Short Fiction

Life Drones On

By Christian Mueth (Writing as Benjamin Vale)

"I think I'm in love," I say.

"It's just one logo," Bradley tells me. "There are still the dozen others that we have to go through."

He awkwardly swipes the tablet in his desk, brushing through several more graphics.

"No, man," I say. "Go back to the original. That was totally the best one."

Bradley lets out an annoyed huff.

"You seriously just want to go with the first one? I spent my past week working on these," he mumbles.

A twinge of regret shoots through my chest. Had I wasted Bradley's time? He's such a valuable asset, and I can't afford to lose him. I give him an apologetic grin. Hopefully he understands that I understand.

"Stop!" I shout. Who am I kidding? Bradley is a pest. "Swipe back."

Bradley complies. My mouth waters, and my eyes bulge. I lean forward and squint, to soak in the full image.

"Wait — no, that one is bonkers. Sorry, scratch what I said a sec ago. That is the logo that we have to go with."

It's an image of two flaming letters — a "D" and an "O". I can practically feel the heat emanating off of them. The "D" also has such a sharp design, which makes great contrast with the sleek curvature of the "O". The "O" also reminds me of a donut. In fact, it looks exactly like the flaming donut I'd had just a week ago, at my friend's party... What was his name again?

It doesn't matter. Suddenly, I'm starving. I scan Bradley's glass desk. It’s empty, save for three touch-pens, and the tablet at the center. I suppose it doesn't matter, since I can't eat anything... That said — there’s not even a glass of water?

I take another look. A bottled water rests in Bradley's lap. My eyebrows arch. I spend way too much on the water bill for this office, for Bradley to just be drinking his own bottled waters.

Wait — have I paid the water bill yet? I'll need to check with my secretary. What was her name again?

"Vick are you kidding me?" Bradley says, shooting me a glare. "Sorry, I — I don't mean to be... Uh, brash. But you just told me that you wanted to go with the first one!"

"First one sucks," I say, stretching my arms behind my head. "Go with this one."

I'd almost lost my train of thought for a second there. Probably hadn't had enough sleep the night before. Last night had been pretty crazy. I'm not sure if I've ever been at a party that lasted so long. Jake Lavin really knows how to throw those bashes right. Does he have some sort of party planner? Maybe I should look into getting one for my own upcoming party. It’d certainly help Alex out.

Bradley clears his throat. "Are you even sure you want to go with any of these? Our logo has served us pretty well over the past three years. Don't get me wrong: I'd love for you to go with one of my designs. But, I feel like we should be taking things a bit —."

"No. Go. That logo. Now. Take it to the marketing department, or whatever. I need this ball rolling, stat."

"Yeah, ok... But, you haven't even seen what Adam designed yet!"

"Don't need to. Already know what I'm doing. Enough with the chit-chat: do what I said. It's a Direct Order."

"Dear god... That's so bad."

"Never gets old!" I say, with a smirk.

Bradley rolls his eyes, trudging from his desk and down the aisle. I follow suit, drifting from the graphic design department and toward the accounting department. I pause to spin 360° and soak in the office. Windows sprawl along the walls, stretching from floor to ceiling. Sunlight sprays through, soaking the office in a warm glow. I grin. The entire office is sheet white — flooring, walling, furniture, tools. The only exception is my employees, who wear informal t-shirts and jeans. Well, everybody except Bradley.

Screw Bradley.

Anyway, it's an absolute dream. While growing up, I’d always imagined creating an office like this. It beats the stuffy morgues most people have to go to. How could anybody live like that? Waking up each morning, just to put themselves in a personal animal pen... Why are cubicles so small, anyway? Why are they cubes, for that matter? For a culture that believes so strongly in "thinking outside the box", we certainly spend a lot of time thinking inside the box.

I snicker, eyes still roving around. Not me though. Not —.

"Gee, so are you just going to keep standing there? Or, are we going to finally get to business?"

I ogle to my left. My right.

"Over here."

I look straight ahead. Of course — accounting. How could I have forgotten?

"If I'm not mistaken, we were supposed to meet... A full five minutes ago," I say, glancing in the corner of my screen.

"We were," Sherry says. "And I've been sitting here, waiting."

"So have... So have I! I was just checking a few diagnostics. Want to make sure that this place is in tip-top shape. To be awesome, things have to work awesome!"

"Yep, yep," says Sherry. She gives a double-take at the tablet in her desk. Then, she hands me a stack of papers. "There's my report. I guess you can plug it in to... Wherever the hell you need to plug it, and do what you need to do."

"That's it?"

"You're a busy guy. I figured that condensing things into a report would be best — for your sake."

She purses her lips, gives me a nod, and then gestures behind herself. I tilt my head and give a quizzical look. It hits me — I'm supposed to be talking to the head of my code department.

Coding is my favorite skill that I don’t have. True story: I once tried learning coding in high school. I sucked at it, though. My teacher said it had something to do I had trouble with grasping the material? I could never quite understand what she was getting at... It doesn't matter. I hated high school, anyway. And college, for that matter.

Is it fair to say that education is overrated?

"Why, hello, hello! What do you have for the old CEO?" I say, whipping to the desk of Gary — the head of the coding department.

"Not much, really," said Gary. "I patched a few bugs on our website... Also, I talked to the crew about the suggestions you made. Honestly? I don't think it's such a smart idea to add a feature where people can post their purchases on social media. Logistically, it's just not feasible for our small team to do. More than that, wouldn't it be crossing a few lines? We’d need agreements with the social media companies."

"Relevant, Gary. That's what we're trying to be. That's what we need to stay on top of the competition. We can make this work. We have to. Ever heard the term 'chillax'?"

"Do I really have to answer that?"

"I've been talking with my people —”

“What people?”

“— and they think this new feature would be the boost that Direct Order needs."

"You're asking for a lot."

"Man, I don't really..."

A buzz goes off. I glance at the corner of my screen.

"I really have to go, Gary. I still have to talk to... Talk to analytics! Also, that was my alarm for an important summit with the board of directors, in five minutes. But hey, maybe we should go get a sandwich sometime. Oh yeah... And also: figure this thing out."

Mouth gaping, Gary tries to say something — but I'm already zooming away, toward the analytics department.

So many things to do, so little time. The slightest drawn-out conversation can send me spiraling off schedule. It reminds me of an old game I used to play. Jenga, was it? Yeah, that was it. I used to play it all the time with my sister. Actually, it's been awhile since we'd last talked. Had I remembered to send her invitations?

Remember... I need to talk to analytics. I can't forget. I walk down the aisle, to the analytics section.

"Hey Lucy, what's happening?" I say.

I eye a dipping bird on her desk, as it makes its perpetual motion. I should probably get one for my desk. It's strange I don't have a desk toy. Wait a minute — aren’t desk toys against Direct Order guidelines?

"Not much," Lucy says with a sigh. "I assume you want a report?"

"I'm fine without the papers, to be honest. I'm not a big fan of reading. Just tell me about the biggest updates, if you can. Also, how has your day been going? Mine has been going great. Just this morning, I—."

"People are buzzing about the announcement you made," says Lucy. "'We have something extraordinary that we're keeping under wraps'… Really good choice of words. Right now, the announcement has garnered an average of 30% engagement across your social media platforms."

"And that's good?"

"That's great."

"Great!"

Another buzz goes off — only two minutes until the summit with my board of directors.

"Well... Uh... Keep the campaign going!" I say. "If our base is happy, I'm happy."

I give a whistle as I head across the office and toward the meeting room. Heads turn as I fly over rows upon rows of desks. I smile to myself. My employees see me every day, yet they still gawk at me with a look of wonder in their eyes. I wonder what they all think of me.

I stop at the door to the meeting room, and let it scan the tag on my metal hood. It beeps, then slides open. As I enter, it shuts behind me.

"Vick Mobley! Welcome!"

I scan the room. A row of businesspeople are seated at a long table. I hover to the chair at the very end, and my eye shoots to a business man in the corner — he’s new, but he looks familiar. Have I seen him somewhere?

"Sorry for being late," I say. "Keeping tabs on this company... It's a nightmare. I miss the days when Direct Order was still running out of my garage."

Davis chuckles. "Yes, well... So do I. It's fine though. I've been handling things here, while you were busy. You do a brilliant job steering this ship. Your unique leadership style really makes the place."

"Thanks," I say, echoing his chuckle.

Though, I can't help but seethe under my breath. There's a palpable hunger in Davis' eyes. He wants my job. He's always wanted it. Yet, he's also the only person on this board I can trust. The rest of the suits — they’re vultures, who didn’t invest in my company until the instant it could serve them. If anything were to happen to Direct Order, I see them leaving just as quickly.

"Unfortunately, fellas," I say, "I'm almost done for the day. I only have about five minutes to give this conversation — after that, you guys are stuck talking to my looping interface."

"That's fine," says Davis. "Like I said: I’ve been handling things. If you want, I can just give you the big details, and send you on your way. Is that alright, everybody?"

The board nods and looks to the man in the corner.

"This is Mark Bridges," says Davis. "He's the current chairman of 'Ship-It'. He came here with a proposal."

I scoff. Bridges has unkempt hair, a visible stubble, and his suit is slightly wrinkled.

"I hear dozens of proposals, every day..." I say, skeptically. "This another attempt at a buy-out?"

Davis smiles, serenely. "Yes. That's exactly what this is."

I give Davis a look. "Then, this is a flat no. Meeting over. Right?"

The board rustles uncomfortably, and averts eye contact.

"Not this time," says Davis. "Vick: they're offering us three billion dollars."

I nod dismissively. Yet, I feel a punch to the gut.

"We need to come to a decision in a week," says Davis. "But Bridges has been giving us his pitch and, honestly, I'm leaning toward a yes."

I nod dumbly. "Well, that's great. I, uh — I'm going to need to hear this pitch for myself, but..."

"Direct Order would largely operate the same it does now," says Bridges. "We'd simply be acquiring the company. Granted, there will be a few redundant positions to trim — but, I hardly see that being a problem."

"I guess not," I say. "But what about projections for how this will affect our company, long-term? Do you have a strategy for how to integrate our companies? Would this acquisition hurt this year’s sales? What about our infrastructure? Besides... We're still a very young company. Would this be the best for our image?"

"It's fine, Vick," Davis says. "We've discussed all of it. Bridges has a comprehensive, 10 step initiative. So long as we follow it, Direct Order will triple in sales by the end of next year. And both of us? We'll be filthy rich. I can send you all of the notes to read through, if you'd like."

I squint, and my eyes swim around. Everybody on the board seems pleased with themselves. Too pleased. I haven't seen them like this since I proposed that we double our charges for shipping, and that'd been an absolute disaster.

"No, no need. I hate to read. It all sounds... Good," I say, measuring my words carefully. "Ship-It is a good company. I could definitely see this working. When do we have to vote?"

A bitter taste floods my mouth. Ship-It is an awful company. For years, their service has been inferior and their prices have been terrible. Yet they've somehow managed to make us struggle. I've even created a nickname for them, which has become popular among my office — Shit-Shit.

Pretty clever.

There's another buzz in the corner of my screen. Three minutes until my painting session.

"I need answers fast," I say. "I have to be somewhere, soon."

Davis stretches his arms, then gestures toward Bridges.

"Bridges was hoping we could hold the vote next week, on the 13th." Davis pauses to give me a sly grin, then chuckles. "That seems to be the only date all of us can make it. That shouldn't be a problem for you... Should it, Vick?"

I nod my head yes, but say, "No. Of course not."

Davis' smile fades, and his eyes go wide. He presses a thumb against his lips.

"You sure, Vick? After all, I know that it's the same day you have your we—."

"I'll be fine," I say firmly. "I've never missed a meeting before, and don't plan on starting now. I have time. I always have ti—."

My session at Direct Order's offices times out. I blink into a maple room. A fan swings lazily overhead, and water burbles from a stone fountain. I take in a whiff of air, to no avail. If only I could smell my surroundings. I remember the last time I was physically outdoors, and smelled something. It was burnt steak. I was at a trendy new restaurant with Shawna. The food was awful. The night was amazing.

"Glad to see that you could make it," says Isabelle. "Or, at least, some of you."

Her back is turned to me, as she works at her easel. Vague, golden shapes smear across it. Trees? Fenceposts? It's impossible to tell.

"It's been a crazy day," I say. "So many things going on. I know that I've said Direct Order can’t get any busier... But, I was wrong. I'm about to explode."

"Good," says Isabelle in a monotone.

"See, this is why I love coming to you. You're so understanding."

"Any progress on your painting yet?" she asks.

"God... No. Sorry, but I just haven't had the time to work on it. Today was — I don't even want to talk about it. And yesterday I was cleaning up a complete mess in Direct Order's software... You wouldn't believe it. While updating our software, somebody somehow mixed up the —."

"I wasn't asking for me," Isabelle says. "I was asking for you. Your painting is already on its easel, in your corner."

My eyes dart toward it.

"Passive aggressive much?" I ask, with a chuckle. "Why ask me if you already know the answer?"

"I don't. Only you know the answer. Progress on a painting doesn't start on paper, Vick... It starts in the psyche. Focus your emotions."

"Yeah, ok, whatever. Go make a fortune cookie or something."

I hover to my painting and extend a metal arm to grab a paintbrush. I give it a dab of blue, then glide it across the easel.

My easel is a wash of reds, greens and browns. I mean to depict the ground during Autumn, but it could use a shade of blue. The sky is just as important as the ground. I can't let myself ignore it.

As I slather blue above the brown and orange, I smile inwardly. It's brilliant. Isabelle has told me several times that I'm an “artistic genius" just waiting to break out. For once, I believe those words.

She's an artistic genius herself, having won dozens of awards and I pay her good money. However, I usually can't help but feel that she merely tolerates me. She probably only calls me "genius" so I'll keep paying her money. Something she’s also told me several times is that I can't drag my brush across the paper and pretend that it's art — that I need focus and structure, rather than dumping on several paints all at once.

I only call her "genius" so that she'll keep letting me use her studio.

There's another buzz. Two minutes remaining.

"I'm going to have to pop out of here soon," I say. "I'm due at a five-star restaurant in Los Angeles."

"You can leave whenever you want," says Isabelle. "Though, I suggest that you set aside some time in the coming weeks to try finishing your painting. I really want you to get a feel for it."

"Sounds like a plan," I say. "But, honestly, I'm not really feeling this ‘painting thing’ anymore. Maybe it’s not me? I have so much going on. I'm sure you already know about the—."

"Ah, yes," Isabelle says, with an annoyed huff. "Thanks so much for remembering to invite me, by the way..."

I give her a bemused look.

"Remembering to invite you?" I repeat, weighing the words on my tongue. "Really? That's funny. I could've sworn that I..."

Isabelle's jaw clenches, and she nods her head. I simply force a smile and give a nod of my own.

"Anyway, I'm not letting you drop my class if I can help it," Isabelle says. "I will break the true artist out of you, Mobley. Today, next week: I want us to have a full session. None of these 'five minute' paltry sessions."

"That sounds great," I say. "But, that's actually the same date as —."

Everything fades to black. A soft candle slowly fills the darkness. As my eyes adjust, I realize I'm at a table. I’m at a table, surrounded by several other tables.

I look up. Cold starlight shines through a glass roof, bathing me and the rest of the restaurant. I look back down. Shawna is seated across from me, looking beautiful as ever.

"I'm here," I say.

I wait for her to crack a smile. Instead, she stares daggers through me. I look at what she's wearing — a silver dress, and a pearl necklace. Had I bought her those? I'd bought her so many things — it was impossible to remember.

"So, what food are we getting?" I ask.

Shawna's brow arches, and her face tightens. "I already ate."

"Oh, God," I say, slapping myself — my drone — in the face. "Don't tell me — I messed up the scheduling again. I was supposed to be here an hour ago, wasn't I?"

Shawna twirls a fork in her finger and shakes her head.

"No. I guess you could say you 'came right on time'."

I smile, relief flushing through me. "Great. Excellent. So... Why did you already eat then?"  I chuckle. "Do you have a surprise event planned for tonight, or something?"

"No," she says. "I came early. And, I was hungry. So, I ate."

I look around. This has to be some kind of prank. Yet, all I see are couples casually enjoying themselves. Why don't we look like that?

"That's funny, because I'm starving too," I say. I pat my stomach.

Shawna offers half a smile. "Alright then. Order something."

Her fingers rap against the table. Sweat beads down my forehead.

"Well... There's no point really, is there? I, uh... Well, I already have food."

I unhook my motion sensors, swivel from my computer monitor, and go to my small fridge. My mouth watering, I pop it open and pull out a slice of pizza. Finally, I turn back to the computer and wave the pizza in the camera.

"See?" I say. "Already taken care of."

I take a large bite. I make a face.

"God, that's spicy! In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have ordered so many jalopies..."

"Jalapenos?"

"Gesundheit."

Shawna suppresses a smile. I casually lean back in my chair and take another large bite. I make another odd face. I have terrible taste.

"Well it's nice that you have food, all the way over there," she says. She looks down at the table and raps her fingers again.

I reattach my motion sensors to lean my drone's screen toward her.

"It really is. All I have to do is press a button on the side of my screen, and the butler sends anything I need down here. There's this high-tech dumbwaiter I had installed — it takes food right to me. I hardly even have to move. I guess the dumbwaiter isn't so dumb after all. Come to think of it... Why do we even call 'dumbwaiters' dumbwaiters? I mean, considering how much planning goes into them, it's hardly an accurate name."

"Vick..."

"Come to think of it, the more I say the name, it doesn't even sound like a real name. A real word, even. Dumbwaiter..."

A waiter strides up to us, flushed in the face.

"May I help you?" he asks, lips puckered.

Shawna shoots me a glare. I look at the waiter — his eyes are a bottomless pit. What's everybody's problem, tonight?

"No thank you," I say, giving a wide smile. "But, I really appreciate you checking up on us!"

The waiter's lip furls and eyes narrow. "Yes. Of course. Anything for the... lovely couple."

As he stalks off, he mutters something. I consider turning up my drone's hearing sensors. Though, it doesn't really matter, does it? I turn to look back to Shawna. She's what matters.

"I guess we can start talking about the wedding preparations," I say.

Shawna stares through me. Odd. I look around, hoping to find support among the sea of faces. Finally, my eyes wander to the window in the ceiling — toward the twinkling tail of the milky way. I look back to Shawna, and gesture toward it. "By the way, it's a gorgeous night, isn't it?"

She blinks, letting me hold my arm in the air.  Finally, she looks up. She clucks her tongue.

"Oh. Yeah. Really nice."

I feel my face go hot. Maybe it's the jalopies. Yet, it can't be that. No — I usually only ever feel this way during conversations with Davis. My face twists into a false smile.

"Alright, what's your problem?" I say, leaning over the table and extending my drone's arm to poke her in the arm.

Disgruntled, Shawna rubs the spot I touched. "I don't have a problem."

"You seem like you have a problem."

"You're the one with the problem. Did you see the way the waiter was looking at you?"

I put my pizza own. "Come on, Shawna. You can't pretend with me."

She gives a huff. "Well, you sure think you can pretend with me..."

I give her a bemused look. "What are you talking about?"

"You told me you'd actually be here tonight."

"I told you the truth. I am here."

"No, you're not. You're hiding out in your trillion-dollar cave."

I laugh. "It's a highly advanced control chamber. Trust me, if you just understood the power of this computer...

I watch her face. It's on fire. I'm losing her.

"Today was just so... I didn't have time to fly out there today, okay? It — today was a day where I had tons of things to do today. "

"Oh yeah? What things?"

"Well, I had to—."

"Are those things more important to you than our wedding?"

"Well, I mean... Well, it's not like th—."

She claps her hands.

"Alright, let's hear it. What are all of these things that are so much more important than being here? What's your excuse for dumping this entire wedding on me, while you can hardly be bothered to even remember our wedding's date?"

"I... Uh... Well..."

A buzzing goes off.

"What was that?" Shawna snaps.

"My buzzer. I have a meeting with Harris in... Three minutes."

"Who? You mean Alex?"

"No. I'll talk to him at the bachelor party. Save the best man for last. No — I'm talking about Harris. You don't remember him? He's my nephew..."

Shawna stares at me blankly.

"Scruffy hair? Spotty beard...? He's the one who's constantly asking me for money. No? Anyway, he just got out of business school. Just like I did, twelve years ago. The kid really reminds me of me, actually... Do you think Harris would make I good director of social marketing?"

"I honestly think—."

"—he would? Yeah, that's what I was thinking too. I was just reading this article the other day about young people, in the marketing sector. Particularly on social media. They're little geniuses at making cash! And social media is ripe with money, for people who know how to play it right. Sort of like... Like how a guitar is an amazing instrument, if you just know how to play it right. Come to think of it, I never did get a hang of the —."

Shawna clenches her teeth, lowering her voice to a hush.

"Vick. Stop."

Deep inside, I know that Shawna is hundreds of miles away. Why do I still feel like she's about to kill me?

"Yes?"

She makes her fork skate across her empty plate.

"I have something I need to say, and you can't butt in."

I bite my tongue. "Al— alright then."

Shawna clears her throat. "I'm starting to wonder if it's... Maybe cutting it too close? I know that this is going to feel like a slap in the face, but it's just — you're hardly ever here. And, even when you are, you... Well, you aren't. What if this isn't right? What if we're making a mistake? What if we're doing this too fast?"

She puts down her fork and looks at me. "Alright. You can talk now."

My eyes go wide. Did she really say what I think she said? She couldn't have. I look down, soaking in the gravity of her words.

I take a bite of my pizza. After I've gulped it down, I burst into a laugh.

"Too fast? Shawna... You're... Uh... You're the love of my life. This is destiny." Shawna's eyes go wide. Her face seems to glow. "Besides: despite all our hiccups, we've managed to stay together for these past four years."

"Two years."

I shrug. "Same difference."

Shawna doesn't seem convinced. Something broils inside of me. Where it comes from, I don't know, but I suddenly find myself saying, "Besides, it's too late to back out now. I've poured almost two million into this thing. Everybody is going to be there. Prestige celebrities, the press, the president..."

Shawna puts her hand on her forehead. She moans something, but I can hardly make it out. Finally, she looks up. Bags are under her eyes. Deep lines surround her mouth. She suddenly looks exhausted. Older, even.

"Look, Vick: I need you to promise that you're going to actually be there on the 13th. This — this is supposed to be the rest of our lives." She manages a weak smile. "No tricks. No games. When it's time for me to walk down the aisle, your ass better be standing at the altar."

"Well... Look, I have a lot—."

"Vick."

I try to swallow, but my mouth is a desert. "I'll be there."

I'm gone.

I'm standing in the middle of an open field. Frisbees whiz by my drone. Laughs reach my hearing sensors. A child ogles at me, then runs off. I hover down, to the pier of a lake. A lanky man with a mop of hair stands there. He turns around and embraces me, with outstretched arms and an awkward grin.

What's so awkward about the grin? I think it's the nose. I really shouldn't have let Harris get that nose job of his.

"How's my favorite uncle doing?" Harris asks.

"Great," I say. "I just got off a meeting discussing my upcoming wedding, and whatnot. Pretty exciting stuff."

Harris slaps my drone on the back. "You have a wedding coming up? Why didn't you tell anybody? Wait... Am I the first person you've told?"

I give a befuddled look. "No. People have known about the wedding for months. You ca—"

"Oh — yeah, I'm just messing with you, Uncle Vick."

He chuckles, and I chuckle along. He couldn't be more oblivious. I guess he really is my sister's son.

Harris scoops a rock from the ground and chucks it across the water. There's a dull plunk.

"Dammit," he says. "I'm never able to get it to skip along the water, just right."

"You need to use an incredibly flat and dull rock," I say. "But, personally? I've never found skipping rocks to be worth the time. The rocks that are perfect for skipping are also perfectly boring. Granted, it's hard to find rocks that aren't boring. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes: I didn't have us come here so we could skip rocks. There's something I need to talk to you about."

"Finally need a buddy for one of your vacations, after three years?" he asks. "Because, if you do... No need to even ask. I can leave right now."

I shake my head. "No, actually. See, my company has an opening in its social marketing department. Specifically for the position of director. I've been looking for somebody to fill the vacancy, and I realized... You've been out of a job for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Just a year," says Harris. He sticks his tongue in the corner of his mouth as he picks up another rock and tries focusing his aim. "I manage to squeak on by though. Conventional jobs just aren't my speed."

I sigh. "Look, Harris... You and your mom — we aren't on the best of terms. You know that. I really feel like you taking this job would get things back together."

"I love you Vick. But, I don't see how this spat concerns me. Honestly, if you want to mend your relationship with her so much, you should try meeting her in person."

I squint. "The position will pay in the six figures. And it has the potential to rise a couple figures from there, if you can do your job right."

Harris' jaw falls and he looks right through me. "You serious?"

"I remember what it's like. I just want to help get you on your feet."

"I can't even begin to... I had no idea that you... Seriously, Vick, this is just amazing."

I smirk. "It’s nothing, really. However — I will need you to get in a plane flight to Direct Order's HQ the 11th. From there, we can discuss your job, and the exact responsibilities it would entail."

Harris scratches his forehead and shuffles his feet. "Yeah, about the 11th — I kind of have a band thing going on that night. Can't really swing going all the way out to Silicon Valley that day."

"We're talking about a six-figure —."

"Can't do it."

"The 12th?"

"Nope."

"The... The 14th?"

"I could make the 13th... That's the only day I have open for the next two weeks, though."

I shake my head. "Alright. The 13th it is, then. I can make that work. I — I want you there by 1:00, sharp."

"I can do that, easily."

Harris grins, then tosses a rock into the lake. "This is going to be great. Thanks again, Uncle Vick. You're a great man."

I nod gratefully, but can't help feeling a sickness in my gut. A buzz goes off on my sensors.

"Well, would you look at that?" I say. "Looks like I'm going to have to go now. I'll see you soon, Harris."

"See you soon, Vick. Love ya."

The park blinks out of existence. I'm back in my control room. I pull off my sensors and turn off the computer. As its processor winds down, I hear a dull hum. I don't care. It gives me a sort of calm. I need it to help myself sleep tonight.

Reclining my chair, I let its memory foam swallow me. It's been only 16 hours since I've last slept, but it feels like it's been years.

Closing my eyes, the muscles in my body tense. My head is a rock. There's no way I'm going to be able to make the 13th work. Yet, I'm going to have to.

My mind runs through all my responsibilities. I need to make it to the bachelor party on the night of the 12th, and reconnect with Alex. And I need to be at my wedding on the 13th. That's an indisputable fact. However, I'm also going to have to find a way to get to the boardroom meeting and the painting class. And, Harris... How am I going to handle Harris?

Suddenly, it hits me. If I fly to my Los Angeles mansion, I should be able to access the experimental control room from in there. I can conduct all of my business operations — and then, once those are done, I can head to my wedding. It'll all work out.

The only problem is that the experimental control room in Los Angeles isn't entirely finished, the chair will be far less comfortable, and the dumbwaiter won't function to the same level as my current one. Though, what does it matter? That's all a small price.

I can make this all work. I'm going to. I have to.

Page Break

Part 2:

With a yawn, I roll out of my chair and look around the control room. It's far shabbier than the one in Silicon Valley. Sunlight bleeds through the cracks. Rods and plaster crudely jut through the metal plating. The air is suffocating. Worst of all, it's smaller.

It reminds me of this old summer house my family used to take me and my sister to, when I was growing up. It was on some mountainside, overlooking a gushing river. It was a horrendous experience.

Speaking of horrendous experiences, I have somewhere to be. I turn on my computer and attach my sensors. I'm now hovering over a caramel floor, speckled with various blots of colors. I've teleported to Isabelle's art studio.

I never get a break, do I?

An easel is just ahead of me. Isabelle is hunched over it, clearly hard at work. Cautiously, I approach her.

"Hello," she says.

"Wait — you heard me?"

"Your hover-blades. I could hear those things from a mile away."

I look at her painting. It's an image of the sun kissing the horizon of an ocean. I marvel at the way in which her brush can make the water twinkle to life.

Unfortunately, I can hardly think of a more generic subject for a painting.

"Are you going to keep staring at my work, or are you going to finally go out and do your own work?" she asks.

I snort. "Well, that's the thing... I have good news and bad news for you, today.

She drops her paintbrush. "What's the bad news?"

"Don't you want to hear the good, first?"

"With you, there's never any good..."

I wince. That's harsh. It's true... But, still.

"Alright, look," I say, "I'm quitting your class today. But, before I do that, I want to finish my painting. Unfortunately, I have to use auto-pilot for my painting. I have a meeting in approximately —." I glance at the timer in the corner of my screen. "Two minutes."

Isabelle keeps her back turned to me, but her cheeks turn upward in a smile. I smile to myself. Perhaps my bad news wasn't so bad, after all. I've learned the skill of breaking bad news to people over the years. Whenever I had to show my parents my report card, for example, it always ended with us playing a game, or going out to eat ice cream, or something. We had the best ice cream place nearby, back then, too. Hippy's, or something?

"You're abandoning my class just like that, huh?"

"I try to do as much of everything as I can. But, this? I just can't. There's so much going on in my life right now... Besides: I was a terrible fit for your class. You know that. I know that. We all do."

"I don't know many things, Vick. But, I do know this: you never put in the effort."

"I am putting in the effort. I'm here. Right now. To finish my painting. You have no idea how many things that I have to do today, or how many things I've put off to come here."

Isabelle shrugged. "I don't. Yet, something tells me that I don't need to. If you really cared, you wouldn't be done."

"I'm not done yet."

"Then go finish your painting and get out."

"Yeah... About that. I'll be back, later."

A buzzer goes off in the corner of my screen. I'm back in the Silicon Valley office to Direct Order, with Harris staring me in the face.

"So..." he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "This is where you work?"

He leans on the coffee machine, then dips his hand in the cereal dispenser. He pulls out a handful of cereal and shoves it in his mouth.

"Nice place. Awful food."

He takes a mug, takes some coffee, then takes a swig.

There's a nervous laugh at my side. "This is the man that you're considering for Director of Social Marketing?"

I look over, and it's Bradley. He's wearing his usual stiff business suit, and is shoving his glasses ever deeper into his stupid face.

"Yes Bradley, this is who I'm considering," I say. "Do you have a problem with that? Because, if you do, I have a problem with that."

Bradley brushes away his combover and a patch of sweat. "Well, it's just... Even though he has a degree in business, he hardly has the work experience. He's untested. From my knowledge, he hasn't held a job in two years."

"Three," says Harris, before bumping into a stack of paper cups. He steps away as they roll onto the floor, and then he irons out the wrinkles in his t-shirt.

"Sorry," he says, "I have a bit of jet-lag. Anyway, yeah: never had a big need for corporate jobs. They're stuffy. They pigeon-hole people pretty easily too.

Bradley nods, before shooting me a glare. "I know that he's your nephew, Vick... But honestly. For the good of the company, you should at least pick somebody who’s qualified."

I brush him off and put my hand on Harris' shoulder. "Do you want the job Harris?"

Harris looks up, and sighs. "I don't know. Kind of?"

I give Bradley a smug grin. "He's qualified." I look back to Harris. "And, you've got the job."

Bradley's jaw hits the floor, but I ignore him and walk Harris through the office.

"We'll be paying you somewhere around 200,000 dollars," I say. "The position will be rigorous... But, there's a bit of fun involved as well, so don't worry too much. As leader of social marketing, you'll mostly be... Social marketing? I'm sure you know social media pretty well, so you'll be a good fit."

"I guess," says Harris. He stops, and looks at a desk. "Hey, is that globe hovering?"

He points at a knick-knack. My eyes narrow.

"Yes, I think it is," I say. "Pretty cool, right? If you work here, you get to have a desk, just like that."

I pull Harris away. He can get distracted even worse than me.

A buzz goes off. I check the corner of my screen — I have two minutes, before I need to leave for the wedding.

I look into Harris' eyes, and smile. He has a look to him — the same look I once had. I've always told myself that it's the look a man gives when they've learned the greater meaning in life. It comes when they've finally discovered their ambitions.

Harris rubs his eyes.

"So... When do you want me to start?"

"I was thinking that you should start —."

"Stop!" It's Davis.

He stomps toward me, his jaw stiff and his stride rigid. I've told him many times to purchase shoes that would give him better arch support, to keep him in a better mood. Though, as usual, he clearly hasn't listened to me. Davis never listens.

"What do you think you're doing," Davis says, cocking his head, and leaning on a desk.

"I was hiring in a new recruit. You're looking at the new director of social marketing."

Davis' lips tighten. "Yes. Great. Except no, I'm not.."

Harris' mouth twists. "Wait... I was just promised a job. And now I don't have one?"

"Didn't you get the memo that I sent out the other day?" Davis says to me, ignoring Harris.

I smirk. "Davis, you know that I don't read the memos. I have so many things to attend to... Infographics are easier."

"I'm supposed to be in charge of hiring the director of social marketing. Not you. You completely went over my head!"

"Yeah, well you don't understand: this is my nephew, and he's getting this job. Capeesh? Besides, do you really want to fight me on this? Because it's not like you haven't been stepping my toes, lately..."

Davis sputters.

"We'll have to finish hashing this out in ten minutes," I say, glancing at the corner of my screen. "I'm set to transition in a few minutes. Wait, actually... Seconds."

"We can't let our company run off nepotism!" Davis shouts.

"See ya!"

Davis looks as though he's about to burst. The screen goes black.

"Hello, Vick. It's about time you showed your face... Oh wait — you really haven't, have you?"

I'm hovering in the center of my wedding’s dressing room. Forcing a chuckle, I hang a robotic hand in the air for a high-five. It's only given an awkward shake. Alex Hooper gives me a frown. I frown, back. He looks different than usual. His mop of auburn hair is neatly brushed back and gelled. His beard has been shaved. He's dressed in a formal black suit. Most strange of all, a sullen look sullies his face.

Despite looking his best, he's at his worst, which is the worst thing to see in your best man.

"What's going on?" I say.

"Not much," says Alex, rolling his tongue between his cheeks. "Just trying to keep everybody from going absolutely nuts..."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? Vick, you're not here! The wedding starts in twenty minutes!"

I choke and look at the corner of my screen. I must've miscalculated the times... I could've sworn that it wasn't supposed to start for three hours.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'm on my way right now."

"No you’re not! What? You think I can't tell that you're still using your stupid control base?"

"I'm not that far..."

"Vick, wake up! It'll take you an hour and a half to get here, by helicopter... And by car? Forget it."

"Yeah, about the helicopter thing... I loaned it to Jeff."

Alex shakes his head, and paces around the room. "Who?"

"What?"

"You don't know who your friends are. That's what."

"Jeff is a friend."

"If he took your helicopter, I'm sure he's a leech."

"Same difference..."

"And now you don't even have a way to get here!"

"You're my best friend, Alex. We've, uh... We've been through a ton of stuff together. We can figure this one out, just like we always have. Remember that time when —."

"No. You didn't even come to your bachelor's party, last night. This is supposed to be one of the best days of your life, but I somehow get the impression you don't care one bit about what's going on."

"Yes. I care about everybody here."

"Name one person."

"Uh... You? Thought we already established that."

"We haven't talked in four months, Vick."

I let out a sigh, and hover toward the mirror. I see a blurry image of myself reflected in the screen. It's me, isn't it? Why doesn't anybody realize it's still me?

"Have the caterers arrived?" I ask, snapping a finger.

"Yes, they've come. Everybody has come, Vick."

"Nice. Because, I'm in the mood for a drink right about now. I made sure to get that one wine you really like..."

"Good luck drinking, while you're sitting in your cave."

"Guess you can drink mine for me then."

I wink. Alex scowls.

"We can't just cancel," he says. "Besides, I've been telling everybody that you're here. You've made everybody expect that you're going to be here. Even Shawna almost seems convinced that you finally made it. Do you realize what a mess this is going to be?"

"Speaking of messes, remember that one time when we —."

"Do you even hear a word I'm saying?"

My fingers press against my computer desk. I look to the ceiling and count the drips of water that fall from a hole. I stare at the stain that the drips leave in the ground. The plumbers did a botched job, only finishing half the pipe. Would it have killed them to finish?

"Yes," I finally say. I've taken too long to respond. Though, maybe it's time that I started answering slow. Growing up, my teachers and parents always told me to slow down — told me that I was moving too fast. I always thought they were wrong.

"I was wrong," I say. "I shouldn't have messed up the times. If I'd just remembered, none of this would've happened."

Alex's face contorts. For a moment, he reminds me of my father whenever he was trying to help me with my math homework. I could never follow a word he was saying, even though he always tried his best. Despite being fast, I never do a good job at keeping up with things.

Letting out a moan, Alex buries his face in his hands. "This — I don't think I'm ever going to be able to forgive you for this. Seriously, out of all the buddies you could've chosen to dump this on, it had to be me?"

"I have a plan," I say. A buzz drowns out my words, and I check the corner of my screen. Great — I only have two minutes left.

“All your other 'plans' have blown up in your face. Can you, by any chance, tell me what this brilliant plan of yours is?"

"You're going to dress my drone in a suit and tie and take it to the altar. I'm going to perform the ceremony with the drone."

Alex looks shell-shocked. Then, he bursts out laughing.

"What?” I say. “That's what I'm going to do."

Alex nods. "Oh, I know. That's definitely what you're going to do. It sounds just like you. Doesn't make it any less stupid, though."

"It'll be just like old times!"

"You're getting married today, Vick. If that didn't tip you off that ‘old times’ are over, I honestly don't know what will..."

I feel like I've been punched in the face. Alex looks like he wants to punch me in the face, too. Though, what can I do except smile sheepishly, and hope the moment will pass?

"By the way," I say, "I have to go in a few seconds."

Alex forces a smile. "I know. That's exactly like you too. But, when you're back: we have a lot to talk about."

"Hopefully not."

I'm back in the studio, in front of my painting. That is, what was my painting underneath a new painting that my drone made on auto-pilot. My eyes bulge, devouring the piece. It's a luscious array of dark reds and greens, culminating into an image of a tree trunk. I study the layers of shadow and shading. It's spectacular — far better than anything I could've conceived.

"You're back," says Isabelle.

"How could you tell?"

"The fact that your screen isn't repeating the same three expressions over and over tipped me off... You're not holding the paintbrush correctly anymore either, which helps too."

I nod. The drone's head nods with me. Glancing over to her, I try mimicking the way she's holding her brush. My brush fumbles out of my hand, splattering paint as it lands on the floor.

"Some painting that you made," she says.

A grin forms on my face. "Definitely. It's diverged a bit from what my initial idea was... But, it's really great."

There's a scrape as Isabelle gives a sharp swipe to her canvas.

"How does that work, anyway? You station your drone up in my office, and it can just keep painting on its own...?"

"The drone is me," I say, with a chuckle. "Anyway, I have a crack team of programmers who help me out, whenever I need a drone to do something."

"Oh. So, the programmers do all the art, and you steal the credit for it?"

"I'm the vessel that carries things out."

"Doesn't sound like much of a job to me. This art... It's not really you."

"But it is me. I thought of the idea to come up with the painting. 'I think therefore I am', right?"

"You think, therefore there's something. But, it's not necessarily you."

I leer at her. "Not in a good mood today, are you?"

"I just lost my biggest client."

I laugh. "Didn't realize I was paying you the most out of everybody."

"You aren't. I was referring to your ego."

Another buzz. I only have a minute. Why does the buzzer always have to go off at the worst times?

“Well, I have to go soon,” I say, “I only have a minute.”

“You might as well just go now.”

“But, my art project... You insisted that I had it done.”

She frowns, her lip slitting away a dimple in her cheek. “It’s already done.”

Running my hand through my hair, I crack the camera of my drone.

“Great,”  I mutter. “Anyway, I can’t just... Do that. I’ve never overridden the timing protocols on the drone before.”

“Maybe it’s about time that you did. After all, your drone — sorry, you — can just finish the painting for you, even when you’re gone.

I look back at my painting. It's dazzling. I can already see it being put up in my favorite art shop, or a museum. I chuckle to myself — the art in museums rarely even broaches the skill that’s gone into my painting.

Jerking my neck in Isabelle’s direction, I give her a salute.

“Alright. Looks like this is it. Sorry for the rushed exit, but hey: I’ll send you a gift basket or something, in a week. Do you like chocolate?”

Isabelle opens her mouth to respond, but I’m already hunched over my keyboard, overriding my drone’s settings. I punch in a passkey and select Direct Order’s headquarters as my next destination.

“Good,” I say, as the art studio flickers away, “because, you might end up having a truckload of it. Worst comes to worst, you can find a way to make the excess into a painting, or something. You’re welcome.”

I drip into an empty meeting room. Light saws through my eyes. Blinking, I sling my gaze around the room. Where is everybody? I could’ve sworn that the meeting with Ship-It was supposed to start ten minutes ago.

“Nice to see that you could make it.”

My eyes finally land on Davis, who’s sitting in a far corner.

“Oh, hey,” I say. “Sorry about our fight, earlier. I’m not sure what got into me. Really busy day. Speaking of being busy, where the hell is everybody? Did I miss something? I would’ve at least expected Garth to be in here to take notes.”

“Well, I don’t know how to tell you this, but —.”

“Did they cancel on us? Too afraid to make the plunge on our deal?”

“You know...”

“Not a surprise. I always knew they were assholes.”

I laugh and listen to my synthesized voice echo across the empty walls. I sound so weird. Is that really my voice? It must be. Pretty eerie — I should probably have that fixed.

“Vick, we made the deal without you. The board voted to have the meeting early... You didn’t get the email? We pushed the meeting back a full hour.”

A thin smile forms on Davis’ face. He leans over and presses his hand to a tablet in the table. Footage leaps up. Small voices, lined with static, flow from it. I recoil as I listen to the words, and my hand hovers over my drone's mute button.

“I never received an email,” I say. “You’re dead wrong. My intern would’ve told me. My robot would’ve alerted me... Something.”

Though, I know the words aren’t true. I’d flown to Los Angeles for the wedding, just the night before. My drone's alerts would’ve been disabled, and my intern wouldn’t have been able to reach me. How could I have been so stupid as to forget checking my email?

Though, I already know how — every time I open my email, it's a spaghetti of random words and phrases. It's all too easy for me to get lost — to forget where I was, where I am, and what I was doing.

I shake my head, and the meeting room tilts. I feel sick. Everything is moving too fast.

“So fast... How could you have gone through the meeting so fast? And, without me?”

Davis chuckles. “We had all of the nitty-gritty ironed out about a week in advance. Today, we were just putting the ink to paper.”

“Without my vote?”

Davis’ fingers gallop long the table, and he bites his lip. Very strange — I’m used to only seeing his lips puckered.

“I don’t think your vote would’ve meant much,” he says, clucking his tongue. “You already signed the papers a week ago. You know — the notes I sent you? And, besides — even if you hadn’t, we had enough votes to make this decision without you. Especially since this company is... Well... Moving on, without you.”

I scrunch my brow. “Wait, what?”

Davis claps his hands and rubs them together. “I knew it. You didn’t read the fine print, did you?”

I go to put my metallic arm on Davis’ shoulder. He sidesteps away.

“Vick... In the process of this merger, your position as CEO has become defunct. Add to that your erratic behavior around our offices, and your clashes with me, and many of our shareholders felt it best that we — well — let you go.”

Shrieking glass meets my ear, as I run my drone’s arm along the table. I stare at the tail my arm gouged. I stare through it and to the floor.

“This can’t be happening,” I say, my voice turning rough. It’s been forever since I’ve heard my voice get like that. “We created this thing together, Davis. I didn’t even want this merger to happen. And now you’re letting me go? Do you know how much revenue I bring to the company? Without my leadership, we'd be broke. This merger would’ve never even happened!”

Davis’ arms cross, and he sucks in his cheeks. He presses himself back against the wall, stance unwavering. I raise my drone to the ceiling, hovering over him.

“And to think that you decided to pull this stunt on my wedding day, of all days. You realize that I had to work around about a dozen different obligations, don’t you? I shouldn’t be here right now. And yet, here I am!”

Davis brushes a strand of hair out of his face. I hate when he does that. He looks like one of those annoying jocks on the sitcoms I used to watch.

“I’m not completely dropping you by the wayside, Vick. We’re giving you a severance package of 50 million dollars, as well as 10 million in stocks. And, your nephew — we’ll still give him some position in social marketing, and try working around him for as long as we can. I figure that it’s the least I can do, after all of this.”

I scowl. “No. You can’t just toss me overboard, and sail away like everything is fine. This is my ship, and you don’t get to give it to Ship-It!”

“But, you agreed—.”

“I agree to a lot of stupid things, Davis. One time I agreed to buy an orangutan from the zoo, just because I thought he looked cute. God, that was a bad idea. But, my bad ideas are not always... As bad as your bad idea, to get rid of me! I do so much for this place. You don’t even know the half of it. I'm half of this company!”

“That’s exactly why we needed to let you go, Vick. You run around here like a chicken with its head cut off. You do too much, and everybody can see it wearing on you. Honestly: how often are you having to live your life from that drone apparatus? However long it is, it’s too much.”

“I need the drone to keep things stable.”

“Don’t you see what’s happened to you? With everything going on in your life, from the marriage, to the new house, to your eccentric hobbies... A break is something you inevitably needed. Maybe that’s not something you’re willing to admit. However, I think you’re going to eventually end up thanking me.”

He lets out a deep exhale and then smiles, clearly pleased with himself for having said his piece. He's finally locked the door on me, sealing me away from his precious company. He has a point, too — I have dozens of things going on in my life. Maybe I should be looking at this as an opportunity to refocus. Though, I can only focus on Davis’ smarmy face. I notice the fake tan on his skin, and the rich embroidery of his business suit. Back when I’d first met him, he wouldn’t have bothered to wear more than a greasy t-shirt and sweatpants. So much has changed since then.

Why couldn’t things go back to how they were? Why all the backstabbing?

I blink. Davis’ hand is outstretched toward my drone, for a handshake.

“Thanks,” I say, “... for nothing. See you around.”

I pull my drone away. Davis merely rolls his eyes and strolls toward the door. I don’t care. I’m preoccupied with overriding the controls to my computer, to leave this dump.

“I didn’t want it to end like this,” Davis says, unlocking the door to the meeting room. “But, it had to be done. Merging both of these businesses just made sense. It’s... Just business.”

I keep my mouth shut. Though, inwardly, I know that this is personal. It always has been. One by one, Davis has picked away all the people that’d built Direct Order into what it was. He’s all that’s left.

One. Two. Three.

I’ve left. I’m back in the tight dressing room. I can already hear the ceremony's music playing.

Alex jumps in front of my screen. “Thank god you’re back! I wasn’t sure that I’d be able to stall for another half hour.”

“Nice how everything works out that way, right?” I say.

“It depends on what you mean by ‘everything working out’.”

Alex bites his lip, and gestures to the mirror. My suit dangles from my drone on a hanger. My face is on the screen, unkempt and unshaven. I look like I've crawled out of the sewer. Oh well — nobody would be able to smell that I hadn’t showered. Right?

My vision swings as Alex places his arm around my drone.

“I shouldn’t have expected anything else but this, I guess,” he says. “Problems aside, at least you’ve made it. You’re finally at the greatest day of your life.”

I swallow, and hover toward the exit. I want to believe what he says. Yet, after losing my job? My livelihood? How could this day possibly be considered "great"?

Everything rushes by. My mind wades through a fog. I let it wrap around my eyes, and lock me to my computer chair. Suddenly, my drone is floating at the altar. I catch the countless gawking eyes of an expectant crowd. Cannons shoot confetti down the aisle. An orchestra plays.

“Whatever you do, don’t stress,” Alex says, leaning into my drone. “Just be yourself and you’ll ace — actually, don’t think about not stressing. While you’re at it, don’t think about me telling you not to think about being stressed.”

He cups his hands, and straightens up. “Wow... I’m some help, aren’t I?”

Suddenly, Shawna walks through a cloud of confetti. My fog fades, and the room sharpens.  Her eyes pierce through mine, like a knife. I wonder for a moment how I could’ve thought that anything else mattered. This — this was everything.

Traces of a scowl line her face. Her eyes cut to the ground. They cut back into my eyes. Their blade twists.

When she stands beside me on the altar, we go through our vows. Yet, my lips are raw. I place a ring on Shawna's finger. She places her ring on mine. The room drops away, my perception plunging underwater.

“I do,” I answer, to a warbled question.

I hear the words “you may now kiss the bride". My drone leans in, and Shawna pecks a kiss on its camera. Yet, something feels wrong. There’s a pit in my chest. Even as applause resounds, I can’t help but shrivel inside.

“I love you,” Shawna says.

She doesn’t mean it. I want to say something back. I won’t mean it either. I pull off my headgear and look around my cave. I’m not there. I’m here.

Why am I here?

“Computer,” I whisper. “Shut off the feed. I want out.”

Lines of code flash along the screen, warning against my action. Suddenly, I want nothing more than for my computer to spontaneously fail. My fingers thrum against my keys, bypassing the system.

“That was a direct order.”

End