers, and he didn’t have genius-level intellect. As time went on, and Benedict pursued missions for his team, he shed some of the excess from his persona, and focused on the more important features. He also learned that maybe the people who recruited him had been lying about being heroes all along. And now Benedict...would have to choose a side.

Microstory 1556: The Injured Party

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Prompt

I witnessed a murder yesterday, and I want to report it to the police, but I also don’t want to. I know that my neighbor was just defending herself, and also that no one else will believe her.

Botner

I saw the entire incident, as I was watching TV, when I suddenly heard a shot, and I rushed to the back door to look out. A man was screaming and a woman was sobbing, when I suddenly heard a second shot, and saw the woman fall to the ground. I stood there for a minute, waiting for the police to arrive, but no one came. I had seen my neighbors. We have a lot of big dogs, but usually don’t need to have a gun. I have a .357 Magnum and my husband has a shotgun. We live in a quiet town. We do have wildlife, like wild turkeys, deer, bears, and occasionally a cougar or a wolf. It is a lot to be afraid of, but we are. But I felt responsible for the woman, and so I went to her. She was sitting on the ground, her husband standing above her, screaming at her. The whole thing seemed so barbaric, but I tried to calm her down, and tell her that she would be all right. After a few minutes, I noticed that her hand was bruised and the second bullet hole was barely visible, so I assumed that she was shot. I wanted to call the police, but I didn’t want to upset her any more, so I walked her home. I had to ask her for the phone, and when I went in, she said that the neighbor, a man in...

Conclusion

...a gray coat, had claimed to have called the police, but I don’t think that’s true, because now it’s been fifteen minutes, and no one has come. I don’t have a whole lot of faith in our justice system, but this is an okay neighborhood, so I feel like something is wrong. I don’t have a whole lot of medical training, but at work, I was chosen as my floor’s Medical Representative. This means that I know how to do some stuff beyond first aid, and when there’s a fire or tornado, I’m designated to help get everyone to safety. I get a nice little pay bump because of it, and there’s a sign hanging over my cubicle, telling everyone I’m just a little bit better than them. Anyway, I’m capable of patching up a bullet injury, because if emergency services aren’t going to come to us, then I’m going to go to them, but I couldn’t let my neighbor bleed out on our way. The husband was shot in the chest, but the wife was shot in the gut. Apparently, he had managed to take the weapon from her after she used it for self-defense. He’s a drunk, and he’s always going after her, and if I can only save one of them, the choice is clear. I could have saved both, but I’ve told the authorities that he continued to be belligerent, and attack us, while I was trying to treat her injuries. He died later, and I don’t feel bad, but the cops might not see it that way. I asked them why they never showed up, and they avoided answering, so I realized that there’s something fishy going on. I looked into it, and learned that the husband was a former cop himself, and his station had mixed feelings about it. They didn’t want to go help him, and they didn’t want to help his wife either, which is even worse. I’m calling the FBI.

Microstory 1554: Shame

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Prompt

The first thing I do when I wake up in the morning is check outside to see if anyone is passed out on my lawn. I live next to a frat house, so this is a regular occurrence.

Botner

Literally. They have no shame. [Here are nine more things you should know about me.] 3. I have never pooped at a gas station (and probably never will, because I refuse to pay $6 for a cup of coffee...even if they were roasting the beans with their bare hands...a lot). I try to use public restrooms at gas stations when I can, because they are generally cleaner and just usually very busy. 4. I’ve been drunk in 17 states and 7 countries. I love traveling...a lot. 5. I’ve hit a deer and I’ve flipped over a car (not at the same time). 6. I hate mushrooms and I’m vegetarian... but not for cultural reasons. When I’m inebriated I want nothing more than to have a plate of red, heart-shaped things for dessert. 7. I’ve been in a room with 1,000 women and we’ve talked about everything from N’SYNC to soap operas. I’ve come to absolutely love my girlfriends as well as become a healthier person for it...truly. 8. My favorite color is brown. 9. I’ve kissed at least two strangers in my lifetime. 10. I bought my first purse at Target...two years ago. 11. I’m fluent in Korean. I lived in Korea for 10 months and I can actually speak it. 12. I love men...but I love women just as much. I am mostly single, because I’m not sure what I...

Conclusion

...really want out of a relationship. Will anyone truly want me if they know all these personal things about me? It has taken a long time for society to accept homosexuality, and we are nowhere near out of the woods yet. Omnisexuality, which is how I identify, is so much harder. Even gay people don’t accept us. They think that we should just get off the fence, and decide already. Of course, that’s not how it works, and they’re being just as ignorant as people have always been, but I’ll keep trying to change their minds. The frat guys are actually pretty cool. The fact that they pass out on my lawn has nothing to do with me, it’s just proximity. My older brother is a lawyer, and he says this could turn into a problem, though. If one of them were to end up dead, or something, I could be liable for the damages, even though I don’t even know the guy, and I didn’t do anything wrong. He tells me I should invest in a front yard fence, but nobody has those anymore, and it’s not exactly on brand for me. Besides, I would rather they end up sleeping on my lawn than trying to drive home after the party. Still, I feel I should do something, but I don’t want to seem elitist, or anything. People think that about me when I say I don’t eat meat anymore. I’m probably overthinking all of this, and I should just stick to my own problems, and worry about who I’m going to take as my date to my cousin’s wedding. There’s this guy I really like, and I think he would be interested, but there are those in my family who do not know about me, and positively would not approve. Should I ignore them, and take the guy anyway, or should I make sure the night doesn’t end up about me, and let my cousin have her special day? Everyone else gets to take whoever they want, though. Why should I pretend to be someone I’m not? Perhaps these situations are exactly when we should start expecting people to learn to be better.

Microstory 1381: Vibes

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Office Manager: Welcome, Recent Graduate.

Recent Graduate: Thank you.

Office Manager: Based on our interview, I see no reason you won’t thrive in this work environment. Still, we would like you to get to know the team before you begin next week. We called this a suitability interview, because that’s what legal says we have to call it, but it will be really informal. Don’t stress about answering questions, or anything. Just act like you’re at a party. Don’t emulate Office Drunk, though.

Office Drunk: Hey, I heard that.

Office Manager: Great. So go on, mingle. I’ll leave you all to it. I already know I like this guy.

Office Motormouth: Hello, hi, how are ya? What’s goin’ on? You feelin’ good? You’ll be sitting here, right next to me. New hire always gets the old office chair. Have you lived in Hillside your whole life? Do you have a boyfriend or girlfriend? Do you have any kids? What do you wanna be when you grow up? I don’t suppose you want to be an office assistant your whole life. You just graduated from college, right? What did you major in? Would you major in that again, if you could go back and start over?

Office Aspirant: Stop overwhelming the boy, Office Motormouth.

Recent Graduate: No, it’s okay. I can handle it. I was born in Hillside, but moved to Kansas City before I could walk. I came back here for college, and decided to just stick around. I do not have a boyfriend, nor any kids. I’m here to climb the corporate ladder, and go as high as I can go, so being an assistant is just the beginning of my career, but I have no current plans to leave the company to work somewhere else, if that’s what you’re asking. I did just graduate, of course, with a general education degree. I like to learn about a lot of things, and pinning myself down to just one field of study seemed too normal. No offense, I hope. If I could do it all again, I would do it the same way. It got me here.

Office Motormouth: Oh. Those are great answers. Now—

Office Aspirant: You’ve had your turn, Motormouth. Listen, kid, you remind me a lot of me when I was your age.

Office Busybody: That was, like, two years ago.

Office Aspirant: I had aspirations, just like you. And look at me now, I already have two direct reports. You could be just like me one day too, if you work hard.

Office Busybody: Those aren’t your direct reports, Office Aspirant. They put you in charge of the seasonal temps this year, because no one else wants to do it. They don’t actually answer to you, though.

Office Aspirant: Don’t mind her.

Office Busybody: No. Don’t mind him.

Recent Graduate: I’m looking forward to working with all of you. Equally.

Office Motormouth: Another great response.

Office Busybody: Anyway. Those temps I was telling you about? Well, they’re sleeping together. But word is that Seasonal Temp 2 also has a thing going with Accountant from accounting. But you didn’t hear it from me.

Recent Graduate: Hear what?

Office Busybody: Good boy.

Office Creep: So, speaking of sleeping with people, if you could sleep with any celebrity, who would it be?

Office Motormouth: Office Creep, stop being a creep. You’re gonna make him call HR on his zeroth day!

Recent Graduate: No, it’s okay. But. I’m not going to tell you that.

Office Drunk: Do you have any mints?

Recent Graduate: I do, actually. Right here.

Office Drunk: Hey, is that a purse?

Office Aspirant: It’s called a satchel.

Recent Graduate: No, it’s a purse. I carry a purse, because it’s 2018, and men can have purses. I don’t believe in gender roles.

Office Drunk: Right on, right on. Hey, we’re probably gonna grab drinks after work. Are you in? What’s your favorite bar? What’s your poison?

Recent Graduate: I don’t care to drink much. I’m sure I’ll just get something with a lot of sugar to cover the taste of alcohol.

Office Drunk: A man who knows what he wants. I agree with Office Manager; I like this guy. Come on, new guy, lemme show you what’s what on this floor.

Microstory 1306: Witness for the Defense

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Opposing Counsel: Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Mister Witness for the Defense.

Witness for the Defense: Please, you can just call me Defense Witness.

Opposing Counsel: Witness for the Defense, how do you know the Defendant?

Witness for the Defense: He and I met for the first time in elementary school. Then he decided he wanted to try being homeschooled. He didn’t like it, but he was assigned a different middle school, so we ended up sort of meeting again in high school.

Opposing Counsel: So, you weren’t friends that whole time?

Witness for the Defense: Nah, we didn’t know each other that well in fourth grade.

Opposing Counsel: But you would say you’re close now?

Witness for the Defense: I would say that, yes.

Opposing Counsel: And do you personally know the victim?

Defense Counsel: Objection.

Opposing Counsel: Forgive me, Your Honor. Do you know the plaintiff?

Witness for the Defense: I think I met her once at a block party.

Opposing Counsel: In actual fact, you met her several times over the last two years. Once when you were so drunk that you banged on her door, thinking it was the Defendant’s. Plus, other times for other community events.

Civil Court Judge: Was that a question?

Opposing Counsel: The question, Mister Witness, is were you lying about how well you know her, or is my client so forgettable that you don’t recall her helping your brother get his son into their desired preschool?

Defense Counsel: Your honor, this line of question is not relevant. What the witness does or does not remember of the plaintiff is not part of his role as a witness today. He is here to speak on what he knows of my client.

Opposing Counsel: Your Honor, the witness is here primarily as a character witness for the defendant. His own credibility must first be established before his responses can be reasonably accepted.

Civil Court Judge: And I believe you have done that. Move on, Counselor.

Opposing Counsel: Very well. Witness for the Defense, are you connected with the Defendant on social media?

Witness for the Defense: Of course I am. We’re best friends.

Opposing Counsel: When did you first come across the thread in question, Exhibit One?

Witness for the Defense: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Opposing Counsel: If you are unaware of which post I’m talking about, I happen to have an extra copy for you.

Witness for the Defense: ...

Opposing Counsel: May I remind you that you’re—

Witness for the Defense: Yes, I’m under oath; I understand. Like I said, the Defendant and I are best friends, which means the social network algorithm knows I’m more interested in his posts than most others.

Opposing Counsel: Meaning...?

Witness for the Defense: Meaning I received a notification about the post in question. I saw it immediately.

Opposing Counsel: And do you personally agree with the claim the Defendant made in said post?

Defense Counsel: Objection!

Civil Court Judge: Sustained. Counselor, you’re testing me. I never liked tests.

Opposing Counsel: Witness for the Defense, do you believe the Defendant had malicious intentions when he posted this update on his social media page? Do you believe he knew the outcome would be my client’s damaged reputation, the loss of her job, and a profound struggle with finding a new job?

Witness for the Defense: Absolutely not.

Opposing Counsel: Do you believe he believed the plaintiff would find the post distasteful.

Defense Counsel: Your Honor!

Civil Court Judge: Skip this question, Witness for the Defense. I’m giving you one more chance, Counselor.

Opposing Counsel: I only have a few more questions. Witness...do you have access to the Defendant’s social media account password?

Defense Counsel: Your Honor, please!

Civil Court Judge: I would like to hear the answer. You may want to as well.

Opposing Counsel: Witness?

Witness for the Defense: [...] I do.

Opposing Counsel: Following your drunken encounter with my client, were you, in fact, the one who logged onto the Defendant’s social media account, and posted the distasteful update found in Exhibit One? And wasn’t the Defendant too drunk himself to deny his involvement?

Audience: [Collective gasp]

Opposing Counsel: Your Honor, I would like to submit as evidence Exhibit Two—an example of Witness for the Defense’s own writing—which a linguistic analysis expert can testify matches the writing style of Exhibit One.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: November 30, 2268

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Mateo felt something hit him in the groin. It was clearly meant to wake him up, but even the pain wasn’t enough to stir him. A voice apologized, but it was so scratchy that he couldn’t tell whether it belonged to Leona or Nerakali. He was feeling groggier than he ever had before, almost like he had been drugged. The hand came back down on him, but this time higher, upon his chest, so it wasn’t painful.

“You gotta wake up,” Leona said, sounding groggy too. “We all gotta wake up.”

He could hear Nerakali making a ruckus on the other side of the tent. “Where’s my cuff,” she asked like a drunkard.

“It’s on your wrist,” Leona answered. She struggled to roll over on top of Mateo, seemingly in an attempt to get to the other side of him, but she just got stuck.

“Which one?” Nerakali asked.

“Pick one,” Leona instructed. “If it’s not there, then pick the other.”

“What is going on!” Mateo demanded to know.

“Something’s wrong with the wards!” Nerakali yelled back. “I can’t figure out how to get us out of here.”

Mateo lifted his own arm, and looked at it over Leona’s shoulder. She was still on top of him. “I’ve got a blinking button here that says EMERGENCY SUPERPOSITION.”

“No!” Nerakali cried. “Don’t push that one!”

“This is an emergency, it seems. Is someone coming?”

“Someone is indeed coming, but you can’t save us that way.”

“I’m gonna do it.”

“Don’t do it.”

“I’m doing it.”

“No.”

But it was too late. Mateo managed to get his other hand out from between him and Leona, so he could press the button. The tent above them disappeared, but they were still in the woods. Well, it might not have been the exact same woods, but it was close enough. Then the trees disappeared, only to be replaced by different trees. Those trees disappeared, replaced with a clear sky. Mateo turned his head to watch the ground. The scenery continued to change, and not only that, but it was getting faster. Much faster. Much, much faster. Mountain summit, prairie, tundra, underneath an arcological tower, on the deck of a boat, on the bank of a river, on the side of Mateo and Leona’s special hillside. They just kept jumping over, and over, and over, and over, and over again. They must have gone to a hundred places before Nerakali got a grip, and stopped it using her own Cassidy cuff.

“What the hell was that?” Leona asked. She managed to get herself off her husband, and safely onto her own ass. It looked like they were on a hiking trail now.

“That button placed us in a state of quantum superposition. We would have continued to jump forever—generally far away from other people, and too quickly for anyone to be able to track us. I got the idea from a TV show about angels. I don’t know why that was an option on your cuff, and I sure as hell don’t know why you pressed it.”

“We were being attacked.” Then Mateo looked around. He actually wasn’t so certain of that. “Weren’t we?”

“Quite possibly,” Nerakali said. “The ward alarms went off, and we were experiencing the temporal sickness that was meant to be inflicted upon our intruder. I was trying to get us out of there, but not by doing that.”

“No matter,” Leona said as she was standing up and finding her footing. “It worked. Whoever found us, we’re here now.”

“So am I,” came a fourth voice.

Mateo closed his eyes. They just can’t get rid of her.

“Arcadia,” Nerakali said. There was some disdain in her voice, but also some love.

“Hello, sister,” Arcadia replied.

“You’re the one who attacked us?”

“No,” Arcadia argued. “I’m the one who tried to find you, not realizing you would place a gene blocker on your spatial wards. That’s why my approach jacked you up so much.”

“I did that so our mother wouldn’t be able to get to us,” Nerakali explained. “I guess I need to work on my technique. They obviously backfired.”

“Yes,” Arcadia agreed.

“No,” Nerakali said, “not because you should have been let through, but because they shouldn’t have done us harm. I don’t want you here either. Why are you here?”

“I want to help,” Arcadia claimed.

Nerakali chuckled. “Have you ever...said those words before? Perhaps you don’t know what they mean.”

“Ha-ha,” Arcadia said sarcastically. “I’m serious. I know you thought I was always mama’s little girl, but I want to stop her as much as you. That bitch is running around, giving me a bad reputation. People think she’s me. It used to not bother me, but my power-aides are losing faith in me.”

“A sports drink worships you?” Leona asked.

“Not the drink.” Arcadia rolled her eyes. “I’m talking about people who aid me with their powers. I can’t teleport, or travel through time on my own. I can’t create a spacetime merge point, or possess people’s bodies. If I want to do these things, I employ someone who can. They’re my aides.”

“You created a pretty sophisticated system,” Leona pointed out. “It always looked like you had the powers.”

“Nope,” Arcadia said. “Like most people, I just have the one power.”

Leona looked over at Nerakali. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to ask, why do you have more than one temporal ability? You can blend brains, and travel spacetime. Why is that?”

“I dunno,” Nerakali replied. She sounded sincere. “Athanaric never explained why he built me this way. Why would a blender need to travel through time when she was designed to live in a higher dimension where time travel is impossible anyway? It’s like he knew I would end up on Earth one day.”

“Maybe he did,” Arcadia guessed.

“Are we gonna keep talking about this?” Mateo questioned. “Or are we going to figure out what to do. I can barely force myself to trust one Preston, but now I’m expected to trust another? What happens when Zeferino shows up? Are we going to end up at one giant hyper-destructive family reunion, or something?”

“It won’t be truly destructive unless our father is there,” Arcadia said. She mocked the sign of the cross.

“He’s right,” Nerakali said to Arcadia. “You can’t be here. You’re dangerous.”

“I really do want to help. I’m being honest about that. I’m not planning a doublecross, and I won’t get bored, and lose interest. I’m with you; one hundred percent.”

“Sometimes you’re kind of okay,” Mateo said to her, finally well enough to stand on his own two feet. “Sometimes you make Satan shiver in his seat. That means those times when you’re okay don’t really matter that much, because no one can ever trust you.”

Arcadia looked legitimately hurt by his words, and he almost regretted them. She stared at him for a moment before looking to her sister. “Self-cleaning mode.”

“What?” Nerakali asked. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“Not now,” Arcadia said. “Give me one of those cuffs. I know you have an extra, because they come in pairs. Program mine with an SCM protocol. If I step out of line, any one of you can activate it, and be done with me for good.”

“I can’t imagine you would agree to this,” Nerakali doubted.

Mateo looked over at Leona, but she seemed to have no clue what they were talking about either. They both decided to be patient.

“I’m not just agreeing to it,” Arcadia said. “It was my idea.”

“You must have some defense against it,” Nerakali assumed.

“Yeah, maybe. I mean...I guess that’s a possibility. I can’t really prove that I don’t, but I’m extending a sign of good faith. This makes it so that you don’t have to trust me. You just have to trust your own abilities.”

Nerakali shook her head for a bit, weighing her options. “It’s up to them, if they want to risk it.”

“We don’t know what an SCM is,” Leona reminded them.

“Self-cleaning mode,” Nerakali began to explain. “It’s a blender term. I can make an individual recall things that didn’t happen to them, by blending their brain with that of their alternate self. You know this about me. What you don’t know is that I don’t have to add memories; I can also take them away. In fact, I can take them all away. I can turn you into a vegetable, which isn’t..holding to the analogy very well. I can make it so that you remember nothing; total amnesia as a weapon, or a fresh start as a gift.”

Mateo was working through it. “So Arcadia is agreeing to wear a cuff that can be programmed to erase her entire mind if she steps out of line?”

“Basically, yes,” Nerakali confirmed. “It’s an insurance policy.” She looked back over to her sister. “I don’t like that she was the one who came up with it, though. It’s obviously suspicious.”

“You’re the one in control,” Arcadia said. “I can help. I know Savannah better than anyone. She liked to talk to me up in The Gallery, because I always agreed with her. I was a dumb child who couldn’t think for myself, but now that I can, I can use what I know about her against her. Let me do this. You said it yourself, Mateo; sometimes I’m okay. This is one of those times.”

“I said you’re sometimes kind of okay. You’re never good.”

Leona stepped forward, and got herself closer to Arcadia. She stared into her eyes, and studied the thoughts swimming through them for at least thirty seconds. “Give her the cuff. Even if it doesn’t work, we always beat her. We’ll get through it either way. If there’s a chance she can do some good, I’mma risk it.”

Nerakali took Arcadia by the arm. “The other cuff is back at the camp.” She teleported all four of them back to where they were before. It was here that they packed up, had some breakfast, and prepared to head out for their first mission.

According to what Leona knew of history, when the cities were torn asunder, and replaced by far more efficient arcologies, only a few things were left whole. Besides truly magnificent historical locations, like The Great Wall and Machu Picchu, there were also a few small outposts that didn’t necessarily serve a purpose, but were ignored anyway. These small pockets of history were only known to a few people, and they were pretty much all underground, because that was really the only way regular humans knew how to hide things. The reasons they remained were never recorded, but they might have had sentimental value to the people in charge of destroying them, so that was probably how they survived. Most were apparently too innocuous for the government to bother with them now. The Space Corp base where the Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was presently stashed was one such of these places. Nerakali teleported the group to another place, which those who knew it existed called the Bucket. Water was dripping from the ceiling, and it possessed a certain sweet fungal scent. They carefully walked through the hallways, but she assured them that there was nothing to be afraid of, and they didn’t need to know exactly what they were there for. It almost sounded like she didn’t really know.

“I knew a friend who could find special temporal objects. The hundemarke was pinged at this location. “I do not believe we will be able to take possession of it,” Nerakali whispered, “but we’ll be able to trace its journey from here, as long as we get there in time.”

“Oh, you’re here in time,” came an echoing voice from down the passageway. They picked up the pace a little, and entered the room. A man was sitting against the dirty wall. He had a bottle of alcohol in one hand, and a gun in the other. “You’re always on time,” he slurred. “No matter what I do, you always find me. I just can’t get away.”

“Who are you?” Mateo asked, stepping a little closer. Leona tried to hold him back, but he was too curious.

“You don’t know me yet?” the man asked, then he took another drink. “I suppose that means my plan is successful, and I die here tonight.”

“No one has to die,” Mateo promised him. “We can talk about this. I’ve met people before who have already met me. Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry. Maybe I can change it. Just tell me what I can do to help you. Tell me what you need.”

The man closed his eyes, and nodded his head. “I don’t need anything, and someone does indeed have to die.” He reached into his shirt, and pulled out the hundemarke. “It ain’t gonna be you. I know this, because you’re right, I’ve seen you in the future. You do try to help me, and you fail. But that’s okay, because I’m here now, and I can end it. I can end it right here.” He jangled the dog tag. “I already have. I don’t mean to sound like some kind of mad purple alien, or anything, but I’m...inevitable.” He lifted the gun, and pressed it against his head. He also tipped the bottle down his throat, and finished it off.

“No!” Mateo shouted. He dove forward, and tried to reach for the man, but a mysterious force threw him across the room, and against the opposite wall. Then he heard a gunshot. Then everything went black.

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Microstory 1179: The Archivist

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Nick Fisherman IV’s name came from Nick Fisherman III, who unwittingly took it from Nick Fisherman II, who adopted it in honor of the original. He didn’t much like the name, or rather he didn’t like that his parents felt they had no choice but to give it to him. He was pretty much always aware that he was a character in a story. That didn’t mean he wasn’t real, but it made him feel like he wasn’t in control of his life, which he wasn’t. For some reason, most people he met just assumed that he was a choosing one, who volunteered to keep track of all the temporal manipulators, and their associates. In reality, he was nothing more than a salmon; bound to his duty. His only escape from this responsibility, he felt, was alcohol. Unfortunately, from his perspective, it took a lot for him to get drunk, and even more for him to wake up hungover. As a salmon, the powers that be protected him from certain threats to his wellbeing, including intoxication. He could do it, but he had to drink a lot more than other people with his metabolism for it to have any effect. When he wasn’t drunk, he actually preferred to be hungover, because focusing on the physical pain distracted from his psychological pain. It was his job to create and manage every file for every individual, and he hated it. It was dismally tedious, and people didn’t take him seriously. He had this idea in his head that they were enamored by The Historian, but the truth was that few cared enough about either of them. For most, history and staffing just weren’t sexy. The Archivist chose to do his work poorly, hoping the powers would get frustrated with him, and replace him with someone else. They never did, though, because as it turned out, his incompetence was quite entertaining. Many problems could be solved with the right intelligence, so if it was too easy to gather this intelligence, then the universe wouldn’t be very interesting. He had no choice but to make the best with what he had, as boring as that was.

Microstory 1021: Florence

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When I was very young, I would watch my parents get drunk every week. And when they did that, they would always act stupid, and often break something. The next morning, they would promise themselves they would never do it again, but if it was Saturday, they would be right back at it the next night, and if it was Sunday, they would do it again on Friday. I don’t know what happened to them that made them stop, but one day, we packed up, and moved to Blast City. They have been the epitome of civil ever since, so much so that no one until today has ever known anything about our real past. Anyway, either because I saw how bad things can get when you drink, or I saw how much better my parents were when they got sober, I don’t do it myself. In fact, I’m infamous for being a designated driver. I tell everyone I know that, if they ever find themselves drunk away from home, they can always call me for a ride. No one ever takes me up on that, partially because the town itself is literally small, so it’s not that hard to walk from one end to the other, but also because no one really pays attention to me. We also have a couple drivers for one of those ride-sourcing companies, and they kinda need the money, so that’s fine. Well, I don’t know exactly what went down, but Viola took me up on my offer once. She called me from some bar in Coaltown, totally wasted. I could barely understand what she was saying, and when she tried to text me the address, it wasn’t even comprehensible. I had to ask a random guy walking down the street which bar she would be talking about. Well, this was the dead of winter; probably the coldest night of the year. Yeah, it was, we had that winter storm that took school off the table for, like, a week. You weren’t here yet, I guess, but it was real bad. So bad, that the ice ran us off the road, and into a tree. The force of the crash, plus the weight of the snow, knocked a branch right on top of my car. I couldn’t even start it again, so there we were, freezing our asses off, alone in the dark. I called a tow service, but since the conditions were no better throughout the county, it was a long time before anyone could show up. Fortunately, ever the girl scout, I was prepared with emergency water, a med kit, and blankets. We ended up crawling into the backseat, and cuddling together for body heat. Before you stick your head in the gutter, nothing happened. She passed out thirty minutes before the truck arrived, and hauled us out. She was so messed up that she didn’t even remember that any of it happened, but I didn’t have to prove it to her, because I took pictures for insurance purposes. I suppose I have the magic touch, because according to a lot of classmates, she didn’t have one more drop of alcohol the rest of her life. That’s what really gets me about this whole thing, because if they found drugs in her system, she was not the one who put them there. I don’t believe it. There’s something we don’t know about what happened by the river that fateful day, and I don’t understand why they seem to not be trying to figure it out.