Juncture 5.8

On the walk back, I kept trying to think of people I had met recently. The same odd sensation, the weird feeling of memories getting written as I thought them persisted. When I made it back to my loft, I made sure to avoid the kitchen and make a beeline to my office. Although I was hungry since having puked up the food I had eaten earlier, I had to attend to more important business.

I flicked on the lights and closed the door behind me. The room was as boring as I had been able to make it. There was a chestnut desk covered with brown accordion folders. Most of them were filled with generic paperwork that could be applicable for any number of different careers. In front of the desk was a large leather office chair, which was the most comfortable thing I’d ever sat in.

I sat down and pulled open one of the desk drawers. Inside was another nondescript brown folder. I pulled it out of the drawer and slipped my hand inside. There was a sheet of paper, slightly thicker than a normal one. In reality, it was one of the coolest pieces of technology that the OST had available.

The sheet looked like a conversation from a screenplay. Lines began with a name, followed by a bunch of text. I read through the last couple of lines.

“Marc: Still no results. She won’t talk.

Seph: Well you have nothing but time, don’t worry about it. If you need anything else, I’ll be on call.”

I put the paper down on the middle of the desk, and unfolded the bottom half. It was what looked like a printed image of a computer keyboard.

Yeah, laptops had gotten a lot more portable.

I began typing. The words showed up on the top ‘screen’ as I typed them.

“Marc: It’s been a week for me. I think I found an anomaly.

Seph: What is it?

Marc: Try and remember something about someone you met recently. Think about the small details.

Seph: …Huh. That’s weird. And you’ve been experiencing this?

Marc: Yeah. Do you know if there are any previously recorded anomalies like this? I have a hunch that it may be caused with intent, but I have no idea who would do something like this.

Seph: Well we don’t even know if this is a natural occurrence yet. I’ll get the research department to look into it, but meanwhile, you need to get this info on King. We’re going to have to keep that as our biggest priority.

Marc: Okay. Any tips? I don’t want to have to torture her.

Seph: Sorry, Marc. That’s not really my area of expertise, you know that.

Marc: Right, right. I guess I’ll have to get back to you when I get some information.

Seph: Yup. I’ll still be here.

I folded the piece of paper back up, slid it into the folder, and put the folder back into the drawer. I had gotten used to the weird mode of communication. I had been here for over two years, and yet it was still the same day that I had left for Seph.

See, travel and information interaction to and from the OST headquarters had some weird, apparently arbitrary, probably necessary rules. For one, you could never come back to the base before you had left. You also couldn’t send information back to before you had left.

This kept the information flow to and from the OST strictly linear. There were disadvantages, but I was told that it made the paperwork a hell of a lot easier.

I left the office and went to the kitchen. There was a large analog clock just above the gas oven range, and I noticed that it was late. A quick glance out the window corroborated this evidence. The light was fading quickly, and the sky was a deep pink, with scattered clouds blocking out much of the light which remained.

I decided that I would start cooking dinner, since the workday was almost over. I pulled out a pot, cutting board, and a sharp knife. Then I grabbed a bunch of aromatic vegetables; carrots, celery, and onions.

I began chopping. Two years was a whole lot of time to practice new skills, especially since I didn’t have a traditional job taking up eight hours of each day. Because of that, I had gotten pretty good at cooking. I had to eat every day, so it had made sense to learn.

Within minutes, the vegetables were chopped into tiny wedges. I tossed them into the heating pan, followed by a spray of vegetable oil. The contents began to hiss as soon as they hit the bottom of the pan, and fairly soon the delicious smell of cooking vegetables filled the apartment.

I pulled a small package that was wrapped in oiled paper out of the fridge. Inside was some deboned chicken breast that I had gotten prepared at a nearby butcher’s shop. I quickly cut it into small strips, and prepared to throw them into the pot once the vegetables had finished.

I began to hum – it was just a habit that I had picked up whenever I was doing work with my hands. There was no tune really; I had never quite gotten the hang of it. I couldn’t really sing, either. It was just an odd drone, long held notes. It was calming.

The humming was probably why I didn’t notice that the door opened until several minutes later. I was stirring the pot, to which I had added a large quantity of water, a packet of bones, and a bunch of spices.

I covered the pot and was about to turn around when a pair of arms gripped me around my stomach. My back straightened instinctively and I turned, trying to pry the hands off. When I saw who it was, I managed to relax myself before I could hurt them.

It was Derry.