“Do you watch much t.v.?”
I stared at the man warily. Mr. Solomon had only been in the room a few moments, but I already felt a growing sense of unease and hatred being in his presence. Maybe it was just because he was the current face of all the madness and death I’d seen in the last few days, but I wasn’t so sure. Because I felt like I had been trapped in a hurricane—a chaotic but mindless force without a will of its own. You could try to hate it, but what was the point?
But this man…I wondered if he wasn’t the one guiding the storm that destroyed my life.
Glaring, I shrugged in response. “I guess.”
Solomon nodded and smiled, seemingly unfazed by my stare. “Me too. I love it. All kinds of shows, really, but my favorites are always the ones that have a bit of the fantastic in them. Dramas with surprise twists, science fiction asking big questions, heroes and villains, life and death. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
Smirking slightly, the man went on. “I understand your surliness, and I’m going to ignore it for now. Back to my point. The big problem with so many of these stories is that the heroes, and sometimes even the popular villains, aren’t in any real danger. Oh, they pretend that they are, and the viewers go along with the joke, but in truth, there’s an unspoken pact between the creator and the audience that the people they really like just…won’t…die.” When I didn’t respond, he went on.
“In your world do they use the term ‘plot armor’?”
I raised an eyebrow. What the fuck was he talking about? Was he in here to talk about t.v. shows? “No. I don’t think so. So, the bowl did bring me to another world?”
Solomon chuckled. “Well, yes, of course. I’m not going through that thing to talk to you. We don’t even know how it really works, you see. We can stimulate it and direct where it leads, but from what we do know, there shouldn’t be any side effects to travel if it’s done right, and well…we aren’t doing it quite right yet.” He rolled his eyes. “And believe me, I’ll hear bitching from Jefferies—sorry, the man that questioned you yesterday in your world—that he had to go over and help collect you. Assuming he makes it, of course.”
I felt new fear running up my back. “So he’s sick from going through the bowl? Am I going to get sick too?”
Solomon grinned. “Most likely not. And that is a good segue back to what I wanted to talk about. Plot armor.” He settled back in his chair. “Plot armor is a pop culture term in this world that applies to the story phenomena I was just describing. If you’re the main character, you’re safe. Not because you’re especially strong or smart or skilled, you understand. You’re just arbitrarily protected because you have to live for the story to continue. Whether it makes sense for the plot or the reality of the story is of secondary concern.”
“What is the fucking point of any of this?”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t be rude. I’m trying to give you an explanation you might understand. To help you. So don’t be rude and don’t interrupt. Or don’t they have manners where you come from?”
Clenching my teeth, I quietly nodded.
“Good. Now, as I was saying. Plot armor can be a powerful thing in a story. And fortunately for you, you apparently have some yourself.”
“What do you mean? This isn’t some stupid story. This is you people ruining my fucking life. Killing people I care about.”
Solomon waited until I was finished and then went on. “That is only partially true for several reasons. I mean, no, it’s not a story, but the principle is the same.” He stood up and walked over to a small table with a computer monitor on it. When he turned it on, the image that flared to life on the screen was of me sleeping in the room. Except I was wearing different clothes and I hadn’t slept since I’d been there.
“What is this? More tricks? Like the ‘confession’ video on my phone?”
The man laughed dryly. “No, the video confession was a simple deep fake. We actually pulled all the words you say in that video from your 911 call last week. Re-cut and modulated, of course, but simple enough. This…” He gestured back to the monitor. “This is something much more interesting.”
The image started moving and I noticed that the same monitor was present in the video, playing some other movie while the man that looked like me slept. It was hard to tell from far away, but it seemed like that movie was of a woman in a bedroom.
“You’re aware now of the fact that there are multiple worlds. What you may or may not have guessed is that there are infinite versions of this reality, or close enough to infinite as to make the distinction meaningless. This video was taken a few months ago, and the man in the video is named Thomas.”
I looked from the video back to Solomon. “Thomas? Like my middle name?”
He left the monitor playing and sat back down. “No, Thomas as in you. Or an alternate version of you. This world’s version of you. A version that is very valuable to us.” Sighing, he folded his hands on his crossed knee. “Shortly after this video was taken, Thomas left us. Well, let’s call it what it was. He escaped. We tried to find him, but his trail died in a small town in Nevada.” He swallowed, looking like he tasted something unpleasant. “That made our…benefactors…well, they weren’t happy. They left us to our own devices for a short time, but seeing our failure at recovering him, they…well, they imparted new knowledge on some of our team in a very unpleasant fashion. A way of finding him and regaining what was lost.”
“You see, there are infinite realities, but there are not infinite versions of everything in those realities. And with some things, and even some people, there are only ever a few versions. We called these things and people Primes. There are benefits to being a Prime. They tend to be luckier than average and live long lives. But nothing that remarkable…well, there are a few notable exceptions…but the point is that the universe just seems to protect them a bit better, give them a bit of an extra cushion. Plot armor, if you will. And that plot armor gets stronger the fewer versions of a particular Prime that are left.”
Solomon sighed. “That being said, there is a threshold—don’t ask me what it is, because it apparently involves so many variables that even our math guys can’t really predict it—where if there are few enough of a particular person or thing, a particular Prime, the balance shifts back the other way. Instead of the universe just protecting the versions of that Prime, it starts simultaneously attacking them too. Thinning them out. Trying, as best we understand, to reach a singularity.”
He pointed at me. “You and Thomas are alternate versions of a Prime, and based on what we’ve been told recently, you are likely the last two versions. So far, your luck and his have held out, but it is only a matter of time. It’s coming down to a tug-of-war between the two of you, and it’s a contest you’ll lose.”
I didn’t believe any of this shit, but I couldn’t help but ask the question. “Why? Why are you so sure I’d lose instead of this supposed alternate version who escaped?”
Solomon smiled thinly. “Two reasons. The first is that, apparently, as things grow closer to there being only one Prime, the remaining versions begin to suffer symptoms. The version that is most likely to be the survivor, the singular Prime, tends to get blackouts or memory gaps. They often have trouble with certain ideas or words. All the rest…the losers…they begin feeling the echoes of each other dying as the universe eats them one at a time. Those phantom pains you’ve been having more and more frequently? Those are times that another version of you died.”
I felt a ball of ice beginning to form in my stomach. “Okay. What’s the second reason?”
The man looked more serious now. “Thomas has something inside him. Something that is protecting him. He was already showing signs of being on track to be a singular Prime before it was implanted—memory loss, a special connection with another past valuable asset, but we were ignorant of what these symptoms actually meant until our recent…education. But with his implanted ally, he has something making sure that he stays safe. And as I hope I’ve made clear, his safety means your doom.”
I stood up and began pacing. When I glanced back, I saw that Solomon had produced a small gun, but he only watched as I went back to walking. “So what is all this? Why am I here? What do you want from me?”
“We believe that you can find your alternate self where we cannot. That the safeguards that hide him won’t apply to you. So we want you to find him and bring him back here. This may sound like a daunting task, but we have it on good authority that you have a significant likelihood of success.”
I stopped walking again and stared at him. “So what, you want me to go find this alternate Wally, or Thomas, or whatever, and kidnap him? Bring him back to you assholes?”
Solomon’s face darkened slightly as he nodded. “Precisely. If you do that, you’ll be free. More than that, we can aid you in selecting one of the better versions of your life to set up shop in. They’re all up-for-grabs except for yours and Thomas’…” He chuckled darkly. “And trust me, you don’t want his.”
I frowned. “Because you’re going to kill him, right? Or are you going to leave me alive and let the universe eat me anyway? Because from what you’ve said, there can be only one of us left before it stops.”
Solomon regarded me for a moment as he raised a finger and pointed it at me. “That’s a good point. And one you’ll have to trust us on a bit. But I assure you, once we have extracted what we need from Thomas, you will find yourself safe and sound. In a new and better life. And you’ll never hear from us again.”
“Um, no.”
The man frowned. “I understand this is a lot to wrap your…”
“No, I understand it fine. If I believe what you’re saying, you destroyed my life—or at least gave the universe a helping hand—all to see if I was the best candidate to send after this guy Thomas, who is, again, according to you, an alternate version of me. Who you had locked up for some Godawful reason, I’m sure. Now you’re trying to manipulate me into going and hunting him down based on a promise that you will give me a new life that used to belong to yet another version of me that you probably also had a hand in murdering. That about sum it up?”
Solomon shrugged. “Well, that’s largely accurate, but…”
“Fuck you. That’s my answer. Fuck you. I’m not hurting anybody and I’m sure as fuck not helping you. You want him, go get him your fucking self.”
Solomon’s face went pale with what looked like a combination of fear and anger. “As I’ve already said, we have tried. We failed. If we fail again…well, we can’t fail again.”
I shrugged. I was brimming with anger, and I knew that I was likely about to die or get tortured, but I didn’t care. “Sounds like your bosses are just like you. Giant assholes. Your fucking bad luck.”
The man stood up, his lips thin and stretched tight. “I can see my attempts at being honest and civil are pointless.” He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room. “Take him.”
A moment later, the door opened. Several large men in scrubs came in and took me to the floor, and while I struggled, it was no use. Within a matter of seconds they had injected me with something and I felt my body growing heavy and numb. I saw the room shift as I was put on what I guessed was a gurney of some kind and moved to the hallway. We travelled down several halls before coming to another room. When they wheeled me in, I saw it was already occupied.
There was a monster inside.
The thing was chained down and had wires and various prods covering the enormous wormlike length of its pale red flesh, and as we entered I saw it turn what I supposed was its head towards us. It moved tentacles studded with black rocks and oozing a gray liquid in a gesture that might be a threat, but seemed more like a plea for help. I had a feeling that, whatever it was, it was a prisoner here too.
I found myself overwhelmed with terror and despair, and my inability to move more than my head, or to even scream, made it all worse somehow. Not that I thought I could escape or convince them to let me go—any hope of that had already died. I just wanted to cry out at how wrong and unfair it all was—one final protest before the end.
As if reading my mind, Solomon appeared over me again. “Oh, never fear, Wally. You’re not about to die. Nothing so fortunate for you. My hope had been that you would be reasonable. Willing participants are always preferred in our line of work. But since you won’t listen to common sense, we’ll have to change your mind for you.” He gestured in the direction of the monster filling the far half of the room. “This big fellow is from Iceland…well, not originally I suppose, but that’s where we got him. He looks pretty terrible, but even in his diminished condition he still has a very special gift.” The man smiled at me coldly. “He can destroy and create memories. It’s not my preferred method for gaining your cooperation, but desperate times and all that.” I saw rather than felt him pat my shoulder.
“You just lay back and relax. Trust me. A few days with him, and you’ll feel like a new man.”
Day 2 version of written mnemonic summary narrative by subject “Wally”. At the time of this summary, the Wally Project is progressing within predicted parameters. This narrative is classified and is not to be accessed by anyone other than active members of The Thomas Project, its temporary Wally Project sub
---
Credits
Comments