Sunday, April 17, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 17, 2071

They felt rested enough the following year that they decided to watch a few of their remaining films in real time; the ones that showed a little bit more technique. Neither of them were known for their dancing. Mateo didn’t enjoy it, and Leona’s life became wrapped up in salmon drama at such a young age that she gained little experience. After that was all over, they began to watch video tutorials for dancing online. They eventually made their way to a channel that showed them specific choreography they could use. Aura, Samsonite, and Theo had experience with old forms of dancing since it was expected out of socially accepted individuals back then. Together they came up with what they felt to be an interesting, albeit somewhat derivative dance number. Hopefully it would be good enough to keep Makarion happy, and disinclined to murder them.
As far as tribulations went, this was one of the easiest. They weren’t stressed about performing well, or being accurate, like with the others. They didn’t have to follow a storyboard very carefully, and they were not in any clear physical danger. Dancing so close together was awkward, though, since they still weren’t completely over their fight. To everyone else, it had been going on for years, but to them only days. They would need to find their way past it, but they didn’t know how to do that. Less than an hour from midnight, they deciding to start practicing again in an abandoned warehouse that was somehow very clean. Makarion had not indicated when they were actually going to perform for him, or where, or really under what conditions. It was possible he managed to gather an audience of thousands to watch them. He could apport them anywhere from here to Mars, at least. He might have been capable of traveling to other planets too, but there was no way to know his plans. It just wasn’t productive to let the anticipation get to them. The problem was, they were running out of time.
On the millionth run-through of the dance, things were going extremely well, despite them both messing up nearly every move. He dropped her once, and she stepped on his toes a couple of times. They were out of sync and out of order, but they were having fun. Choreography was great and all, but the improvisational skills they picked up from having been consumed with the art for the last two days were invaluable. Halfway through the bit, they tore themselves from the choreography and began to dance naturally, as if rehearsed, but with moves they had never tried before. Their eyes were locked, and their hearts connected. No one else was in the room. Literally. Their family had been there watching them, but suddenly disappeared. The music changed to a song they hadn’t been using, but Makarion was nowhere to be found. They were completely alone, and together. This music was slower and hypnotizing, causing them to lay their heads on each other’s shoulders. This was the part of the movie where feelings became real. Apparently that sort of thing wasn’t a creative contrivance. Music can really move you.
They hadn’t been listening to a vinyl record because, was that even possible in 2071? Yet, when the song was over, they could hear the distinct sound records made once at the end of the recording; static amidst consistent turning. They gently pulled their heads back and stared into each other’s eyes. Mateo was reminded of how and when he fell in love with her. She was just a kid when they met, so he had no feelings at the time. But he also hadn’t waited until she was his age and moving through time along with him. On April Fools’ day 2025, Leona’s birthday, Mateo was under quarantine. He had just traveled back from the future, a glitch in his pattern the likes of which has never been replicated without manipulation from a choosing one. Leona was still mad at him for having run away following the death of his father. And her anger only grew from him having never returned to the timestream in 2024, even though that wasn’t his fault. Looking back, she might have blamed herself for it. She helped designed the machine that was supposed to gather feedback from his time jumps, and they had always attributed that machine to his glitch. Did she feel responsible for what happened later?
This was the year Mateo killed his own mother from having brought a pathogen back from the future. But before they were aware that this happened, he was placed in a room covered in plastic sheeting in an attempt to prevent him from infecting others, not realizing that the damage had already been done. It was Leona’s birthday, and they celebrated it with his mother, Carol and their physicist friend, Duke Andrews. But there were times when Mateo and Leona were alone. A particular one of these times was when they were nearing the end of the night. They talked for hours without fear of being split apart at the strike of midnight. Throughout that time, much like during today’s dance rehearsal, only the two of them existed within reality. They didn’t talk about the things they had been through, or the people they had met. This was a deep and meaningful philosophical discussion about life, identity, and perspective. It was the only time Mateo felt on the same level as her, and capable of fully understanding what she was saying. They agreed on just about every point, but when they didn’t, they could still understand where the other was coming from.
Even while he was the one speaking, he really only had one thought. He didn’t want to ever lose her. In his head, he prayed to God and begged to the powers that be to keep the two of them together. That night, they did not kiss, or do anything else romantic for that matter. This wasn’t when they became boyfriend and girlfriend. It was the moment they became best friends. They did not yet know everything about each other, but they knew enough to know that nothing could keep them apart; not even time. A few years later, Leona would fall into his salmon pattern, but before they had any idea that this would happen, Mateo had already decided that she was his soulmate. If he stopped traveling through time millenia in the future—long after Leona was dead—and had the opportunity to settle down with someone, he knew he wouldn’t. She was the only one for him. Though he could not read her mind, he could see in her eyes that she was feeling the same way. Her attraction to him began years earlier, but it was only in 2025, inside quarantine sheeting, that their relationship could begin.
And now in the year 2071, those feelings were returning to them in full force. Again, they did not speak about what they were thinking. They just looked at each other telepathically, and an understanding formed between them. Mateo had been responsible for the death of two men. One of them was a friend who shouldn’t have been put in that position, and whose passing Mateo deeply regretted. The other was a powerful adversary who was making it his mission to make their lives hell. Regardless of their philosophical positions on life and death, Mateo had made the right call by pushing The Rogue towards the explosion. They couldn’t see him as a person, for he was an enemy combatant. And sometimes fighting, and even killing, was your only option. Standing here now in Mateo’s arms, Leona seemed to have finally resigned herself to this notion. What happened happened, and it was time to move on from it. They now faced a new enemy, and if they were going to survive him, they had to become a united front. It’s a cliché, but this really is war. The two met in a classy but passionate kiss, then they apologized to each other. The alarms on their watches rang out, indicating that they were near midnight. For whatever reason, Makarion never called upon them to perform the dance number. This tribulation was evidently over.
They smiled at each other lovingly. “Will you marry me?”

Saturday, April 16, 2016

Second Stage of Something Started: Choice (Part I)

A series of bizarre events occurred over the course of decades for the two time-traveling adventurers, Saga and Vearden. After their first transplanetary mission as salmon, they spent what they thought would be the rest of their lives on Earth, during two time periods in the past. For the second period, they turned out to be the parents of their resurrected friends, which was this whole thing that nobody expected. Throughout all this, both of them aged at a normal rate, so they were old people by the time The Delegator beckoned them back to his Stonehenge office. As soon as they passed through the doors, their bodies transformed and regressed back down to spring chickens. Now that might sound like a gift, but it meant that they were still beholden to the wishes of the powers that be; the ones who were manipulating and controlling them, along with other unwilling time travelers. If Saga and Vearden could be de-aged so easily, then there was a distinct possibility that they would be forced to carry out the powers’ wishes literally forever.
“I had hoped you would be finished with us,” Saga lamented.
“What would make you think that?” the Delegator asked.
“We just spent the majority of our lives with Sam & L,” Vearden explained. “Was half a lifetime not enough for you people?”
“I believe the powers that be considered that to be a vacation for you,” the Delegator said.
“They need a dictionary then.”
“We can’t fight it, Vearden,” Saga said before directing her attention to the Delegator. “Just tell us what we’re supposed to do.”
“Do you not remember? You’re The Freelancers. You get to choose.”
“Then we choose to go to the year 2030 so that we can be reunited with her son and my daughter,” Vearden put forth with a spark of hope that it might work.
“How do you know that that’s where they are?” The Delegator was confused. “They were moving towards the past.”
“When we were in the past,” Saga began, “we did not encounter any other salmon. But we did when we were in the 21st century. That’s where all the action is. So you sent them back there. Go ahead and try to tell me I’m wrong.”
“No, you’re right, that’s where they are. I still find it interesting that you intuited that. But I’m afraid I can’t so much as tell you if you joining up with them is an option,” the Delegator said honestly. He gently waved his arm to the stone openings around him. Stonehenge was more complete at this point in time, whenever it was. All the stones were set up where they belonged. But through each doorway was a bridge to a unique scene. Some portals were of modern day, some of greenery, and some appeared to be alien planets.
“Oh right,” Vearden scoffed. “This is about our choice.” He used air quotes.
“Have you ever seen that show where—”
Saga interrupted him, “you get television reception out here?”
The Delegator ignored her and continued, “...that television show where hopeful buyers stand in front of a self-storage unit belonging to someone who failed to make their payments?”
“No, but I am aware of what you’re talking about. It’s an auction.”
“Right, well the game is that bidders are only allowed to see the contents of the unit for a few minutes before deciding whether they want any of it.”
“Are you developing an analogy between junk so useless that the original owners abandoned it, and our next harrowing mission?”
“Well when you say it like that,” the Delegator said with frustration, “you can make anything sound ri-goddamn-diculous.”
Somebody woke up on the wrong side of the cold stone table he most likely sleeps on.”
“It’s just that I had this whole speech planned about your destiny, but you ruined it with your attitude,” the Delegator said grumpily.
Saga and Vearden looked at each other telepathically. She sort of rolled her eyes, but more like a mother for an unruly child, and less sarcastically. “We’re sorry. You can give your speech. We promise to listen and respect you. You are valuable to us.”
“Thank you, that’s really sweet. But the moment has passed, and we just need to move on. Literally.” The Delegator pointed to the stone doorways again. “Take your pick. I sincerely don’t know where they lead. I can’t even be sure they’re not random moments.”
They began to walk around the perimeter to get a better view of each one. Before them were twenty-eight choices, and none of them looked better than any of the others. They discussed a bit what they were looking for in an environment, since that’s all they had to go on. They were rather tired of the past, even though that’s where they raised their children. Not having access to running water was a massive bitch. More than that, though, Saga had no interest in traveling to an alien planet. Vearden, on the other hand, always felt the best Doctor Who episodes involved them. The last time they encountered aliens, they didn’t have the best time, but after all they had been through, it was barely a footnote in their lives; one they had all but forgotten. Decisions, decisions.
“I like this one,” Vearden said. “About as much as a guy can like a place he’s never been to and knows nothing about.”
“You just want to have sex with a green-skinned alien,” Saga complained. “Like Star Trek.”
“You don’t?”
“This one looks nice.” Saga presented the doorway like a model on a game show.
“You just want to take a picture of the pyramids as they were being built.”
“You don’t?”
“Rock, paper, scissors,” Vearden suggested.
“We’re not children anymore.”
“I’ll allow it,” the Delegator said, then added, “but if you end up in a tie, then I get to choose.”
“We’re supposed to be the ones to chose.”
The Delegator smiled slyly. “Yes, but you’re not choosing. You’re letting fate decide. I am fate’s emissary.”
The two friends who were supposed to be partners, and always be working together, looked to each other for answers.
“Unless you can come to a consensus.”
“Deal,” Vearden said.
“Vearden,” Saga whined.
“We’re never going to agree.” Vearden placed his hands in the ready position.
Saga placed hers at the ready as well. “I guess we’re doing this.”
The door-walking Freelancers reluctantly stepped through a portal chosen by the Delegator. Saga was sure that she had chosen rock, but her hand had somehow ended up in paper. How did that happen? In the end, she was forced to shake it off, for she had realized where they were. The image shown before made it just look like a stone passageway. It was only after walking through and gaining perspective that they could see things for what they really were. The architecture had fallen apart, but appeared to be at least partially restored.
A man they did not recognize teleported in front of them and offered his hand. “Welcome...” he paused for effect before continuing, “to The Colosseum.”
“What are we doing here?”
“I wanted you to see the original version of what you’re going to be building for me. Well...I suppose it’s not the original, but I’m just a lowly jumper, so I can’t take you to Ancient Rome.”
“Why are we building it if it already exists?”
“This one’s fallen apart! I need a new one.” He finally took his hand back, confident that no one was going to shake it. “And I need it built far enough away from people that they won’t bug me about it.”
“Why would the Delegator want us to do this for you?”
“I have nothing to do with the Delegator.” He curtsied. “My name is Makarion.”

Friday, April 15, 2016

Microstory 300: Stepwisdom (Introduction)

Click here for a list of every step.

Welp, here’s the deal. As I was nearing my one hundredth microstory, I started thinking about how much staying power these things have. How easy would it be for me to come up with an original story day after day after day? I realized that I had about a hundred characters already lined up in my Anomalies story since I’ve been working on it since 2007, so why don’t I just spend a hundred weekdays on that? That came with its own problems. I did already have an idea of who these people were, but at the same time, I had to worry about stepping on my own toes, and creating a need for retconning later on, because I intend to release their story in longer format, at some point (::cough::TV series::cough::). But what was annoying is that there are around 260 weekdays a year, and I had only started to do this thing in March, and so I had a couple dozen slots left over for December. For the website, that’s whatever, but when I publish these in book form, I want to keep them in neat, yearly volumes. That meant I couldn’t do something special for 200-299. So I came up with Perspectives to fill in the gap through 299, and here we are. This paragraph has 300 words exactly, and each subsequent installment will have a word count of one more each time. You’ll start seeing more connections as we go. I’m writing this one even before starting my first Perspective, and wanted to get even further ahead, but that didn’t work out. I’m still trying to figure out how to accomplish this through revising, snipping, adding, and whatnot. Fortunately, I’ve discovered a live word count add-on so that I don’t have to keep track as I

Atmosphere

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Microstory 299: Perspective Seventy-Five

Perspective Seventy-Four

My little baby boy grew up too fast. He was so precocious, it was hard to keep up with him. His first word was when he was only five months old, and it was Albuquerque, I’m not lying. I think we were planning a family trip. Ever since then, he’s been ahead of the game in all respects. He “adopted” a doll, named him Alastair, and took as good care of him as any parent. He changed Alastair’s clothes everyday, pretended to feed him, and would even get up in the middle of the night, claiming that the baby was crying. He’s always been so loving, and I just knew that he would grow up to be a wonderful father. Unfortunately, he ended up suffering from other problems. He skipped three grades in elementary and middle school. The older children didn’t accept him, and the ones his own age didn’t treat him very well either. Since he was so much smarter than everyone, he couldn’t find a girlfriend. All he wanted his entire life was to raise a kid of his own, but there was no one there to help him make that happen. He tried to become a foster father, but they claimed he was “unstable” and “unfit”. He was heartbroken, so can you really blame him for taking matters into his own hands? Sure, the girls he liberated from their homes weren’t actually babies, but they needed his help. They were living under terrible conditions, and my son was able to provide better for them. My ex-husband’s brother died and left him an entire farmhouse, so room and resources were not a problem, even with the fact that this town’s employers are idiots and refused to hire my son for no good goddamn reason. Who exactly decided there was no value in a poetry degree?
Over the past year, people have often asked me if I knew what my son was up to. I told them the truth, that I did know he was taking in young girls who weren’t not being cared for properly in their own homes. I said that I didn’t know what he did with them once they had become too unruly, but the truth is that I did. I just didn’t want to admit it. My son was such a good boy. He wasn’t evil; he had his reasons, and he didn’t deserve to be brutally murdered by a trigger happy rookie cop who still gets to walk around carrying a badge. It’s disgusting. He gets to live happily ever after while my beautiful boy is in the ground. It took me all my effort not to sneak out of the cemetery and find the son of a bitch who ruined my life. I couldn’t do it, though, because then that’s what people would be talking about; the mother-son murderers. I couldn’t have that, but I also can’t bear to be without him any longer. People say that, when you die, you go to a better place, but how great can it be for a boy without his mother? I started hoarding my medication when the orderly stopped checking under my tongue. Tonight, on the anniversary of my loss, I can take them all at once. There’s a certain poetry in it that my son would love. I can’t wait to see his perfect smile again.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Microstory 298: Perspective Seventy-Four

Perspective Seventy-Three

Now I ain’t sayin’ she a gravedigger, but I am. Before we begin, you should know that I like girly things. I played with dolls growing up, I wear dresses, and I even post makeup tutorials online. Sure, I don’t exactly get thousands of hits like my competition, but I do have some followers. One thing that makes me different from all the other girls, however, is my job. I really am a gravedigger; that wasn’t just a song lyric. I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and there are not current plans to look for something else. I’m a simple girl who lives in a small, two-bedroom apartment in a good neighborhood. Of course, I spend money on makeup, but other than food and utilities, that’s pretty much it. I don’t go out to bars and drink myself under the table, I don’t shop for fun more than the average person, and I always buy off brand. I’m pretty sure they’re manufactured in the same factory, so why the hell not? I also didn’t go to college—by choice, before you start judging me—so I’m not overwhelmed by a mountain of debt. People think my job is disgusting, and that it’s reserved for men...or dykes. Yes, I hear that word a lot. It’s offensive, outdated, and y’all need to stop usin’ it. People die in movies all the time, and you often see a gravedigger in the background, reverently waiting for the survivors to make their final goodbyes. But people don’t make movies about us, because it’s not particularly dignified or interesting. I chose it because I get to operate heavy machinery and listen to music all day. People don’t bother me, and in fact, don’t usually notice me because they’re preoccupied with their loss. I have a boss...I think, I don’t ever see him. But for the most part, I work alone and do things my own way.  I could sit here and tell you that it’s an honor to send the deceased to their final resting place, but I honestly don’t really give it much thought. I don’t see the death itself. If I’m around during a service, the casket is closed by then, and it’s pretty easy to disassociate myself from it. I’m not cold-hearted, or a sociopath, or anything. I’m just not as exposed to as much as you might think. Cemeteries are beautiful places, full of flowers and shady trees. Ours even has a pleasant fountain near the entrance. I try to do my work when no one else is around, but I gotta get this grave dug. The guy was murdered recently and there were apparently some clerical complications that prevented his body from being released immediately. His story is the polar opposite of the man whose grave is being visited while I’m working. He apparently died while trying to protect his girlfriend, but today also marks the one year anniversary of the Neverland Killer’s demise.

Perspective Seventy-Five

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Microstory 297: Perspective Seventy-Three

Perspective Seventy-Two

Did you know that there is not a single civilization in history that has not found a way to lay their dead to rest? It make sense, of course; you never hear about a culture that just throws the bodies to the side and moves on with their lives. Some deceased are buried, others are entombed, and some are even placed in coffins to be hung over the side of a mountain. To become a funeral director, I didn’t need all that much schooling, but I did need some. I first became fascinated with the process in college when I began to study anthropology. My school let me develop my own curriculum so that I could focus on death. I know that sounds morbid...literally, but I just really wanted to know how people dealt with death, so that I could help them through it. Being there for the loved ones of a deceased person is so incredibly rewarding. It’s my job to send someone off to their final resting place, to make sure their family and friends feel that they’ll be moving on to a better place. I don’t claim to know what happens to a person after they die, but I have a lot of experience with what happens to everyone else. And I can tell you that a caring, calm, but unbiased professional is something nearly everyone needs. They don’t need me to sell them a package, or tell them how to feel, they just need me to tell them what’s going to happen. They need to feel like their loved ones are being cared for, so that when they inevitably come my way, they’ll be shown the same respect. Humans are not the only species with the instinct to bury dead. We’re just the only ones with fancy tools for it. Chimpanzees do it as well, which is not entirely surprising since we both originate from a common ancestor. The most interesting case, however, is elephants. They are known to throw leaves and dirt over their dead, and will even return to the site later. They are also thought to go through some kind of mourning process. I see a lot of death, and I do not enjoy it, but my work is important, and I’m proud to do it.

Perspective Seventy-Four

Monday, April 11, 2016

Microstory 296: Perspective Seventy-Two

Perspective Seventy-One

I want to make it clear that I do not have an obsession with death. Most people balk when I tell them I went through eight years of education just to wind up down in a morgue. There also seems to be this belief that all MEs are antisocial jerks who are smart enough to be doctors, but don’t deal with people well. “The dead don’t talk back” and crap like that. The truth is that I didn’t start my schooling with the intention of becoming an ME. It sort of happened gradually. The more classes I took, and the more subjects I studied, the more fields I was able to eliminate from my list. When it came time to determine my specialty, this was really the only option. I consider it an honor to be the last medical professional to handle a person. These people all have different lives, with different experiences, and different perspectives. But they all end up in a place like this. Sooner or later, unless a body is never found, someone like me is asked to provide the deceased’s loved ones with the last remaining answers to their life. This job is important, even if an autopsy isn’t necessary. Somebody has to have the expertise to decide on that, and somebody has to get the body to where it’s going; its final resting place. I’ve just received a body of a young man who had so much ahead of him. I, of course, do not know the details, but there was a witness to his death. He claims that the deceased fought with another man who ended up with the upper hand. It sounds like he didn’t actually mean to kill him, but he also didn’t stick around to explain himself. The police are out looking for him, but they need me to know where to look, and what questions to ask. The murder weapon, if that’s what we end up calling it, was found at the scene. My colleagues are analyzing it, along with other evidence at the scene, to find out exactly what happened here tonight. But they need me to match their evidence with the condition of the body. My job may not be as glamorous as you see on TV (I’m lookin’ at you, CSI franchise) but it matters. Any way you slice it, I help catch criminals. Sure, I could probably be making better money as a physician, but I do all right. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Perspective Seventy-Three

Sunday, April 10, 2016

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: May 16, 2070

They slept the rest of the day away, but were still tired come midnight. Just after jumping into the future, Makarion aggressively woke them up. “I know you’re still tired from your little Martian romp, but you’re getting an assignment today.”
Mateo rubbed his eyes, but in that cartoonish way with closed fists. “My dog will probably just eat this one too.”
“Cute,” Makarion responded before moving on. “I’m going to be giving you the DVDs for eleven movies. You must pick five and watch them all. Out of the remaining six movies, you must pick six, and watch those as well.”
“Are you serious?” Leona asked incredulously. “Is there even enough time for all of them?”
“I did the math myself,” Makarion assured them. “You won’t have much time for anything else, but you can fit them all in. Oh, and if you don’t get through all of them—and I mean, actually watch them—you will be punished. You can sleep or dawdle as much as you want, but I recommend going as fast as possible. For obvious reasons.”
“What did we do wrong?”
“Pardon?”
“Why are we doing another tribulation? We should have the day off.”
“This is your day off. Have you heard of a film where the character has to watch other films?”
“No, but I figured you had chosen something obscure, or one that postdates our time period.”
“No, my dear friends,” Makarion said with a hint of sincerity. “This is in preparation for your next tribulation. Next year, you’ll be watching several more movies, and then you will perform for me. This time, instead of recreating a single scene, or even a whole film, it’s more of a subgenre.”
Perform,” Leona repeated. Mateo could see her logicking her way into understanding without further information. “You’re going to make us dance, aren’t you?”
“Very good guess!” Makarion exclaimed. “See? I knew there was a reason I fell in love with you in an alternate timeline.”
“What?” Mateo grew defensive.
“I’m kidding. Little bit of salmon humor. Too soon?”
“Why are you making us do this? Forgive me, but it seems to stray from your usual tastes.”
“I’m gettin’ tired of watching you two bicker. Nothing brings people together like a good dance number. I proudly serve as your common enemy, but right now, you need to fall in love again. We’ve all had enough of the I can’t believe you killed a guy, and the I can’t believe I killed a guy. And waa waa waa!
“Not sure why you care,” Leona said.
“I care because I ship you two, even if I can’t decide on a shipper name. Truthfully, I never understood your relationship with Reaver in the alternate timeline. He was too charming, yet uninteresting. It was doomed from the start; that shipper name was Leaver, haha.” Makarion’s nose wrinkled at his own mention of Reaver’s name. He clearly didn’t like him, but did they even know each other? Not in the alternate timeline, that’s for sure, so why would he have such strong feelings about it? There was something Makarion wasn’t telling about himself. It would take nothing but time to uncover the mystery, though. Villains all have different motivations, but the one thing they all have is a need to be understood, especially by their targets of aggression. He would slip up sooner or later, and then they would have him.
Mateo stopped questioning their situation and went back to the conversation while putting on his pants. “Just give us the goddamn movies and be on your way. That is, unless you have more jokes to tell.” He used air quotes.
“Ouch,” Makarion said. “You wound me. And are you allowed to take the Lord’s name in vain like that?”
“It doesn’t bother Him as much as torture.”
“Fair enough.” Makarion reached under their bed and retrieved a small box of DVDs, dropping them at their feet. “Have fun!”
“Wait,” Mateo stopped him before he could teleport away.
“What is it?”
“I want your word that the rules stop here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You say we have to watch all eleven movies by day’s end.”
“This is true.” Makarion was still confused.
“I want to hear you say that you won’t randomly change things later on when you learn that we’ve bested you.”
They could all but hear Makarion work through the problem in his head, trying to figure out where Mateo was going with this. He seemed to think his parameters were perfect, and that there was no reason to clarify or readjust. “Why should I have to promise you such a thing?”
“You’re the one here who likes games. And games have rules. Without them, you might as well pick an arbitrary winner and just walk away. We’ve been suffering yours and the original Rogue’s whims. That’s not fair. That’s not how games work. From now on, you give us the rules, and you don’t change them.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll call in the Cleanser,” Mateo lied.
“I still don’t believe that you know him. Because why wouldn’t you just do that right now?”
“I can only play that card once,” Mateo said convincingly. “And once I do...he’ll start coming after me. I can use him for one job, but then he puts the two of us back in play. I don’t wanna do that, of course, but if you force my hand, I may I feel I have no other options.”
Makarion had to think some more, but Mateo felt he had him beat. He was getting better and better at lying. It wasn’t very Catholic of him, but there was no way to survive this new world without changing. “Very well. I have laid out the rules. You must watch all eleven movies today, and five tomorrow. I promise to not change the rules, and to agree to rules for later tribulations beforehand. But I won’t promise to not throw in twists, or make things difficult. Knowing the rules is not the same as knowing the outcome.”
“Okay,” Mateo said back.
“But,” Makarion added, “to make sure you understand. You have to watch every second of the films. You can’t let it run and leave the room, and you can’t just skip through it. You have to experience every single moment. I’ll allow blinking, of course.”
“We understand that,” Leona said. “Now go, you’re wasting our time. We’re trying to watch a movie!”
Mateo scoffed and disappeared.
“Okay, what’s the plan, Mateo?” Leona asked. “You’ve obviously found a loophole, so are you able to let me in on it?”
“Oh yeah, I can,” Mateo replied. “He just said that he’s not changing the rules, and we have no choice but to hope he’s telling the truth.” He couldn’t help but be happy with himself for having come up with this solution to their oncoming sleep deprivation problem. He wasn’t as technically intelligent as Leona, but he knew one thing they could use to their advantage. It had to be possible, and if not, surely Leona would be able to rig something up with little programming effort. “He said we had to watch all eleven movies, but he never specified that we had to watch them in real time.”
“He said that we can’t fastforward,” Leona argued.
“And we won’t. We’ll just watch them at double speed, and still experience every moment. I know you can do that for a certain online video site. I can’t imagine that’s not a feature on DVD players. And if it isn’t, I guess I assumed you would be able to make it do that anyway.”
Leona smiled, in that way she used to, before he became a killer. “Mateo, that’s genius. We’ll halve our time, and be able to sleep when we’re done.”
“That is indeed clever. You’re learning.” The Cleanser had jumped into the room. “You called?”
“No, I don’t think I said your name three times.”
“You better hope he doesn’t do a Beetlejuice tribulation. But no, I just like to keep my eye on you.”
“Are you gonna rat me out to Makarion that you and I aren’t really friends?”
“The Rogue and I have an understanding. You might say that there are rules to our own game. I have no obligation to divulge information like that. It’s actually in my best interest to let him worry about yours and my relationship.”
“Could he not be watching us right now?”
“Oh, you mean like I do, with the paraphases? Nah, he can’t do that. All he can do is teleport. If he concentrates enough, he can apport people, but nothing more.”
Mateo looked to Leona for answers who explained that apportation was teleporting other people from one place to another without teleporting themselves. He used it to pull them out of space and into the Kansas City water fountain. Paraphases, she said, must have been what he called the observer dimensions they used to spy on people without being noticed.
“So as long as he’s not around, we can speak freely,” Mateo said.
“Well, unless the Cleanser is watching,” Leona spelled out. “Or the powers that be. Or anyone we do not yet know about.”
“You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here,” the Cleanser said, feigning emotion.
“We never know when you’re here anyway,” Mateo said with snark. “Remember when we were talking about that? It’s okay if you don’t recall; it was five seconds ago, after all.”
“You’ve become saucy,” the Cleanser said. “I love the new you.”
The Cleanser left after a few more annoying remarks. Mateo and Leona watched all eleven movies in about as many hours. Darko, Theo, Aura, and Samsonite joined in for a few of them. Then they got some more sleep.