Extremus: Year 91

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It has not been easy, but Tinaya and Arqut have gotten through the loss of their son, and the sudden introduction of an alternate version of him. What he did cannot be undone, so the only choice is to move forward. They held a little funeral for their lost child, and then that night, they shed their last tear for him. A new tear might form itself later, but for now, they’re okay. Though Silveon may now be older than them, for all they know, it’s still their job to protect him. Even if he’s smart enough to navigate the complexities of adulthood, he’s still just a little guy, so if nothing else, he needs them to open cabinet doors, and stuff. Plus, he has to act like a baby around most people.

Tinaya has the day off today, so she’s the one taking him to his playdate. Niobe would normally do it, but she has the day off too as far as her designated guardian duties go. The door opens. “Hello. Calla, I presume?”

A woman in her fifties is standing on the other side of the door in a pink floral robe that’s insufficiently covering up a nightie that is far too revealing. She’s holding something in her hand that Tinaya doesn’t recognize. It’s a small tube that’s glowing orange on one end. She smirks at Tinaya and lifts the tube up to place it between her lips. “It’s called a cigarette. People used to smoke ‘em on Earth. Like this.” She inhales, inducing the glow to brighten just a bit. She then contorts her mouth as she removes the cigarette, and blows the smoke out away from Tinaya and Silveon’s faces.

“I don’t smell it. If it’s smoke...”

“It’s not real.” Calla takes another puff, but covers the tip of the cigarette with her hand, which blocks the holographic light from spreading throughout the area.

“What’s the point?”

“It’s real on the other end,” Calla responds. “Still fucks up my lungs.”

That’s stupid, Tinaya thinks to herself.

“Yeah, it is stupid. But at least there’s no such thing as secondhand smoke on this ship, so you should be grateful. And by the way,” she goes on as she’s stepping aside for them to come in. “I’m not in my fifties.”

Tinaya takes a deep, epiphanic breath. “You’re a psychic.”

“Born and bred,” Calla agrees with a tight voice, which leads to a short coughing fit. “Can’t turn it off. Holo-smoking helps a little. The drinking...helps a lot.” She reaches for a glass of some kind of gross brownish liquid, and downs the rest of it.

“How are you getting away with these things? They’re illegal.”

Calla chuckles as she’s pouring another. “People got secrets. I know they’re secrets.” She offers the drink to Tinaya, then shrugs and downs that one too when Tinaya declines. She pours a third. “I can get away with pretty much anything.” She walks over, and points an accusing finger at Silveon. “As long as this little shit doesn’t fight me.”

“Excuse me?” Tinaya questions as she’s pulling her son away protectively.

“I can’t read his mind,” Calla explains as she’s shuffling away from the two of them. “He must be psychic too, and the best one I’ve ever heard of if he’s already mastered his barriers at his age.”

“What about your son?” Tinaya asks. “What’s he?”

Calla freezes up, and stays there for several seconds before dropping her glass down on the table. She then waits another several seconds. “A bigger shit. Come on. He’s taking a nap, but I can wake him up.”

Tinaya follows her down the hallway after Silveon shuts his eyes, and nods. This is apparently what he wants. But he must be crazy, because not only is this woman the biggest mess she’s ever seen, but the situation with her son is even crazier. “Is this a joke? This is Waldemar? Why, he must be at least eight years old!” The boy is sleeping on his side while a toy soldier operates on its own on his pillow right in front of his face, loudly shooting imaginary enemies.

“He’s ten,” Calla corrects.

“I assumed he was a baby, like Silvy.”

“You think this was my idea? Your niece, or whatever, is the one who brought him.” Niobe knows the truth about Silveon. If she did this, it’s because he asked her to.

Silveon suddenly giggles, and gently slaps Tinaya in her temple. It doesn’t hurt, but she does feel something surge throughout her head. It quickly dissipates.

Calla narrows her eyes, and peers at her. Then she shifts her gaze to Silveon, and back again. “He just put a psychic barrier in your mind.” She once more points at him accusingly, barely holding onto the glass with her remaining fingers. “What are you?”

“He’s my son,” Tinaya declares defiantly. “He’s my baby,” she adds in a softer tone. She adjusts her hold on him against her hip. “I don’t think this is going to work out. I’m sure Waldemar is a very lovely boy—”

“He’s not.”

“Then all the more reason...”

Silveon places his hands against her collarbone, and pushes his face away from her. Even though they’ve not come up with a code for how he can communicate with her while they’re in mixed company, she is absolutely sure that he’s trying to tell her that they need to stay.

“I think he wants to stay.” Calla is interpreting the move the same way apparently.

Tinaya looks at her child with concern on her face. This is obviously part of his mission, and if she holds him back from that, she’ll have lost the younger version of him for nothing. All three of them have sacrificed so much to make this work; four, if they’re counting Niobe. They can’t give up now. She may not know Silveon very well, but no son of hers would have sent his own consciousness back in time just for funsies. It has to be incredibly important that he make the changes to the timeline that he’s surely painstakingly planned out. She switches him to her other hip. “Okay. Well, we’ll be back in twenty minutes. I forgot his favorite stuffie.”

“Whatever.” Calla closes the door. “We’ll be here.”

Tinaya leaves the unit with Silveon, but then teleports back to their stateroom from the hallway. She carefully sets him down on the couch. “Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you warn me?” She paces the room impatiently.

“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Silveon replies. It’s still weird, hearing this little toddler articulate so well. “If Auntie Ni and I had tried to explain it, you would have just shaken your head, and forbade us from going. I need you to understand what we’re dealing with, so you’ll see why there’s no other choice.”

“I don’t know that. I didn’t see that. Nothing about that situation tells me why the hell—!” She stops herself. She shouldn’t be cursing in front of her son.

“It’s okay, mom. I’ve heard worse. I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” She takes one beat. “Are you psychic too? Have you been reading our minds this whole time?”

“No, I can’t read your mind,” he assures her. “Anyone can learn to put up a psychic barrier, and I learned from the best. I had to.”

“Who is Valdemar Kristiansen? Or rather, who does he become?”

“Hopefully nothing,” Silveon says.

“You’re here to assassinate him? Is this you trying to subvert the Hitler's Time Travel Exemption Act?”

Silveon laughs. “No. I’m not here to hurt anybody, mother.”

She keeps pacing for a little while in silence. “Why you? He’s eight years older, and no one can take you seriously yet. Why did they choose you to do this?”

Silveon smiles kindly. “No one chose me. I didn’t even volunteer. I’m the one who realized what needed to be done. I came up with the idea, I made the plan, and I’m following it through. I had help, but this isn’t a large operation. I might have chosen someone else if I had thought that I could trust them. But if there’s one thing this ship has taught me, it’s that...you can only rely on yourself.”

“I hate that lesson,” Tinaya laments.

“Me too,” he says comfortingly. “Which is why I’m trying to change it.”

“What’s wrong with that woman?” she asks.

“Just what you would think. She hears all the despicable things that people would prefer to keep to themselves. She tries to suffocate and drown them out, but they still leak through, and...”

Tinaya can guess where he’s going with this. “And she can hear her own son’s thoughts. That’s the real problem. He’s the real problem.”

“He doesn’t have to be. I can teach him.”

She has stopped pacing, but she’s looking away now, deep in thought. “Teach me first. Tell me what I need to know about him, and the future, and I will fix him for you. I’m an adult. I’m the Captain! This is no job for a baby.”

“It is, though,” he contends. “It’s not just about knowing what will happen if I don’t help him. It’s about who he’ll listen to. And I’m sorry, but the Captain? You are the last person he’ll listen to. Not everyone respects the chair. Some hate it. Some hate you. He’s the embodiment of all that hate. He absorbs it.” He pauses for a great deal of time. “Literally.”

“So, he is a psychic too?”

“Not in the way that you’re thinking. Look, I’ve already said too much. You really shouldn’t know all this. It’s not your problem. Just pretend to change my diapers, and sign me up for school when I’m older. I’ll handle the rest.”

“Did you have kids?”

“What?”

“Of your own. Did you grow up to have kids? Can you tell me that much?”

“No, I didn’t. I was too busy. I don’t think I could have done this if I had.”

“Then you couldn’t have known that what you’ve asked me to do is impossible. I can’t just let you handle it, no matter how old you are. I will always be your mother, and I will always need you to need me.”

He processes her words, then acknowledges them with a respectful nod.

Tinaya sighs, and looks over at the nursery door. “What’s your favorite stuffie? Or, what do you want it to be? We’ve come up with a cover story, so let’s make it real.”

Silveon smiles. “The fennec.”

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Microstory 2250: Consequences are Inevitable

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It’s Nick. I technically could have written my last blog post, but I wasn’t really feeling up to it, so I asked Kelly to fill in for me again. She’s kept you well up-to-date on everything that was happening with me. We don’t have all the details yet, but from what we gather, a rival of the man who was paying me for my index and bone marrow does not want the procedures to go ahead. Evidently, there’s this whole subsector of research that’s looking into longevity that a lot of people don’t know about. It’s kind of secretive, because progress is slow, so it doesn’t make the companies any money, which can make them skirt the rules sometimes. I was a victim of this hidden war. Everyone working in the field believes that I’m the biggest breakthrough anyone could have had, and the competitors are feeling jealous that he’s the one who got to me first. Well, it looks like my poisoner may have gotten their wish. I seem to have suffered permanent damage from the pesticides that I ingested, which will likely forever contaminate every system in my body. It won’t kill me anytime soon, since we caught it early, but however I die in however many years, it will almost certainly be a contributing factor, like smoking. That’s exactly why I don’t smoke, because the consequences are inevitable, if not apparent. There are some things that I can do to help the situation, like being as healthy as possible for the rest of my life, but there’s no cure, because there’s not really a disease. I suppose I would be all right if I did manage to get out of this universe, and into one that allowed my immortality to flourish. I told you a little while ago about there being a potential way to make that happen, but it would require the aid of other people, and that would require capital. I no longer have that if we’re not doing the surgeries. Don’t worry, the sort of down payment I received is mine to keep. He’s assured me that he won’t be asking for it back. And hey, it might still happen, I need to do more tests in the coming weeks to see if it’s worth it. We’ll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, it may be in my best interests to start looking for a regular job again.

Microstory 2140: Booze and Smokes

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The nurse came by for one more rapid test to make sure that I was fully ready to go into jail today, and be around all of the other guests. The fungus is gone, and I’m fine. That’s not the only bit of good news. In response to my dedication even amidst the infection, and the time that I was in the prison ward, my employer has decided to give me a pay raise. It’s not much, and it probably replaces the merit increase that I would have gotten near the end of the year, but it’s still more money, and I’m happy. I didn’t even think about it. It’s not like I was trying to prove myself to be the best employee in the world. I just didn’t want to lose my job. Who knows how close the runner-up candidate was? They might have decided to cut their losses, and switch to that other person instead, because I’m so much trouble. I honestly thought that it was the bare minimum I could do since I put my bosses in such an awkward position just by applying, but I appreciate the gesture. I’ve had my eye on a few things that could make my life and job easier, like an extra monitor, or comfortable house clothes, so I may indulge now. For the most part, I’m not a big spender, though. I don’t waste it on booze and smokes...like some people. What I often do with extra cash is buy more convenient food, like delivery, as opposed to something I have to prepare myself, like an animal. I should be careful, talking like that. The food in jail won’t be that good, will it? It’s not that bad, though, I’ll be all right. Have a good weekend, but I hope it’s bad after that, I guess?

Microstory 2138: Death More Than Anything

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My therapist read my story yesterday, and became concerned, so she insisted that we have our appointment in person. I wore a mask to protect her from my infection, and we stayed three meters from each other at all times. She came to my apartment, so I wouldn’t have to go out and expose my illness to a bunch of other people on the way. We scheduled it in such a way that the nurse who came by to take my blood at the end of the day was able to take hers as well. I didn’t think that they would be able to test for a pathogen that early after receiving it, but that’s why I’m not a doctor. To be honest, my therapist was a little worried about what I may do to myself. I know, I was saying a lot of dark and sad things yesterday, but I’m not suicidal. I gave up the ability to borrow infinite abilities in order to hold onto one, and it was immortality. I have no desire to die; now, or at any point in the future. If you only learn one thing about me, let it be the fact that I hate death more than anything in the worlds. That is why I hate smokers so much too, because I see them as an extension of death. Whoa, that’s dark, Self. Maybe I’ll work on that with my therapist next week. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore, though. I’ll be all right. I’ll feel better when I get back to jail in a couple days, lol.

Microstory 2127: Too Tired to Relax

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I accepted one of the jobs, and respectfully declined the others. I’ll be working from home, which is something that I always wanted to do before all this time travel and universe-hopping. It saves on gas, and other transportation, and it allows me to work for anyone in the world. I thought I was going to be able to tell you what I’ll be doing, but my employer doesn’t want me to divulge such information. They may allow me to say certain, carefully crafted things at a later date, but for now, I should just treat it as privileged information. They didn’t make me sign an NDA, but I’m obviously going to respect their decision. All I can say is that I’m allowed to work whenever I want unless I’m scheduled for a meeting or a call, and it’s by the week, rather than the day. So if I get all of my work done at the beginning of the week, I can take a couple of days off, and still get paid the same, because I covered my hours, and was sufficiently productive. We’ll see how it goes. Before I left my original universe, people were pushing for a four-day workweek, but I’ve always believed that it would be better to work shorter hours across more days than to get entire days off. I would rather take minimal breaks in between than work my butt off non-stop until I crash on the weekend. I’m too tired to relax at that point, ya know? I know that sounds dumb, but if you’ve ever been there, you understand what I mean. Anyway, most of my last several posts have been on the longer side, so I think I’ll just do a little of that relaxing that I was talking about. I’ll have more to say tomorrow, because my new job isn’t the only thing I have going on. I’m this close to selecting an apartment. I found a nice complex with fully furnished units, but new, so I don’t have to worry about others having gotten their grubby little hands on the furniture—or worse—smoking around it. I’ll still clean everything. I’ll also need to tell you what my therapy was like, because I’m writing this prior to my evening session. I think I’ve already told you that, as a patient, I’m none too worried about the confidentiality of psychological and medical treatment. I expect my provider to respect my privacy, but I’ll say whatever I want about myself, so you’ll be hearing about my progress in the next coming months.

Microstory 2071: Wake Up Clean

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I just reread my post from last week, and realized that I didn’t really tell you anything about myself, since I started going on and on about how the cosmos really works. So let’s do that now, but you still don’t have to read it. I was born in central Kansas, and moved around a lot in my youth. I suppose I moved around a lot as an adult too. I was a quiet kid, and people hated that about me. Have you ever had to deal with someone yelling in your ear incessantly? It’s like that, except I don’t make any noise, and I guess some people perceive that as just as irritating? My incessant silence: it doesn’t hurt your ears, but it hurts your heart, because you have an incessant need for attention, and if you’re around someone who doesn’t give it to you, it feels like dying. I spent many years pretending to be a regular person, and many years afterwards unraveling most of that so that I could become my true self. Then I started to develop my idea of what my best self would be, and tried to work towards that.

Here are a few random facts about me. I’m left-handed. I once knew a guy who was legit mad at me for wearing my watch on my right wrist. I may be left-handed because I was born with an extra finger on my right hand, which jacked up the joints. All of my fingers are crooked, and my hands hurt literally all the time, especially when I use them, which is why it’s so great that I’m a writer, because it doesn’t require the use of hands. I like baby rhinos, and hate pandas. On principle—but not in practical terms—I don’t believe in war, national borders, money, poverty, the inherent value of work, or religion. I think sex work should be legal, and recreational drugs should be illegal. I would rather lose a competition than win it, because it will always be more important to other people, and I don’t want them to feel bad.

Here are a few random facts about you: if you’re a smoker, you’re an idiot, and a bad person. It doesn’t matter what you’ve accomplished, or what your IQ is. Only a total moron would poison themselves on purpose, and only an asshole would do it in a way that potentially causes harm to others. No matter how you die, as long as it’s not an accident or something, the smoke will either cause your death, or exacerbate it. It will never help you, nor remain neutral. There’s no logical reason for it. Some people like you, and some don’t. No one is hated by all. The human body is beautiful, and you shouldn’t be afraid of it. The toilet paper goes over the top, ‘cause gravity. Some of your food contains bug parts. It’s fine.

Here’s some random advice. Find your strength in school, and focus on that. Work half as hard at the things you struggle with. You’re never gonna be as good at them as you are with your best subject, and normal people don’t need to be good at everything to succeed. If you struggle with a subject for years on end, while doing fine in others, that’s your worst subject, and it’s never going to change. Smart people don’t suddenly become that way in adulthood after being unintelligent before. Some jobs require you to be committed and driven. Most of them, however, come with bosses that aren’t paying enough attention to you to reward good behavior. Your number one job in life is to find happiness, not build profit for your company. Never forget that every company needs you more than you need it. You could survive naked in the woods with nothing but your wits. Without labor and customers, a company doesn’t exist. Life is all that matters.

Shower before bed, so your bed is clean, and you wake up clean. Wash your hands. Clean everything else too. Let your children get dirty to build up their immune system.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: February 10, 2399

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Leona wakes up with the worst headache she’s ever had, and she’s had a lot of pretty terrible headaches. This one time, someone blended her brain with the memories of two of her alternate selves. The most painful memories were the most severe, overwhelming all the happy ones by orders of magnitude. This is worse than that, and she doesn’t know why. The last thing she remembers, she was leaving the city government building near Vulcan Point, on her way back to the jet. She wasn’t alone either. The pilot was with her. “Tarboda?”

“Present,” he replies in a gravelly voice.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Negative.”

“Do you know what happened to us?”

“Got kidnapped.”

“Hm.” She searches for those memories. They sound familiar, but she still can’t recall what led up to them, or what she was doing. She’s chained to the wall, though, so that tracks. “Did you see them?”

“They came out of nowhere. Couldn’t pick a single one of ‘em out of a line-up.”

“Wait, do you mean that literally? Were they just really quick, or—?”

“Shh! They’re probably listening.”

“Good point.”

“I think they were just really quick.”

“Have you found a light switch anywhere?”

“Can’t see a damned thing. Chained to the wall.”

“Kind of afraid to turn the lights on anyway, lest I find myself chained to a pipe in a moldy bathroom, across from a guy who’s drowning in a bathtub, and a third guy between us with an apparent suicidal gunshot wound to the head, but—spoiler alert—he’s not really dead; he’s the bad guy, and he’s been listening the whole time.”

“That is incredibly specific,” Tarboda replies.

“Yeah.”

“Is anybody else here?” she asks with a raised voice. “We’re awake now!”

A door thunders opening, flooding the room with a light so bright, Leona and Tarboda can’t actually see anything. The door closes just as quickly, and they hear a single clap of the hands. A much more manageable reddish light begins to shine. Leona blinks as the scent begins to hit her too. The man approaching her—and while she still cannot see, let’s face it, it is a man—reeks of expired cologne, butter garlic vapor, and a diaper. He doesn’t smell of a dirty diaper, mind you, but clean diapers have a certain repulsive odor all on their own. It’s like he’s trying to torture them just by being around, and maybe it’s not like it, but that’s precisely his intention.

“What do you want with us?” Tarboda demands to know.

“We want nothing from you.”

Funny, Leona was expecting either a Filipino accent, or North American, but he sounds like he’s from Ireland. If true, it would be interesting to hear him explain where he thinks he’s from since the North Atlantic Isles literally disappeared to another reality, leaving no one with any memories of it. She obviously can’t ask that, though. “Okay, what do you want with me?”

“Yur Leona Matic.”

“I am.”

“Tere’s a bounty on yur head.”

She kind of forgot about that. Kivi Bristol and her team have been working really hard to take down anyone with any serious plans to collect the prize, but they cannot figure out who declared it in the first place. If they could stop them from being able to pay it out, and prove to the world that the bounty was voided, the problem would be solved. Kivi’s special psychic powers have yet to lead her to that ultimate goal. Meanwhile, Leona has been mostly living on the fringes of society, trusting in the discretion and loyalty of the relatively few government employees who have ever been aware of her and Arcadia’s whereabouts. She has not spent much time out in the world. She let her guard down, and this was stupid of her. “Ah, this is about the reward, eh?” She starts talking like a stereotypical caveman. “I primacean. I like stuff. You give me stuff, or I bonk you on a head.”

“What?”

“Idiotsayshuh?”

The abductor pauses. “Huh?” She knew he’d fall for it.

“How do you collect this bounty?”

“We were tinkin’ we could shoot ya, and take a photo.”

“Nah, nah, nah. You can’t do that,” Leona reasons. “Photos can be faked. They’ll never believe you.”

“What would yu do?”

That’s a good question. “For starters, I would take a photo of me holding today’s newspaper.”

“You said photos can be faked.”

She sighs. “Yes, but you’re just getting your foot in the door for now. You send them the photo, and demand payment. When they say it’s not good enough, tell them you want to meet. Bring me to that meeting, and I’ll be the living proof.”

He looks confused. “Then we shoot yu?”

How did she get caught by these people? She can’t help but sigh again. “No. Then you ask to see the money.”

“Hey, I’m not stupid.”

The door opens again, and someone else enters the room. “Get back to your post soldier,” he orders.

“I was just—”

“Get back to your post!” he repeats.

The first guy hangs his head low, and leaves.

“A tousand apologies, Miss Matic. He and his bruda are absolute eejits.”

“Well, you hired them, didn’t you?

“It’s true.”

“And it’s Missus Matic,” she corrects.

“Another tousand apologies.” His eyes dart over to Tarboda.

“No, not him. He’s my pilot. My husband died. He died saving your world. You’re welcome.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he says.

“And you never will. You’re welcome again.”

“Listen, Mrs. Matic. Oi got nothin’ against ya, but we need tat money. Yu shouldn’ta gon’ out in public.”

“You should just get a job.”

“Dis is my job. Yur lucky I’m da one doing it, ‘stead of someone else.”

“And why is that?”

“Oi’m gonna give you a fair chance. If you can come up with a quarter of the money yurself, I won’t turn you in. You come up with half, I’ll take you anywhere in the world. You come up with all da money, I’ll protect ya for life. We take care of our own, and yu can be oneovus.”

“First of all, no thanks. Secondly, I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Yu could also do a job or two for us, start payin’ it off.”

“No. Not interested. I don’t know what kind of jobs a group of people like you would do, but they can’t be good.”

“Oi understand. You’ll have two days to change yur moind. It will take as long to coordinate and negotiate with the bounty-setter.”

“In the meantime, I appreciate your hospitality,” Leona replies sarcastically.

The boss looks around the dirty boiler room. “I’ll see about getting you some better accommodations.”

He nods politely as if she’s just agreed to fill in for him for his shift at the grocery store while he goes to his cousin’s wedding. Then he leaves the room.

“You seem unconcerned,” Tarboda points out.

“I’m in trouble here,” Leona replies. “This means that my friend can find me. She can find anybody.”

“Yeah, I know her. I’ve flown her and her team around a bit.” He takes a beat. “But the way she explained it, she does this through some kind of psychic power, not because she simply guesses where or someone is.”

“That’s right.”

“Which means that not only do you have to be in trouble, but you have to feel like you’re in trouble.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well, if you’re confident that she’ll find you, you won’t be sending her a psychic distress signal, so she won’t be able to find you.”

“You’re right. So I need to feel real fear.”

“How would we go about triggering that? Pardon the awful suggestion, but would it work if I threatened your life? Perhaps I could strangle you with my chains? I mean, I wouldn’t hurt you, but...”

“No, that wouldn’t work. I don’t know where she is, but to prompt her to come this direction, it would have to be a continuous fear, otherwise the signal would just dissipate. I think, at least. I don’t really know how it works, but it makes sense.”

“What can we do?”

Leona stands up, and assesses the area. “We have to get them to do it.”

“How?”

“This would not be the first prison I’ve broken out of. If it works, I get free, and if it doesn’t, I piss them off so much, they put the fear of God in me. Either way, we win.”

“Tell me what to do?”

“Can you reach that wrench?”

Microstory 1311: Suspected Arson

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Defense Attorney: Are you an arsonist, sir?

Arsonist: I am, yes.

Defense Attorney: Are you saying that because you were convicted on two counts of arson in the past, or because you admit to your guilt?

Arsonist: Both.

Defense Attorney: But you’re reformed?

Arsonist: I don’t like to use that term. It suggests that I’ve been cured of my condition, and now no one ever has to worry about me. But that’s not the case. I meet regularly with both my parole officer, and a state-provided therapist. I go to support groups, and I keep myself away from fire as much as possible. I even had to buy an electric stove, because a pilot light alone could trigger me.

Defense Attorney: But these techniques are working, correct? You’ve not set any fires since you were released from prison.

Arsonist: I switched from smoking to vaping, just so I wouldn’t even have to use a lighter anymore. So no, I’m not reformed. I’m recovering, just like any addict who’s recognized they have a problem. But yes, the program is working.

Defense Attorney: Okay, okay. Are you guilty of the crime in question today?

Arsonist: If there was a crime, then no.

Defense Attorney: Why do you say that?

Arsonist: I’m not convinced this was arson at all. But again, if it was, it was absolutely not me.

Defense Attorney: What do you believe led the authorities to rule that arson was the cause of the fire?

Arsonist: There were multiple points of origin, which is highly suspect, I admit. It’s not too terribly common, but it is possible for a building as old as that to have such bad wiring that seemingly separate fires begin at around the same time. But they are more connected than the fire marshal realizes. Well, I shouldn’t say that.

Defense Attorney: Why not?

Arsonist: The fire marshal might have been able to come to the same conclusion as I did, but he was evidently not allowed to conduct a thorough investigation. The police linked me to the building so quickly that they steamrolled the marshal into rushing the paperwork.

Arson Case Prosecutor: Objection. He doesn’t really know any of this. Where is he getting his information?

Arson Case Judge: Mr. Arsonist, I highly doubt you are close enough to the investigation to have any knowledge of how it was conducted. Please refrain from speculating about it.

Arson Case Prosecutor: I’d also like to—

Arson Case Judge: Yes, yes. I understand he is behaving more like an expert witness than a suspect, but I would still like to hear what he has to say as his opinion speaks to his credibility, and reasonably contributes to his defense.

Defense Attorney: Your Honor, the purpose of the United States judicial system is to find the truth at nearly any cost. I believe we have provided the court with more than enough reasonable doubt that my client had anything to do with this tragedy. Mr. Arsonist has never killed anyone before. In fact, the reason he was given so much prison time before is because he planned every one of his crimes down to the last detail, which ruled out the possibility of a lack of impulse control. He always made sure no one was in the building. If this fire we’re talking about today was indeed a crime, it was sloppy and poorly-planned, and that simply isn’t how my client would have done it. We also believe the authorities to have mishandled this case, and jumped to conclusions based on discriminatory sentiments, and weak circumstantial evidence. We intend to sue the city for their actions.

Arson Case Judge: That is your right, but it has nothing to do with me. The case I’m hearing today is in regards to Mr. Arsonist’s guilt. Am I to understand that you wish to file for this case to be dismissed.

Defense Attorney: That is correct, Your Honor.

Arson Case Judge: The defendant will be returned to City Jail while the prosecution attempts to complete the investigation. Prosecutor, you have forty-eight hours to come up with some real evidence against the defendant, or he will be released.

Arson Case Prosecutor: Thank you, Your Honor.

Defense Attorney: Thank you, Your Honor

Arsonist: Thank you.

Defense Attorney: ...

Arsonist: ...Your Honor.

Microstory 1068: Mabel

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I think you’ve been going about this all wrong. I get that you’ve been trying to get an idea of who Viola was. That’s called victimology, and it’s an important component to any murder investigation, but it really only tells us part of the story. Even if you wanted to focus exclusively on this aspect, you’re interviewing far too many people. Most of these stories aren’t going to have anything to do with her death, as interesting as they may be on their own. Lots of people know any given individual who has died, but that doesn’t mean they were at all involved. Let me try to put in another way. Let’s say you’re a detective, who’s just caught a murder in an alleyway. You get on your hands and knees, and discover a cigarette butt on the ground near the guy’s body. You run a DNA test, and discover the man who smoked that cancer stick was John Doe. John Doe immediately becomes your prime suspect. Why? You haven’t linked the cigarette to the death. All you’ve done is linked both the cigarette, and the body, to the alleyway, but that doesn’t mean they’re related. He could have smoked that days before. Let’s say forensics can estimate the amount of time it’s been lying there. He could have dropped it, walked back into the noisy nightclub, then two minutes later—BOOM—the victim is shot and killed, by someone completely different. Do you kind of see what I’m saying? You’re trying to gather as many clues as you can, and hoping they fit together into a pretty picture, but that’s not how life works. It’s messy, and confusing, and you’re always left with tons of missing pieces. What you need are the keystone pieces. Have you even considered speaking with her parents, or any other family members? What about her nearest neighbors, or anyone who was by Masters Creek around the time of death? The police are pretty sure they know what happened, so I’ve heard that didn’t do a lot of canvassing. Of course, this is a really small town, and they didn’t send for a brooding detective from the big city with a complicated past to handle this for us in the span of ten episodes. They did their best, but I am quite certain there’s a lot they missed, and also quite certain what they missed was not part of the random population of this year’s graduating class. Somebody was there we don’t know about, and I suggest you try to figure out who that was. You’re an aspiring investigative reporter, Alma. You know what you need to do. I get that you’re kind of on a roll, and it sounds like you’re well beyond halfway done, but do remember my advice once you’re finished with this series. I don’t think we’ll have the whole story if you stop there.

Microstory 941: Sex Workers

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As I believe I’ve said before, though perhaps only in fictional settings, I do not believe the sex industry should be illegal, nor so stigmatized. I often hear people defend their own vices by comparing it to those of others. Despite what the South Park writers would have you believe, being fat is not “just as bad” as smoking. Smoking is a bizarre behavior on its own, but in the end, I don’t care so much what you do to your own body. The issue arises when you do it in public, and you poison other people. Same thing goes for the difference between recreational drugs, and sex. When done wrong, both sex and recreational drugs are bad. They cause friction between loved ones, diseases, and financial hardships. When done wrong, recreational drugs are bad, because they cause friction between loved ones, diseases, and financial hardships. When done right, however, sex is good. It releases pleasurable chemicals in the brain, creates a bond between partners, and in some cases, propagates the species. Yes, there are a lot of bad things attached to the prostitution industry. People are thrown into this life against their will, forced to take drugs to keep them docile, and treated extremely poorly. There’s a lot of violence and blood and abuse that comes with the territory, but it doesn’t have to be this way. I’m not saying that simply making it legal would solve all of its problems. Governments would still have to regulate it, but guess what, the government regulates nearly every other industry anyway, so I’m not asking for anything crazy. Create laws that would protect workers from harm; others that would keep children from all sides of it; and stop making it seem to clients that these people don’t matter. Like the homeless, sex workers are treated like objects, to be used, and if desired, discarded. If they had rights and security, it would be a whole lot harder for someone to not treat them like real people. I don’t know what this all looks like in the long-term. Maybe once most of us have merged our bodies with artificial components, sex won’t seem quite as important, but I know that something has to be done today. People aren’t getting hurt and dying because they’re having sex. They’re getting hurt and dying because they’re not having sex the right way, and because too many oppose proper education, and acceptance. So, let’s hear it for the noble sex workers. I would raise my glass to you, but I don’t do recreational drugs.

Microstory 759: Butts

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You’ll be pleased to learn that recreational drugs are not nearly as much of a problem on other worlds as they are here. They do exist, yes, but always under vastly different conditions. Early humans would experiment with what is healthy to consume, and what is not. They test out foods, drink water from new sources, and try out various herbs to see if they hold any medicinal value. Like on Earth, many of these substances end up altering the cognitive abilities of those who tried them. On some worlds, they assimilate these experiences in their spiritual superstitions, believing them to provide them with visions of the future, or some other truths. As civilization forms, however, these outrageous beliefs are always discarded in favor of reality, even while religious devotion persists. As science progresses, professionals begin to study these substances, codify them, and scientifically declare them to be unfit for normal consumption, if that becomes the case. The ones that do end up having some use in the field of medicine are studied further, and modified to be used safely. They are never inhaled as smoke, for the particulates would damage people’s insides, thus unbalancing any benefit they may come with. Side effects, though present in all medicinal drugs, are lessened to the extent possible, with usually even stronger regulations than we have in most countries here. Likewise, alcohol is determined to have little health value, and any positive impact it has on the human body is outweighed by its negative effects, and therefore supplemented by something more responsible. It is simply not worth it. Because of these cultural differences, the drug scene is a deep underworld. It’s harder to find, harder to avoid its consequences, and harder to get out. Few studies have been conducted on the long-term effects of recreational drugs, so recovering addicts find little help by others, even if they decide they want to get better. So that’s one downside. There is less variety on these worlds as well. Alcohol can be made by one fermentant, or another, but people generally don’t come up with interesting variations, or combinations. If you want to get drunk, you take what’s available, and you’re usually unconcerned with taste, or the nuance of ingenuity. On the other hand, this makes some things a bit safer. Nobody would think to add fiberglass to the ingredients for smokable substances, or most of the hundreds of needlessly toxic chemicals found in Earthan cigarettes. The people who make them don’t have those resources, nor the support of society. So, what’s the point of this? Why do I bring this up without tying it into discernible narrative? I’m just letting you know that your dumb way of doing things isn’t the right way...it’s just the one you came up with. I guess that makes me the wild card in this story.

Microstory 530: Major Drug Bust in Carolina

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Gas masks, body armor, and dark clothes. These are the things that authorities wore this morning four hours after midnight East Coast Time. With them, they carried electroshock subduers, zip restraints, and even a few lethal firearms. Undercover police officers had infiltrated a major illicit drug organization, and had been operating under their false identities for the last year. Evidence was accumulated, processed, and verified. The drug operation was spread all over eastern Carolina, and required a number of coordinated strike teams.

As the sun was rising, groups of seven officers, backed up with standby teams, raided these various facilities at precisely the same time. This prevented suspects from contacting each other fast enough. The local drug enforcement task force wanted to end all operations at once, and leave no room for recovery. It is too soon to know whether their efforts will ultimately result in success. Coastal towns have been suffering from a drug problem for the last three years. Until today, authorities had found no luck in bringing them down. Each arrest seemed to have little to no effect on the development of the drug business. It is hoped that this long-term endeavor will send a message to anyone looking to manufacture or distribute drugs in the southeast region of Usonia: you are not welcome.

Five suspects were killed during the blitz, while two others remain in critical condition. One officer was severely injured by a short-bladed sword, and it is believed that his leg will need to be removed for medical reasons, but he is expected to survive. All others ended up with nothing more dangerous than superficial wounds, and authorities experienced no other casualties. Drugs of all kind were found during the raid; ranging from stimulants to opiates; tobacco to alcohol; and amphetamines to psychoactives. Trials are due to begin next month.

Microstory 482: Floor 3 (Part 2)

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Food Service Worker 1: Food Service Worker 2, what the hell are you doing?

Food Service Worker 2: I’m doing what I always do for breakfast.

Food Service Worker 1: We can’t serve breakfast. We’re on lockdown. Didn’t you hear the announcement?

Food Service Worker 2: Of course, but that won’t last forever, and when they lift the lockdown, people will be hungry.

Food Service Worker 1: At least three people died. They’re not lifting it anytime soon. And when they do, they’re gonna send everybody home. Stop getting food out, you’ll just spoil it.

Food Service Worker 2: You don’t know they’ll send us home. We have to be prepared.

Food Service Worker 1: Part of the charm of all this tragedy is not having any responsibilities. Don’t create work for yourself, or for me.

Food Service Worker 2: That might be the absolute worst thing you’ve ever said. I’ll check the list.

Food Service Worker 1: Very funny.

Food Service Worker 2: No, really. There’s a list.

Food Service Worker 1: What are you talking about? Of all the things I’ve said that you don’t agree with?

Food Service Worker 2: No.

Food Service Worker 1: Oh, okay.

Food Service Worker 2: Of all the things you’ve said that no one in the world agrees with...except maybe white supremacists and Donald Trump.

Food Service Worker 1: Oh, don’t compare me to a man like that. Talk about saying terrible things. I can’t believe you’ve kept track of everything you hate about me. What would Food Services Manager have to say about this? Maybe I should go have a little chat with her right now.

Food Service Worker 2: Who do you think started the list?

Food Service Worker 1: Why are you telling me this?

Food Service Worker 2: I didn’t think you mind. You hate everybody anyway.

Food Service Worker 1: Well, why are you telling me just now?

Food Service Worker 2: It has just now come up.

Food Service Worker 1: I don’t hate everybody.

Food Service Worker 2: Yeah, you kinda do, and I don’t think you want to get into this.

Food Service Worker 1: Now I definitely wanna get into it.

Food Service Worker 2: All right, fine. All you talk about is how you used to work in this magical restaurant in New York City, and now you’re slummin’ it with the garbage people in a corporate cafeteria. I’ve got a little secret for ya, Food Service Worker 1; everybody likes tater tots. Not a human on this planet doesn’t like deep-fried grated potatoes. Not even your precious New York one-percent.

Food Service Worker 1: What about fruitarians?

Food Service Worker 2: And you’re contradictory. Do you think I really meant literally no one on the planet? Christ, you’re impossible.

Food Service Worker 1: I don’t have time for all this hyperbole. I’m goin’ out for a smoke; that is, unless you need me to do anything, like serve more potato grease cylinders.

Food Service Worker 2: No, but I think our soft drink contractor is bringing his puppy today. Maybe you’d like to give it a good kick? [...] Enjoy your kiss with cancer!

Microstory 456: Floor 30 (Part 2)

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One: Be careful, Two. What are you even looking at?

Two: Hey, hand me those survey goggles.

One: Here ya go. What’s down there?

Two: Something interesting, I believe. [...] Yes, just as I thought.

One: Why, what is it? Something funny?

Two: If you find death funny, then sure!

One: There’s a dead body?

Two: Yeah, give me a second. I’m almost completely certain it’s that stoner temp that the accounting team is always looking for. He thinks he doesn’t know that we know he comes up here to smoke the day away.

One: Oh my God, that’s terrible.

Two: Is it?

One: Yes, all life is precious.

Two: You might want to rethink your standards, Two. Your life doesn’t have value just on its own. You have to actually do something with that life. You have to work at something, and make a difference. I’m not saying we can all be a brilliant scientist, or globe-trotting aid worker, but you have to at least try. Am I saying this dude was the worst human being on the planet? Of course not. I’m not even saying he deserved to die like this, or at all. But, unless they suspect foul play, which I suspect they wouldn’t, then I imagine his fall was the direct result of his actions. He did drugs, lost his balance, and suffered for it. He could have been sober, and doing his job, instead of being up here, and he probably would have survived.

One: That’s a lot of supposition. We don’t actually know what happened.

Two: We don’t, but the fact remains that he was a poor employee, and a drug addict. Again, I’m not pleased that he died, but I’m certainly not going to waste my tears on him.

One: Yeah, I get what you’re saying, and if we were speaking purely hypothetically, I might even agree with you. But the fact is that a non-evil person has passed, and we should all mourn him. He wasn’t perfect, maybe he wasn’t even great, but he had potential. We all have the opportunity to work on ourselves, and do better in the future. When you die, though, that opportunity is stripped from you. Maybe he would have stayed the course, but maybe he would have finally grown up and done something great with his life. Maybe all he needed was one more mistake to bite him in the ass. We will never know, and that flavor of uncertainty always puts a bad taste in my mouth.

Two: Wow, maybe you’re not the one on this floor who needs to rethink their standards.

One: Come on, we have to report this. It doesn’t look like they know about this particular death yet.