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A shadow moved in the alley.
The buildings were hundreds of stories high. Below, shadows and spirits crawled the dark metallic roadways. At their mid-tiers, cars flew, and the lights glared on vibrant electric posters that slid and flashed, large square symbols danced around, reading:
“Join the Together. Be One. Be All.”
Far below, the shadow moved again. A man carefully walked through the narrow, maze-like street network between the metallic buildings that scraped the clouds. Their clear, reflective surfaces showed a thousand men walking and walking, stopping and starring. As he exited an alleyway, he emerged into the bustling road where magnetic cars zoomed far, far, up above.
Rusted, black, metallic sheets lay here, bolted to the ground, radiating strong magnetic fields. And far, far, above, trains and cars raced: to him it seemed as if he was at the bottom of the void, with shooting stars above.
The lone figure bundled up in his trench coat as his breath turned into fog in the air. Ripped and wet papers with their ink run away lay on the black road, drifting in the light smoke. He shivered, glancing left and right, while the distant echoes and harmonious noise of efficiency called from above. He kicked a glass bottle as he walked down the empty black road, trash and lights falling from the sky above him.
“You know,” he said to the smog, “it’s crumbling.”
He walked up to a building, which had a few windows and a door near ground level. Near ground level was, in fact, relative: the door was around ten feet up from the road. At the bottom, the black sheen of the road joined the blackened side of the building, in an organic, melted manner. The man sighed.
He walked into the shadows of an alley and came back dragging a ladder, which he used to climb, open, and enter through the door. A frail woman sat by the door and nodded as he passed through the antechamber.
The rough-hewn oak doors gave way to scrolling staircases filled with books. Books. Large and small, thick and thin, but only green and blue. They covered not just the shelves, but rubbish that made shelves. Carts, boxes, and old chairs were filled with books, and silent statues—at a closer glance the light revealed them to be people—sat next to the dust that drifted, and occasionally the whisper of the page would filter through the quiet. The air tasted thick, and the old, slightly dusty, book smell filled the library. The man smiled.
He paused and pondered at various shelves, making his way gently through the library. Slowly, he ascended the stairs, the floorboards creaked underneath his feet, and he ambled through the histories on the third floor.
A blue book with gold letters caught his eye. A prehistoric on “Modern Philosophy of Existentialism: Summarizing the 30th Century.”
“How old it is,” the man thought to himself. That simple appreciation of how long time has existed washed over him as he dusted off the front cover.
A librarian in a ragged brown jacket approached the lone figure.
“Need help? New to town?” she quietly said.
“Hmm? Yes, my name’s Fif-tee-wahn,” he replied, “from Lower Diameter. Left because the wells began to dry, and the riots got bad. Harder to get good books around here though, and I’ve been without a book for quite some time now.”
“Yes.” She replied, “Heard Diameter has a whole bookshop alley?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. Store by store, bookshelves so tight they made a maze, stacked on each other forming walls and chairs. I heard a friend once found human bones, rotting, still holding a book.” He chuckled.
As he spoke, the librarians’ eyes glimmered, imagining, but when Fif-tee-wahn glanced again her eyes drifted absently.
“My friend runs a book club,” she said, “You seem like the type. We often talk philosophy or just meet and discuss.”
“You run Anti-Together meetings?” Fif-tee-wahn asked. “I thought that was only a Diameter idea.”
“Nothing as grand as that. If you’d like to join…”
“Yes, I would. Yes, I would.”
The librarian nodded gratefully.
“Though… have you ever thought, how, ironically—” Fif-tee-wahn said.
“Ironically,” the librarian said, “it’s meeting as a group to talk about the Foundation-Group Mindset. But it’s… it’s a shared experience. It’s good to talk.”
“Thank you for the invite. And if I’d like to check this book out?” Fif-tee-wahn asked.
“Come back, two days’ time. At 14th hour, on the third floor. Then you can check out the book.” The librarian smiled.
Fif-tee-wahn nodded. He put the book back and left the librarian, strolling down the stairs. He didn’t expect they would lend a book to some stranger from Lower Diameter without first talking to him.
Progress was progress.
Fif-tee-wahn left through a back door alleyway, the wastepaper drifting about, the high lights, harsh above, and his coat flapping in the dark.
On the festive platforms on the tips of the skyscrapers, lights floated about, drifting, changing red, streamers and banners flying, drinks resting on hovering boards, laughter crying, red flashing, orange, yellow, deep glowing, shining.
Wahn-Fyve sipped a Xoma. A lax smile slid on his face.
That feeling—oh it bubbled, it boiled, it flowed like glass, blood red, sweeping the ocean on its feet, the waves bannering the sky, bubbling and twisting; his mind unbound and quiet. Drifting. Floating. Infinitely peaceful with an absence of feeling. He felt the world and its nothingness, and it was him.
Zero-Zero tapped him on the shoulder. “Fyve, c’mon, we’ve got a ride to another platform. We’re all bored of damned Xoma drinks.
Fyve grunted. “Meh, Z.Z. just let me sit here.”
“No,” Z.Z. laughed, “No way. If we let you sit around all night, you’d do nothing with your life.”
The Together compulsion took over him. Going with the Together was morally right. He sat up, his 7-foot-tall body unfolding, disgusted that he had been sitting down.
Z.Z. was significantly shorter than him, and of lither build, compared to Fyve’s huge frame. Both wore suits that folded and twisted, and matched their current platform’s colours: blushing pink and blood red.
“Tonight has been an outstanding night,” Fyve said, “The best.”
“You say that every night,” Z.Z. laughed as Fyve shrugged, “But it’s been an insane night. I blew my minds again.” He held a mess of wires and parts. “Those new bots can work quicker than R5 speed.”
Laughter and screams, bells and banners, red and pink, they strolled easily across the platform. Fyve smiled and reached towards another Xoma. A light voice smiled and laughed, as a hand weaved through his arm.
Sehvenn-Thasand-Thertee was at his side. Fyve grinned.
Sehv was the most beautiful girl in the world to him. He just couldn’t describe it. Fif-tee-wahn would comment that this was because in the Foundation-Group Mindset, the Antinotation Rule took over: adjectives were removed and replaced with more violent feelings, without a way to describe them.
“Ooh,” Sehv said, “Where are we going, Z.Z.?”
“Someplace special,” he grinned, “A place I managed to land us by lottery. You’ll all love it. It was so hard, the hardest thing I ever had to do.
“It was a chance. I didn’t even know if I’d get it.” His feelings of hardship bled into the Together Mindset-Network. Emotions of difficulty spread to nearby Togethers to lessen the burden from Z.Z.
The banners swept behind them and the lights dimmed, the red turned to darkness and then flared to a light white and beige: their dresses and suits, now a crowd, turned to a molten chrome grey. The floodlights blinded them all, the crowd they were all tied to emotionally, physically, mentally. Together tied together.
The platform lurched and people all around them started talking, conversations springing, jumping from place to place; it was all friends, they were all friends. Wasn’t that nice? To all be friends? The lights, now with music, rose as they approached a different platform while the suits and dresses turned purple and gold. The music shook the moving room, rocked it back and forth, a ship at sea with no harbour to call home.
Fyve stepped out, hand in hand with Thiree-Aygt, barely remembering that he had kissed Sehv moments, or hours, or days—recently, however recent was—and Sehv the same, walking out with Z.Z., typical, normal practices in accordance with the rules that dictated their society.
Fyve blabbered, bragging about his competition analysis and skill results in Fist Raising and Walking Sports, although he neglected that he was the worst at Rock Tossing. Aygt listened and mentioned her own prowess at Five-Step Dancing.
And with that, she swept Fyve onto the dance floor in the middle of the platform, dancing away a storm, flowing, fluttering, flying. Neither anticipated nor worried, motions and steps falling seamlessly into place. Emptiness was the core of their minds, and yet they were not absent but overridden with emotion from all the present that surrounded them.
A pause, a break in the stanza, and with it the flowing music slowed.
“Excuse me Aygt,” Fyve said, pecking her on the cheek, “I need to use the restroom.”
Aygt nodded, a bright smile on her face. “I’ll be waiting.”
With total lack of regard and, with a deep part of him that knew Aygt would not wait—who would?—Fyve left to find the men’s room. He got distracted and looped around to the bar, grabbing a Zoma, feeling a slight tug of remembrance at the taste, and turned down the hallway, the music quieting with distance.
Here, after one set of doors, the painted white brick turned into the more classic red colour, the red reminding him of the previous platform—or was it the previous platform? He sipped the Zoma again. Hadn’t the previous platform been the gardens and toxins of greenery, inhaling scents that electrified your veins?
Distracted by the drink and vague recollections, Fyve turned down another hallway. It was strangely dark. Fyve realised he must’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. Looking back, he saw the sign for the restroom down the hallway. But something called him. There was something down this deep, dark, lonesome hallway.
With a vague notion of the fundamental definition of curiosity, Fyve turned towards the dark hallway.
Lights flickered on as he walked but dimmed again in his wake. His suit itself, lacking recognition for the halls he entered, turned to a harsh black, his tie the basic red, and shirt the default white. At the end of the hall was a doorway. With a strange new feeling rising in his chest, Fyve turned the archaic handle.
The door creaked open, and dust drifted in the air. Inside, waxy lighting was barely maintained by an old chandelier, and the air was slightly fresh from an open window. But it was the décor that shocked Fyve.
There was a table with smudged symbols on paper, significantly more complex than the Elementary Alphabet. Chairs and a shelf with file boxes were neatly organized around the room, and the table was a focal point for two circles of chairs. But on one wall, near the windows…
Were startling posters denouncing the Together. Painted in beige, red, and black, he had seen similar posters praising the mentality and happiness of its members. But these, these made wild accusations that the Together somehow restricted freedom, lacked respect for humanity, lost values of kindness, sincerity, and trust.
Fyve was in shock, as he walked around the room. This wasn’t true. He flat out disagreed: he could go to whatever platform he liked, never caused hurt or harm, and maintained the Corporation’s Rules of Order. Why was this even here? Who caused this?
It went on and on, outcrying the Corporation’s—the organization that monitored the wealth and health of the citizens of the Together—lack of transparency. He’d been a part of Corporations Boards and had talked in secrecy with Councillors; and knew that they could not feel anything but a deep desire to maintain the Together’s happiness and safety. It spewed theories of blackness and absolute, baseless hatred, and as Fyve read what he could, he recoiled in disbelief.
He heard something moving, somewhere nearby.
Fyve turned around, and noticed a stairway tucked away next to a bookshelf. Backing up and raising a chair, he turned to face the rising figure of a shadow.
Fif-tee-wahn walked back from the library meeting, thinking.
He felt it was more of an orientation than a meeting, not really a discussion of thoughts but a way for the library to categorize the skill and knowledge of interested participants. Fif-tee-wahn beat his first questioner in historical mathematics, and his second in existentialist philosophy. In all, he was slightly let down by the brevity of their knowledge, academics in Lower Diameter had been more engaging and knowledgeable.
But at the end, they all gathered and one of the librarians told everyone a story. Fif-tee-wahn didn’t like stories. Too indirect, and he was displeased at the subjective methods to which lessons were derived. They could have a multitude of meanings, several of which the author might not intend.
“Give me a treatise,” he had thought at the time. But he did concede that stories were engaging, and a good method of attracting an audience, if that was explicitly one’s goal.
It was the story of an ancient village with no technology. The only curious thing about the village was that it was buried completely underground, with a single entrance where instructions had been left by the previous generations that it should never be opened or even touched, else a great evil would unfold.
One day, a madman announced to the village he would try to open the entrance. He was immediately sentenced to death, for it was a great sin at the time. Shockingly, however, he announced he had already touched the entrance a week ago, and since, no evil had befallen him.
The leaders of the village grew curious. Could previous generations have lied? Many had grown wary, and they debated for long hours and days, but they finally decided to let the madman open the door.
The day came, and with little ceremony, the madman tried to open the door. It was stuck. He called his brother, then his family to help, but it remained stuck. The whole village helped break open the entrance, and behind it, they found a world on fire. The air burned and the trees were no more, and humanity barely held on in technological strongholds.
The ancient village that was locked away had been “the Innocents”, a group who society wanted to keep safe from the horrid terrors of the world. They locked up the Innocents for generations, to keep hope alive and let someone dream without constant terror. As the news that the Innocents had left their prison spread through the world, society lost the little hope remaining and fell gently into the ashes.
Fif-tee-wahn broke out of thought, and noticed a doorway located an alleyway. It was two feet above his head, off the ground like many doorways at the bottom of the skyscrapers. But this one lacked a door. He reached up, grasping the bottom lip of the doorway, and pulled himself ungracefully over the edge.
He took out a flashlight buried in his coat. Turning it on, he surveyed the room: it was filled with dust and decaying furniture, and a single rusted metal ladder, likely reaching higher levels. Fif-tee-wahn tested his grip and started climbing carefully.
The librarian mentioned the story had been written when everyone was worried the sky would light on fire from overheating and had genuinely considered storing humans to preserve the species. She told all the new members that they should think about the story for the next meeting.
The floor creaked and shook as he took steps, and he carefully moved through the heavy, still, musty air. On the fifth floor, the ladder climbed into a large entrance hallway. Tall glass doors (now acting as windows into an expansive view) stood out next to the splintered welcoming desk, and a chandelier lay shattered on a charred carpet.
He approached the end of the entrance hall, noticing two elevator doors that reflected the pale light. Fif-tee-wahn repeatedly pressed the buttons, but nothing responded. No light turned on.
Fif-tee-wahn knew the story was a simple reinforcement and reminder that they, those who choose to uphold knowledge, were held to a sacred duty. He knew that. He’d learned that early and young from his mother and teachers. The Together would eventually realize the knowledge and world they had lost, and everyone would restore to what it had once been.
Through passing levels, the stairs changed tone, to richer wood and walls lined with brick instead of concrete and metal. After the hallways and sets of stairs, Fif-tee-wahn realized he was enormously high up, higher than any exploration he had done before. Twenty stories high? Fifty? How long had it been? A hundred? The emergency stairs climbed higher and higher, Fif-tee-wahn following the signs.
Then he heard a movement above him, a door opening. He looked in the room over, and there was a wooden stairway with a beautifully engraved banister. Carefully climbing upwards, he crept in shadow. Could he have climbed so high he reached the lower regions of the Together?
The room was neat, compared to the disorder below. A table stood in the middle surrounded by chairs. And backing up, holding a chair, was a large figure. He stood six or seven feet, dressed in an immaculate black suit, geometric patterns carefully lacing his shirt. A slight hostility and obsession raged in his eyes, and his size triggered Fif-tee-wahn to take a step backwards, pulling his own coat closer.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Fyve said, raising the chair over his shoulder.
“I’m… I’m just exploring…” Fif-tee-wahn said, I…”
“Exploring? Exploring what?” Fyve said, “What platform did you come from, drunkard?”
Fif-tee-wahn reeled at the insult. He breathed in and took a step forward. “They’re deceiving you! These parties and… everything! It’s a lie!” He winced, hearing his own words.
“You believe this nonsense.” Fyve said flatly, “You wrote this.” He motioned his hands to the surrounding posters.
“No…” Fif-tee-wahn said, as he read the posters, “No, I didn’t write them but they’re not wrong, please don’t hurt me for saying this but there is deception here, you’ve been lied to! I will tell you: you don’t have a need for curiosity, you don’t wonder about science, you stay stuck in endless cycles…”
“Who cares?” Fyve said, “I’m happy. I feel good inside. Do you?”
“No…” Fif whispers, “No, I don’t feel good all the time.”
“I do. I feel happy constantly, I always have a good time.” Something triggered in Fyve’s brain, juices and substances bubbling, and his face changed from angry bragger to kind sympathy. “I don’t know what platform you got stuck on that’s made you like this, but come, lets head to a medical.”
“No no no,” Fif-tee-wahn said, pulling back, “No, no. I don’t need any help… you need help… your friends, what about your friends?”
“What about them?” Fyve said, “I have friends I love. You should meet them.”
“Name them,” Fif-tee-wahn said.
“They’re—,” Fyve said, “Their names are—well, what does that matter? I know it when I see them. Everyone here is practically your friend, it’s impossible to name them all.”
“You can’t name them,” Fif-tee-wahn said urgently, “You can’t name them. Can you trust them? Can you rely on them?”
“I—I don’t see what you’re saying. I’m sorry—you must be confused.”
“[Unknown presence detected. [Beep]. [Beep]. Please announce your names.]”
Engrossed in their discussion, both became distracted from the background of the room. Now, hovering in between them, a small, polished bot buzzed a few feet off the ground. Barely a foot tall, its face was marked by a screen and speaker on its front. Below the speaker was a row of four lights that marked it for other bots, and the L logo of the Corporation marked its head.
Immediately, Fyve responded. “Wahn-Fyve, citizen of Together, previous board member and current champion in Fist Raising.”
“[Warning, Wahn-Fyve, dangerous unknown chemicals have leaked into nearby areas. You will be delivered to a Medical. [Beep] [Beep]. Unknown memory side effects may occur due to transport. Prepare yourself.]”
Fyve, startled, took a deep breath. “[Bwweeep]” said the bot, and Fyve went limp, under the levitation control of the bot. The bot rotated around, anticipating a response from Fif-tee-wahn.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
Fif-tee-wahn had leaped down the stairs and hidden on the level below.
“[Beep] Please reveal yourself. [Beep].” the bot said upstairs. “[Buzz] Transmitting. Human exposed to self-dangerous information on loose. End transmission. [Buzz].”
The bot hovered down the stairs, passing Fif-tee-wahn huddling behind the stairs. Behind it, on a levitating stretcher, was the man he met upstairs. Fif-tee-wahn felt he had made progress. Distantly, he heard the buzz and beeps of responding bots. He glanced after Fyve, the bot heading down another hallway to a different stairway.
Through a maze of hallways and stairs, emergency exits and scarcely used passages, the bot lead Fif-tee-wahn. He sneaked quietly and quickly, following its path, until it climbed one final staircase that seemed to lead into an active Together region, and disappeared behind a door. With a careful push, Fif-tee-wahn crept in, quickly hiding behind a stack of boxes.
No commotion. No yelling. No one noticed him. No one noticed him.
He peaked around the edge, one eye showing. Tens of bots hovered in this area, as a quiet young woman’s voice hummed on the speakers, and he smelled the sterile scent of hospitals. Some larger bots carried medical containers, some carried patients, some evidently prepared to act in their role as a doctor.
Fif-tee-wahn tracked where the bot took Fyve, and saw it headed into a door on the left side of the room. In waves, he noticed there would be times when the room was full of bots, and times where the room was practically empty. Timing his pace just right, he strolled to the door, quickly opening it and entering.
Here, many horizontal capsules lined three walls. Almost every had a human lying inside, hooked up to different tubes and wiring. Some had masks and bandages, some had a glossy look to their eyes. The room itself was filled with white-bricked pillars displaying the health of its residents, and huge sets of piping, values, and pressure containers were bolted on the ceiling. There were a few bots in the room, but strangely they didn’t notice or pay attention to Fif-tee-wahn.
“Almost,” Fif-tee-wahn whispered, “As if the bots can’t independently imagine. Can’t imagine a human being here.”
Fyve stirred in his open capsule as Fif-tee-wahn talked aloud and approached. “They’re not trained to notice you. To them, you can’t be here. Or maybe it’s because you aren’t here.” Fyve paused, the realization slow in his mind. "You’re a part of my imagination. You don’t exist,” Fyve proclaimed.
Fif-tee-wahn grimaced in pain. “You… Believe me. I’m real. Your total lack of thought—”
“Go away!” Fyve said, “Go away. Whatever you are, leave me alone.”
“No, no,” Fif-tee-wahn said, a tear rolling down his check, “I’m real. I can help. I want to help—”
“GO AWAY!” Fyve screamed to Fif-tee-wahn’s face, “go away… you aren’t real… it isn’t true…”
“I know,” Fif-tee-wahn said, crouching down to Fyve’s height, “it feels good to constantly be drugged with bliss and happiness. It feels good. But it feels right and true and utterly incredible to have relationships you’re grateful for. Memories that feel deeply satisfying, not only base bliss.”
“No… no…” Fyve whispered, “I don’t want to know. Leave me alone. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what I saw today. Help me. Help me. Erase it.”
“It’s because there’s always repercussions.” Fif-tee-wahn continued. Fyve’s breath turned heavy and panicked. “Someone gains unfairly, maybe it’s the Corporation boards, maybe it’s some maniac doused in power. All the gold and glamour has to be hiding dangers beneath the surface. It’s okay. My great-grandfather realized—”
A deep, primal scream escaped from Fyve’s mouth. It shook the room, reminiscent of earthquakes in jungles and the maw of predators in front of its prey. He screamed and screamed and screamed.
A bot flew straight to his bedside, clicked a few buttons, and Fyve fell limp. Afterwards, the silence was more deafening. Fif-tee-wahn was the only person that could hear it.
He blearily stared around the room, the bedside lights emerging as halos of angels rising from the grave. Stumbling down, he felt his breathing grow tired and thick, a vague nauseous emotion sinking in his stomach. He barely heard the bots “[Beep]. Initiating memory wipe on patients’ mental and verbal command. [Beep].” He wanted to sleep. He wanted to go away. He couldn’t. Why couldn’t he?
“What if I joined the together?” Fif-tee-wahn thought, “Why should I not be fully ignorant and full of bliss? Why in the ancient past did people act afraid that the future would be robots serving our every whim?”
“It would be so much better,” Fif-tee-wahn whispered, “if I gave into ignorance, I would put down the burden of reality and lay trapped in the mists of dreams.”
“What if I told a capsule to erase my memories?” Fif-tee-wahn thought.
Fif-tee-wahn woke up on a velvet couch. Blinking, he opened his eyes.
The festive platforms lay on the edge of the Together skyscrapers, with lights floating about, drifting, changing red, streamers and banners flying, drinks resting on hovering boards, crying laughter, red pulsating, orange, yellow, deep. Glowing. Shining.
Next to him, his best friend, Wahn-Fyve, sipped a Xoma. A smile of absolute happiness rose to Fyve face.
He felt Fyve’s feelings due to his proximity. His feelings—oh they restlessly burned, boiled, flowing like blistering magma, blood red, swept the ocean on its feet, and crushed it. The waves were banners on the sky, twisting, and his mind was unbound yet so twisted, he felt the world, and it was him.
He was it. He was here. He was Together.
Zero-Zero approached, tapping Fyve’s shoulder from behind. “Fyve, Fif, c’mon, we’ve got a ride to another platform. We’re all bored of damned Xoma drinks.”
Fyve grunted, and Fif-tee-wahn felt himself and Fyve trapped, tied down. “Meh, Z.Z., just let me sit here.”
“No,” Z.Z. laughed, “No way. If we let you sit around all night, you’d do nothing with your life.”
The Together compulsion took over them both. Going with the Together was morally right, it felt like thousands of fatal volts shocked him, screaming through his nerves, every joint sleeping and waking. They sat up, Fif rubbing his forehead and nose, pulling his hand back to find blood. His blood. Blood.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. What?
“Tonight has been an outstanding night,” Fyve said, “The best.”
Z.Z. laughed. “You say that every night—”
“Uh, uh guys.” Fif-tee-wahn stammered, “I um, don’t feel well.”
Both stared at him blankly. Z.Z. continued, “But it’s been an insane night. I blew my minds earlier.” He held a disaster, a death, a torture: he tortured himself for pleasure. His own substitute wired brain laid in his hands.
Fif-tee-wahn backed up, tripping on his own feet. Z.Z. stared, but Fyve cocked his head, curious. Fif-tee-wahn continued to nervously stammer nonsense. He turned away, running, racing life in a flowing suit, dancing and moving with life as it slammed into his chest.
He slid to a halt on the edge of the building. On the precipice. A choice. He looked down and out, now on the other side of the void, where the cars raced below and around him, the posters and cries surrounded him, and the black abyss was below.
He wanted to feel free. He needed to feel free, but he still felt the raging emotion, what burned and sought the sky. He had to feel free.
Something flipped inside of him. He flipped.
And fell.
And someone said, “Excuse me?”
Fif-tee-wahn’s eyes snapped open. Someone said, “Excuse me?”
An alert Fyve stood over Fif-tee-wahn, who had laid drooling, asleep, on the edge of Fyve’s hospital capsule. “Who are you? What are you doing here?” Fyve said. In Fif-tee-wahn’s mind, those words rang a bell.
Fif-tee-wahn stood up, mildly shaking. “I’m… you’re… you need to—”
Fif-tee-wahn looked directly into Fyve’s eyes. He saw nothing but utter happiness.
He held back the words that had, the first time they met, spilled desperately from his mouth.
“Excuse me?” Fyve repeated, “Who are you?”
The world snapped into focus for Fif-tee-wahn. “Oh, me?” Fif-tee-wahn, “I’m just here to get my pinkie finger fixed. Hurt it in a game.”
“What game?” Fyve asked. “Any good at Fist Raising?”
Fif-tee-wahn looked around. The room was so peaceful with everyone at rest, and the bots humming away at their work. “Fist Raising? No, I prefer Rock Tossing.”
Fyve shook his head in a wry amusement. “Where’d you get that suit? What platform?”
“Hmm?” Fif-tee-wahn said, looking back at Fyve, “The Dystopia Simulation. Taste of fresh air, really, makes your hair stick out on ends.”
“Oh, uh,” Fyve said, “I’ll have to try that sometime.”
Fif-tee-wahn paid little attention to Fyve. Fif-tee-wahn looked around the room, noticing the sharp, almost perfect edges on the white pillars, and the steady hands of the bots doing surgery. Blood, he noticed, with distinct interest. He looked at his hands, raising eyebrows in amazement.
“Hey, uh, you sure you’re okay?” Fyve said.
“Yes, yes. Just here to fix my pinkie.” Fif-tee-wahn said with a smile, raising his hand and wiggling all his fingers but the last.
“I’ll—I’ll be leaving then.” Fyve said.
“Yes, I think that’d be best.” Fif-tee-wahn replied.
Fyve walked to the doorway, and a bot approached to escort him out of the hospital region. Fyve opened the door but glanced over his shoulder. Fif-tee-wahn was entranced, staring at his reflection in the glass of the capsule, dragging his hand over the smooth surface.
Fif-tee-wahn noticed Fyve and gave him a wave, opening the capsule but not yet climbing in. He smiled simply at Fyve, and his eyes glimmered with something Fyve couldn’t understand. The smile unnerved Fyve.
But at least, he seemed physically healthy and was in a place where he could be helped mentally. So Fyve let him go and closed the door.
Later, Fif-tee-wahn would walk through the Together skyscrapers and eventually find his way back home. He continued an insightful way of life, deciding to reform and rebuild the University of Lower Diameter. He worked diligently and tirelessly to help anyone in need. Sometimes, he’d vanish for days or weeks. No one knew why.
Fif-tee-wahn developed his university for the rest of his life. In comparison to other universities, Lower Diameter’s was more open minded in many ways more than one. Above its main entrance, the following words were carved in stone:
Happiness does not depend
on ignorance or wisdom,
but can be found in either.
_____
Inspired Works: Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, 1984 by George Orwell, Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut.