Microstory 2092: I’m Finally Back Home

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I’m profoundly tired today, as I’ve been for the last week. Or rather, I guess I’ve been tired for weeks, haven’t I, because of the parasite? It’s been taking a lot of energy from me, which should have been my first indication that something was wrong, even if I really did believe that I was an alien from another universe. I can’t eat enough, and I can’t sleep enough. Today is different, though. I’ve been released from the hospital specifically because the parasite has been vanquished, but it was just a hard day, so all of those kinds of symptoms are still around, just now for different reasons. Before I could be released, I had to meet with all sorts of people; I can’t even name them all. Doctors, nurses, a patient advocate (who was more advocating for the hospital). The pharmacist came upstairs to tell me how the drugs that they had prescribed me worked, so that was nice of her. At some point, a class of med students showed up, but they didn’t spend very much time with me, since it was my last day. Not everyone who came in was good. Two lawyers snuck into my room in case I wanted to sue my boss. I’m not entirely sure how they found out about what happened, but I don’t appreciate my private story being—oh, wait, I’m the one who told them, aren’t I? I’ve been telling my story this whole time on this blog, inviting all sorts of characters to come into my life, and give me their two cents. That’s okay, I could sure use the money, right? Anyway, I’m finally back home, and about to go to bed. I have to set my alarm every hour and a half to take my medicine. It’s going to be hard to get real sleep, but as I’ve already said, I don’t have to go back into work anymore, so I guess I’ll just stay here until I end up with a total of eight hours.

Microstory 2091: Sometimes, Stuff Just Happens

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One thing I failed to mention in my last post is that the infection that messed with my mind didn’t just make me think that I was a traveler from another world with the power to destroy cosmic portals. My entire reasoning for doing so was flawed. My co-worker went missing, and the idea that something supernatural was going on with that buried itself into my brain alongside the parasite. I started imagining other disappearances in order to justify my own obsession with it. No one else has gone missing since. Well, I mean, of course they have; people go missing every day... Or, actually, do they? Maybe this universe isn’t interesting enough for things like that to happen. No, I’m slipping again. This is my world, and it’s the only world. There are no others; I have to keep reminding myself of that. The hospital has insisted that I stay here one more night, to make sure that the chemicals that poisoned my mind are completely flushed from my system. I need to make sure I don’t say things like that, so they don’t think I’ve backslid. I’m not going to delete the sentence above, though, because I want to be honest, and show them my integrity. I made another mistake, and I’ll own that. I’ll own all of my mistakes, and I think that everyone should try to live their lives like that. My boss has admitted her own, though I’m not sure that any of it is here fault. She feels bad that I was infected at her nursery, and she may or may not be worried that I’ll sue her for negligence, or something like that. I don’t want to do that, though. I just want to get healthy, and move past this. Everyone reacts differently to the world around them, and I’m the only one who was negatively affected by the parasite. Who knows how many people go home from there with terrible allergic reactions, but never make the connection, because sometimes, stuff just happens. Still, she’s done a nice thing by paying me for the week that I missed as a result of my illness, as well as this current week, even though I won’t be attempting to go back, and in fact, will never be able to work there again. I am unmatched to the environment, and will need to find a job elsewhere. I really appreciate her doing that for me, though, so I can stand a little on my own feet until I do find something else. Obviously, I’ve put all plans for major purchases on hold, which means until later to the bike, the apartment, and my own computer. I’m still grateful to my landlord too, who has stood by me throughout all of this. She’s the one who got me the medical attention that I needed, and I’ll never be able to repay her for it. As soon as I get out of here, though, I’m going to find a new job, and start trying.

Microstory 2090: Still Delusional

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The doctor is allowing me to write one blog post, assuring my readers that I am not an alien from another universe, and everything I’ve been posting this year has been an attempt to make myself seem more interesting, and gain followers. I was born to this world, just like everyone else. Everything that I have been doing for the last few days has been the result of an illness that I experienced from the nursery. Earlier this year (when I came to town, but not when I first came to this planet, because I was born on this planet) I got sick from a virus. As I was recovering, I got a bacterial infection. More recently, due to my exposure to certain plants where I work, I contracted a parasitic infection. Of course, other people were exposed to the same thing, but I was immunocompromised, so it hit me harder. If I were still delusional, I may tell you that I believe I was indeed infected by a parasite, but that the main reason I was susceptible was because I’m originally from another Earth, where we don’t necessarily have such parasites. Now I know I’m not. I’m from here, and I’m being treated right now. I should be back to myself in no time, and no longer have the compulsion to go to random points on the map to destroy portals to other worlds. I’m sorry for anyone who has been worried about me. I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I was sick, and not in my right mind. I trust my doctors, and I know that they have my best interests at heart. Once I’m released from the hospital, my landlord says that I still absolutely have a home to go back to. Unfortunately, I will no longer be able to work at the plant nursery. It’s too dangerous for me. My weakened immune system may be a permanent issue. There is no way to know yet. My support system, though, which includes my soon-to-be-ex boss, is stronger than ever. They have all promised to help me find something better; maybe something with conditioned air. I don’t know what that could be. Since I’m not actually from another universe—where I had a life for three decades—I don’t have any work experience to speak of, so what even am I qualified for? I guess that’s a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, I just need to sleep, and let the medicines do their job. I’m glad to finally be getting better. Thank you all for being patient and understanding with me as I navigate this difficult time.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: September 16, 2398

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All hell broke loose, and so did the two prisoners still left inside the SD6 blacksite. Rothko Ladhiffe, in Alt!Mateo’s body, figured out how to get his powers back, though they still don’t know how he did it, or what took him so long. It had been a few weeks since they gave him what they believed would be just another perfectly harmless flashlight. The man is not well, and they were just trying to keep him comfortable while they decided on a more permanent solution. They are not the time police, and he is not their responsibility. Neither is this Meredarchos fellow, now in Andile’s body, who evidently came from another universe. That’s about all they have been able to learn about him. When Rothko blasted his way out of the facility, he damaged enough of the building to collapse it in on itself, which provided Meredarchos with enough space to escape too. He will be harder to find, because they don’t know where he might go. Rothko, on the other hand, is completely predictable.

Fancying himself a superhero, he literally flew out of the rubble. As near as Leona can guess, Rothko Torches have the ability to teleport and accelerate particles of light, and possibly other things, turning them into extremely powerful rocket nozzles for their size. He obviously overestimated his ability to control the damn things, and fell to his death instead. But Alt!Mateo can’t die. Whenever he gets close, the time gods transport him back to where he’s supposed to die in an earlier timeline. It doesn’t happen there either, though, because a time mirror is waiting underneath him, so he falls back through, and returns to the Third Rail every time. That’s why Alt!Mateo and Leona Reaver had to escape their substrates, and transfer to new ones. At some point, the mirror trick is going to stop working, be it naturally, or following human intervention. They are not safe bodies to be in, but Alt!Mateo’s had at least one more life in it, because Rothko has landed exactly where they expected, in that unremarkable parking lot in Crown Center.

“Oh, uhh...hi.” Rothko stands, and looks at the small crowd. He reaches up to feel for what’s around his neck.

“That collar absorbs temporal energy,” Ramses warns. “If you try to use your powers, it will all just go in there, and be neutralized.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“You escaped from prison,” Mateo explains.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Rothko is still looking right at Ramses.

Ramses clears his throat. “You’re unwell, and a danger to yourself and others. We’re here to take you to a new facility. It will be safer, and you won’t have any flashlights. You won’t have any lights at all. They’ll be situated outside of your cell, and come in through windows near the ceiling. You have lost the weirdest privilege ever, the ability to control how bright it is.”

“It’s not a weird privilege,” Mateo counters. “It’s just weird to lose it.”

“Whatever.”

“Wait. What if I gave you information?” Rothko pleads.

“What could you possibly give us?” Mateo asks.

“How do you think I broke out? Could I have done it on my own?”

“Shut up!” Ramses presses a button on his remote, sending an electrical shock to Rothko’s collar that’s strong enough to knock him to the ground.

Mateo and the four SD6 guards stare at him.

“He was...he was, ya know...”

“Gonna blow your cover?” Mateo guesses.

“What are you talking about?”

Mateo teleports away briefly, and then comes back, but this time behind Ramses. He wraps the prototype of the collar around his neck. It works all right, but there appears to be a limitation to how much temporal energy it can absorb, which the real Ramses found unacceptable, so that’s why he built the model that Rothko is wearing. Hopefully it will be good enough for now. “What did you think was gonna happen here, that Rothko was just gonna keep his mouth shut?”

“What are you talking about?” Erlendr whines.

“Save it, I know who you are. You people think I’m so stupid, but I have a lot of life experience now that I didn’t have before.”

“Mateo, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m your best friend, you can trust me.”

“Oh my God, why are you so bad at this? Is it because you’re so used to being the most powerful person in the room that you get lazy about tricking people? You don’t sound like Ramses at all. You’ve been weird since we tried to switch your bodies.”

Erlendr knows he’s been caught. “You didn’t try to switch our bodies. You tried to trap me in the Insulator!”

“Instead, he’s there, and you’re still in there.”

“Oh no, he’s in here too. When you switch bodies with someone, you don’t have access to their thoughts and memories, but when you share a mind—Mateo, I could tell you things...”

“I don’t care. When Leona gets back from trying to find the other prisoner, she’ll help us put everyone where they belong. I might even stick you in Leona Reaver’s body after all, and then let you die in her timeline in her place.”

“It’s impossible,” Erlendr claims, shrugging Ramses’ shoulders. “It’s a loop. He’ll always end up here.” He looks over at one of the guards. “Go ahead and shoot him. He’ll disappear at the last millisecond, and be back totally fine tomorrow. You can shoot this Mateo too. He can’t die either. Wink,” he says with a wink.

“Come on,” Mateo says, starting to escort Erlendr and Ramses to the prisoner transport van. Two of the guards help Rothko off the ground, and follow.

“Wait, what if I gave you information?” Erlendr echoes Rothko’s words from before.

“Ha! Haven’t heard this joke before. Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“We talked on the inside, while I was still in Trina’s body.”

“You and Rothko,” Mateo assumes.

“Yes, but also with Meredarchos.”

“He was several stories below you, there’s no way.”

“He doesn’t need a voice to talk,” Erlendr insists, stopping at the steps up to the back of the van. “He has psychic abilities. Now, they’re suppressed while he’s in this reality—or else he would have taken over the whole world by now—but since I have a history of telepathy too, we can connect.”

“So you can use your own abilities, which should also be suppressed in this reality, to find him.” Mateo shakes his head. That doesn’t make any sense.

“Not only that, but I’m the only one whose head he can’t get into. Matty, trust me, you don’t want this guy out in the world. He will find a way to get his full power back, and he will destroy everything. It’s what he does. We don’t know why.”

“Why is it that you know so much about the bulk, but you had never heard of the Third Rail?”

“No one calls it that, Matt. Jesus, I just didn’t know your words for it.”

“Uhuh,” Mateo says sarcastically. “Get in the van.” He not so gently helps Erlendr up the steps, and begins to shackle him in place, then watches as the guards do the same to Rothko. This is a huge mess.

“You need me, Mateo!” Erlendr shouts. He keeps repeating that, and similar declarations, after Mateo shuts the doors, and heads for the front. “You need me!”

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: September 15, 2398

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Rothko Ladhiffe wasn’t born evil. He wouldn’t even call himself that now. Maybe he fell off the right path a little bit, but he can get back on if someone would just give him a chance. These people have not done that for him. They trapped him in that glass tchotchke thing, and when he finally got out, he found himself in somebody else’s body. He didn’t ask to be here, and he doesn’t deserve to be locked up in this cell. They don’t even let him out for yard time, what kind of prison is this place?

The door opens. One of the strangers walks in—not a guard who works here, but someone in charge. “Hello, how are you doing today?” he asks.

“I’m not great,” Rothko replies.

The man nods. “It’s a little dark in here. Would you like a flashlight or two?”

Asshole. “I’m not crazy. I’ve transformed flashlights into powerful tools before. I can do it again. I just need the right model.”

“Oh, Mister Ladhiffe, I know all about your chosen one powers, believe me.”

“Who are you?”

“You know me, Rothy. We’ve whispered to each other, through the vents.”

Rothko thinks about it, trying to remember. “Belinder?”

“Close enough.”

“You were a little girl.”

“Not anymore.”

“You went back to your old body? How did you find it? Can you find mine?”

Belinder rolls his eyes. “This isn’t my real body. I stole it from someone else.”

“Oh.” Rothko frowns. “So you can’t help me.”

“I didn’t say that. Like I was saying, you’re a chosen one, which makes you special beyond special. Your mind has the power, not your body. The reason these flashlights aren’t working for you is because you’re in the wrong reality. There’s something here suppressing your power.”

“Can that be fixed?”

“Yes.” He takes a syringe out of his pocket. “With this.”

Rothko gulps. “Is it gonna hurt?”

“A little, I guess. It’s a needle, man, man up.”

“What exactly does it do?”

“It’s a concentrated elixir of temporal energy, which will activate your powers, and allow you to break out of here.”

“Why don’t you just hold the door open for me?”

“I can’t blow my cover. Everyone still thinks Ramses is in charge of this body. I need you to wait for about a week. Hide the syringe in the casing of one of your flashlights, and then take it with you, so they never find it.”

“Then where do I go?”

“Find shelter, I know how resourceful you are; surviving on your own on Durus.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Rothko explains.

“I know, but you kinda were, weren’t you? You couldn’t truly trust anyone.”

“How can I trust you?”

“Because I’m giving you the temporal energy.”

“How do I know that that’s what this stuff is? Maybe it’s poison.”

“I’m not breaking you out to help me. I’m just doing it to help you. So inject it ,or don’t, I don’t really care. But wait until next week.”

“Okay.”

Belinder gets up to leave.

“Wait, what if I need to contact you on the outside? I don’t have any money, or anything.”

“I’ll find you, don’t you worry about that.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Rothko smiles softly as he watches the friendly man who used to be a little girl, who used to be a different man, leave his cell. Once he’s alone, he hides himself under the covers and twirls the syringe around in his fingers. He admires it, and gives it a little taste...just plastic. It’s what’s inside that counts. How long did he say to wait? A week? He pulls the covers off his face, and looks around the cell. There’s no calendar on the wall. How the hell is he meant to know when it’s been a week? It could be any minute now. It could be right now. It probably is. He removes the cap of the needle with his needle, and spits it out. He’s always wanted to do that.

It’s hard to describe the feeling of injecting it into his neck. It hurts so good, he wishes he could get more of it. Even without the powers it’s going to give him, he would love it as long as it always felt like this. Energy is right, it surges all over his body like a PG-13 orgasm. He shakes and trembles to make sure that it reaches every corner of his veins. He gets out of bed, and starts to dance around, knocking over some of the flashlights that he has set up. They call these things Rothko Torches, and apparently it doesn’t matter what kind they are. He can transform them all, he just needs to figure out how. He first clears a space in the middle of the cell by moving the flashlights a little closer together. Then he just spins around, letting the light warm his skin, and trying to send energy back down into the beams. The first time he did this, he had no idea what he was doing; it just happened. Now he’s doing it on purpose. Now he really wants it.

He’s starting to think that nothing is going to change when suddenly it does. The flashlights begin to shake. It’s not enough to knock them over, but they feel like they’re about to explode. Afraid of what might happen, and without any other choice, Rothko dives under the bed, taking some of the flashlights with him. He doesn’t want to throw them back, so he desperately switches them off. Seconds later, there’s an explosion. Concrete particulates and dust start flying all around, so he tucks his head in, and shuts his eyes. He’s not sure what’s happening, but not nothin’, that’s for sure.

When the dust settles, Rothko crawls out from under the bed. The flashlights have been destroyed. If the blast itself didn’t burn them out, the falling debris finished them off. He looks up at a clear blue sky; his way to freedom. One of the guards forces his way into the room, and points a gun at him. Rothko takes out one of the surviving flashlights—which should officially be called Rothko Torches now—and sends a photon blast into the man’s chest. He smiles proudly, having not really used one of these things very much before. They were stolen from him shortly after they were created. The guard is out cold, but there will be more. He gathers the surviving torches from the floor, and ties them up in his sheet, also tying it around his neck. He keeps two of them out, so he can use them like Iron Man’s rocket hands. He flies out of the building, whoopin’ and hollerin’ like he’s riding a bomb in a cowboy hat. Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t know how to aim these things. He loses control rather quickly, and starts to plummet to his death, dropping all of the flashlights on the way. He wakes up in a parking lot.

Microstory 1802: A Mother Doesn’t Know

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The end has finally come, and I welcome the relief. The doctors have been keeping a close eye on me for years now, but they can’t stop the inevitable. I have a DNR, and nobody lives forever. I don’t remember how I ended up in this institution, but it was definitely against my will. They keep me drugged up so I can’t think straight, let alone move fast enough to get out of this place. It’s been such sorrowful torture. I would protest against them, but I just don’t have the energy anymore, and haven’t for a very long time. They know this about me. They do that on purpose. They took away my free will, because if I had a voice, people might actually listen to what I have to say. But they can’t have that. No, far be it for me to speak my mind. I’m a crazy person, who no one cares about. I had someone who cared about me, but they took him away. Not the same people, technically, mind you, but close enough. Anybody who works for the institutions of this country, and promotes the oppression of the masses, might as well just be one evil man. I can’t wait to get the hell out of here, and I am well aware that the only way that happens is in a bodybag. The time has almost come; what I’ve been yearning for. This won’t be the first time that I died. I tried to kill myself a few years ago. My son got into an awful mess, and ended up being murdered by a cop. I was foolish to have made my attempt on the day the charity organization would come to deliver meals. He was the only person who ever gave a damn about me, and now he’s gone. What do I have to live for but him? Now this cough has taken me down my final path, and I’ve been letting it happen. They can’t keep me locked up forever, no sir. Now it’s just a waiting game.

I reflect on the decades behind me. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, but maybe that doesn’t always happen automatically. Maybe I have to force it, and expedite the process. I’ll take any advantage I can get. I did my best raising my child, but I could only do so much without his terrible father. Sure, he was the one paying for everything, so I didn’t have to work, but he should have been there. He should have helped teach our son how to be a man. I don’t know how to be a man; I’ve never done it before! Looking back, maybe there were some signs that he wasn’t well, and maybe I should have gotten him some help. But, really, how was I meant to know that his fixation on certain girls in his class was some kind of warning? It didn’t seem weird when these fixations transferred down to new girls. They kept staying the same age, while he grew older. He was very protective of others; I thought it was sweet. He didn’t ever kill any small animals, which everyone says is the behavior you’re supposed to look for. He has absolutely no trouble feeling empathy for people. I mean, when I say these signs were obvious in retrospect, it’s because hindsight is 20/20, not because I think I should have understood what the problem was back then. I couldn’t have known, I couldn’t. He did some bad things when he was older—those cages. He didn’t have to die for it, though, and they certainly shouldn’t have blamed me for it. Like I said, he didn’t ever show any violent tendencies. He truly wanted to help those women, and the situation sometimes just got out of hand. If their own parents had raised them better, perhaps they wouldn’t look so vulnerable. That’s what he was attracted to, but not in a sexual way. He wanted to help them, and I can’t help but be proud of him for that. I know he’s in heaven now, where he belongs, and I know that I’ll soon meet him there...at last.

Microstory 1728: Jim Crow

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Your Honor, my name is Jim Crow. My first name is not James or Jacob, or anything like that. It’s actually Jim. My parents were named Beckett Crowley, and Geraldine Devlin. When they got married, instead of my mother taking my father’s last name, they decided to shorten it to Crow. When they had me in 1984, they named me Jim. Believe me when I tell you that this was no accident, nor coincidence. My parents are two of the most racist people I know, and they knew exactly what they were doing. They believe in white supremacy, and they believe in segregation. They may even believe that all black people should be exterminated. They’ve hinted at such evil thoughts on more than one occasion. I literally witnessed them spitting on a young black girl just because her family wasn’t around, and no one could stop them. When I was a child, my mother told me a story she made up, about how the people of Africa so displeased the Lord that he glued dirt to their skin, and forced them to live in filth from then on. Their skin isn’t black, it’s that there is actual grime all over their bodies. I never bought into it, obviously. Had I grown up during the actual time of segregation, I might have seen no other choice, but I developed my sense of right and wrong during the 1980s. My relatively small city in Maryland was not at all without its racism, but I had something that some people in the past did not. I had Star Trek. I remember seeing Whoopi Goldberg on The Next Generation. Here was this black woman who had standing on the ship...who people trusted, listened to, and cared about. That very night, as young as I was, I thought long and hard about who my parents are, and what they were trying to teach me. I made a conscious decision to reject their hatred, and come to my own conclusions. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of informing my parents of my intentions.

They started to punish me. They withheld dessert, and when that didn’t work, they took away my dinner, and when that wasn’t enough, they stopped letting me have water. They eventually realized I was going to die if they didn’t do something, so they changed tactics. They developed their own Jim Crow laws. I was allowed to eat, but I had to make it myself, and I had to find somewhere else to do it. An old lady lived next door, so she let me use her kitchen. I did try to explain to her what was happening, but she was senile, so she barely understood, and never remembered. She introduced herself to me every day. She wasn’t abusive, but about as racist as my parents, so I didn’t want to spend much time over there. Still, she had a bathroom I could use too, which was nice, because I wasn’t allowed to use mine anymore. Basically what my parents did was show me what it was like to experience segregation. I can imagine the non-racist parents of a racist child doing the same thing to teach them a lesson, but my parents didn’t see it that way. They figured I would grow tired of the restrictions, and finally admit that it was both easier, and better, to be white. Of course, their methods only enforced my conviction that they were completely wrong about everything. When I was seventeen, they started to see that they were losing me, so they maneuvered the legal system, and had me declared unfit for independence. I was a ward of the state for the last twenty years under false pretenses, and it has taken me this long to get out. That, Your Honor, is why I’m only now getting around—as you put it—to changing my name. I haven’t been allowed to until now. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to grant me this.

Microstory 1577: Watching History

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Prompt

My family and I are glued to the screen, watching the horror unfold before our eyes, which we painfully muse will one day demand the majority of pages in history books dedicated to this time period.

Botner

Americans are grasping for answers, finding themselves unable to even form a sense of understanding, let alone a coherent response. The media is seizing upon every small tidbit of information, only to discard it as irrelevant, when in fact the story of this nightmare may not be as complicated as it appears on the surface. The violent tragedy in Aurora, Colorado has become the final straw in a series of extremely divisive and emotionally charged social debates, from gun control to the treatment of those with mental illnesses. Let me be very clear, and as informed as possible. This violence is a hate crime. The perpetrator, [redacted], has a documented history of mental illness and a multitude of anti-social behavior and mental health issues. Additionally, a large number of literature highlighting his mentally ill tendencies. The link between mental health and mass shootings is painfully clear, and is the same in regards to the NPI (National Alliance on Mental Illness).

Conclusion

But let us not use mental health issues cloud and forgive personal accountability. So easy is it to let someone off the hook because there is something wrong with their brain. However, no amount of mental problems will lead someone to immediately, and suddenly, start killing people. Mass murderers are made over time, through years of trying out lesser evils, and not being treated properly. Someone who is like that cannot always seek help, but they must be given this help just the same. It is a systemic problem that can be corrected through social changes, policy updates, and a general sense of duty among all of us. I wasn’t diagnosed with autism until I was twenty-seven years old. My parents could not have understood what was going on with me, but my teachers should have had the training to see the signs, and the tools to seek guidance. I’m fine, I developed coping mechanisms, which have helped me survive, even when I didn’t understand myself. Others are not so lucky. Know this, though: even without the ability to test and evaluate each and every child, we should be more wary of just handing out guns to anyone who asks. At the very least, everyone who tries to buy one should undergo some sort of mental health evaluation. If you are deserving and worthy, then you should have no problem letting such legislation pass. If you think you’ll fail any test that the experts devise, then fail it, you should. That’s sort of the whole point. That’s all I’ll say about it.

Microstory 1341: Bad Thoughts

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New Patient: Where should I sit? Or should I lie down?

Psychologist: You can sit or lie down wherever you like, however you like. That’s why I have so many options. I have one patient who prefers to curl up against the wall, because it makes them feel safer.

New Patient: Okay, thanks.

Psychologist: So, what brings you in today? The way I understand it, you’re having mixed feelings about something?

New Patient: Well, that’s one way to put it. I would describe what I’m experiencing as bad thoughts. I just keep—not seeing things; I don’t have hallucinations—but I have these urges to do things I know are wrong.

Psychologist: Things like what?

New Patient: Well, the other day, the cashier at the grocery store got upset with me, because I’m apparently supposed to scan my rewards card before I pay, so now there was nothing she could do about it. I can’t say that I wanted to do this, but I just had a vision—this flash—where I shoved the card in her mouth, and told her to scan it now. Oh my God, that’s so terrible. I can’t believe I’m telling you this.

Psychologist: That’s okay. This is a safe space. Everything you say is confidential, and I’m not here to judge you. Mine is only to help.

New Patient: I sure hope you can, because this isn’t even the worst example. I can’t explain it. Like I was saying with that one, I don’t have a desire to hurt people, but I can’t help but think of these alternative responses. The normal thing to do is just open the door that’s just been accidentally shut in my face, but a part of me wants to get them back for that; to physically drag them back to the threshold, and slam it in their face too.

Psychologist: So your thoughts are more about exacting justice, or revenge, on people who have wronged you.

New Patient: Yeah, I guess that’s probably an accurate limitation. I don’t walk past someone on the street, and think about randomly slitting their throat. It just seems to bother me more those little annoying things that people do. I mean, I would almost rather just be the kind of jerk who snaps at others, because then at least I wouldn’t be hurting them. I’m worried I’ll one day just lose control, and actually act on these thoughts.

Psychologist: Well, I wouldn’t be worried about that just yet. Simply by acknowledging that these are, and would be, irrational reactions, you’ve taken the first step in changing your perspective.

New Patient: I’ve just never been like this before. I grew up totally fine, but now it’s all I can think about, at least for a few moments after something frustrating happens to me. It’s making it hard to focus on everything I need to do.

Psychologist: There’s probably some reason it’s happening now. When people change their moods like that, it’s usually due to newer, stressful situations. Let’s talk more about who you are, what you do, and what has changed in your life recently that could cause you to feel a little more temperamental than before.

Microstory 1199: Nadia Dupond

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Nadia Dupond was so excited to finally move out of her parents’ house, and into her own place. She had just spent four years after college, trying to find a job good enough to allow her to fend for herself. But things weren’t going to go perfectly for her, at least not at first. One night, she was driving home from work when she noticed something strange on the radio. It was broadcasting a show that was clearly from clear on the other side of the country. Well, there must be some logical reason for it, she figured. Maybe they were sister stations, and were just doing some kind of cross-promotional thing. But the more she listened, the stranger it became. After playing another song, the radio personality got back on the mic, and started reading off some of the recent news, which appeared to have taken place about a week in the future. Okay, so not just a bizarre cross-promotion, but it’s also a prank on the listeners. She shrugged it off and moved on with her life, because she had no reason to believe she was in a science fiction movie. But weird things continued to happen to her. She approached her front door, and found it to be both open and closed at the same time. Seeing one state was like adjusting her eyes to a different distance, and she could just as easily readjust to see the other state. It smelled of barbecue where there was no barbecue, and it felt like winter in the middle of summer. She expressed her concerns on social media, but deleted it within seconds, worried how people would treat her if she started talking about these things. She thought she was going crazy and/or hallucinating, and probably would have checked herself into some kind of facility had she not made that post. No one who knew what was happening to her would have had any inkling to approach her about it.

That post’s short life on the internet was enough to alert a news-obsessed man, who regularly searched the web for anything that sounded like a time traveler. He generally stuck to the tabloids and obscure local news sources, but he did place some social media alerts for certain keywords. He didn’t know exactly why Nadia was experiencing disjointed time, but he knew what she was; either a choosing one, or a salmon. He made sure she acknowledged that the things she was sensing were very real, perfectly normal for their kind, and probably not going away. Her best bet was to practice what she could do, so she could do it at will, rather than at inopportune or dangerous times, like while driving. As it turned out, she was capable of seeing, hearing, smelling, feeling, or even tasting different points in time, but not space. Radio waves could subvert the spatial component since they’re always in motion, but they were practically impossible to control, so this exception wasn’t much use to her. Any and all of the past and future could converge upon her, so she needed to be able to filter out what she wanted to receive, and what she needed to leave when and where it was meant to be. The first person to contact her about this could only do so much to help her. He wasn’t a doctor, or an expert of any kind, but he did know other people like them, so he made some introductions. That was sort of how it worked. Once you met one, you could eventually gain access to anyone else. With the help of others, Nadia continued to learn about her time powers, and learn to control them. While she had chosen to pursue a pragmatic career, she was always interested in history, and this was her chance to explore that side of her. She eventually quit her job, and focused exclusively on her new role. Other time travelers can go witness historical events, even from the safety of an observation dimension, to prevent interference. Nadia, however, can watch history unfold over time; fastforwarding and rewinding as needed. She started taking on more responsibility as she got better with her powers, and ultimately came to be known as The Historian.

Microstory 1137: Mikilos Sparacello

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If you’re living in the 21st century, chances are, you know a criminal. You may even be one. I don’t mean you know a serial killer or rapist, but lots of people have swiped a couple pens from work, or downloaded a movie from an illegal site. If you’re living in the 22nd century, you probably don’t know a criminal, though you may have heard of them. By the time the 23rd century rolls around, though, it’s statistically negligible that you’ve ever been anywhere around a criminal, unless you’re old enough to remember the old ways. Money is gone, poverty is gone. Healthcare is free. Nobody needs to work. If you want to watch a movie, or listen to some music, check the archives; literally everything is on it. There are no competing services, or paywalls. You need a new chair? Stores don’t exist anymore, but there’s a really great inventorium that has all kinds of customizable models, which are manufactured through automation. Equality has become so ubiquitous that the idea of doing something illegal is difficult for most to fathom, because the only crimes that are left in this world are the really bad ones. One of the biggest problems society still faces is mental illness. Any physiological disease has a cure, or at least a treatment. Scientists may not know what it is, but they know there’s an answer. The means of handling a psychological condition is much more complicated. If you manage to diagnose the right illness, is it really an illness? Does the patient want to change? If so, in what way? At what point can you determine that they’re a danger to others, and you have to intervene, whether they want you to or not? How far are you allowed to go in that intervention? Remember, people are a lot harder to kill these days. What with the longevity escape velocity, transhumanistic upgrades, and pervasive surveillance, getting away with a crime, diagnosis or no, is practically impossible. Letting a mentally unstable individual return to their life untreated is easier to justify—or rather, it’s harder to justify not letting them go—when the harm they can inflict upon others is so much less of a concern than it was back in ancient times, like, say 2019. This approach to mental health is not without its risks, but all that surveillance makes privacy a lofty promise that the world leadership would never be able to accommodate, so freedom is that much more important to grant, and fight for.

There was one man who refused treatment for his psychological problems, and went on to attempt to kill another, just to see if he could. His plans were thwarted by the Last Savior of Earth, and he was caught by the authorities, but his legacy lived on beyond the confines of time and space. As the last person to be saved by Étude Einarsson, Mikilos Sparacello was in even more danger than he ever could be at the hands of the sick killer. Time travelers from all over wanted to come and see if they could get close enough to finish the job. It was suddenly brought to the surface just how much violence there was in the time traveler underworld. Seeing that he would never be safe, the planet of Dardius decided to try and rescue Mikilos from the constant onslaught of hopeful assassins. What started out as nothing more than a hotel for humans whose lives had been put in danger by time travelers, had by then grown into a magnificent civilization, with billions of people, spanning all continents of the planet. The reason the wannabe killer chose Mikilos was that he didn’t think anyone would miss him. So when Dardius offered to protect him in a galaxy far, far away, it was an easy decision. He figured he could live anywhere, so he might as well accept. He assumed he would be able to blend into society, and not make any waves, but his fame and popularity followed him across the void, and before he knew it, he was being appointed Vice Patronus over the whole world. He was tasked with fighting the war against the capitalistic Freemarketeers, and maintaining policy when the Patronus, Mateo Matic wasn’t in the timestream. A few years later, when Mateo left the galaxy, and returned to his family, Mikilos had to take a more significant leadership role. When elections rolled around soon thereafter, many wanted him to run for Patronus, but not everyone. And he would have to decide for himself which side he thought had the right idea.

Microstory 1049: Shea

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I’m going to tell you my story about Viola, but you’re not going to believe it. You’ve probably heard a lot of miraculous stories about the supernatural things she’s done, but all of them pale in comparison to what she did for me. All of those other things can be explained away. I remember what happened to Warren and the poison sumac when we were younger. That traumatic experience might have changed him for the better. It doesn’t mean she magically transformed his core personality. I know that it did, but it can’t be proven. But six years ago, she healed me in a way so literally that no amount of rationalization can deny it. I actually do have proof. See this here? And this? And these? There’s a reason why I wear long sleeve shirts, even in the summer. I had to suffer through a meeting with my parents, my pastor, my gym teacher, and both principals, to have myself excused from class. I substituted it with rigorous coursework on the history of health and fitness. In a small town, people talk, but no one talked about why I didn’t have to take gym with everyone else, and I’m convinced that that was just one more thing Viola did for me. These scars are not from an accident. They are the result of a heinous act of rageful violence, from an older boy we all now realize was very mentally unstable.

I don’t remember everything from the first day, but I remember her rushing into the room, as if someone had warned her what he was trying to do to me. I never saw her face rightside up, but I remember watching her walk straight up to him with no fear. He was prepared to use force against her as well, but she simply placed her three middle fingers on his forehead, and he fell to the floor. I thought she had somehow killed him, with, like, a poison needle, or something. But it turned out she had just made him go to sleep. Like you, I dismissed this as an exaggerated memory of the ordeal. I didn’t tell anyone what I saw, mostly because my mind was kind of focused on other things at the time, like the invasive rape kit I was in the middle of getting. Three months later, the boy I won’t do the honor of naming, was out of the treatment facility. The judge didn’t feel it was right for him to have to serve any more time than that for a wee little mistake. Well, it’s true, he didn’t rape me again, and as far as I know, he didn’t do it to anyone else either. He did, however, try to kill me in anger. He used a lawn mower, which is why I was hurt in so many places, all over my body. The only reason he didn’t get my face is because he accidentally let go of the safety lever. Once again, she was there. This time, she didn’t take any chances. She placed both hands on his head, and he hasn’t woken up since. The wounds opened me up good, and I should be dead right now, but she wiped them closed, like they were nothing more than packing tape that needed to be flattened out. She told me she could get rid of the scars in a couple weeks, but lots of people had seen them by then, and I didn’t want to expose her. We came up with the lie that when she found me, she drove me to a hospital several towns over, so I wouldn’t run into anyone I know, but that is a lie. And the only reason people believed the lie is because the truth is even crazier. A lot of people owe that woman a lot, but I owe her everything. I only wish I could do what she could. I would have used those powers to bring her back.

Microstory 986: UBI Trials

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In the early days, everyone was responsible for themselves, and their family. But our ancestors quickly realized how much safer life was when groups of families stuck together. Many traits humans carry today were formed thousands of years ago to promote survival. We use it for slapstick comedy now, but there’s a very good reason why seeing someone throw up makes you throw up. Involuntary vomiting is a result of bad food, so when it happened to one tribe member, those whose gag reflexes were triggered had a better chance of surviving, thereby passing on their genes. The ones who weren’t triggered to vomit as well, may have died of whatever poison was in the food, and never had children. Even yawning is believed to be have some sort of tribal evolutionary component, which would explain why it’s so fascinatingly contagious. So believe me when I tell you I understand why our predecessors chose capitalism. Their best means of survival was to distribute skill across the population. It was impractical for every single person to know how to make pelts, and cook, and hunt, and gather, and so on. Giving everyone a responsibility to focus on allowed our species to develop at a phenomenal rate. This has served us well, on the whole, for all this time. The best thing it’s done for us was to get us to a point of technological achievement so great, that we will soon no longer need to work at all. We have been unfortunately indoctrinated by society to believe we must work forty hours a week to be fulfilled. As an autistic person, I find it incredibly grating when I hear someone in the elevator talk about how it’s not yet Friday, or if it is Friday, how great it is that it’s Friday. As the song goes, everybody’s working for the weekend. So I know you don’t actually like your work, which is why it’s so baffling how fundamentally invested you are in it. I do my job so I can make money. I don’t personally care whether my clients get their pieces of mail. Why would I? It has nothing to do with me. If they stopped paying me, I would stop doing it.

A bunch of smart people out there have come up with brilliant alternatives to work, and these new plans are being tested in trials all over the world, as we speak. Money has no real value, which is why we call it a fiat. In our country, it used to be backed by gold, but even gold doesn’t have as much value as we think. The market is based on whatever arbitrary value we place on things, and it changes all the time. Gold has many uses. It’s probably in your phone. But it’s also in your jewelry, and jewelry doesn’t do anything. The only true commodity on the entire planet is labor. Everything comes down to labor, so what do we have if we get rid of that? You may think nothing, but in reality, it’s everything. A lack of work would allow us to explore hobbies. I would probably take up painting, even though I’ve never really tried it. I would go backpacking, and skiing, and I would write more. What would you do with your time if you didn’t spend twenty-six minutes commuting to work, eight hours working, an hour at lunch somewhere necessarily close to work, and twenty-six more minutes going home? Automation will allow us to receive the same benefits that human labor does today; more even. This automated labor will generate revenue for large corporations, and since those corporations don’t have to pay their workers, they’ll be expected to contribute to a government fund. The wealth from that fund will be redistributed to all citizens; possibly with variable conditions, like age or lawfulness. We can do this, but we’re going to need a dramatic shift in the general psyche. The 40-hour work week did not become standard in this country until 1938, and there is no reason to not lower it again. Studies have suggested shorter working hours would help stave off climate change, actually increase gross domestic product, and lower suicide rates. I know you’re all real big on fixing mental illness, since that’s the only reason for gun violence. I would like to say thank you to everyone who has created, or participated in, a universal basic income trial. Even when it doesn’t work, we learn valuable data, so we can institute something ubiquitous. I fear that, if we don’t ever do this, then we will all perish, and leave this world to talking sea otters.

Microstory 985: The FBI

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One thing you may not know about me is that I’m very wary of law enforcement. The idea of it seems reasonable; I even wanted to be a policeman when I was quite young. You might have heard of something called the Myers-Briggs Personality Test, but there’s also the lesser known version called the Keirsey Temperament Sorter. I prefer the latter, because it better categorizes personalities according to how people behave—rather than simply how they feel internally—which I find to be a more practical use of the test. I tested into the Protector temperament, which correlates to ISFJ. I get how important it is that we have people who are responsible for the safety of others. So, as I said, the idea makes sense, but there are two fundamental problems that arise from it; the corrupt justice system as a whole, and the corrupt individual actors. The system is designed to punish offenders for their crimes, and once that has been accomplished, they can be sent back into the world with almost nothing. Then when they’re busted for further crimes, they’re punished again, so the vicious cycle can continue until they either die, or commit such a terrible offense that they’re never released again. Few come out of prison both better people, and with the tools they need to enact their new philosophy by contributing positively to society, which is now how it should be. In all the centuries we’ve been doing this, you would think we would have caught on by now to the fact that punishment absolutely does not work. The name of the game is rehabilitation. That’s what gets people to stop coming back for more. Some people are born with certain psychological issues that cause them to want to hurt others, while some people develop these tendencies later. I’m no doctor, nor psychologist, so I can’t tell you how to help those ones, but I can tell you that the majority of offenders do so out of, if only by their own perception, necessity. Poor people steal, because they don’t already have what they need, and they’re expected to live like that without complaining. The American Dream gets touted around as if everyone here has equal opportunity to better themselves, and too much privilege prevents the elite from recognizing, if they were to care, that the American Dream is actually total bullshit. Outside of the mentally ill, nearly all crime would go down to negligible numbers if money didn’t exist. If every citizen was given a baseline amount of food, water, shelter, and protection, they wouldn’t need to steal, or find unhealthy ways of protecting themselves.

As we see all over the news, dirty cops are a problem that’s either growing, or we’re hearing about it more than before, but regardless, it has to stop. We have to stop shooting innocent people for the crime of existing while black, and we have to penalize these heinous crimes with the same response we give to murder. Any other individual kills someone, and we send them to jail, but if a cop does it, suddenly everything is what they in the business call a “good shoot”. This all being said, I believe that our system can improve, as can similar agencies around the world. I often find myself defending people or institutions that I never thought I would. I had no strong feelings about Taylor Swift until Kanye West disrespected her so thoroughly on national television. And now I feel the need to express my gratitude for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The point of law enforcement is to investigate, and appropriately act upon crime. The first mandate is important, because if we only worried about a crime that’s proven simply by a miraculous and unprovoked confession, then the country would be more crime than non-crime. The FBI has to investigate foreign interference in our elections, and King Dumpster’s ties to Russian espionage, before they prove that the connection exists. You can’t just dismiss that investigation because you don’t like the idea that you voted for a Russian asset. When confronted with this possibility, Trump-voters react one of two ways: straight up denial, or a complete 180 degree shift from their original position with an endorsement of these activities. It’s absurd how literally the exact same people who were distrustful of all Russians due to the cold war are suddenly, not just indifferent to Russian influence, but completely on board with it. You can’t call yourself a patriot while promoting treason against your own nation, and I’m not sure I can make that reality any clearer. Thank you, Robert Mueller and team, for your integrity in the face of internal adversity, and your persistence toward discovering the truth, even if it means that just under half the country voted for a real Russian pawn.