Microstory 2280: Peaks and Valleys

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I’m back home, and feeling much better. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still in a lot of pain, and it’s difficult to move around, but this is a far superior environment. Man, I feel like I’m so out of touch these days, bragging about my large house, and private medical team. I never wanted to become this, but you have to admit, healthcare is better without all those other sick people. Jesus, what the hell! Why did I just say that? And why am I not deleting, and starting over with a more relatable tone? It would be really nice if this were how everyone lived. Or would it? How would that even work? Everyone’s rich, so they can hire a private home staff, but then who are these home staffers? This sounds like a caste system. So maybe there’s a happy medium between traditional healthcare, and private. I suppose things could get better and more comfortable for more people by improving the ratio. Fewer patients per medical professional would make it easier for each one to focus, and not be spread so thin. Maybe they could work shorter shifts, and have a better work-life balance too. Is that what I should do? Should I be concentrating all my money on healthcare reform? I’ve always thought that I should be distributing it across a number of causes, relatively evenly, but I’ve heard that it’s more productive in the long run if everyone chooses one or two causes to be passionate about. I dunno, I’ll need to see some numbers. In the meantime, despite my circumstances, things are looking up today. Watch, now people will start taking bets when the next bad thing will happen to me, and maybe what it will be. That’s how it always seems to go. Peaks and valleys. Peaks and valleys. Anyway, I’m going to put all that out of my mind, and just try to live in the moment. Nobody’s rethinking their charitable contributions today. Best not to make any big decisions while you’re on drugs, right?

Microstory 2279: Fine to Be Discharged

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Guess who surprised me with a visit today? That’s right, it was my old parole officer, Leonard Miazga. He’s been so busy, so we’ve only been able to text occasionally, but he’s felt like a bad friend, not checking in on me until now. It’s okay, I didn’t even think about it. It was nice to see him again, though. Other than that, I have nothing to update you on. Besides the medication issues the other day, my life doesn’t really change that much anymore. I lie in the hospital bed, and stare at the TV most of the time. I do my physical therapy in my own room, and out in the hallway, and sometimes do my exercises on my own without the therapist. Then I watch more TV. The nurses come in to give me meds, and check my vitals. It’s all very routine and unexciting. The hospital, my security team, and the police are not letting anyone come in for interviews, and trust me, they have been trying. Apparently, Leonard had a hard time getting through the human barricade, even though he was on a list of approved visitors. Ugh, I can’t wait to get out of here. I’m not one of those people who say that they “hate hospitals” as if that’s some kind of unique or rare personal characteristic to have. You’re not special. I know that’s mean to say, but no one likes death and disease. I just wanna go home because I’ve been here long enough, and I’m ready to sleep in my own bed. I think I can swing it pretty soon here. A normal person under these circumstances might struggle, but we have a little hospital of our own in our house, and a small medical staff, so it shouldn’t be too hard for me to convince the administrators that I am fine to be discharged.

Microstory 2278: Kick Him Out of the Hospital

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Hi, y’all, it’s Dutch. Nick hasn’t had that great of a day today. It started off really good. He met the two people who donated their kidney and liver to him. After they left—and completely unrelated—he started to decline a bit. They’ve been changing his meds around to see what works, and it seems like the combination they’re on now caused problems. He is going to be okay. It didn’t cause any permanent damage to his health. This is just something that happens sometimes. It’s a very tricky and fragile balance. It’s not like there’s one perfect regimen that works with everyone. Like, sign here if you’ve had a double transplant, and then this is all the medication that you’ll need. Every patient is different, not just as individuals, but from the specific situation that led them to needing treatment. No one has lost as many organs as he did, in the same room that he was in, at his exact same age, and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. It just takes time, with some trial and error. That’s one of the reasons why they didn’t just kick him out of the hospital as soon as he could stand on his own two feet. They’re keeping him here so they can find these problems while he’s still under their immediate protection. We’re all anxious for him to be home, so he can generally be more comfortable and relaxed, but it’s obviously not time for that yet. And also, I think they found all the people responsible for doing this to him, but I’m sure you’ve read all about it in the news, so don’t go trying to use this site as your number one source for information on the investigation. They don’t tell us anything. We receive updates at the same time you do. Anyway, I’m sure that Nick will be able to give you his own thoughts tomorrow. Seeya!

Microstory 2228: More Advanced Care Now

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Nick is back in the hospital, and this is where he’ll stay for the rest of his life. It seems that we were too quick to decide that he was capable of staying at home. We weren’t back in the apartment for more than a few hours before he started having some real problems. His temperature was going up each time I checked it, eventually reaching a full fever. Soon after that, he started coughing, and feeling dizzy even though he was just lying in bed. The nurse had already left for the evening, but I called her back, and she agreed that he couldn’t stay there untreated anymore. For a normal healthy individual, these symptoms could be treated on their own using over-the-counter remedies, but Nick is in a really vulnerable position. He requires round-the-clock care, and the kind that I’m not qualified to provide. They conducted rapid blood tests, and confirmed that it’s a virus. Again, a normal person might be able to fight it off on their own, or get some medication after a quick doctor’s visit, but that’s not enough for him. He’s hooked up to machines, which are monitoring him for a team of top-notch medical professionals. But where does that leave me? I know that, when you add it all up, I’ve not known him for very long, but we’ve grown pretty close in that time. I’ve seen sides of him that no one else has. So I can’t just leave, even though he has more advanced care now. There’s a protocol for this situation. It’s called a “hand-off”. And I’ve officially done that, though I am still here, just now as a friend, which is what our relationship was when we were co-workers. He doesn’t have any real family in this world, so I’m going to do what I can to make him feel safe and comfortable, even though it’s not my job anymore.

Microstory 2219: It is Always Fatal

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I might try to say more tomorrow, but today is not a good time to spend a lot of time curating a good post. We’re reeling from today’s news. We knew that it was bad. I mean, just look at him; it had to be bad. But we didn’t know quite how bad. There are five types of infections. When Nick first arrived in this universe, he contracted a virus, and shortly thereafter, he got a bacterial infection. These might be the two most common. There are some people who just get the cold every year, whether they take a vaccine for it or not. Fungal infections are fairly common too, and they often go untreated, because symptoms are sometimes rather mild, albeit fairly gross. He also managed to suffer from a fungus when he used some unclean showers in Iowa, but before that, a parasite took hold of him when he was exposed to the wrong plant at the nursery where he worked. All of this happened during the first quarter of this year, and he thought that he was out of the woods for a while. Sadly, that has turned out to not be true, though we didn’t know until today that the disease that he has is yet another infection. You see, all four of the types of infections that you’re familiar with can potentially be deadly. None of them is totally safe. But there is a fifth type that you have probably never even heard of, and the worst part about it is that it is always fatal. It’s called a prion, and while some prion diseases can be treated to some degree, they are the least understood class. The good news (or bad, depending on how you look at it), is that everything I’ve been doing with him has been everything that the doctor would have ordered had he diagnosed this before. Managing symptoms is the only possibly helpful course of action. Now that he knows that it’s there, he can study it more, and tweak some of Nick’s medications, but that’s about it. The horrible truth is that he is going to die from this. He may have a few months to live, but the doctor doesn’t see him making it through the New Year. I’ve written more than I planned on. I better end it here, so I can get back to taking care of him. We’ll see how much time I have tomorrow, or if I’m even emotionally up to it.

Microstory 2169: Refund and Take it Down

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I came home today, a day earlier than we thought I would. I’m still not well enough to report for jail tomorrow, which means that I’ll incur some extra time to make up for it, and also as a punishment for missing it, but it wouldn’t make sense for me to go back when I’ll have to spend the entire time in the infirmary. I’m much more comfortable at home, and I’ve recovered enough to start taking care of myself for the most part. My neighbor will be checking in on me every once in a while, which she doesn’t have to do. My parole officer will be coming over too as a sort of welfare check. I think my therapist will show up, and not charge me for a quick session, but I’m not about that. I pay my way, I’ll tell you. I took sick leave from work, because I can’t keep my eyes open for long enough to get anything done, but hopefully I’ll be fully ready to go on Monday, so I will have only missed a week. It’s not even that I’m sleepy or tired. Have you ever seen anyone get hypnotized, even if in fiction? The hypnotist will describe weights on their subject’s eyelids. It kind of feels like that, but it also sort of feels like it doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or not, I still can’t see very well. My surgeon thinks that that has to do with the medication that I’m on. Blurred vision is a known side effect of at least two of them. I’m gonna stop taking the narcotics, though. I’ve never done well with them, I personally can’t understand why people get addicted to these things. I’ve had to take multiple kinds over the years, and every single one of them has made me feel like crap. I’m going to be in a lot of pain while I rely solely on over-the-counter pain meds, but it’s nothing I’ve never experienced before. Pain and I have an understanding. It gets to do whatever it wants to me, and in exchange, I get nothing. I do want to circle back to that thing about my therapist. Not because of my therapist, but because of the money thing. Apparently, one of my readers started a CauseTogether.hope page for me. I want you to know that I have absolutely nothing to do with this, and I am currently working with the platform administrators to have all backers so far fully refunded, and shut the page down. I neither want nor need your charity. I’m making plenty of money, and I will be able to pay my own hospital bills. I shouldn’t have any lost wages from my time off, because the company I work for has great benefits. Really, please do not try to give me money. A nurse suggested that I could just regift it to charity, but no, I don’t want to reward this behavior. If I can’t get the page taken down, I’m donating it all to the nearest convicted serial killer, out of spite. You have been warned. Refund and take it down!

Microstory 2047: Delaware

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Papa struggled with the ALS for many months, doing what the doctors recommended, and trying different medications. Nothing was working, so they decided to go see another doctor. There was a different specialist who lived in Millsboro, Delaware. This is the one who told my fathers that the disease was aggressive. That’s the word I heard my family use a lot: aggressive. It sounds really mean. Some people can live 10 years after they find out that they have ALS, and I wish I could say that my papa was one of them, but he wasn’t. He found out in 2021, and you already know how this story ends. They did everything they could, but that wasn’t much. All they could really do in the end was make him as comfortable as possible. Delaware was not a good trip either. I will probably never go to Pennsylvania or Delaware. I might not even go to North Dakota again. Delaware was the last time that my papa could walk. He had to stay in the wheelchair for the rest of his life. It was hard to see him like that, but I would rather see him like that than not at all.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: December 16, 2398

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Angela is sitting on her bed, trying to do breathing exercises. Why does she need a bed? She’s only going to be here for six hours. No, don’t get distracted, that doesn’t matter. Breathe in slowly. Breathe out slowlier. Sit up straight, and puff up your chest. Give as much room to your bladder as possible.

There’s a knock at the cabin. “Angela?”

She finishes exhaling. “Yes, Moray?”

“Are you okay?”

“Open the door, Moray.” She’s speaking in that calm, meditative voice that people use to sound relaxed and unintrusive.

Moray does so, and asks again, “are you okay?”

She opens her eyes, and turns to face him. “I’ll be all right. Did you need something?”

“We’re just worried about you, you never came back to the game.”

“Right, I forgot. I’m sorry about that.” She turns back to the wall, and breathes deliberately again.

“Are you pregnant?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You look like our cow did when she was pregnant with a calf.”

Angela smiles, which turns into a yawn. “I’m not pregnant, Moray. I’m just meditating.”

“Oh.” He’s silent for a moment. “Can I join you?”

“One day I can teach you, but uh...that day cannot be today.” She breathes again.

Moray stops speaking as she continues her exercises with her eyes closed, but she can still feel his presence. That’s okay, if he just wants to watch, she’s not going to get angry about it. Or maybe she should, because this isn’t helping control her bladder very much. Jogging didn’t work either. Nor did pelvic floor exercises, though she probably misread the database, which would have likely gone on to say that that’s more of a recurrent process than a quick fix. Perhaps what she really needs is medical intervention.

Angela sighs, and hops off the bed. “Do you know where the infirmary is?”

“Yeah, we saw it on our tour, before you arrived. Are you hurt?”

“That’s a personal question,” she says.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He leads her down the hallways and ladders. “It’s over there. I won’t disturb you any further.”

“Hey, Moray...”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

He nods, and walks off.

Angela steps into the infirmary. Only one person is in there with a lab coat, implying that he’s the doctor. “Hello, can I help you?”

She sighs again. “I feel the need to urinate, but I’m not allowed to, for reasons that I can’t really explain to you, but it’s a matter of life and death, and I know that sounds really weird, and I can’t say any more about it, but just know that I’m telling the truth. It’s really important that I hold it in until after the trip, because—”

“Madam Walton, it’s okay. I think I know how to help you.” He steps over to a refrigerator, and starts looking through it. “Ah, here we go.” He takes the vial out, and shows it to her. “Gonagozole. Now, this is not a safe medication, and I would not prescribe it for prolonged use, but if you just need to get through the day, it should be fine, and we can treat the side effects afterwards. Are you okay with that?”

“If it works, I should be able to recover on my own, but...what does it do?”

“It does a number of things, but the result you’re looking for is that it shrinks the uterus, which will alleviate your bladder. But that may not be enough” He takes out another vial. “This will enlarge your bladder, so there’s less pressure to urinate.”

“What are the side effects of these two things?”

“Nausea, diarrhea, headache, dizziness, fatigue, hot flashes, increased heart rate. You could contract a UTI, but I don’t see that happening with one dose.”

“I can deal with most of those, even the UTI, but not the first two. It’s not just urine. I cannot expel anything. The water in my system has to stay there.”

He sighs, and goes over to another fridge to retrieve a bottle of over-the-counter medication. “This will stop the nausea, and cause constipation. You won’t release any fluids, you probably won’t even cry.”

“I didn’t think about crying.”

“Madam Walton—”

“Angela.”

“Madam Angela, I cannot recommend you take these three medications in tandem. The side effects are mounting. Now, I will give them to you, because I have been instructed to literally give you and the kids whatever you ask for. This will work, but you’re going to be in an incredible amount of pain. It’s going to make you unbearably miserable.”

“I only need to last a day.”

“Still...I’d like to talk you out of it.”

Angela looks between the three medications. She has to do this. If there’s even a tiny chance that Alt!Tamerlane isn’t lying, she has to do everything she can to protect Marie. They’re two separate people now, it’s not a selfish act. “Will they still work if I’m unconscious, or would I just soil myself?”

“No, they would still work.”

“Then I need you to give me a fourth drug.”

“A sedative,” he guesses.

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

He doesn’t want to, but he apparently has to. “Follow me.” He leads her to the back of the infirmary, and into a nook with a somewhat private bed. “Lie down and get comfortable. You may remove your clothing, if you would prefer; I’ll close the curtain.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Angela stips down to her bra and underwear, and gets under the covers. She adjusts herself, and restarts her breathing exercises.

“Are you certain that you want to go through with this? You can still back out.”

She looks up at him with her most genuine facial expression. “Do it.”

Microstory 1836: Sleepkiller

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Sleep and I have always had a very volatile relationship. It’s constantly hiding from me, even though I try to be nice, and always treat it well. I’ve tried everything to connect with it, from not watching TV within a few hours of bedtime, to meditation, to of course pills. Nothing seemed to do me any good. The doctors I talked to said it was insomnia. No der, what do I do about it? Nothing I haven’t tried, just keep trying those things. But stay away from the pills, because they can really mess you up. So I did, and I kept failing. I was miserable, and insufferable. I was fired from my job, not just because they caught me sleeping a time or two, but because I was agitated and ill-mannered to my co-workers. I had had enough. Something had to be done, and I didn’t care any more what the consequences were. So I went back to the pills, but I’m not talking about melatonin, or a tiny little sedative. I went for the big stuff. I was going to fall unconscious every night, whether my body wanted to or not. And if that shaved time off my lifespan, then so be it. It wasn’t like I had much to live for anyway, especially if I couldn’t even function during the day. I knew it was going to be rough, particularly at the start, so I carefully prepared for it. I set three different alarms. My regular alarm clock was set to the highest volume. A friend of mine tinkered with it so it would play the noise and the radio at the same time. My smartwatch vibrated simultaneously, which I always found jarring and annoying. Five minutes later, the television in the living room was programmed to flip on, again at the highest volume. I knew this would piss off my neighbors, which would motivate me to actually get the hell out of bed to unplug it quickly before then. I thought it was a foolproof plan, but I was wrong.

A new personality sometimes took over at night. At first, I didn’t know what was going on. Things were moved around, the refrigerator was open, the floor mat was upside down. I realized that I was sleepwalking. I had heard of that being a side effect, but never thought it would happen to me. Okay, that was okay, I could deal with it. Place a lock on the bedroom door, and line the floor against the walls with pillows. I could still hurt myself, but at least I would land softly if I fell. It didn’t work, as you might imagine. I still found weird things the next morning. Nothing truly bad had happened, though. I didn’t have any stairs, and I never once got in my car, or left the house. I would wake up feeling a little weird and dizzy, but I was otherwise better rested than ever in my life. So I kept taking the drugs, careful not to overdose, and kept just cleaning up my place when I came home from work. I did go through a lot of knives, though. My sleepwalking self had a habit of throwing them away, and always on trash pick-up day, like he periodically felt that it was time to refresh the collection. Again, fortunately, I never hurt myself with them. Then it happened. After all this goofiness, I did something truly terrible, and I still can’t explain it. I did get in my car, and I did leave the house, and I drove onto the highway. Evidently, I came across a horrible car accident, a victim of which I managed to pull from the wreckage. For whatever reason, I scooped her up, drove her to an industrial park, and threw her off the roof of a two-story building. I read about it in the paper the next day, and used my GPS history to put the pieces together. She didn’t die, but she was seriously hurt, and it was all my fault. I can’t live with myself anymore. So I’m back on that roof, but by myself this time, and completely awake. Goodbye forever.

Microstory 1835: Death Comes For Her

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The only crazy thing to happen to me was my death. It was so prolonged and complicated. It almost feels designed; like something out of a horror movie, written for ultimate suspense. Convoluted might be the word I would use for it. I kept getting this close to being killed by something, only to survive it, and make my way to the next danger, which also didn’t kill me. Obviously, it happened eventually, or you wouldn’t be receiving my story, so here it is. I woke up to the sound of my neighbor banging on my apartment door. I groaned, but I didn’t get up, because I couldn’t. I wasn’t paralyzed, but it felt like there was a silky web holding me against the bed. I heard a crash as he broke in, came into my room, and lifted me out. There had been a gas leak throughout the entire complex, and it evidently hit me worst. I survived, and breathed in the oxygen that the firefighter gave me. Everything was fine, and I was feeling livelier—albeit with a headache the likes of which I didn’t know was possible—when my oxygen tank exploded. I don’t know if someone shot it with a gun, or if the valve was turned wrong, or what the hell happened. All I know is I woke up feeling worse than ever, on the ground, covered in debris. I was still alive, though...for the moment. The ambulance, not so much. That thing was wrecked, so they gave me a new one, and tried to take me to a hospital, but wouldn’t you know it, that one wrecked too! We had just gotten through a huge winter storm, and most of the ice had melted, but there was just enough on the on-ramp to the highway to send us flying over the edge, down the grass verge by the underpass. I opened my eyes just as a semi-truck was barreling towards us, unable to stop either, for whatever reason; maybe another patch of ice. After that, someone pulled me out.

I was drifting in and out of consciousness, but I was alert enough to recognize that I was just riding in the backseat of some random person’s car. I asked the driver if he was taking me to the hospital, but he said that wasn’t what I needed. At last, he stopped. So I tried to escape, but he was too strong, and I was too hurt. He carried me up some steps, and onto a rooftop. He didn’t even explain what he had against me. He just unceremoniously dropped me over the edge, like it was the only logical thing to do. I don’t even know if he expected me to crash onto the pavement, or if he knew that a garbage truck was passing underneath at the right time. I suspect he wanted the truck to run me over, but didn’t time it right. I was even more hurt now, but still ticking. I tried to call out for the garbageman to stop, but there was all this noise, and I wasn’t confident anything was coming out of my mouth. The truck stopped, and trash fell on my head, including a bucket of knives. I don’t know why they were throwing them out. They were good enough to cut me a thousand times. After that, the compactor began to run, threatening to crush me, but something went wrong with the hydraulics, and it halted. The garbageman found me when he came back to investigate, and called for a third ambulance. On the way, it almost got in another accident, at least that’s what it felt like from the back. I finally made it to the hospital where I received a severe overdose of pain medication following surgery, apparently due to human error. But that isn’t what killed me either. No, throughout all of this, my wounds weren’t properly treated for a long time, and I found out too late that I contracted a nasty bacterial infection—likely from something in the garbage—which finally did me in two months later.

Microstory 1396: Soma

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Psychiatrist: Welcome back, Mr. Stern.

Fiore Stern: Thank you.

Psychiatrist: Tell me how you’ve been feeling this week?

Fiore Stern: I’m still really nervous around other people. I never thought going undercover in a terrorist organization would make me feel like this. I keep seeing people as victims, as if I’m the one who hurt them.

Psychiatrist: Well, that’s understandable. A lot of highly trained people in law enforcement come back out of undercover feeling responsible for the things they did while they were pretending to be someone else.

Fiore Stern: That’s just it, I didn’t have to do anything. All I did was teach people how to reinforce their lawns, and spread fertilizer. If the company had never told me they were terrorists, I would have just been some guy with a normal job. I’m not responsible for the things they did, even while I was working there. They would have been doing that anyway.

Psychiatrist: It’s good that you recognize that intellectually. I would call it the first step towards getting you to a better place in your life. Your conscious brain now just needs to tell your subconscious that, not only did you do nothing wrong, but that you did something amazingly heroic. That’s what these medications should be doing for you. Tell me how they’re going.

Fiore Stern: They’re all right, I guess. I get a little tired of having to remember to take them.

Psychiatrist: They have apps on your phone now that can help you schedule doses. I have one a lot of my patients use that they seem quite pleased with.

Fiore Stern: Yeah, I know. I suppose a part of me still doesn’t like taking them in the first place. I just don’t get why I know I didn’t do anything wrong, but like, the other half of my brain doesn’t? Can’t I just...I dunno, talk to myself, and convince me to be better?

Psychiatrist: That’s kind of what therapy is for, and you said you didn’t feel that was helping. If you would like to start seeing your therapist again, however, I can only see that as a good choice.

Fiore Stern: I didn’t really like her. She didn’t exactly get me, ya know?

Psychiatrist: There are plenty of others. Just like with medication, sometimes it just takes a little experimentation to find someone who’s right for you.

Fiore Stern: Yeah. I probably do need to keep taking your drugs, though. I believe they help me distinguish fact from fiction. When I’m seeing some random person on the street, paralysed in place, and bleeding from their neck, I need the meds to tell me that that’s not real.

Psychiatrist: Yes, it’s important to be able to tell what’s not really there. I have a question about that, though.

Fiore Stern: Okay.

Psychiatrist: You say you see people paralyzed and bleeding? How are they bleeding? Is it flowing from a wound, or does it kind of look like they’re painting with the blood? Do you see burn marks, or—forgive me—dismembered body parts?

Fiore Stern: Wow, you have a sick mind, don’t you, Psychiatrist? It’s pretty normal. The blood is just coming out of them. Now burn marks. Why? Does that say something about my worldview, or my personality?

Psychiatrist: Well, the organization you helped take down for the authorities was a bomb-making outfit, was it not?

Fiore Stern: It was, yes.

Psychiatrist: From what I read, they didn’t—forgive me again—cut people, or anything. Why would you be seeing victims that look like that, if you’re subconscious is feeling responsible for explosions?

Fiore Stern: Oh. Yeah, I guess that makes sense. I didn’t think it all the way through. I should have just kept it vague, and told you I saw dead bodies.

Psychiatrist: Mr. Stern, have you been lying to me to score recreational drugs?

Fiore Stern: Ha! Nothing so human, I assure you. What do you take me for, some kind of amateur?

Psychiatrist: Interesting word choice. Does that mean you’re a professional? A professional what?

Fiore Stern: Tell me, Psychiatrist. Do you have any other appointments today?

Psychiatrist: I can clear my schedule, if you really need me to. We should get to the bottom of whatever is going on with you.

Fiore Stern: Yes, I agree. We should nip it in the bud, lest you poison the world with your claims about me.

Psychiatrist: Mr. Stern, what are you talking about?

Fiore Stern: Why don’t you stop recording, and I’ll explain.

Psychiatrist: Stop. Don’t touch that. Please keep your distance, Mr. Stern. Mr. Stern! If you don’t—

Microstory 1386: Marriage Counseling

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Marriage Counselor: Welcome, you both, to marriage counseling. Before we begin, it’s important that you understand that this is a safe space. There will be no judgments here; not from me, and not from either of you. This is not just a guideline, but a rule, and I will be enforcing it strictly.

Husband: I understand, and agree to your terms.

Wife: As do I.

Marriage Counselor: So, what seems to be the problem?

Wife: I cheated on him, and he doesn’t care.

Marriage Counselor: Is that true, Mr. Husband?

Husband: I suppose it is, yes. I would love to say that I simply didn’t react the way she would have wanted, but I see where she’s coming from, and I honestly can’t explain it.

Marriage Counselor: Walk me through it. What happened, and how did Husband react? Mrs. Wife, you go first.

Wife: I’ve been feeling a little neglected, and spending a lot of time on my own. I didn’t go out seeking a second partner, but I often found myself at the rec center, even when I didn’t have a fitness class to get to. I met this woman there who’s kind of going through the same thing with her girlfriend. At first, we were just talking, but then things escalated. It just so happened that Husband walked in on us during the one time it went too far.

Marriage Counselor: Let’s switch perspectives before you proceed. What were you doing that led up to this, Mr. Husband?

Husband: I’ve been pretty busy at work, but that’s not the whole story. I could get it all done on time, but I’ve slowly lost the motivation to do so. The work is overwhelming, and it’s also total nonsense. I used to get really frustrated about it, but now I’m just indifferent. It’s not like the work slows down just because I don’t do it with so much haste, so it builds up even more, and I end up having to stay late just to catch up. One day, I finally just said screw it, and left for home at the time I’m supposed to. Like she said, I walked in on her.

Marriage Counselor: How did you react?

Husband: I barely did at all. My first instinct was that I was pissed; not that I was actually anger, but that I ought to be. As I stood there, looking at them in our marital bed, though, I realized it didn’t bother me. I felt like, if that’s what she wants, she should have it, because I obviously can’t provide for her.

Marriage Counselor: Did it excite you, or just not bother you?

Husband: I felt nothing. I feel nothing. I’m completely numb. I don’t feel joy or jealousy anymore, or anything else, for that matter. I don’t know why, and I don’t want to be like this. I wish I had gotten angry at her, because then we could have worked through it. But she’s just sitting here in this marriage, and neither of us is happy, but she’s the only one who’s trying anymore. I think I might have become a sociopath.

Wife: I don’t think that.

Marriage Counselor: Me neither. You would not have become a sociopath, Mr. Husband. It’s something you’re born with, or possibly develop at a very early age. And even if you hadn’t realized what you were until now, just from my first impression of you, I doubt it would be a good diagnosis. You obviously still care about her, if only in a lesser sense than you used to. Sociopaths aren’t capable of even that. You seem to be having trouble manifesting emotions, but I don’t think they’re not there at all. Are you taking any medication?

Wife: He’s not taking anything.

Marriage Counselor: Well, he’s mimicking some of the symptoms of certain antidepressants, so if it’s not that, then there’s some other imbalance in the brain. Mr. Husband, you mentioned your work. I believe that may be at the heart of what’s causing all this. Let’s dive deeper into that.

Husband: Okay.

Dardius: Horace Reaver (Part X)

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Horace Reaver was in prison. It wasn’t the first time being locked up, but he still had not gotten used to it. A bunch of stuff went down when an unhinged reality manipulator came to town, and started wreaking havoc on his and his people’s lives. Ace, as he was called at this time, and in this reality, submitted himself here somewhat voluntarily, in order to free a friend of theirs who never should have been here in the first place. It was under duress, though, so voluntary was probably the wrong word to use. He had so far been in here for six days, knowing full well that this didn’t mean his family was off schedule. They could get him out if they completed a mission for the prison, and their new partner advised them that it would take at least a week just to plan it. So he wasn’t worried, but he was already sick of it.

This place didn’t have yard time, cafeteria time, or anything. Prisoners remained in their cells permanently, because it was safer that way. Most of the inmates had special time powers, and The Warden said it wasn’t worth the risk to let anyone out for anything but medical or logistical reasons. Fortunately, each cell had access to its own pocket dimension, full of creature comforts, and wide open spaces. It wasn’t the same as being free, but it was better than a six-by-nine. To be clear, the six-by-nine regular cell did exist, and the pocket could be closed to punish prisoners for bad behavior, but according to a man named Tracker, that was rare, because prisoners knew there was no escape, and there wasn’t any point in causing trouble. Ace liked to spend time up in the front, outside of his pocket, because it allowed him to see outside the cell, into other people’s cells, and at the guards patrolling the area. It made him feel more trapped to be in a windowless room with low lighting, even if that room had a couch, bed, and entertainment. He ordered a lot of books. At the moment, he was sitting in his chair, reading one about bunnies, when he heard a commotion beyond his field of vision.

“Sir, please.” It was the Warden. Who could she possibly need to call sir with such deference? Was it possible there was someone even more powerful around here than her?

“You can’t stop me,” came a voice Ace didn’t recognize.

“How do you know that?” the Warden asked as they were just coming into view.

“I spoke with Meliora. She told me everything.” The two of them stopped at Ace’s cell. The man was smiling as deeply as the Warden was frowning. “Hello, old friend.”

“Do we know each other?” Ace asked.

“Mister Matic,” the Warden began, “those contingencies were designed to get you out of prison, if a mistake like that ever happened again. They were not meant for you to come in, and break someone else out.”

“I’m doing it anyway.” He reached up with both hands, and grasped the bars. While a lot of the security measures here were time power-based, it was still fitted with good ol’ fashioned cement blocks and thick metal gates. It looked like this kind stranger was preparing to rip them off with brute strength, which should have been impossible. Then again, time travel should have been impossible too, but that was quite clearly real.

“Wait,” the Warden said desperately. “If you do this, you effectively declare war on Beaver Haven.”

The man stopped to think about it for a moment, but less like he was considering changing his mind, and more like he was working out how he was going to combat this new threat. “Then I better make it count.” He tightened his grip on the bars, and pulled at them. They didn’t tear off like rice paper, but they did come completely off, leaving about a foot of space for Ace to slip through. Some of the other prisoners saw what happened, and began to make a ruckus. This drew more out, so that everyone could either see what was happening, or was close enough to hear others yelling updates.

“Are you going to stuff me back in there?” Ace asked the Warden once he was free.

She shook her head. “He’s made his choice. I can’t undo it any more than he can.”

“It’s not the last choice I’m gonna make,” the man said. He walked over to another cell, and tore the bars off of that one too.

A man named Curtis came out of it, and tipped his head cordially.

The man stepped one cell over, and did it a third time. “Oh,” he said when he saw Lucius just stand there. He pulled off two more bars, because Lucius was big as hell. That wasn’t it, though. Lucius still just stood there. “You can’t be put back in here. These people can’t move against me in that manner.”

“I deserve to be here,” Lucius replied in his low sexy voice. This guy was a god. If Ace weren’t with Serkan...

“No, you don’t,” the jailbreaker said. “You and Curtis have a destiny. I need you to take care of him.”

Lucius looked over at Curtis. Neither of them knew what he was talking about, but they trusted that the man was telling them the truth about their future together.

The Warden was extremely displeased. “Anyone else, Mister Matic?”

“Are Missy and Darko here?” Mr. Matic asked.

“Not in this reality,” the Warden answered, seemingly truthfully.

“Then my work is done here.” He pointed over to Curtis and Lucius. “You take them wherever they want to go. I’ll be taking Horace myself.

The Warden reluctantly looked up and over her glasses at a guard on the second level. She raised her hand, and gestured for him to come down, and presumably help transport the other two empardoned ones. Is empardoned a word? Well, it is now.

“Hey, Mateo,” Lucius called up to them as the mysterious savior and Ace were starting to leave. “I owe you a favor.”

Mateo smirked. “Nope. Now we’re even.” Time, right?

“Not that I’m not grateful,” Ace said as they were winding their way through the corridors. Guards were letting them through with no question. Who the hell was this guy, and why was everyone so afraid of him?

“Why did I break you out?” Mateo presumed. “You and I have had a complicated multi-timeline relationship, but I need to make sure you understand who you are.”

“I don’t understand.”

“One day, someone is going to come to you, and restore your memories. You will remember how much you hated me, and the terrible things you did to express that hate. I got you out of there, and I’m taking you to see something important, not so that you’ll remember how good of friends we are, but so that you’ll remember how good of a person you are.”

“Huh?” They opened the exit, and started to walk away from the secret prison. Ace chose to not look back. That was in his past, and he needed to get back to his family, and move forward. Mateo opened the back door of a car, and ushered Ace in. “Dave?”

“I’m not meant to be a literal chauffeur,” the driver said as Mateo was getting in as well. “That’s just a nickname.”

“Meliora agreed to help me get to either 2027, or 3413. I chose to come here, so you could help me with both missions. And you’re gonna do it, because this is your boss’ father. He’s your grandboss.”

The Chauffeur rolled his eyes, and restarted the car. “That’s not a thing.”

“You know Meliora?” Ace asked.

“Not super well, but yes,” Mateo confirmed.

“And you know me too?”

“From other realities, and the future in this reality, yes.”

“But you’ve seen my darkness.” Ace didn’t know it had anything to do with alternate timelines, but there were some things about himself that he couldn’t explain. He sometimes experienced...outbursts of violence that didn’t make any sense. They didn’t feel like him, but at the same time, they felt more like him than anything else. This all scared him a great deal, and if this Mateo guy could save him from that, he was willing to try just about anything.

Dave drove them to a hospital, and waited in the parking lot while Mateo took Ace up to a room. It was empty, but lived in, and the bathroom door was closed. They heard a flush, and a hoarse voice Ace thought he recognized. “Can I get some help here?”

“Stay here,” Mateo instructed. He slipped into the bathroom to help, and came out two minutes later with Jesimula Utkin.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “Ace! What are you doin’ here, man?”

“Uhh...I’m here to see you.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I’m on drugs.”

“It sounds like it. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m great! I’m on this new diet, and just lost three ounces in a few hours!”

“Her kidney,” Mateo clarified as he was helping Jesi back into bed. “She just donated her kidney.”

Jesi placed her hand to the side of her mouth. “It was anonymous,” she told him in a loud whisper.

“I don’t understand,” Ace repeated. “Who did you give it to? Or was the recipient anonymous too?”

“The hospital thinks she was,” Mateo began to explain, “but we know who it was.”

“Yes,” Jesi agreed. “Leona Mulaney.”

“Delaney,” Mateo corrected.

“Right. Delaney Mulvaney,” Jesi said.

“She saved Leona’s life?” Ace asked. “She’s my daughter’s friend.”

“She’s my future wife,” Mateo said. “I mean that literally. I couldn’t give her my own kidney in this reality, so Jesi stepped up. How can you prevent her from adapting your time power, though?” he asked Jesi.

“I don’t have any powers anymore,” Jesi explained. “I assimilated myself into my alternate, and used her body as primary. I’m just a normal forty-five year old now.”

“You don’t look forty-five,” Ace pointed out.

“I still got friends,” Jesi argued. “Damn, man!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven. No, you’re threegiven, because I’m still a little mad.”

“Jesi, your light’s on,” Mateo informed her.

Jesi smiled, and lifted a little button. “Cool.” She started pressing it over and over again, still smiling dumbly at it.

“Don’t worry,” Mateo said. “It won’t give her more pain medication than she’s allowed to have.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You did this,” Mateo said as Jesi was falling asleep. “You saved Leona’s life, because you didn’t give up on Jesi. You helped her become a better person, and I’m trying to keep you the same way. When someone comes to blend your memories with those of your alternates, focus hard on this moment. You’ve done a lot of good in your life, even in the other timelines. But let this memory be your anchor. I was told to come here to take you to my funeral. Don’t ask how that works, it’s complicated. The point is that I’m not going to do that. If you make it to the service, then great, I have a job for you. But I can’t let you do that job if you don’t remember everything about what we’ve been through together. So after they blend your brain—and once you’re ready—come to Dardius in the year 2263. Can you do this for me? I don’t know when it will be for you, but I want you to be prepared for it.”

“I can do that. I don’t really get what’s going on, but I will do my best.”

Mateo smiled softly, and placed a hand on Ace’s shoulder. “I know you will.” He took him into a warm hug. “I gotta get to Stonehenge, but be careful. I hear this Omega Gyroscope thing is a real threat to the universe.” And with that, he left.

Not two seconds later, someone else came into the room, and for a moment, Ace couldn’t believe it. Then he recalled Serkan’s advice to act like ya been there, and contained his confusion. It was another Horace Reaver.

Future!Horace reached into his shirt, and retrieved the hundemarke; a special object capable of creating moments in time that cannot be changed via temporal manipulation. He handed it to Present!Horace.

“What am I meant to do with this?” Present!Horace questioned.

Jesi woke up, but just long enough to cry, “throw it in the portal!”

Future!Horace shook his head no. “She’s talking about something else.” Then he just walked out of the room without another word.

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Microstory 1087: Ethel

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Viola and I are not the same thing, but we are similar. I’m not sure how to phrase that sentence, since, to most people, she’s a were and I’m an is. She was born with her own gifts, given to her by one of her parents, but I am the way I am just because. I know you’ve already spoken with Edgar, Carrie, and Earl, but I don’t know how much they told you about that. It was a sickening situation that Viola confided in me about. Edgar suffered from reverse empathy, so that he would always feel the opposite emotion as the people around him. This caused him to develop unhealthy habits, and form urges to hurt people. I always called what I had reverse empathy as well, but it’s a totally different thing. Unlike him, I can’t feel other people’s emotions at all. This does not really mean I don’t have empathy for others, because I can still feel bad for someone who’s going through something terrible, or happy for someone who’s enjoying life. My problem is I have my own emotions to deal with, and until Viola came along, had no way of keeping them in. Before her, whenever I was feeling extreme, I would unwillingly force others to feel the same, no matter what they themselves were dealing with. The stronger my emotion, the worse it was for people around me. Like any child, I used to throw temper tantrums when things didn’t go my way, and instead of being able to handle it appropriately, all I did was make my parents throw their own tantrums. We just kept fueling each other’s anger, and it only subsided for any of us when I tired myself out. The only time my family found any sort of relief from the whirlwind that was me was when I was sleeping.

They eventually caught on that something was wrong with me, and tried to give me drugs to even me out. These drugs made me feel numb, which was completely fine with me, because I did not like the way I made other people feel and act. When I was about seven or eight, though, Viola came to my house to announce to my parents that I would be ceasing all medication immediately. She would instead treat me, so that I could learn to control my effect on others myself, and not need any external help. Of course, they argued that what she proposed didn’t make any sense, but they were also concerned about stopping medication so suddenly. She claimed to be able to diminish any withdrawal symptoms I might experience, and once she showed this to be true, they were convinced that I really could help. She came over everyday for months, inducing various emotions, and training me to overcome my body’s instinct to spread them. When she wanted to switch me to a different emotion, she would first touch my temples, and send me these beautiful images of twinkling lights, which she called neural palate cleansers. She wasn’t just helping me keep my emotions in check, which was what the drugs were doing. She was helping me figure out how to accept whatever it is I’m feeling at any moment, but express it responsibly, and not alter other people’s brain chemistry at the same time. Even after our training sessions were over, and I was capable of controlling my—you could call it an ability, though I certainly wouldn’t—she continued to hang out with me. A lot of people are sad that she’s gone, because it’s sad when anybody dies. But I know Viola, and I can tell you that she’s not really gone. Power like that doesn’t just go away. Her soul lingers on this plane, and I know this for a fact, because I can still feel her.

Microstory 1003: Louise

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I would like to thank you for doing this at my home. Ever since it happened, I have just been unable to return to school. Mommy and daddy says I have anxiety, so I’m taking these pills, which make me a little loopy. Would you like something to drink? I have tea, or just hot water. What did you want to ask me? Viola, right. Well, you know I always felt quite close to her, even though she probably wouldn’t have called us friends. I suppose you could say we were kindred spirits. She had an excellent sense of style, just like me. We listened to all the same music, and. [...] Sorry, was I saying something? Viola, yes. What a lovely young woman. Daddy always wanted me to end up with someone like her, but I admit, I’m more into the edgy girls. Don’t get me wrong, she was a wild one, when she let her inhibitions go. I saw her at a party once. Dancing all over the couches and coffee table, pretending that the floor was lava. Granted, this was at a sleepover when we were in first grade, but she hasn’t lost that spark, ya know? Or I guess, she hadn’t, until...ya know. Oh, tea’s ready. Where was I? Viola, of course. Her death had a really big impact on me. When something like that happens, it just really makes you take stork [sic] of your life. We’re all gonna die one day, and there’s nothing we can do about it. She was a lovely young woman, though, and didn’t deserve to leave this plane of existence so young, and so gruesomely.

Did you hear the rumors about how they found her? This abandoned building on the edge of town, covered in—oh, I tremble at the thought. If you ever find my body like that, please clean me up, and move me somewhere more proper, like The Alston. That’s such a nice place; both my parents are members, as are Viola’s. I saw her there a few times, and we would play this game where I would try to talk with her, and she would pretend I wasn’t there. Just like at that party, she was always using her imagination. We can all learn a lot from Viola; from her life, not her death. She was kind to everyone, except maybe me. How’s your tea? What was I talking about? Viola, indeed. Why, that sounds like the title of a television show. Viola, Indeed. Wednesdays at nine. Or perhaps Indeed, Viola. I’m still working on it. I’m afraid I lost myself again. These pills have really done a number on me. Sometimes I dream that I’ve flushed them all down the toilet, but then I wake up and realize that would be impossible, so I take another two and forget about it. I’m really only meant to take one a day, but I’m twice as anxious as my doctor thinks. Back on track, Louise, get back on track. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t as nice of a person as everyone makes her out to be. She was cold and dismissive of me, for no reason. We had so much in common—we were both rich—so we should have been friends. I never did understand what she didn’t like about me. Don’t get any bad ideas, I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. Unlike some of my more...suspicious classmates—no offense—I believe they caught the murtherer. Murther most foul, that was. Or is it fowl? Which is birds, and which is bad things. I can never remember. How’s your tea? Where is your tea? Did I not give you tea? Where’s my tea? The whole pot is missing. Another mystery for Blast City’s finest.

Microstory 978: Chocolate

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I just took a big sniff inside my bottle of melatonin, because it smells like chocolate. I didn’t know this brand did that to their product, so I certainly didn’t buy them for that reason. They don’t even advertise the smell, which is weird. My allergies, made it so it would take me weeks to realize what the scent even was. The reason I do this every night is because smell is surprisingly well-associated with memory; better than most other senses. Even sight can’t compete in some respects. I worry about forgetting that I’ve already taken my medicine, and overdosing, so I have to find ways of reminding myself, which makes me wonder why pharmaceutical companies don’t do this with all of their pills. They want people to take them, right? So make it worth their while. Anyway, it’s probably not a shock to you that I love chocolate. Bear with me while I go off on a tangent. I just got in an argument with someone on Twitter today who absolutely could not understand why I could possibly have the audacity to not like sports. He just couldn’t fathom it, I mean it has everything. If you’re looking for entertainment, sports is the best, and personal preference doesn’t exist. Everybody likes sports, and anyone who doesn’t has a severe—and likely terminal—medical condition, and is missing something in their life. We shall never know happiness. We shall never know peace. My point is that we all like different things, but I’m notably irregular. I like disco, I hate Star Wars; I listen to Selena Gomez and The Offspring; and I don’t really enjoy eating food all that much. One thing I do like to eat, however, is chocolate...just like everybody else. You see, chocolate isn’t like sports. Chocolate is perfectly tailored for human consumption (once processed appropriately). The reason anything tastes good at all is because our ancestors needed to know what foods were safe to eat, and which were not. When I say ancestors, I’m talkin’ way, way back. This is how organisms have survived for literal aeons. Chocolate is very good, and nature wants us to know that, as does evolution. I don’t go one day without eating the stuff, I like it so much. Almost all of the various protein and granola bars I eat include them as a significant ingredient, so I’ve been living like this for years. I try not to be too much like you neurotypicals, but I cannot resist the chocolate. Huh. I guess I do have a medical condition.

Microstory 925: Nanotechnology

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Let me start this off by explaining that nanotechnology does not exclusively deal with teeny tiny robots. Those are a big [sic] part of it, but they don’t tell the whole story, and are only being studied in some of the fields that can benefit from the subject as a whole. Nanotech refers to the manipulation of technology at nanometer scales, which can still always be incorporated into larger devices, like your phone. There’s this concept known as Moore’s Law, and in order to stop this from getting too technical, it basically means that computer processors are getting smaller and smaller all the time. Nanotechnology allows us to get so incredibly small that, not only can your phone itself be smaller, but it can be more powerful, allowing you to perform more complex tasks, faster. But again, that’s not all there is. Nanomedicine will do wonders for the development of cures for an array of diseases. You see, when it comes to your body, it’s all about the processes happening at miniscule scales, in the background, that you aren’t even conscious of. Little cells are floating around you, interacting with each other, and foreign objects, and performing the duties they’ve been programmed to carry out. This is what allows us to fight off diseases, while at the same time, it is the exploits in these microscopic systems that allow pathogens to take advantage of us in the first place. Our microbiome is under constant external threat, and certain cells are consistently required to learn to deal with dangers they’ve never seen before. But what if we could subvert all that? What if, when a new disease comes along, artificial cells could be the ones to attack the invaders, and heal the patient, just by more efficiently mimicking cells that evolved to do that for you. Highly specialized superserums can be injected in the early days, but as technology marches on, we will one day just have an army of these nanoregulators inside of us that can be updated over the air at the click of a button. You can request new resistance using an app on whatever device people are using in those days, or maybe there will be some central server that blasts a security patch to everyone all at once. Of course this all comes with risks.  What if someone figures out how to hack this? What can they program your system to do against your will? How far can they go? Can they order your body to literally start attacking itself? Can patches be reversed, or otherwise corrupted? What long-term effects would this regimen have on your system? Could it have a negative impact on your body’s natural functions, or those of your descendants? I don’t claim to have all the answers, which is why I love that thousands—maybe millions; what do I know?—of people are all working together to figure this all out before anything bad happens.