Microstory 457: Floor 29 (Part 2)

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Social Media Manager: Market Researcher! I need you!

Market Researcher: What do you need? I’m up for anything.

Social Media Manager: We are just getting inundated with tons of negative social press. Our accounts on all platforms are just blowing up with elevator jokes, window jokes, and other comments that harm the company’s image. I’ve already uncovered three different memes that make us look bad.

Market Researcher: So you need help with spin.

Social Media Manager: I just need you to spend the lockdown drafting one short, but strong, paragraph for us. In one fell swoop, we need to address the public’s concerns, and shut down the conversation. What we want is a single message for all of our social customers that we can disseminate across all networks. With the microblogs, you’ll post a screenshot with our statement, but it still can’t be too long. If we can say one more thing, and let that be the right thing, then we can prevent any further negative discussion.

Market Researcher: With all due respect, sir, I do not agree that this is the method we want to use.

Social Media Manager: Pardon me?

Market Researcher: I just don’t think it’s the right call. Companies have, in the past, issued single statements. They may have each worked for a time, but people do not forget. That would be especially difficult now that we have all this social media. Information moves so quickly, you can’t just “shut it down”. No matter what you say, people are going to find a way to be negative about it.

Social Media Manager: Well, what would you propose?

Market Researcher: Keep the conversation going, but steer it in the direction that you want. Make it look like the public is in our side, and anyone who’s not, will eventually follow suit. Except for the trolls, but there’s not really anything you can do about that save report them.

Social Media Manager: I’ve been doing my job for God knows how long now. I’ve never heard of anything like that. How exactly do we pretend that the public is on our side? Anything we post will be from our accounts. No, we have to put our foot down.

Market Researcher: We don’t only have our accounts. We also have dummy accounts.

Social Media Manager: Since when?

Market Researcher: I made them weeks ago when I was training on the technical aspects of this department.

Social Media Manager: It still sounds like far too much work, and far too complicated for one person, or even our whole team.

Market Researcher: We won’t have to do it ourselves. I have it on good authority from someone two floors down that someone three floors up has written an automation program that could probably be retooled to our needs.

Social Media Manager: Really? Interesting. [...] Send this supposed coder a message.

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.

The Advancement of Mateo Matic: June 17, 2102

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No sound. The air would shift between a little too cold to go without a jacket, and a little too hot to wear a long-sleeved shirt. Eventually, Mateo grew used to the climate change, and once he stopped caring about it, The Cleanser seemed to have stopped forcing it upon him anyway. He spent months in the cell, doing very little but eating, drinking, sleeping, and meditating. At first, Mateo thought that he was merely being kept in a temporal bubble, but then there were little indications that this was not true. He could see very little through the tiny window just under the ceiling, but he was able to pick up on small adjustments. As each day passed, and the run rose, the sight was different, and it felt different. The floors grew dustier at an unnatural rate. It was an incredibly cramped space, and he was never allowed to leave, but it was survivable. He had air, food, water, and his strength of will. That could never be taken from him.

This was definitely no bubble, and the Cleanser had said as much when he first put Mateo in the tiny room. Mateo just didn’t want to believe it. After all this time of toying with him, and the Cleanser was finally ready to just lock him up and ignore him? No, that didn’t make any sense. Why would he continue to react to Mateo’s choices, like no longer suffering from the temperature fluctuations? Though, to be fair, the Cleanser was immortal, and he could jump through time anyway. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he would only return to watch when it was necessary. He could spend entire lifetimes doing whatever else he wanted. No, this was real. Mateo was stuck in the cell with nothing but a magical bowl of bottomless porridge, a magical glass of bottomless water, and a piece of chalk to keep track of the days. It was difficult to measure the passage of time, but he could guess. From his best estimates, he had been in there for a total of three months.

“Open on twenty-eight!” the Cleanser yelled, probably just to himself. There were several clicks, releasing locks all the way down the door. “It’s your lucky day, Matic. You’ve served a life sentence. Eighty-eight years. I can’t believe you lived this long, that’s not normal. But we gotta let you go. We should rethink our definition of lifetime, and not make it so specific.”

“Eighty-eight more years?” Mateo asked. He went into the cell that many years after first being activated as a salmon. This was a mathematical coincidence that could not have actually been a coincidence. He looked over to his calendar wall. “I was two days off my mark.”

The Cleanser just stared at him.

“Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

“Hold out your arms. He started pulling objects out of the aether and placing them in Mateo’s arms. “One plaid scarf. One comb...brown. Two loose pieces of gum...stale. One egg,” he said in a strange but humorous voice while handing him a single hard-boiled egg. “Five golden rings. A DVD of Cool Runnings. Murder, She Wrote. A bandanna with your name on it. A mix tape, push play on it. A time mirror.”

“That one actually is mine.”

He continued the joke, “a pregnancy test. Another pregnancy test.” He tilted his head in feigned surprise, but remained stone-faced. “A third pregnancy test. My autograph.”

“Is that it?”

“The details of what really happened on the day of JFK’s assassination. Your little pony. An actual horcrux.”

“Great.”

“Oh, hold on. And a second copy of my autograph to give to your daughter.” He winked.

“Don’t think you’re getting these things back just because they don’t actually belong to me.”

He shook his head in genuine surprise. “I don’t understand what’s with you, man. This should have broken you. You were in there for over twelve weeks. How do you still have hair that’s on your head, and not currently being digested, or...stuck to the walls?”

“Maybe I’m just stronger than you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He dropped his voice into a calm and thoughtful therapist impression. “You’re the one who’s trapped. Not in a place like this.” He waved around the cell. “But in here.” He placed three fingers on the Cleanser’s chest.”

“I just can’t quit you, Mateo Matic.”

He held onto the voice. “I know.”

“Sometimes I think I should just kill you and be done with it.”

“Why don’t you?”

“You’re interesting. You surprise me. That’s rare for someone with my power.”

“And how does that make you feel?”

“Okay, you ruined it.”

“Ya know, as far as tribulations go, this was actually kinda nice.”

“And we’re back! Are you serious? You liked this? I mean, forget about all your zen crap for a second, and notice that I wasn’t lying. It really has been eighty-eight years. We’re nearing the end of the 22nd century. You’ve missed more than you ever have before. At least then, you were able to check in with the world and catch up a bit. You know nothing. All you have is Leona...assuming she’s even still alive, I honestly haven’t bothered to keep track. Everyone else has been through so much without you. You’re a stranger in a strange land. You don’t exist.”

Mateo took a deep breath and smiled like a yoga teacher welcoming his students. “Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it,” he quoted from the film Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Mateo added, “But if you don’t keep going, you might miss whatever’s waiting for you up ahead.”

“Okay, well...I guess you have a point there.”

This wasn’t Mateo’s tribulation. This was tough, make no mistake. It was one of the most difficult things he had ever gone through, but it wasn’t the worst. He’s watched the love of his life die, and he’s watched her cut off her own legs. He’s lost three parents—two of them twice, and had no relationship with a fourth. He saw his aunt on her deathbed, a good friend go mad, the world pass him by, and he experienced perpetual torture for thousands of years. Life was gonna suck from now on, but that wasn’t a big deal, because it was always going to suck. His life was never going to have a happy ending, and it was never going to be simple, or easy. He accepted this long ago, right around the time Future!Leona conditioned him to convert recent moments into fading memories. No, it wasn’t Mateo’s tribulation, it was Zeferino Preston’s. Because Zeferino Preston couldn’t understand why this didn’t destroy his enemy. And he would never understand this, because Zeferino Preston had no faith.

“I’m still not convinced that I can’t break you.” Classic Zeferino.

“There are some things not even you can do, Zef.”

“What did you call me?”

“Zef. I’ve heard others call you that before.”

“Yes, family.”

“And the future version of Leona.”

“Yeah, and I literally tore out her heart, didn’t I?”

That was a good point. Zeferino’s anger was increasing, and Mateo didn’t know if he would come to regret it, but he had to take the risk. Leona, and the rest of his family, were supposedly safe on Tribulation Island. He couldn’t be completely sure about that, but again, risks. Family was a sore subject for the Cleanser, which was probably why he went by his nickname in the first place. Mateo had a responsibility to use that to his advantage, ethics be damned. “I’m not afraid of you.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Zef.”

Yeah, that anger was not going anywhere. “You think I can’t hurt you. Oh, sweetheart. I have so many ways to hurt you that I haven’t even tried. Let’s start with this one!” He swung his hands down to his sides, as if presenting himself to a moved audience after a macabre solo dance number. This motion tore Mateo’s clothes away and sucked them into a wormhole using a vacuum cleaner sort of effect. He apported a flurry of mud in midair that flew right onto Mateo’s naked body. He kicked him in the stomach with the sole of his shoe, knocking him back into the cell, and down to the floor. “Who are you?” he asked rhetorically before lobbing a sandwich at him.

Mateo sat in his cell with no food or water for what must have been another week, never able to sleep due to the blaring of the song “Easy Street” throughout the entire duration. Finally, newly activated Savior, Xearea Voss teleported in and escorted him out. He woke up a few hours later in a bed. The weather was cool, so they were apparently not back on Tribulation Island. It was, however, still only 2102. He had, in fact, been in a temporal bubble the whole time.

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Clean Sweep: Massquerade (Part III)

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Athanaric Fury, A.K.A. The Artist, could very well be the most powerful choosing one born in all of time, in every reality. He possessed an unlimited source of energy, which was why he was chosen to become the keystone of The Gallery once it was created by Baudin. It was his energy that kept it alive, and allowed others to manipulate the timestream, while he spent his time working on his projects. There are many ways to create a person capable of breaking the standard of linear time. Two activated salmon will usually create a chooser. Two salmon, where at least one of them is unactivated at the time of conception, will usually result in another salmon. The child of a chooser will usually be born as either chooser or salmon. The souls of some are so deeply ingrained into the fabric of time that they are born as time travelers, even while their parents are normal. Athanaric Fury happened to be one of those people, and it is trait that made him so important.

The Artist has the ability to literally build entire human beings out of clay or stone. Each one will take decades to complete, but once finished, can be anything Athanaric wants. It was he who built The Prestons. Zeferino, Arcadia, and Nerakali were not born to parents. Athanaric built them long before the Gallery Exodus, just in case something like that ever happened. They were three powerful choosers in their own right. Zeferino could adjust temporal disturbances, Arcadia could extract elements of certain alternate realities and place them in the true reality by ignoring the properties of causality, and Nerakali could rearrange people’s memories so that they could not pick up on inconsistencies. And while in the Gallery, the three of them could carry out their duties on a massive scale. That is, Nerakali need not alter the memories of each individual involved, one after the other.

Unfortunately, Athanaric failed in including a vital trait in these three gallery workers. He forgot to give them humanity, and so they were selfish, careless, and easily bored. They rebelled, much like the earlier Gallery workers, and ultimately either left, or were kicked out. Athanaric was forced out of the Gallery himself, with no hope of returning, and almost no hope of saving time from the choosers. Seeing no other option, he did the only thing he knew how to do, which was to make art. He got to work on sculpting a new choosing one. Known simply as The Mass, this new entity would carry with it nearly every temporal power possible. Though resembling a human in every noticeable way, the Mass was not meant to be free-thinking or independent. It would have no motivations, no dreams, no hate. It was just supposed to be a focal point of temporal energy, something capable of protecting all of time and space from changes to the timeline that could threaten reality.

“That’s all you’re doing with him?” Zeferino asked.

“It is not a him,” Athanaric pointed out. “It just looks like a man.”

“Why would it look like a man if it’s not a man?”

“People are all I know how to sculpt.”

“I’m just not sure why it needs to look like anything. From what I learned before I left, the Gallery wasn’t what was protecting time, it was you. It was just an extension the power that you were providing it. You’re the true Gallery. Can you not do this on your own?”

“I cannot,” Athanaric admitted. “I am strong, but I do not have your and your sisters’ abilities. I can make people with powers, but can wield none of my own.”

“I spent decades in standard dimension, looking for you. I’ve had a lot of time to think about what I’ve done. I’m not just talking about banishing you from the Gallery. Everything my sisters and I did before that was wrong. We were wrong.”

“I have been here for as many years as you, and have spent that time thinking about my own actions. I am your father, I should have made you better. I should have taught you to care, not just to act, and I should have encouraged you to want to learn. Everything you did was my fault, and I no longer feel anger for being pushed into this dimension. I love you, all of you, and I will be here for you from now on.”

“That’s nice to hear. In fact, it is exactly what I came here hoping you would say. I am also glad that you are building this, as you call it, Mass. We must rebuild, and we must do it better this time.”

“That’s what it’s for.”

“Well, I sort of assumed that you would contact The Constructor, and ask him to build a new Gallery.”

“No, that would never work. It’s too late for something like that. It was located in a special dimension that we can not reenter. Nothing like that could be replicated. The Mass is the only way. When it’s done, it’ll solve all our problems.”

Zeferino looked over the new creation. It looked done to him. “What is it missing? Ten fingers, ten toes.”

“I’m still working on the timer. It’s not quite as short as I would like it to be.”

“What timer?”

“It needs to be on a time limit,” Athanaric said, mildly unsure why he would need to explain it. “I don’t want it to spend too much linear time in once place. It should flutter throughout the continuum.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Quantum superposition?”

“What?”

“Never mind. You’ll see.”

“That’s all that you need, though? Just to lower the amount of time it’s allowed to stay in any one timeplace?”

“That’s right, why?”

Zeferino removed a sword from his endless bag and positioned it under the neck of the Mass. “Remove it.”

“Zef, what are you doing? Remove what, the time limit? That’s an important feature. It can’t effectively do its job if it can’t jump across moments. Why do you care anyway? What, were you looking to be, its friend?”

“I’m not looking for a friend,” Zeferino spat. “I’m looking for power. And this right here? This is my power. I want you to take off whatever time limit you’ve already placed on it, and then install my mind into its body.”

“You want to...become..the Mass?”

“I want to become what I already am. I want to be The Cleaner.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I’ll kill it. I’ll kill it before its born, and then you’ll have nothing.”

“I’ll start over.”

“I’ll kill you too.”

“Then you’ll have nothing.”

“I am prepared to explore other options.”

“Zef, let’s just talk about this.”

“No, let’s stop talking!” He slid the sword across the Mass’ neck and drew a non-fatal amount of blood.

“Okay, okay. We appear to be in a competition that I was not aware may happen. I can do what you ask, but I’ll need my hammer. It’s on that table behind you.”

Zeferino cautiously reached behind him, but kept his eyes on Athanaric. He moved his hand around until finding what felt like a hammer. He slowly raised it up and gave it to the Artist.

“Great, thanks,” Athanaric said before swiftly knocking the hammer on Zeferino’s sword, and sending it across space.

“No!” Zeferino cried.

“Welp, the Gondilak are going to enjoying having a weapon like that.”

“Goddammit! Why won’t you just do this for me? It’s not like I would be taking over someone else’s life. It a mass, it feels nothing, so just give it to me.”

“That’s weird, Zeferino. It’s weird that you want this. Just live your life, let me live mine, and let the Mass do its job.”

“I reject your reality, and substitute my own, which I will be able to do once you give me the Mass!”

They heard the sound of a microwave ding. “Perfect timing.” Athanaric removed his chisel from his pocket. “This contains the completed program for the new time limit protocol. All I have to do is tap the Mass with it, and its body will be useless to you.”

“Okay, okay,” Zeferino now said. “Just put..the chisel..down. You don’t wanna do this. Let’s talk. You wanted to talk, so let’s talk.”

“Nah, I’m done with that.”

He attempted to tap the Mass with the chisel, but Zeferino grabbed his wrist and held it at bay. Athanaric tried to hit him with the magic hammer, but Zeferino knocked it out of his hand.

As they continued to struggle with the tool, a woman walked up. Seeing them fight over something seemingly so innocuous led her to believe that it was not a big deal. “Hey, my name’s Frida Quelen. I found this compass that doesn’t point North, and it’s led me here.”

“The Compass of Disturbance?” When he dropped his guard at the sight of something he had been looking for almost as long as he had looked for Athanaric, he unwittingly gave Athanaric the upper hand.

But Athanaric was not ready for this, and lost control of the chisel, sending it flying towards Frida. It gently hit her in the chest and fell to the ground.

The contact point on her skin burned an orangey-green. “What is happening?”

“Oh no,” Athanaric said, nearly speechless.

Frida disappeared.

“Now it’s mine,” Zeferino said in a confident whisper. He turned around to admire what was to be his new body. Desperate, Athanaric took a gouge from his table and stabbed his son in the back. Zeferino coughed up blood, spitting it into the face of the Mass. Then his old body died.

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Microstory 455: Floor 31 (Part 2)

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Negotiator: Get me on the line with Snowglobe Collective.

Assistant: Ma’am, are you sure about that? I thought we were going to let that go.

Negotiator: One of us is a world-class negotiator, and the other just has an associate’s degree.

Assistant: I have a bachelor’s.

Negotiator: Really? What the hell are you doing here?

Assistant: Well, it’s more compli—

Negotiator: Just dial the phone.

Assistant: Here.

Negotiator [on the phone]: Loreto, how are you doing? Listen, I had a chat with my associates, and it looks like we’re open to making a deal.—No, no. I assure you that things have not gotten worse.—Okay, yes. It’s true that we’ve experienced some further loss, but that has nothing to do with the company. Alpha committed suicide in the atrium...and the elevator crashed.—We had nothing to do with that. You think a window company employs anybody who knows how to install an elevator? Have you ever seen a construction company that also makes elevators. Those are always third parties, always.—I understand that, but it’s not a symptom, it’s a freak occurrence.—Of course our asking price will be dropped. I do recognize that these recent problems devalue the organization, I’m not an idiot.—No, if you wait to close the deal, the price won’t go down even further. You can’t just wait until we starve to death. We will get through this, with your help, or without. If you don’t make this deal now, the scandal will blow over and we’ll come back stronger than ever.—I honestly believe that. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t. I’m not a liar. Look, we both know that you need this more than I do. If this company goes under tomorrow, I’ll just find another job. This is to your benefit. It’s kind of stupid that a company called Snowglobe Collective doesn’t own any subsidiaries.—Okay, well any relevant subsidiaries. You need something big, you need it now. Come to the table and we can hammer this out like men.—It’s an expression.—Loreto, Loreto, just listen.—If I sound desperate, it’s just because—hello? Hello? Shit.

Assistant: Did he hang up?

Negotiator: Yes, Assistant, he hung up. Just get me my coffee.

Assistant: We’re not allowed to leave the floor.

Negotiator: Don’t we have a machine up here?

Assistant: Not yet.

Negotiator: Go downstairs, tell anyone who gives you trouble where they can stick it, then order me a bloody espresso machine!