The Advancement of Mateo Matic: August 17, 2398

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Since he arrived, Vearden has been on vacation. He’s helped carry equipment up to the second floor lab, and stuff like that, but he hasn’t really tried to get too involved. Before this reality, he was really busy and stressed out all the time, and it didn’t seem like there was much he could do to help here. It’s probably time for him to make some decisions regarding his future. He’s living in his apartment for free, and while no one has asked him to get a job, it’s probably not okay that he hasn’t. According to the group history, he’s not the first person to feel this way. The core people are Mateo, Leona, Ramses, Angela, and Marie. Everyone else has had to work much harder to find their place. There don’t seem to be any openings at the moment. Angela’s new business is too small to need more than three employees. He’s not equipped to be of any use in the lab. He’s not qualified to go on the secret missions, not that he’s interested in any of that.

He’s decided that he has had enough of this time travel business. He remembers being young and motivated. He wanted to understand how it all worked, and to know his place in the world. He had to force his way into the underground time traveler society. Nobody asked him to do it. They asked a version of him in another reality, but since that version ended up in the new reality, people apparently didn’t feel that they needed another. That is, until they did. They sent him to another planet, in the future, where he tried to help an alien race coexist with a competing species. It was exhausting, and now that it’s all over, his perspective has changed. He’s always liked to be the little helper. That’s what he’s been for most of his life, the guy who’s just there to help others with their objectives. He’s worked as a literal assistant on more than one occasion, including a position usually filled by women. He got some looks for that. Whatever. Whatever about everything. He’s just going to leave.

“Where are you going?” Vearden has gotten a good grasp on people’s schedules around the building by now. No one should be up and down here at this hour, but the receptionist is at her desk almost two hours before the first floor even opens.

“Oh, hey, uhh...Arcadia, right?” It’s weird that she’s using Leona’s body.

“We’ve met.”

“You might be thinking of a different me,” Vearden says.

“We met briefly on Orolak, when I came to take your alt to Tribulation Island.”

Vearden looks for his memories up in the corner of the ceiling. “Yeah, I guess I did see you once. I wouldn’t say that means we met, though.”

Arcadia nods. “It looks like you’re leaving us.”

Why would she care? He doesn’t have to lie to her. “Yep, for good, probably.”

She goes back to her book. “Good luck.”

He nods, picks his bag back up, and starts walking towards the door, half-expecting her to dole out some morsel of wisdom that might get him to rethink his plans. She doesn’t say a word. He was right, she doesn’t care. Vearden steps out of the building, and into the predawn darkness. He breathes in the warm summer air. It’s a new chapter in his life, but don’t call it the second, because he’s lost count of how many times he’s changed directions. He has no job, and no place to live. He doesn’t even have an identity, but what he does have is—Arcadia catches up with him, and starts to walk by his side with a smile. She still doesn’t say anything, though, not until the next day.

Microstory 1601: Whatever Floats Your Kaya

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Let’s start with a fun one. Perhaps my favorite universe is bladapodoverse. I don’t like it because of all the crazy things that happen there. I like it because of the way that people handle it. This version of Earth was infected with little creatures from another universe, which they ended up calling bladapods. The bladapods released gases into the atmosphere, and sometimes, when an individual encounters these gases, nothing happens, but sometimes it changes them. It changes them in unpredictable and often unique ways. It can also change objects, so it’s not just a genetic thing. This could have destroyed society. Some people essentially walk away with superpowers, while other people’s lives objectively become worse. But people accept these changes, and stay united, and support each other. I’ve never found such strength on any other world. They make accommodations for each other, and exercise immense patience. I’m so impressed. There is one case I wanted to illustrate. A woman, who we’ll only call Kaya, encountered the bladosphere when she was kayaking down the river alone. She tried to avoid it as she approached, but couldn’t get out in time. It’s best not to undergo a base modification while you’re alone, because you may need immediate assistance, but if there are other people around, there’s a chance they’ll be impacted too, so it’s really just a crapshoot. Anyway, Kaya kayaked right into the gases, and came out wildly different on the other side. She transformed into a human kayak. She was much taller and wider. She didn’t have a place for someone to sit, or anything, but she floated on top of the water better than a normal person should be able to, her arms and legs were gone, and she was undoubtedly kayak-like. The kayak didn’t turn into a human, but to understand the way this world works, that was absolutely not outside the realm of possibility. That’s why base modifications are so dangerous, because the rules and limitations are unclear, if any exist at all. Since she could no longer walk, Kaya couldn’t get out of the water, and since she went out alone, there was no one around to help. So she just kept floating down the river, occasionally bumping into rocks, and hoping that someone came by within shouting distance. She eventually got her wish, a few hours later, when a group of hikers happened to be walking by. They pulled her out of the water, weren’t afraid of what they were seeing, and helped her get to the nearest Base Modification Center so she could learn how to survive her new life. I wasn’t surprised that they treated her so well, but it always brings joy to my heart, and makes it easier to deal with all the other worlds, which are considerably less virtuous. Kaya moved on as a human kayak living on land. They provided her with a permanent live-in nurse and aid to make sure she had what she needed at all times. She never got back into the water, for understandable reasons, but her life wasn’t terrible, and she even managed to find happiness under extreme conditions.

Microstory 1406: Triumph of the Triumvirate

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Only weeks after Rothko arrived on Durus, Effigy came back, hoping to use a different tactic to get what she wanted. She had had just about enough of Escher getting in the way of her plans to bring all of her people into this universe, and she thought she finally had an advantage over him. On the outside, Rothko was a really good person. He was compassionate, thoughtful, and ready to help anyone who crossed his path, whether he knew them or not. Yet he carried a darkness inside of him that he was only beginning to discover, and being a master manipulator, Effigy believed she could exploit these two sides of him at the same time. She could turn him over to her side, both by appealing to his instinct to be helpful and understanding, and to his inner demons. She began to communicate with him when he was apart from the other two. She didn’t whisper in his ear, or claim that his friends weren’t good for him. She didn’t even charge him to keep their new relationship a secret. She just became friends with him, and taught him how to use his time powers, and let him decide for himself whether he was going to reveal the truth to the rest of the Triumvirate. Most choosing ones develop an instinct for their abilities. They don’t know exactly how they work, but they know how to use them, just like a baby will learn to walk, pretty much no matter what, even if you try to teach them not to. Rothko, however, was particularly unskilled with his, and he needed Effigy’s help. He was a lot smarter than she gave him credit for, though. He could see what she was trying to do to him, and as long as he stayed grounded, he felt he could overcome any psychological poison she tried to use on him. He let her keep thinking that they were becoming real friends, but it was all just an act, so he could learn from her. He recognized that she was his best hope of figuring out how to use his gifts. He proved his loyalty months later; to himself, to his friends, and to Effigy. One thing he had always wanted to do was restore Escher’s hand. Now, the range of his powers was limited. While it was indeed called reality-warping, it didn’t give him free reign over the whole universe. It was localized. He could only make small changes, and only within the immediate area. He was disrupting physics, but not quite breaking any laws. The energy he used had to come from somewhere, and a lot of his work were more illusions than real alterations. There was a way, however, for him to give Escher his hand back. There was a reality out there where Escher didn’t lose his hand at all. This reality was unstable, and short-lived, but that didn’t matter when it came to  time travel. He could still access that timeline, and take from it what he needed. He stitched events from this microreality into the real one, and returned the hand, as if it had never been removed at all. This was great; the Triumvirate had beaten Effigy yet again, and she was furious, because it meant she hadn’t really found a weakness at all. Sadly, their new, happy, and intact life together was not destined to last forever. In utilizing his powers in this way, Rothko had unwittingly opened the world up to much larger changes in the future, and none of them would prove to be powerful enough to stop what was coming.

Microstory 1391: Poison

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Fiore Stern: Good afternoon. I’m looking for books about poisonous plants, particularly those with flowers.

College Librarian: Okay. Well, all the books about plants are in the 580s. Why don’t you follow me into the stacks?

Fiore Stern: Okay, thanks.

College Librarian: I might be able to narrow it down further. What is the assignment asking you to do?

Fiore Stern: It’s not for an assignment. I’m just learning about them on my own.

College Librarian: Oh, all right. Let me see. Yes, 582 is all about flowering plants. I’m not sure there’s a section about toxic plants, though. I would say 581 is your best bet, though. Those books get really specific about plant life topics. Oh, here we go. Here’s one that looks promising. This one might be of use to you as well. I also recommend something like this. It appears to contain a lot of beginner’s information, so you know where to start with your research. Let’s see, this one is about hiking, and what to do if you come across poison ivy, or something.

Fiore Stern: Nah, I don’t really need that. I’m more interested in plants that can be turned into teas, or something.

College Librarian: I thought you needed to know about poisonous plants.

Fiore Stern: Yes.

College Librarian: Mister...

Fiore Stern: Stern.

College Librarian: Mr. Stern, are you looking to do something bad or violent with this knowledge?

Fiore Stern: Of course not, that would be ridiculous. Besides, how could anything I learn in the library be bad?

College Librarian: Actually, lots of information in these books can be used for malicious purposes. Why, even a sports book that teaches you how to swing a bat at a ball could theoretically also teach you to swing it at someone’s head.

Fiore Stern: What are ya gonna do, call the cops, or something?

College Librarian: If you tell me you’re planning to use these books to hurt someone, in any way, then I have to do what I can to help you channel your emotions into something positive. Is there someone who’s angered you? Are you having unwanted feelings?

Fiore Stern: I wouldn’t call any of my feelings unwanted.

College Librarian: Well, the psychology books are all in the 150s, and that’s as far as someone in my profession is going to be able to go for you. If you think you need some real help, might I suggest the mental health floor in the university clinic? I can walk you down there, if you would like.

Fiore Stern: I don’t need any help, I’m fine. You’re blowing this way out of proportion. I just wanted to study hemlock, and all the ways people have died in history. Like, I wanna know how we found out they were poisonous? I mean, nobody had a bunch of science equipment hundreds of years ago, or whenever it was, yet we figured out it should be called poison sumac. Well, how did that happen? Who got hurt figuring that out? Who had to die first?

College Librarian: So, your interest is purely academic?

Fiore Stern: Absolutely.

College Librarian: Okay. In that case, this book here is about botanical history. I’m no expert in the field, so I can’t tell you if it’s going to give you exactly what you’re looking for, but you should be fine if you take this whole stack.

Fiore Stern: I really appreciate it, thanks.

College Librarian: You’re welcome.

Microstory 1372: Space and Time

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Lifelong Student: Hi. I know people don’t really do this anymore, but I was hoping to get some help finding a book. I’ve looked for information online, but I’m struggling with understanding what it is I’m trying to research. I get a lot of results, but none of them is what I’m looking for.

Librarian: Not a problem. You came to the right librarian for help. I hail from the old guard, so I still remember what it was like before the internet gave everyone all the answers. I’ll try to find you that one perfect book. Let’s start broad, and whittle our way down from there, shall we?

Lifelong Student: Okay. Uh...space.

Librarian: All right.

Lifelong Student: And Time. Space and time. Is there a difference?

Librarian: I think..maybe not. But they both fall under astronomy and astrophysics. What would you like to know about space and time?

Lifelong Student: Well, I guess I’m less interested in learning the physics of it all, and more about the relationship between people and spacetime.

Librarian: Okay, give me a second to think. Yeah, 527 is Celestial Navigation. That will help you understand how seafarers traveled the oceans using the stars.

Lifelong Student: No, that’s not it either.

Librarian: Oh, okay. Well, if you’re talking about space travel, you may be more inclined towards the social aspect of space. Water, air, space transportation can be found in 387. If you need to know about space law, like who owns the moon, and whatnot, you’ll wanna go to the 340s. Though, to be honest, I’m not sure how to get more specific than that. Space law isn’t in my personal brain archives as its own decimal classification. It may be more history.

Lifelong Student: It doesn’t matter anyway. I guess I could get into some ethics, but I don’t care much about the actual laws. That’s too particular. I’m thinking more broad space and people, and what we think about it.

Librarian: Oh. Philosophy of space and time.

Lifelong Student: Yes! That’s it. Philosophy. Why didn’t I think of that word?

Librarian: That’s okay, I got you. Metaphysics are in the 110s. Let me think again...space is 114, and time is 115. Maybe they are different? Anyway, I assume you’re looking for something introductory?

Lifelong Student: Actually, now that I finally know what it is I’m actually looking for, I think I can take it from here. I can probably find better information on the internet. No offense.

Librarian: It’s okay. I understand that times have changed. I’ll keep helping until the day the last person ever leaves my library, and then one day after that.

Lifelong Student: Thanks so much. You really have been a big help.

Microstory 1227: Krakken

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When Hilmar Strauss was born, his father noted that he looked like some kind of sea creature; covered in goo, flailing about, and making all kinds of noise. Hilmar’s mother didn’t appreciate it at the time, but the nickname he used grew on her, and eventually, pretty much everyone was calling him Kraken. Hilmar himself never liked the name, though he didn’t much care for his real name either, so he slightly altered the spelling in a half-act of defiance, half way of taking control of his own life, and finally came to identify himself as Krakken. He fancied himself a bit of an outlaw; one of those people who do illegal things simply because they’re illegal, and not because of any personal gain they provide. He wasn’t violent, angry, or psychotic, but his baby crimes—like stealing his podmate’s crayon in kindergarten—were aging as quickly as he was, so they were bound to become a real problem. Luckily enough, Krakken was living in the right time period, and the right city, to be a criminal who wasn’t really a bad person. New, less destructive, gangs were taking over Kansas City, and pushing out the gun-toting, drug-running, gangs of yesteryear. He wanted to join one of them, but none of them seemed like a reasonable choice. He wasn’t a hacker like the Grammers, nor a musician like the Codas. He liked animals, but the Beasts sometimes took things way too far, and he didn’t want to fall down the rabbit hole, and do something he regretted. The Tracers were badasses, but he never thought of himself as a fighter, so applying to them would have been a waste of time. The Taggers were the only choice he had left once he eliminated everyone else. The problem was that he didn’t exactly fit in with them either. Krakken loved art, but he could admit that he wasn’t much good at it. Fortunately for him, that didn’t mean there was no place for him in the Tagger gang. There was plenty of work for him to do, providing ancillary support, and being a lookout. The graffiti artists found a lot of valuable in having someone like him around, who would help them out in any way they needed. He did laundry, cooked meals, protected them from law enforcement, and drove them to and from their walls and underpasses. Don’t misunderstand; the others respected him greatly, and never took his role for granted. They still got their own coffee, and cleaned their own apartments. It was just nice to have someone available to take some of the burden off of them, so they could focus on their work, and he was more than happy to do it. In the end, he didn’t do much crime; the Taggers were one of the less socially impactful groups in the metro, after all. But he was content with his life, and when it was time to move on, he did so, and got himself a real job, so he could be a healthy and productive member of society.

Microstory 1059: Walter

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Are you feeling okay, Alma? You look a little rattled. I hear you just did several interviews in a row, so if you need some time to process whatever it was those kids told you, I’m fine. My story isn’t going to hurt, I promise. My most profound experience with Viola was quite lovely, actually, though not necessarily all that conventional. About a year ago, we met for dinner and a movie, but halfway through the screening, she suddenly got up and left. I followed her out into the hallway, and asked her what was wrong. She said she had to go take care of something, but that we would reschedule. I didn’t know exactly what went wrong, or why it happened in the middle of the film, but I knew that meant she never wanted to see me again. I wasn’t surprised either, because I wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. She seemed to sense this doubt in me, so she told me to meet her at the laundromat the next morning at exactly 5:13, and we would spend the entire day together. Needless to say, I was excited about that. Don’t worry, my mind was not in the gutter; it wasn’t like that at all. I had heard so many stories of her helping people in really important ways, and I felt like this could be my turn. After all, she asked me out, which was good, because I was too nervous to do it myself back then, especially for someone as great as her. So I go to bed early, wake up, and head straight for the laundromat, where I find Viola stepping out at exactly 5:13. She’s wearing the same outfit as before, but I don’t say anything, because that would be rude. Somehow, it made reminded me that she was a real person, and maybe things didn’t always work out perfectly for her. This kind of helped me not feel so terrible about my own life. Anyway, she takes me by the arm, and walks me down the street, right into the back of a luxury vehicle. I try to ask the driver where we’re going, but the partition is raised, and I assume they can’t hear me. She takes me out to the original gold mines that gave this town its name. They’ve been shut down for years, and were reportedly unsafe, but she said that she would protect me, and I suddenly felt safe. She took me deep into the tunnels, where a secret rock concert was about to begin. It was the best day of my life, and after that, I wasn’t so nervous anymore. I’ve asked out tons of people since then, and I owe it all to Viola.

Microstory 1052: Pearl

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I’m having a [redacted]. Oops, I shouldn’t have said that. Vester never wanted to know the sex of the baby, but he’ll understand, so you can go ahead and print this. I respect the integrity of being on the record. Anyway, it was just one of many things we disagreed on that we ended up finding a compromise for. I found out the truth, while he remains oblivious, like he wants it. He says the sex doesn’t matter to him, but I say the fact that he’s so adamant against knowing means that he actually places more emphasis on it than I do. My knowing doesn’t mean I’m going to love [redacted] any less than I would a [redacted]. It doesn’t mean I’ll paint the nursery [redacted], or buy [redacted] for [redacted], or do any of the other heteronormative things people are expected to adhere to. He has this list written up of possible names, but I already have one picked out. I think you can probably guess what it is. You know, there actually is a masculine form of the name, so I could use it either way. Viola Woods was a wonderful and selfless person, so if there’s even a small chance a name can have any impact on how a child turns out, I want to be as safe as possible. A producer from one of those documentary series about pregnant teens showed up a couple months ago, wanting to do a piece on me, and my life. I kept telling them that it wouldn’t make for very good television. Yes, I’m pregnant, and yes I’m still in high school, but that doesn’t mean it turned my life upside down. At least not any more than it does for anyone else. Children are a lot of work; I recognize that, but I have an incredible support system, which includes my boyfriend, Sylvester.

That argument I told you about, where we disagreed on whether we should know what the sex is? That’s not an example of how different we are; it’s an example of how we work together, and get past our issues. I wouldn’t be going through with this if I didn’t think he could handle it. It was always going to be a team effort, and I wasn’t going to settle for anything less. He underwent a series of tests while I was still in my first trimester; some of which he knew as they were happening, and some came out of my own personal observations. I had to know if he was going to be a good father, would stick by me, and most importantly, would respect what our family needed. I went through these tests too. In fact, I probably tested myself harder than I did him, because I needed to know whether this was the right decision, and simply reflecting on my feelings wasn’t going to cut it. I had to know for sure, because whatever I decided, there would come a point when it could not be reversed, and I didn’t want to have any regrets. Fortunately, we had an unbiased third party to devise these tests. That’s right. Viola came up with them. She basically wrote an entire self-help book on pregnancy within, like, two weeks. I’m currently in communication with Viola’s parents, to see if there’s anyway we can expand on, and publish, what she came up with. If we decide to go ahead with it, we might even reach out to Herman, so he can help make it into a real book. I think Viola would like that. You could be part of it too, if you wanted. All talent welcome. I want to commemorate her in some way that lasts, rather than just a few social media posts you’ll never see again, or a shrine they take down in four years. My parents are trying to talk me out of it, because they think I have a full plate, but I still need to live my life. I want to teach baby [redacted] that you can have your cake, and eat it too. After all, that’s what the OG Viola taught me.

Microstory 1036: Wynn

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I know it looks really crazy in here, but I’m kind of old school, because I don’t really trust computers. People call me paranoid, and a conspiracy theorist, or just a nut. I can’t honestly say with one hundred percent certainty that they’re not right, because maybe everything I’ve ever been suspicious about is completely explainable. I started questioning my world when I was really young, and really impressionable. Instead of starting to notice some discrepancies with the lies we were being told, I just accepted all the lies that other investigators we’re telling me. So no, I didn’t believe the government when they said nothing happened in Roswell in the 1940s, but that doesn’t mean I should have trusted the truthers who were saying something definitely did something. There’s a difference between healthy skepticism, and insane distrustfulness. As you can see from the office I’ve built for myself down here, I’m very good at walking the line between them. And when I say that I built it, I mean that quite literally. The basement was unfinished when my parents bought this place years ago. Just about everything else wasn’t finished either. They came here to try their hand at flipping. You can get a house for cheap out in the countryside, so this was a good opportunity for them to learn the trade. They worked so hard getting it fixed up—my brother and I helped as much as we could—and ended up falling in love with the place, and just sticking around. They found jobs in town, and we’ve been Blast Citians ever since. They left this basement alone, though. They wanted it to belong to their children, so when we were old enough, we were each given half, and charged with creating whatever we wanted. Raymond turned his half into a gym and game room, while I turned mine into this lair. Needless to say, I get a lot more out of spending time in his half than he does in mine.

Anyway, I’m not going to show you everything I’ve collected over the years, but I encourage you to come here whenever you want. I actually installed a door to the outside, so you don’t have to go through the house to get in. Here’s an extra key, you can come whenever you want. If I try to explain what I think I’ve found beforehand, it’s just going to freak you out, and make you second guess every one of my claims anyway. I think it’s best if you go into this part of your investigation with the most open mind. Please do come back, though. I know it seems a little creepy, me offering you the basement, but I assure you I have no interest in anything beyond the truth. You should do it, even if only to find inspiration to write a story on the town crazy who thinks angels are real. I think you’ll find a lot of this stuff pretty interesting. It may not seem like it, but I’m a quite organized person, so all the Viola Woods stuff is in one place. If you’ve already interviewed three dozen people by now, then I’m sure you’ve heard some stories about her that just don’t add up. She helped a lot of people, and did so with such...precision. Some of the methods she used were also a little hard to believe, I bet. Take a look at the travel records. Her family didn’t leave this town once after she was born, yet there’s strong evidence that she’s been all over the world. How did she do that? No, I’m saying too much, and I don’t want to corrupt your own journey. I may have been wrong about Roswell, and about chemtrails, and about a secret organization that controls every world superpower, but I’m not wrong about this. I don’t know exactly what Viola was, but I know she wasn’t one of us. Or rather, she isn’t. Raymond should be home by now, so you can talk to him now. He’s not as smart as I am, but he’s a lot more relatable.

Microstory 1030: Herman

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You can call me H.R. Mann. It’s my pseudonym, but I like when people call me that in real life. I write mostly horror stories, but I’ve been known to dabble in some fantasy, kind of like the reverse of George R.R. Martin. I hate other people reading my stuff. In my eyes, my work is never really done. I wrote an entire book five years ago, but I keep just looking back at it, and changing things. A lot of my stories are connected, so I’m kind of working on them all at the same time, and I worry that if I try to publish something, it will prevent me from making a creative decision that would contradict some irreversible decision. It was Viola who suggested I try to write a standalone novel. It would take place in its own universe, and be completely separate from all my other stories. Then I could try to publish that, and maybe get my name out there. Well, I spent the entirety of our junior year working on it, and gave it to her to look over. I had no expectations of her, but I did expect that she would read it over, and give me a few notes. I didn’t think she would pull out the red pen, and edit the whole thing for me. I don’t mean she just proofread it. She edited for content, suggesting thematic and semantic changes that made the overall book far better. There were some parallels, and narrative symmetries that she saw that I would have never thought of on my own. I implemented nearly all of her suggestions, which helped make me think of a few extra, but I wasn’t able to give her the next draft before she died. Not that it would have been her responsibility to look over it yet again. I’m really just saying this to illustrate how important a person she was to everyone in our class, the school, and the world. She would do just about anything for just about anyone. She was an angel. We’ll miss you, Viola Woods.

Microstory 1029: Eugene

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I don’t know that there’s much I can tell you Alfred didn’t already say. I would have joined magic club without Viola’s coaxing. I’m just sort of always in my own little world, so I didn’t notice that he had started it when we were freshmen. To be completely honest, I was not particularly into magic before that, but I have an adventurous spirit, and I like to try new things. Those new things are mostly limited to dining at interesting restaurants that are thirty minutes away in Adamantingham. That’s the largest city in Mineral County, in case you don’t know from being the new kid. Not that you’re a kid, sorry. Anyway. I grew up pretty sheltered in this small town where nothing ever happens. This is kind of the worst place for me, since I was never exposed to all the crazy things happening in larger cities, which is what I crave. I’m getting out as soon as I can, and not because I hate Blast City as it is, but it’s just not enough alone. I need the Eiffel Tower, and the Egyptian Pyramids, and the ocean. I’ve been alive for eighteen years, and have never seen the ocean, or even a single mountain. For the time being, I’ve been okay, though. There are some hidden gems around here, and Viola was an expert at finding them. We literally never spoke over the course of our high school careers. She just kept leaving notes in my locker, with suggestions for adventures. The last thing she did for me before she died was sending me on a scavenger hunt all over Blast City. I never got a chance to thank her for that. I sent her a text message a few days after her death, just as a symbolic gesture, and to kind of unburden myself of the minor guilt. I didn’t realize the police would be monitoring her phone, so they came and questioned me about it. I guess that was actually the last adventure she sent me on.

Microstory 1028: Alfred

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Nobody calls me by my name around here, but different people will have different nicknames. Al, Alfie, Allie, Fred, Freddie, and Batman are some of the more common variations. I don’t really like any of them. My parents named me Alfred, full stop, and that’s what I prefer. Viola was the only one who respected that, which was this small but courteous thing she probably didn’t think twice about, but now it seems significant, because of her death. I’m a pretty big nerd, but I’m not that much into comics, which is why I’m not all that fond of that last nickname I mentioned. It doesn’t even make sense. Alfred wasn’t the superhero, he was the butler, and didn’t have his own codename. Or maybe he did, but that’s not something I would know. What makes me a nerd is that I’m into magic. I feel like back in the day, liking magic wasn’t a nerdy thing. It seemed more accessible back then. Maybe people were easier to trick, because humanity as a whole was less educated? I don’t know. Now it’s just so universally hated that I don’t understand how professional magicians even exist, and are able to sell tickets to their shows. In junior high, I was the president of the magic club, and I wanted to continue that when I got here, but there was no such club at the time. I guess it’s more acceptable to be into it when you’re younger. And so, of course, I decided to start the club myself, thinking that if I built it, they would come. You have to have at least five people sign up for any new club, and prove that they’re coming to regular meetings, in order for the school to sign off on it. I bet you can see where this story is going. Not a single person showed up. I held introductory meetings every single day after school for nearly a week, until one person finally came. Viola. She was not into magic, but she felt bad that no one came, so she just made an appearance to boost my numbers. Like I said, that still wasn’t enough, so she also somehow convinced three other people to come over the course of the next few days; the last one just by the deadline. So she managed to find, not just random people she could coerce into making me feel better, but also ones who could actually learn to like magic. She even kept coming to meetings with us the rest of the year, never missing, and occasionally participating. The following year, two freshmen wanted to join right away, which allowed Viola to quit, and our numbers have increased ever since. I’m proud to say that Blast City Senior High’s Magic Club boasts one of the highest memberships of the school. We have to meet in the cafeteria now to have enough space for everyone. Viola did this for me—for us—and I will always be grateful for that.

Microstory 1015: Fernando

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I admit it. I was in love with Viola, and I had been for nearly a year. I guess I shouldn’t talk about it in the past tense, because even though she’s gone, my feelings haven’t gone away with her. I don’t know what it was about her that made me so nervous that I couldn’t ask her out. Sure, she was sort of seeing Julius for awhile, I think, but not all the time. I had plenty of opportunities to take my shot, but I always chickened out. I’m not some nerd who stares at girls from afar, and wants what he can’t have, though. I’ve dated lots of girls, and I’ve never had a problem carrying a conversation. I guess that’s why it’s meant so much to me for so long. The fact that she could make me trip over myself every time she appeared only made me want her more. Yes, there were many girls before her, but none of them meant anything. She was the only one for me, and I’ll never know whether she could have ever felt the same way. That’s right, I’m not delusional enough to think she automatically saw me as I did her. I barely talked to her, so I never had much of a chance to gauge her thoughts. I wish I had said something to her, and not just out of some fantasy for what we could have been. If we had become friends, at the very least, I might have been at the river bank that day. I might have been able to stop what happened to her. I can’t sleep most nights. I keep replaying this alternate reality in my head where things turned out differently, just because I was around. I’m not the hero of the story, but I am a witness, and that’s enough to save her life, and Gertrude’s memories. I’ve been trying to work up the nerve to talk to her now. I can’t help Viola anymore, but maybe I can help Gertrude. Maybe some good can come out of this horrible time in all our lives. You know what, I’ve decided. I’m not going to waste time like I did before. I’m going to go over to the Feldt house right now, and see how she’s doing. Sorry to cut this interview short, and sorry it probably wasn’t very helpful. I hope you catch the real killer, or whatever it is you’re trying to do. Thanks!

Microstory 1006: Ralph

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Hey. I heard it through the bovine that you have this crazy idea to interview everyone in the senior class, to get their reactions to Viola’s death. Do you have any battle plans laid out, or do you intend to just run around blind. I have this school wired. I know who is who and who they do. You should start with the kid here who knew her the least. Let’s see, we have a few contenders, but I’m gonna have to go with Edna. She’s the newest student after you, so she doesn’t know much of anyone yet. In a town this small—so tight-knit—it’s hard to break in if you’re an outsider. Next, you’ll want to get the Vance interview out of the way. He’s kind of a douchebag, and he rejects everything about Blast City, so he’ll have little to contribute to your investigation. Blanche should technically come after that, because she’s a sociopath, and doesn’t care about anyone. But I worry if you talk to her, she’ll depress you so much, that you’ll just give up. Louise was overprescribed anxiety medication—but you didn’t hear it from me—so she’ll lift your spirits high enough to handle the Blanche storm. After that, you got Giorgia. She’s a lovely girl, ultimately from Italy. She had a lot of problems when she moved to town a few years ago. We don’t get a lot of visitors, you see, and people can be quite insensitive and ignorant. We’re all a lot more woke now, but she’s kind of been soured on us. She and Viola weren’t close, but she’ll have nice things to say about her, which you’ll need, again, after the Blanche storm. I know this is a lot of information, and I’ll write it all down for you. Maybe I could help on a more permanent basis. I can set up microphones, and transcribe your notes, or whatever you need. I don’t work for the newspaper, but like I said, nothin’ happens in this school I don’t know about. Oh, a little more about me? Well, I’m pretty quiet, and almost invisible, like the janitor. I talk to a few people sometimes, but only because they think I have some weird secret, like I’m a vampire, or a narc. Mostly I just observe, which is easy when nobody notices you’re there. Don’t worry about me, though, I’m totally fine. I’ve never tried very hard, and was always just biding my time until college. Viola’s death showed me that this is part of real life too—that the stakes are real—and I will always be waiting for the future if I don’t start living in the present. Anyway, I wish I had realized that before, and put myself out there. As much as I know about this place, there’s still a lot that I’m not privy to. If I had just been more open, she and I might have been friends. I got to get to class, but I’m looking forward to working with you. I’ll have that list ready for you tomorrow morning.

Microstory 996: Secular Volunteerism

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First of all, I’m not saying that religious volunteerism doesn’t do any good in the world, or that it doesn’t get results, but it’s not the way we should be doing it. There are thousands of charitable organizations in the world, and the list of ones with no religious affiliation can fit on a single, easy-to-read, webpage. I seriously have that list up right now, and even though there are some great outfits on it, it’s pathetically small. Why is secular charity better than the religious kind? Well, it’s all about intention and motivation. The reason anyone volunteers for the Salvation Army, for instance, is because they want to get to heaven. The bible teaches them that if they’re good people, God will bring them into the fold, so they can serve in the kingdom for eternity. I used this quote in my Stepwisdom series, but it’s just too good, so I have to say it again. The credited writer for eighth episode of the 2012 show Alcatraz is Robert Hull, so it is he who I credit for coming up with the line, “spirituality is for those seeking understanding. Religion is for those seeking reward.” What the bible doesn’t really get into—and I use this book as an example, because I’m more familiar with it—is altruism. It is not altruistic to help someone with the expectation that you’ll gain cosmic points for it. Just because you’re not expecting the people you’re helping to be the ones to return the favor, doesn’t mean you’re not doing it for the wrong reasons. It doesn’t matter who’s meant to reward you, you’re still doing it for the purpose of that reward. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make you a good person. To be clear, religion isn’t the only cause of egoistic charity. Those thousand dollar plates still ultimately cost hundreds of dollars, because of all the lavish decorations, in the expensive venue. You should donate money because you believe in a given cause, and want to support its efforts, and that should be enough for you. If you just want to be treated to a lovely dinner of elf food, while you schmooze with rich folk, then you’re probably also rich enough to just go out and do that. You don’t have to pretend you actually care about homeless people, or the whales, or whatever the event purports to be bolstering. In fact, I hate to break it to you, but no one believes you anyway. Always assume you’re being more transparent than you think. So I do understand that religion isn’t the only problem our society has when it comes to volunteerism and charity, but it is the most obvious and prominent. It’s great that you want to contribute, and it’s hard to argue against you, even if you’re just doing it for the recognition. I certainly can’t tell you that we would be better off if you didn’t do anything. I just want you to question, and be cognizant of, your true reasons.

Microstory 944: My Family

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I’ve had a lot of struggles in my life, and despite countless opportunities to be better, I’ve wasted nearly all of them. I had some behavioral issues when I was younger, which we now know was partly due to my autism, but that’s not a very good excuse in my case.  I’ve mentioned the classes I’ve failed, but never really gave you any numbers. I still won’t, and I can tell you it’s never been enough to keep me from graduating, but it has cost money. My job search was even worse. I finished college in 2010, but only really found a good fit about a year ago when I found this position I have now. Yet through it all, my family has been there for me. They have repeatedly given me extra chances, funded my doomed endeavors, and received little return on their investment. My father is an economist, and works as a human resources consultant. He’s taught me so much about how business and how the market operates. I’m a pretty simple guy, who sees a lot of excess in the world. Without his lessons, and constant guidance, I would be so confused and lost about all the things most people take for granted, like how insurance works. My mother is a crafty financial advisor with an unmatched capacity for compassion and understanding. I can talk to her about almost anything (and do). She gives the best advice, because she not only gets how the world works in reality, but also how I see it, and how I think it ought to work, which is decidedly different. My sister is my best friend, and like a third parent for me. I needed a lot of help when I was a kid, and still do. She helps me organize my thoughts, and tackle challenges. And she has had to support me financially as well. I have a bit of resentment for shows like The Originals and Supernatural, which teach you that blood relations are everything, because that is not how I was raised. I think ours is the preferable option, since those people are consistently dying, and even killing each other, yet that hasn’t happened to us even once. You absolutely can choose your own family; maybe not as much when you’re too young to fend for yourself, but certainly when you get older. Even though my real family happens to be related to me, it doesn’t necessarily have to be like that. I’m related to a ton of people neither I care about, nor who care about me. I’m sure you’ve heard the idiomatic expression, blood is thicker than water. You’re probably using it wrong, though, because the original phrase referred to blood of the battle versus water of the womb, which makes a level of sense, because what other water might it be talking about? The water of friendship? I wasn’t born with a lot of privilege, but instead acquired it later. My parents didn’t have it easy when I was born, but the three of them worked their butts off, and by extension, I benefit as well. Without them, there is very little chance that I would still be alive today.

Microstory 943: Constructive Criticism

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As I told my therapist a couple years ago, I’ve always been a lot better at taking criticism than praise. Accolades always make me uncomfortable, because I don’t know how to respond. Do I say thank you? Okay, I do that, but then they just keep going, I guess because I’ve just validated their insight, and they don’t think they can stop. So, do I say thank you again? I make good use of a thesaurus for writing, because I don’t like repeating myself too much, as you can see with praise and accolades. I tire of affirming their compliments so quickly, and assume they’re secretly resentful of me for not somehow magically absolving them of their continued admiration, and allowing them to move on without throwing me a friggin parade. While I understand that most people need a lot of validation for the things they do, I need very little. I really just need you to tell me that it was right, so I can lock that behavior into my procedural memory, and go on to the next challenge. What I truly thirst for is criticism, but as you may have guessed from the title, only the constructive kind. I don’t like being berated or insulted any more than anyone else, but I do need to hear what I did wrong, so I can correct the behavior, and lock it out of my procedural memory. Because if you say nothing, then I’m liable to do it the same way again. I personally enjoying finding efficiencies, and perfecting a craft, if given the chance, so I won’t necessarily be stuck there, but if I have too little motivation, then I will. One of my favorite lyrics from the band, Muse comes at the end of their song Hoodoo. It goes, I’ve had recurring nightmares // that I was loved for who I am // and missed the opportunity // to be a better man. I think it speaks for itself quite nicely.

The lack of constructive criticism is one of my biggest pet peeves, because I’ve struggled so much with it my whole life. I will be a part of something for an extended period of time, and then at some point after it’s over, I hear all this garbage about how poorly I did. If true, these people had every opportunity to help me before, but they chose not to, for whatever reason. Perhaps they just like complaining about other people, and attacking them. Or maybe they’re so out of touch with reality, that they don’t even recognize the disconnect. Or—and this is the most likely explanation since I’m so introspective, and don’t generally have the confidence to trust my own past actions—they’re just lying about the whole thing. If this is the real truth, maybe they’re upset I didn’t need their help as much as they thought I would, or they don’t like me for some other reason, and feel the need to justify their hostility. Whatever the case, nothing they’ve done has helped whatever it was we were trying to do, now there’s a chance I didn’t help it either, and I certainly can’t grow and learn much from my experiences. Most of my teachers chose deliberately to not use red pens when grading assignments, because of the negative connotation, but I’ve always loved seeing all that red. It illustrates a clear distinction between what I thought was right, and what’s actually right. If I cannot pick on on that difference—be it for a piece of writing, or more abstractly for any other scenario—then nothing gets better. The world is as crappy as it is today, because too many people have been indoctrinated to believe that we have no room for improvement. I don’t believe that, and if you don’t either, then come the next two elections...#votethemout.

Void: One Who Lives (Part XI)

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After the death of her wife, Andromeda, Saga felt a void in her life. The only way she could keep it from swallowing her up was to hide her daughter and herself away from everyone. Her baby was kept in the magical floating womb for the next several months, until birthing from it into a tub of water that Saga had the instinct to place underneath. On August 15, 2169, little Étude came in at six pounds and nine ounces. She looked a lot like her mother, despite sharing no genetic code with her. She looked a lot like Camden too, but almost nothing like Saga. Maybe this was just all in her imagination.

Speaking of Camden, the ordeal had left him in a coma. That device he forced Pereira to install on him was designed to interface with computing technology. That was really all they knew about it, except that it was likely from the future, having either been left here by a time traveler, or fallen into a spacetime anomaly. Upon inserting the memory stick Morick had given them into it, Camden downloaded all the information contained therein, of which there was quite a bit. It was a database of all residents on Durus; past, present, and future. The download itself might have left him fairly healthy, but in an attempt to save Andromeda’s life, he expedited the process by the scanning the information all at once. This allowed him to extract that woman from the future, who had the ability to create the artificial womb...somehow, but at the price of his consciousness. The doctors weren’t sure whether he would ever wake up, or if it would eventually kill him. For now at least, machines were keeping him alive, and Saga knew there was nothing more she could do for him.

She gathered minimal belongs, along with her daughter, and left town. Over the years, Saga and Andromeda had gathered a number of friends, who might have been best described as fans, or even followers. People expressed varying levels of gratitude for Andromeda’s service to them; native Durune, and Earthan refugees alike. Camden’s experience as a secret agent had caused him to encourage them to keep track of these people. When he was working for IAC, he and his partners kept a mental note of everyone they had met, all over the world. And since they trusted each other implicitly, they shared this information with each other. One time, Camden found himself alone and badly hurt in Kamchatka Oblast, Russia. He only needed to make his way to Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, where he found an old and minor coal miner contact of his partner, Yadira’s. This man didn’t know Yadira well, and didn’t know Camden at all, but just hearing her name was enough for him to agree to provide Camden sanctuary. Without it, Camden might have died. He instead got himself patched up, and made his way home in a few days.

The moral of this story is that you never know who might help you...who you meet will be vital to your future. This is why it’s always important to garner respect from people around you. They don’t necessarily need to like you, but when you’re bloodied and starving in the middle of a foreign country, their memory of you needs to inspire them to help. This was how Saga was able to disappear from her old life, and escape to a new one. She knew that a baby born from a gestational bubble outside of her mother’s body would be coveted by others. Perhaps if she kept Étude away from prying eyes, she would also be keeping her out of the database Camden used. Fortunately, she remembered someone who could help. Annora Ubiña had the power to create psychically impenetrable pocket dimensions. These could not be very large, but they were free from pollution, had an endless supply of metawater, with each molecule originating from a different source, and a food invocator powered by temporal energy. Most importantly, there they were safe from anyone looking for them, using any means, for any reason. At least theoretically.

There was no telling how old Saga Einarsson was. She had spent decades in the past, and was then reverted to a younger age. Even beyond that, time travel being what it was, true duration spent was hard to pin down. During her travels, she met a number of people, some of whom possessed time powers. One such was Sanela Matic, who was Darko’s grandmother. She could travel anywhere in time, but only as an intangible observer. If she wanted to interact with the world at a different place and time, she needed some other traveler. Saga and Vearden opened a door for her once as a quick little favor. They didn’t get to know each other very well, but for some reason, Saga could sense when she was around, and using her power. It was just some kind of temporal fluke. Today, she was watching Étude in her crib, when she started experiencing that rare, but familiar, feeling.

“I can feel you there,” Saga said. She still couldn’t see anything, and it might not have even been Sanela at all, but it had to be something. “Sanela, are you around here somewhere?” She decided she wasn’t going to freak out, and just hope for the best. She tilted her head, because she could almost make out language. Yeah, two people were talking, but it was extremely muffled and quiet. Perhaps they were concerned with her, and what she was going to do without Andromeda. This was unwarranted. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill myself. Étude means far too much for me to do that. I’m all she has, so you can go.”

The feeling disappeared as Sanela apparently left. But then someone knocked on the door, which was unusual, because Annora usually just opened it unannounced when checking in on them. Saga opened it to find nothing on the other side but an endless grayish void. Out of it came Sanela.

“I thought it was you,” Saga said. “Come on in.”

“You called?” Sanela asked.

“I did not. What do you mean?”

She gasped. “Who is this precious person?”

“My daughter, Étude. What do you mean, I called?”

“She’s adorable.” She stared for a little while. “Oh, umm...I put a tag on your voice. I’ll come whenever you need me.”

“I didn’t say your name until you were already here.”

“I just got here. You opened the door for me.”

“No, you were standing over me, watching. I could tell.”

“That was not me,” Sanela said, sure of herself.

“Well...maybe it was a future version of you.”

She shook her head. “No. It wasn’t. That was someone else, Saga, watching from another dimension.”

“This is another dimension. They don’t really...mix well.”

“Well, I promise that it wasn’t me. I came because I felt you needed help.”

“I guess that’s true. My host is great, but we’re not that close. She knows what happened to us, but I can’t really talk with her about it.”

“What happened to you?”

“I met a woman. Andromeda.”

Oh, it was such a relief to unload all of her trauma, and have someone she trusted listen to her. It was no surprise that Sanela was such a good listener. After all, her whole situation was watching other people like they were characters in movies. She probably didn’t spend a whole lot of time speaking, but no doubt had an unrivaled understanding of the human experience. When Saga was nearing the end of the story, Étude started belting out her hunger cry, so Saga had to start nursing.

“I thought she wasn’t yours? I mean, I thought you were the egg donor, not the carrier.”

“I was, but I started lactating as soon as she was born.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve heard of that. She needed you, so you provided.”

There was another knock on the door.

“Tell me that’s a past or future version of you.”

“Like I said,” Sanela reminded, “I would know. That’s not me either. I’ll open it for you, though.”

When she did, she saw Annora standing there, but she wasn’t alone. Dar’cy Matigaris was holding her arms uncomfortably behind her back, like she was a prisoner. Behind her was Hokusai and Loa, along with Missy, Paige, Serif, and Leona.

“Unhand her right now!” Saga ordered, Étude still oblivious, and happily attached to her breast.

Dar’cy did as she was told. “That’s fine. We don’t need her anymore. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?”

“Why?”

“It’s time to go back to Earth.”

No.

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Microstory 790: Monarch

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There have been many civilizations, on many worlds, in many universes, across all of time and space. Most were created by humans, or some subspecies thereof. Unfortunately, the chances of any one of these surviving for any period of time is nearly negligible. People often wonder why they have not been visited by aliens, and though the truth is that there could be—and indeed are—many reasons, one of them is how difficult it is to reaching civilization milestones. Most fall before they advance enough to venture beyond their own little section of reality, and those that do will find it nearly impossible to meet any other civilization, for life is few and far between. Intelligent life is even rarer. When a major civilization ends—major being the operative word—there is one entity who is always present. A time traveler and immortal, he has adopted it as his responsibility to ease the transitional period when a culture dies, even if no life survives beyond it. When the Simmer Flood overwhelmed the first united shell, he was there. When Babylon was conquered, he was there. And when Adversary, and his demon army spoiled the lands of the living realm, he was there. He’s always there, taking on new forms, as necessary. He goes by many names, his preference being Deliverer. But others will call him First and Last, Beginning and End, and King of Kings. He is no ruler, though, nor does he have any interest in holding power over a peoples. He is there to help, and relies on a series of Bearers to know when and where he should be to be the most useful. For most transitions, he is around as true witness for a brief period of time. He may save as many as he can at the last minute, but he does not stick around for too long, fearing undue influence on the survivors. But there was one world whose fall was taking longer than usual, and required a little more help than others had. Society succumbed to chaos, leaving a great deal of people with far more arduous lives than they deserved. They grew angry, and began executing apocalyptic attacks against each other. But it would not end there. The misfortune just kept coming, in the form of domestic violence, and external threats. And so Deliverer endured through a long extension, acting as hero and friend to every decent individual that he encountered. He found himself liking this life, and it made him start rethinking his approach to his job.

Microstory 777: Hector

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Some might say that Hector Cubit’s nickname as The Protector is proof that we are destined to be who we later become. The truth is, though, that he could have just as easily been named Bobby, or been deemed The Guardian. Still, though he generally had little enthusiasm for rhyme, he was proud of his title, and adopted it happily. It was quite useful, too, to have something that remained with him always, since he barely had time to make his name in one job before he moved on to the next. Hector attributes his protective instinct to his mother, Joaquima, who was also famous for her propensity to save people’s lives. It would seem that danger was stalking Joaquima, for she constantly found herself in mortal danger. From bank hostage to boating accident survivor, Joaquima had no shortage of stories saved up to later tell her children, of which she would ultimately have none. What people didn’t realize, however, was that danger wasn’t following her at all, she was actually looking for it. There have been lots of people throughout history who have been born with special abilities, but most of these are associated with some subspecies of human. Ambers, anomalies, vampirs; these all have abilities, because they were genetically engineered to be different than standard humans. What they could do was the result of something being done to them, with very little of it being natural. The universe, however, also contains a mystery or two, one of these being Prophets. Unlike some fictional stories, prophets do not simply see the future. They do not gaze into crystal balls, or make judgments from tea leaves. Real prophets are simply those destined to lead the world through great sociopolitical breakthroughs, using radical forward-thinking ideas. Yes, it’s true that they often possess some connection to the fabric of the universe, but their real power is what they do with it. Joaquima Quintana could not literally see the future, but she did feel the push and pull of safety and danger. Another possessing this trait would use it to avoid perilous situations, and possibly some higher power controlling all this had that in mind, but that was not what Joaquima decided to do with it. She placed herself in the hazardous situations, using her intuition to prevent a tragedy altogether, or at least save as many as she could. Her husband, seeing her path to be of great value to the world, provided for them both with a steady job for decades. She retired from this life, and took a regular job, when she had Hector at a relatively old age, but not before, some believe, she passed her gifts onto him. Though he was never considered a true prophet, the reason Hector kept switching jobs was because he always had to be where he was needed most.