Microstory 816: Fly in the Teeth Part I

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Throughout my whole life, I was utterly convinced that the zombie apocalypse was coming. Whenever anyone would ask me about it, I would be able to explain exactly why I thought that. I cited diseases that could mutate to something resembling a zombie-like state, and had all these scientific explanations for why it was not only possible, but inevitable. Everyone thought I was crazy, as you can imagine, and as time went on, I started wondering whether they were right all along. But they weren’t, were they? My first true evidence that there was something wrong—that some kind of epidemic was starting to spread—was when I ran into a group of what I thought were just mischievous kids taunting me for my theories. They turned out to be incredibly fast and riotous, and I began to fear for my life. I had to knock them off of my truck as I was driving away. They could almost keep up with me, but I had to speed to make sure they didn’t. Somehow the story of my harrowing adventure landed in the ears of the White House, and I was secretly invited to speak with the President himself, as well as the First Lady. We discussed the problem, but still things didn’t seem too dire, because I can remember having a good laugh about his opponent’s running mate in the election that led to his first term.

As I predicted, though, the zombies did show up, and man did it spread quickly. Fortunately, the President and I had covertly coordinated the installation of special buttons on nearly every street corner in every major city in the country. One push could summon the aid of military force. I still believe this saved a lot of lives, even though the proverbial shit has since completely hit the fan by now. When it all happened, I was nowhere near Mount Weather, so even though the government had secured for me a place in their bunker, I was unable to make it in time. I instead had to care for a young boy whose mother had abandoned him to save herself. We struggled to run away from the zombie hordes, but some of them seemed to release a pheromone that slowed us down. We managed to push through just barely, and found ourselves with a band of survivors, who were on their way to a series of caves they claimed would easily rival that of Mount Weather’s. A lovely and unexpected side effect of the zombie pheromones was increased agility and strength, which allowed me to jump down a forty-foot cliff to make sure it was safe for the others. I discovered the caves to not be so safe, for other survivors had already made their way there, and had all been turned by the time we arrived. We needed to go somewhere else, and somebody suggested we try to find a plane. Zombies clearly hated the cold, because it slowed them down, so our best bet now was to head North.

The Advancement of Leona Matic: August 28, 2174

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The entire crew of The Warren was still in the ship proper when Annora Ubiña died, which acted to seal off all access to her pocket dimensions. Étude and Saga were expected to be have been in pocket four, which was where they lived, along with Camden Voss, and a group of passengers who posed the least amount of threat to them. Serif had gone into pocket three to explore, but everyone else was capable of still doing their jobs. They were heavy one of the passengers, though. A man named Thando Kovar requested special permission to work dirty jobs on the vessel, saying that he felt uncomfortable being taken back to Earth for free. They agreed to this, but at the moment, he was prime suspect for Annora’s murder, which they confirmed as such after Paige used her cybernetic upgrades to perform a brief autopsy. He was happy to remain locked in one of the cabins, realizing he was the only one they could not fully trust. Unfortunately, the culprit could be anyone. According to as much information as Paige could gather, it was fully possible that Annora was fatally wounded, but remained alive long enough for the killer to escape through one of the pocket entrances before they were closed. There would be no way for them to know, or so they thought.

Hokusai and Leona worked tirelessly for the rest of the day, trying to get back into the pockets, but they were impenetrable. No, it was more like they didn’t exist at all. They could be 99 percent sure that they were still open, and the residents inside were living fairly normal lives. Except for maybe the one that held the murderer. That one could be bad. And it could also be the one Serif was in, or the one where Camden, Saga, and their daughter were in. They absolutely needed to get in, but it was looking impossible. With a defeatist attitude, and a familiar feeling of fatigue that she long ago learned was an occupational hazard, Leona slumped at the once-entrance to pocket three, and fell asleep. Dimensional mechanics being what they were, she was not really closer to Serif than she would be on any other part of the ship, but it was as good as she was going to get. She dreamt of the future, several days from now, when the ship would land. Only then might they find a way to reopen the pocket dimensions, with the help of some salmon or choosing one.

Not long after midnight central hit, she was being woken up by a stranger. She struggled to open her eyes, blinded by the sunlight. She was lying on a beautiful green lawn, but could see buildings in the middle distance. “Are we there already?” she asked.

“No. You’re in pocket three. Have you been here this whole time?”

Wobbly Leona struggled to stand up. “No, I was in the ship. The pockets were sealed off. Hokusai must have figured out how to reopen them.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened,” the man said. “We’ve been stuck here for a year. And still are.”

“No, that’s impossible. I was out there. There’s no way to get in. We tried the whole day.”

“Just a day?” He tilted his lizard brain. “You’re that jumper. The one who only lives one day per year.”

“Yes. I’m sure the rest of the crew kept working on it since I left. Wait, you said this is pocket three?”

“Yeah?”

“I was at the entrance when I jumped. Is Serif here?”

At first, he didn’t seem to know who that was, but then remembered. “Oh yeah, the crew rep who was here. Well, she disappeared a year ago. Just like you. There are two of you, I didn’t know that.”

“Where exactly was she when she disappeared?” Leona asked.

“Leona!” she heard Serif’s voice call out to her from the direction of one of the housing units. She was already running towards her.

“Yeah, this isn’t a huge place,” the man said. “It doesn’t take long to find anyone.”

“Serif, you’re here!” Leona said happily.

“I am, what happened?”

“There was—” Leona hesitated, and looked over the man who had found her. This was not for his ears.

“Right...I’m gonna go fix the daytime simulator. I only found you because I came out to investigate why the sun turned on in the middle of the night.”

“What happened?” Serif repeated herself once the man was out of earshot.

“Annora’s dead. Murdered. The suspect is either our custodian, or someone in one of these pockets.”

“Oh my God. I guess that would explain how we got trapped.”

“Yes, but if I can get in, you can get out,” Leona said.

“What about the others?”

“It only works during our timejumps, and only when we’re close to the entrance. So we’ll camp out here for the day, and before midnight, we’ll go to the exit, and wait for it to happen again. We can’t save the others. They won’t fit, and I don’t know if that would work anyway.”

“Leona, you misunderstand. The exit isn’t blocked, or locked. It’s gone. It likely vanished at the same moment Annora died. There’s nowhere to go.” She pointed behind Leona. “You’re looking at a Mario Bros. wrap around. Walk in one direction for long enough, and you end up on the exact opposite side of the dimension. There is no escape.”

This was not good news, but then Leona reached for the gadget on her wrist. “My emergency teleporter. That might take us back to the bridge. Do you still have yours?”

“No,” Serif said. “I didn’t think I would need it here.”

“Well, they can take the mass of two standard adults. So that’s what we’ll do. Here, take my hand.”

Serif stepped back like she had seen a spider. “No, we can’t go.”

“I assure you, we can try.”

Serif balked. “If someone’s been murdered, someone is a murderer. Possibly more than one. That person—or those people—could be walking around free right now, ready to do it again. We have to stay here until we determine who it is.” She was unwavering.

“Serif, we’re not detectives. What’re we gonna do, interrogate people?”

“Damn right,” she replied. “We’re the only ones who can go to the other pockets. We have to exhaust all our options here before we do that.”

“The investigation could take six years.”

“A regrettable side effect,” Serif said of this dismissively.

Leona scoffed.

“Better six years than never. Will you be able to sleep at night, knowing we let a killer keep on killing, somewhere here. And what happens when we arrive on Earth? Will we let all the passengers go, thereby also letting said killer do what they want with a whole planet of victims?”

“Well, it’s nearly impossible to get away with murder on Earth these days.”

“You think that’s my point?” she cried. She calmed herself down without prompting. “We have one day to interview every one of the twenty-four people here. I say we get it done by eleven o’clock, try your emergency teleporter, and report back to the crew. Before midnight, we get to the next pocket entrance, and do it all over again. Then we do it as many times as it takes to solve this mystery.”

“Serif, I don’t care about these people. I only care about our people. We get back to the ship, grab a few extra teleporter bands, and go retrieve Étude and her family. That’s the best I can do.”

Serif was shaking her head. “That’s not good enough. There are children here.”

“Oh, don’t guilt trip me.”

“We have to help them,” Serif said, still steadfast. “It’s what we do, when we can. Right now, we can.”

The sun turned back off, and stars appeared, simulating the nighttime. Leona sighed. “If these people are half as tired as I am, they could do with some more sleep anyway. Did they give you a guestroom, or something?”

“They did. There are a few extra beds in each pocket. We’ll start talking to people in the morning.” She used airquotes for the final word.

Once morning came, Serif called everyone to the main common area, and explained the situation. There were a few gripes about privacy and this being a waste of time, but most of them were okay with being interrogated if it meant figuring out who was responsible for this. Overall, they were a fairly accommodating group, though they did express dissatisfaction with this means of investigation. It was rather difficult to explain that there was no other way. Only two people on the ship could travel to the pockets, and only at certain times, on certain days. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but as Serif was saying, it was the best they could do.

No one seemed particularly suspicious, and they couldn’t find any clear motive for any one of them to have committed this crime. Everyone could be accounted for during the time range for Annora’s death. The fact that all their suspects were being quarantined was a pretty nice feature for this situation. The killer likely believed that they got away with it, especially since so much time will have passed before anyone can show up to ask them about it. They will never see Leona and Serif coming, and will have hopefully let their guard down by the time they do. Yes, they could kill again by then; or worse, Leona and Serif could show up to the last pocket they investigate to find everybody massacred. So that wasn’t a great prospect. Perhaps when they went back to the ship, the rest of the crew would have some idea of how they could better handle this.

With an hour to spare before midnight, they entered into a tight embrace, and activated Leona’s teleporter. It worked. They were both back on the ship, much to Brooke’s surprise. “You two are late. Serif, I thought you were in one of the pockets.”

“I was,” Serif answered. “She was too. There’s a way for us to get in them. But only us, and we’re gonna need a few extra transporters.”

“Ouch,” Brooke said apologetically. “No can dosville, baby doll. Hokusai tore them apart, trying to get into the pockets. Apparently, they got real forked up. I don’t think they work anymore.”

“Dammit,” Leona said. “We were gonna use them to get Saga, Étude, and Camden out.”

“And to extradite whoever killed Annora, when we find them,” Serif added.

“Wait, you’re going back in to, what, investigate?”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” Leona said with betrayal.

“You got a better idea?”

“Eh, you do you, sister.” She turned back to her controls. “My only job is to run this ship. If you wanna go back in, you best have a talk with the captain.”

“A talk about what?” Paige asked, demonstrating her almost irritating knack for showing up in doorways, acting as if she hadn’t heard the whole conversation with her enhanced ears.

Serif sighed. “About the safety of our passengers.”

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Missy’s Mission: Simba Baby (Part I)

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Melissa Calluna Atterberry was born on April 7, 2018 not far from her parents’ home in Surrey, British Columbia, which was located just meters from the U.S. border. Her family wanted her to possess dual citizenship between both countries. As soon as they found out her mother was pregnant, they began to make inquiries about special permission for a border birth. As it turned out, their daughter would have dual citizenship, regardless of which side she was born on, because her father was Usonian. Still, the idea of giving birth right on the line fascinated them, so they continued to press the issue. They were ultimately granted authorization for this, but only for the good publicity. Representatives from each country wanted to acknowledge, solidify, and demonstrate the good relationship between them, in a very public setting. Though, of course, the media was not allowed in the trailer they retrofitted as a cleanroom, they were called in when the time came, and reported from outside.

Two separate audiences gathered in either half of Peace Arch Park. Missy’s future uncles sold snacks and memorabilia. Her aunts put on a singing performance, along with a local band. Since the moment couldn’t be planned too far in advance, the people who showed up were just the ones who could drop what they were doing at a moment’s notice. Once Missy had come into the world, and passed the initial health test, her grandfather carried her out of the trailer, and presented her to millions of people watching the feed on the internet. The people called her Simba Baby, a nickname she outgrew when she found out she was a choosing one, and her unorthodox birth was no longer the most interesting part about her.

She was ten years old when her parents took her on a vacation by Brooks Lake, in Wyoming. With them came a family of friends, including a boy named Harley, who she had been friends with since forever. He was four years older, and taught her a lot of things about life, all of which she later had to question. When they were alone on a walk in the woods, he decided it was time to attack her. He had put a lot of work into their relationship, and he was cashing in on what he deserved from her. She said no, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t take no for an answer. She tried to push him away, but he pushed back. She tried to run away, but he ran after her. She had power, though, and he was no match for it. She could create temporal bubbles that slowed down, or sped up, time for anyone and anything inside of it. Just before he could catch up to her, she created one of these out of instinctual desperation. He was practically stuck in time, moving in slow motion. She stopped and watched, knowing that she had done this, but not knowing how. Worried she wouldn’t be able to hold the bubble for an extended period of time, she tried to run away again, but nearly collided with another man.

“Very good job,” the man said. He was much, much older. “You couldn’t have picked a better time to figure out what you could do.”

“Who are you?” she asked, still more frightened than she had ever been.

“Not a friend,” he replied coldly. “But no one deserves this.” He started walking over towards the boy, who was still struggling to get back to realtime. “No one deserves what he was about to do to you, so I’ll take care of him for you.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you should go,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she repeated.

He casually brushed his fingers against the wall of her time bubble. “I can do what you can do. Let me show you a trick. Instead of slowing them down, you should speed them up.” He grabbed onto the wall, and gritted his teeth. The boy inside of it started bashing himself against the edges, at incredible speed, trying to get out of it. Eventually, though, he had to give up. He quickly starved to death, and his body decayed, right before Missy’s eyes. “I hope you appreciate my sacrifice,” the man said. “I don’t usually kill children, which is why I’m letting you go...for now. In fact, I’ll protect you your whole life. That is, until your time comes. Enjoy your powers,” he said as he was walking away. “Because whether you use them or not, I’ll eventually kill you for having them.”

He hadn’t lied about that. Missy’s life was in danger far more often than the average for any one person. She tried asking her parents about her powers, but they had no clue what she was talking about. They freaked out when they saw what she could do, and they didn’t want anything to do with them. She could stay with them, if she wanted, but she wasn’t allowed to make time bubbles, and she wasn’t allowed to talk about them. She agreed to their conditions, but literally the day she turned eighteen, she left the house, and never returned. She went looking for other people like her, eventually discovering there to be this huge network of choosers, as she learned they were called. Her life continued to be threatened, as some people she met with powers were dangerous, and others were simply reckless. The man from before did as he promised, appearing whenever his services were needed. Despite how much time had lapsed, he was never any older, and never any nicer. The older she got, the closer he seemed to be to doing what he said he would, and killing her. She didn’t know exactly what he was waiting for, but she did not feel the need to find out.

She met some good people along the way too, many of whom helped her try to escape her fate. They took her all across time and space, sometimes even to other planets. At some point, she learned of a special prison called Beaver Haven. Technically, it was for any choosing one who had committed some crime that an arbitrary group of people with time powers decided was too far over the line. They were known, however, to also allow law-abiding time travelers in, who needed protection from others. Yet the evil man found her there as well, and easily broke her out of it. Still, he didn’t kill her, and she was starting to think that stalking her was more important than the violence he was planning to inflict on her.

She sought refuge on a place called Tribulation Island, which was located on millions of lightyears from Earth, on a planet owned by a woman named Leona Matic, called Dardius. Leona had been involved with the murder of the evil man who had been stalking Missy all this time. Unfortunately, time travel being what it was, a younger version of that man was still free to torment her, for he had not yet gone back in time, and died. But because of the nature of his death, he could do no harm to Leona, which meant she was the safest person to be around in the whole spacetime continuum. So Missy began to follow her around, with a group of girls on a mission to find The Last Savior of Earth. They ended up on yet another planet, this one called Durus. Having been long ago ejected from its solar system, it was somehow linked with Earth, and carried with it unusual temporal properties of its own. There were rumors that somewhere, somehow, Durus was capable of removing someone’s powers. Though she loved what she could do, these powers were too dangerous to keep, so if there was any chance of ridding herself of them, she had to go for it. A friend of hers from the group, Dar’cy Matigaris even agreed to stay with her, as a personal security guard. If anyone in history could stop The Cleanser from hurting Missy, Dar’cy was it.

At the moment, the two of them were seeing their friends off in the ship that had brought them there, The Warren. Missy didn’t know if staying behind was the right call, but it was the best one she could come up with at the time. Even though she might never be able to get back home, and see people she loved ever again, this was perhaps the only path to take. She would at least be alive, assuming any of this worked. They still had no idea where on Durus they were meant to go, what they were meant to do, or whether the whole thing was just one big lie.

They were standing next to a paramount—which was just this world’s word for chooser—who could instantly transport massive objects from one place, to another. She did her trick with the ship, sending it straight into orbit, and it was done. Now there was no turning back. “Well, what do we do now?” Dar’cy asked.

“Right now, we go back to the house that Andromeda built for her wife and child,” Missy declared. “We get something to eat, we get some sleep, and we start looking for answers in the morning.”

“Where might we find those answers?”

“I suppose we should start at the library, where all good research originates.”

When they arrived at the house, a man was there, waving his hands at it, creating ripples in the air.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dar’cy demanded to know, stepping between him and Missy.

“Oh, I was asked to create wards here,” he responded, stopping his work.

“Create what?”

“Wards. People can’t use powers in or around the building. And they can’t step foot in here without your permission.”

“Who asked you to do that?” Dar’cy questioned.

“I did,” he said. “I received a time message from my future self, asking me to help you. I can show it to you. I put it through an authenticator, it definitely came from me.”

“That may be so,” Dar’cy began, “but we don’t know if we can trust your future self any more than we can trust you.”

“You can call the paramount division of the police if you’d like,” he said. “They’ll verify these are true wards. I have no reason to hurt you.”

“Dar’cy,” Missy said, “not all men are bad.”

“I know that,” she replied before turning her attention back to him. “I want your telemagnet code. If you’re going to make these for us, then I want to be able to hold you accountable at any moment.”

He smiled. “I can do that. Can I finish first, though?”

She nodded.

“Thank you,” Missy said to him. She nodded as well, but to herself. “We might actually survive this.”

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Microstory 815: Open Book

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I’ve never really liked my job, but I’ve also never hated it. Right before I graduated from high school, my aunt helped me get an interview with a woman who would soon become my supervisor. Even though I’m one of the youngest people here, at fourteen years, I’ve been here longer than almost everybody. All through grade school, I had my heart set on being a private detective. I never gave up on that dream so much as I sort of just forgot I had it. I make decent money, the work is fairly easy, and people generally leave me alone. I’m a technical writer, and though it’s a fundamental position at the organization, people don’t actively recognize this, and they just ignore me. If I weren’t important enough, they could do away with the position entirely, but if I were too important, they would probably find someone who cares about it more, and does a better job. I think I’ve found a good balance. When the rumor started going around that someone here found a way to compile a list of every single individual in the world, I was surprised, but not terribly interested. Apparently, they made this gargantuan virtual phonebook with everybody’s phone number and address. While I understand why this sort of thing would bother people, I don’t have any enemies, so I wasn’t personally concerned by the news. Plus, it couldn’t be real, right? That sort of technology could be centuries away, if it could ever exist. Something in my file must have mentioned my earlier aspirations to be an investigator, which prompted the United States government to approach me with a deal. If I helped them figure out who had created this phonebook, where the servers were located, and helped them destroy it, I would never have to work again. As apathetic of a person I’ve become, I jumped at the chance to free myself from the chains of my office chair. I secretly interviewed key employees, and started looking into financial records, and uncovering everyone’s recent activities. I asked for help from our company’s webmaster, hoping she could find a way to trace the source of the rumor. The person who started this gossip would either be someone with access to the book, or know the person who does. As it turned out, the culprit was literally sitting next to me the entire time. He was another lowly technical writer, and perhaps even more indifferent than me. I didn’t even ask him how he did it, or why. I just called my government contacts, and had them come in to take care of business. Two weeks later, I receive a delayed email from my former coworker. Attached was the location of the phonebook servers, along with a note informing me that he’s bequested the whole operation to me. When I drove up there to find it perfectly intact, I wondered why the agents hadn’t done anything about it yet. Seeing it as irrelevant to my own life, I just let it go, and assumed they would find it eventually, but they evidently never did. Nor did they ever deliver on this magical life where I don’t have to work anymore. In fact, I ended up losing the job I did have, because the company executives seem to have played a larger part in the conspiracy. Well, all right, then. I guess this thing goes online. Tomorrow morning.

Microstory 814: Timebomb

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I wake up again, and cough up the water. This is my upteenth try, but I know if I can run fast enough, I can get there in time. I just have to get past this psychotic terrorist. Whenever I try to fight him, I waste precious time that I could be using to get to the boat. Sometimes I win, and sometimes I lose, but no matter the outcome, the boat always explodes. My only way to save it is to just ignore him. I race through the water as fast as my stomach—which is being held back by the water—will take me. I’m at the point where I can start edging towards the right, and catch the current. Then it gets shallow enough for me to hop over the surface. I’ve learned a thing or two since my first attempt. Everything in my environment is trying to keep me from reaching to my goal, but I’m determined to make it this time. I’m dead anyway, I keep telling myself. But if I can change history for the better, the researchers who sent me back in time promise to provide for my family, and me, if I manage to survive this time ‘round. How they’ll even know that I’ve fixed the timeline for them is something I should have thought about before I signed my brain away to them in the name of science. I’m almost to the boat; farther than I’ve ever gotten, when the bomb goes off, and I’m sent back yet again. I don’t know what else to do. Of course my first thought was to get out of the water, and run through the woods, but it’s far too thick. The river is the fastest way, as illogical as it sounds for someone moving on foot. It’s deep and wide, though, so there is an infinite number of routes to take. I just have to find the perfect one. The scientists didn’t say anything about a limit to the number of times I can try this.

This time, though, the boat explodes when I’ve barely made it past the terrorist, which is several minutes earlier than it usually does. Somehow I’m changing how things turn out, even without seemingly doing anything. I go back for another try, and this time the bomb goes off at the normal time it usually does, but I still don’t get there fast enough. I do touch the stern with one finger, though, so that’s progress. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the scientists were. Maybe this is physically impossible. Why me, too? There’s gotta be someone else around here who can get to the bomb faster, and defuse it. Maybe there was, but I’m the only one who agreed to the potentially lethal procedure. The time solution they injected me with caused the most pain my body has experienced, and I relive those moments every time I wake up for another attempt. I’m getting used to it, though, and if I can figure out the secret to this, it’ll surely be worth it. I must be missing something. In my rush to go as fast as possible, I never thought to stop and take a look around. There could be a better way if I just had a new perspective. So this time, as soon as I’m sent back to my body in the past, I start running in the opposite direction. Upriver seems like a counterintuitive decision, but it’s really the only thing I haven’t tried yet, and as luck would have it, it’s the right one. After some careful searching, I realize a group of frat boys have left their small motorboat loosely nestled in some brush while they play polo. It took me too long to get here, though, so there’s not enough time, but the brush on the bank is a lot thinner here. I can use that.

The next time the explosion resets the clock, I race up the bank, and upriver, expertly jumping into the boat, and getting it started, like it isn’t my first time. The frat boys start yelling at me, but they don’t seem all that perturbed about it. I speed down the river, which I know so well by now that there’s no risk of running aground. I make it go as fast as possible, point it at the right direction, and let it run into the riverboat, jumping onto the deck at the perfect moment. It does some damage, to both vessels, but that’s nothing compared to what happens when my time runs out. I run down the steps, having long memorized the layout, and deep into the bowels. There. The bomb’s there. But it’s not alone. I tense up, and prepare for another fight, but somehow I don’t think this guy’s a terrorist. He’s dressed like a captain afterall. “You’re new,” he says to me with surprised. Damn, I’m still not quite there in time. The bomb goes off, but for the last time. It has to be. I don’t think my heart can go through this even once more. I start running again, relishing in the idea of the terrorist who had escaped what he had done, and stumbled onto me, wondering why the hell I suddenly stopped fighting him. I get to the motorboat even faster during this attempt. The captain nods when he sees me this time. “You’re back. I hope you know what you’re doing.” I do. I know exactly how to defuse this bomb, as I’ve done it hundreds of times as practice. With seconds to spare, I cut the circuits, and end this nightmare. “You remember me?” I ask. “You’re from the future too?” He smiles and replies, “yes. Thank God you finally showed up, though. Humans can only jump back to one moment so many times, so this was our last chance.”

Microstory 813: There is Sanctuary

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I’ve seen a lot of crazy stuff in my life, and not all of it since I’ve been on the force. When I was little, life on this rock was pretty normal, but things changed when the bladapods were discovered. As it stands, we’ve only cataloged about a quarter the world’s total species, the majority of which lie in the oceans, many of which are microscopic. Still, scientists twenty-four years ago came across the interesting species in the Amazon rainforest. They quickly discovered that these things breed like tribbles when kept in captivity. Theoretically out of fear of extinction, they multiply rapidly in an attempt to play the odds. Hoping to solve the problem without using genocide, and encourage them to drop back down to more manageable numbers, the bladapods were distributed all over the world. It seemed to have worked, but there was an eerie side effect that we’ve never been able to remedy. They began to release gases into the atmosphere that had a huge impact on our planet. Nothing truly supernatural has occurred yet, but people, animals, and plants began to transform in unexpected, and completely unpredictable ways. It’s no longer strange to find a pair of conjoined twins that look nothing like each other, or to meet a telepathic whale shark, or to find a tree that’ll adjust its branches and leaves to provide you an impenetrable canopy from the rain, at polite request. Some of these are interesting and delightful, but not everything has been dog poop that decomposes in a matter of minutes, or literal unicorns, born from two mules. There are nasty, dangerous things now, causing problems we never thought we would have to deal with. For instance, I’ve been working on this series of killings in the area that screams bladgas-related. They’re all professional and quick. The victims share no defining trait, other than being in some position of power, such as a company executive. Basically, I’ve always assumed these were assassinations, carried out by a hired gun. But I can’t rule out a hyperintelligent pedal-hyena, or luck fungus.

After months of investigation, I finally found a lead; not on who might be doing this, but who their next target might be. I started following him around, and he seemed to be under the same suspicions as me, because he looks agitated, and scared. Traffic gets bad when a firetruck catches on fire—reported as being caused by a contaminated tank of mislabeled ironywater. He gets out of his car, and starts moving off on foot. I get out as well, and stay on him. He finally finds what he’s looking for, in a church known for taking in refugees from the other side of a wall that spontaneously sprung up right down the middle of the District of Columbia, which some now worship as the “foot of God”. They think he put it down, and they’ll do anything to keep people from crossing it. As a law enforcement officer, I’m not technically allowed in, but the choir boy security guard makes an exception when I agree to leave my badge and gun with him, and promise to eat a fistful of sweatsalad if I try to harm anyone inside. Unsurprisingly, if you can believe it, a three-year-old girl comes in after us before too long. She has an assault rifle leaning casually against her shoulder, which is, of course, still entirely legal in this country. She announces to the crowd that she has no interest in any waller, and just needs to clear her contract. I stand between her and her target, hoping to reason with her. It takes a few hours of some circular arguing—and a vow to let her ride on the tail of a titanosaur, which I actually am capable of delivering—but I finally convince her to let this one go. She even assures me that she’ll return the money to her client, and take but a third of what she would have ultimately earned, from me, and a few generous wallers. I’m not sure I can trust her, though, so while she isn’t looking, I search through her bag, and retrieve her contact information, so I can reach out to her parents, and keep my eye on her. We’ll see how this goes.

Microstory 812: Water Shoes

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I stumble out of the building, totally disoriented, with no memory of the last day or two. I don’t know what I’m running from, but I know it isn’t good. I woke up on a table, tiny little metal things holding my eyelids open. Someone must have given me something, because it’s brighter outside than I’ve ever seen it. I can make out a few shapes here and there, enough to keep from running out in traffic, but I can’t see any detail. I don’t see the shape of what’s coming for me, though, because I’m already feeling off-balance, and turning my head would just make it that much worse. I keep blinking as a run, thinking my eyes will adjust to the daytime, but they never do. It doesn’t even just look like the sunlight beating down on me, but like every surface I encounter is reflective. I land in a couple shallow puddles, then across some grass, and as I do, I hear fewer and fewer city sounds. I sense that whatever is chasing me is getting even closer, and since I don’t have any clue where I’m going, I may never be able to outlast it. I start to feel water leaking into my shoes, but one thing I can see is that I’m not walking through water. It’s just somehow appearing out of nowhere, and while it does so, I start to feel the tightness of my shoes less and less. Not until the last aglet is gone do I realize that my shoes themselves have turned into water. Somehow. What’s even more amazing is that the shoes stay on my feet, and continue to protect me from the rocks I’m now running on.

I don’t even feel the road beneath me. Still, the thing behind maintains its pursuit. Getting an idea from what’s happened to my shoes, I take a sharp left turn, and—despite my full eyesight not returning—deftly maneuver down the bank, and into a lake. Rather, I’m on top of the lake. I can run on top of the water, as it were nothing more than soft Colorado snow. I keep running, acutely aware that my tormentor has found itself unable to follow me here, but I can hear it scream at me. It’s definitely not human. Then again, I don’t feel human anymore either. The more I run across the lake, the more water splashes on my body, and as it does, that body part begins to feel less like itself; like I no longer have any feeling there. I begin to sink, but still, I never stop. It’s a pointless endeavor, as my body starts melting into a liquid state. Just before my head transforms, my last thought is of a once-lost memory. I remember now that I first experienced these symptoms a few days ago, and had found someone to help me correct the problem. I shouldn’t have run from them.

Microstory 811: Inevitable

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I was about fourteen years old when my parents sat me down and told me that they were time travelers. They both had the ability to go back in time, as far as the last day, which gave them enough to try things over. In fact, my mother was even more powerful, being capable of trying things over and over and unlimited number of times. I had always wondered why she was so freaking perfect. And there was that one time she caught me just as I was falling out of the tree, even though she had been nowhere near me. My dad could only do it once. I remember asking them whether I would eventually develop the same powers, and they told me I was more likely to have the same limitations as my father, since there seemed to be some gender component, but I could also end up with nothing. I would come to find out several years later that it would be inaccurate to call what I could do powers. I appeared to have no control over when it happened...it was more like time travel was happening to me, rather than me traveling. I first noticed it when I was on a date with this guy from my history class. A waiter spilled sauce on my best outfit; which involved a blazer that I actually bought specifically for this occasion, because I wanted my date to think I was more sophisticated, and didn’t just wear grunge band concert tees. As the waiter was apologizing, and sending the hostess to grab some club soda from the kitchen, I was suddenly sent back to the morning, not long after I had woken up.

Okay, great, I thought. Now I can try this again. Except that it took a lot out of me to get tickets for this restaurant, and I still needed to impress my date. I knew I would be able to pull the reservation up thirty minutes, hoping that would be enough to change my fate, but it wasn’t. I bought a different jacket; still nice, but any way I could alter the timeline seemed like a good idea. We arrived at the earlier reservation, were seated at a different table, and we even had a different waiter. Yet, this one spilled sauce on me as well, as if I were simply destined for that. But that couldn’t be true, it would be ridiculous. I was thrown back in time once more, and changed a bunch of other things, including several times just finding a different restaurant. But it happened. Every single time. This was sauce night, and there was no way around it. I thought I was cursed, but once I gave up wanting to change the timeline, the magical time gods gave up on me too. I was finally able to get through the rest of the night, and wake up the next morning...next to him. So in the end, it didn’t really matter. I guess I should have realized that he wouldn’t hold that against me. I still had to get this timeline’s blazer dry cleaned, though. A few days later, I went back to the cleaner’s to pick up my jacket, and found about three thousand dollars stuffed into the pockets, theoretically by accident. I never found out how it happened. So yeah, that’s how I came up with the capital to start my business. Good things just happen to me, I don’t work at all.