The Mailroom, Blue Light Technologies Tower, Sky City, Bermuda Triangle, Real World…
Mark worked the Mailroom. That much was a fact. Ever since he stuck that video game cartridge into his PlayCube 180. The game opened a gateway to the parallel world where the game existed.
For most the experience is explained away as a vivid dream or just a really immersive game, book, song, or film. Some more sensitive people might think it was a lucid dream or a trip to the Astral Plane. Few are Dreamers. They see it as something that happened.
Mark remembered everything, and he was hooked. Soon, agents from Blue Light Technologies (BLT) arrived and brought him to Sky City, a floating island in the Bermuda Triangle.
BLT watched over the Omniverse, a collection of multiverses. They hired Dreamers, like Mark, to help them.
Mark, like all Dreamers who join BLT (with some exceptions), started in the Mailroom. The Mailroom trained the new hires the ins and outs of the Omniverse.
Mark, like most new hires, already knew how he would contribute. He already had an idea for a video game. But he had to wait. And wait. And wait.
Mark was not the first to grow impatient of the Mailroom, and he certainly will not be the last.
Like most of the impatient Mailroom workers, Mark decided to go indie. He began working on his game idea. Any free moment he got, he worked on the game. Hour after hour he poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the game.
Finally, the day came when he could present it to the games department. Mark beamed. He knew he had a winner. He pictured all the people playing his game.
They rejected it.
“You’re still in the Mailroom,” they said. “You need to learn. You need to pay your dues.”
Dejected, Mark returned to the Mailroom. He went back to sorting the mail. Messages and packages from Muses sent to agents around the world. These packages were the inspiration for stories. The assigned agent receives the message and knows what story to write; what film to tell; what song to play; what painting to do.
Mark returned to the Mailroom day after day. What was the point? His idea was rejected. Message after message passed through his hands. The Mailroom became a dark and lonely place to Mark.
Then one day a game cartridge came to his station. It was addressed to Troy Miguel of Wizard City Games.
“Troy Miguel?” Mark whispered.
Troy was one of the top game designers in the country.
Mark drummed the package.
This cartridge was pre-approved. It was just waiting for someone to turn it into a hit video game.
Troy is good enough. He won’t miss this one.
It was a little odd that the package was a full game. Most of the mail were reports from the Muses; they read similar to a news article—if that article was written by an emotionless artificial intelligence.
Actually, that wasn’t too far from the truth. The Muses were AIs. They were created after all the original Muses were killed. It’s why for a time it seemed like every story was the same. The Muses can travel the Omniverse searching for stories, but they aren’t exactly artistic.
So, most of the time the reports are sent—reports are easier to send across inter-reality boarders, but sometimes there can be more. One time a red balloon and a clown’s nose was sent to Stephen King.
Mark checked the area. Everyone was busy at their stations. Mark pocketed the game. He continued his shift all while dreaming about the mystery game.
***
After his shift, Mark took the train home. The BLT hyper-train was the only vehicle that could safely pass through the maelstrom that surrounded the Bermuda Triangle.
Mark practically vibrated with excitement. He drew closer and closer to playing the game and being inspired to make the best video game to date.
At Mark’s home, his parents were asleep on the couch. The news reported another school shooting, the third that month. Gas prices were also rising, and the President signed another executive order against immigration.
Mark went to his room. He flipped on his TV. He snapped the cartridge into his PlayCube then turned on the game. The screen showed static. Mark reached towards the console. He planned to remove the cartridge, blow on it, and turn the console back on. Instead, a black, gooey semi-liquid bubbled out. Mark stumbled backwards, but the goo raced towards him like a heat-seeking missile. In seconds, it covered his body. Mark screamed as his DNA rearranged. His bones twisted and popped. Mark tore at the tar-like substance, but it was already hardening over his skin. Soon, he looked like a black statue. The room grew silent.
The statue started to crack. When it broke a humanoid unicorn stood in Mark’s place wearing his clothes.
The unicorn laughed. “Finally!”
The game cartridge was never meant to be played. It was going to Troy so he could hide it away. The cartridge was cursed by the last unicorn.
For ages, humanity hunted the unicorns (and other mystical creatures) for their magic. The last unicorn watched as hunters drained his kin of their magic transforming them into regular horses. He knew he couldn’t outrun them forever. He cursed the game and downloaded his consciousness into it.
The unicorn, who after vowing vengeance upon humanity and the hunters changed his name to Wyldmare, possessed Mark’s body.
Wlydmare ripped the console from the TV. He stomped on it, shattering it into hundreds of pieces and causing the floor the crack. No one would return him to the game.
He aimed his horn at the wall. A rainbow colored beam blew a whole into the wall. Wyldmare laughed as another rainbow beam created a small plane. Wyldmare’s laugh grew more insane as he climbed into the hovering plane. The plane then climbed into the air. Wyldmare’s wild laugh echoed into the night.
***
On the street, a handsome man in a white robe watched the retreating plane. He spoke into an earpiece.
“He took the bait,” said the Muse.
“That is what you get for being impatient,” said a voice on the other end. “Send out the story.”
End
Joe Rover 