The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The knot in the wall.
How long has it been?
The desk. Computer.
Another morning shift: view the stream and collect the data.
Class D Species Identification Database.
Program start: Leafhopper. Sharpshooter leafhopper?
Let’s go with Homalodisca vitripennis, the glassy-winged sharpshooter.
Submit…
…Correct, good.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat…
It’s been months since I started picking up the extra shifts. And after I tanked that performance review they relocated me to this… apartment. The lodgings are acceptable. Drones deliver rations so I don’t have to make a trek down the extra flights of stairs. I can work from home now, and the work is easier. Almost distressingly so. I just need to make my quota for the year and pay off the difference of my work debt. If I excel, maybe even more.
Spider. Trapdoor spider. Hm, they all look too similar.
Let’s see the photo gallery…
Ah, its burrow is on a moss covered river bank. Flora looks local, too.
Odds are Cyclocosmia torreya. Submit.
Correct. Good, got another streak multiplier. Hope I can get another lootbox soon. They spawn periodically, and if I’m lucky I’ll unbox a 72-hour multiplier ticket to double my multiplier. Last week I got another free milkshake voucher. I don’t even like milkshakes. Hopefully they’ll let me exchange those some day…
Beetle. Ugh, there are so many. I’m gonna have to check the encyclopedia to get a better idea.
Later. Break for now, then back to it. If I get the 72-hour ticket I’ll be working all weekend.
Or, weekdays. Not sure what day it is anyhow. Feels like a Tuesday…
The data collector retrieved a ration packet from their footlocker and cracked its heating element. The packet expanded as they grabbed a spoon from their desktop drawer. They sunk back into their chair, this time facing the solitary window of their studio apartment. The dreary morning sky visible in-between the trees of the Diamond Spires was a slate gray canvas with large, dark strokes of Swampland cypresses. This sleepy, listless day was brightened by the innumerable lights of the city below, each mote another lamp, firefly, or piece of tech warding off the drowsy haze of mid-morning.
Even from this high up the Plant, you could see the daily hustle and bustle below. Dockworkers unloaded shipping containers from the ships of the bay, and workers crowded the damp streets of the Industrial District as they made their way to their respective factories. The masses huddled against the drizzle and zippered their way through the knots of other commuters into vague, nameless buildings and up into the dozens of factory levels throughout the Plant.
The occasional billboard or holo-sign adorned the massive cypresses like so many patchwork windows into brighter, more promising futures. Join the Fold for a discount to salvation! Buy advanced protective drones for your Capitol Tower loft! Or, you could outperform your peers to be promoted to a position of prosperity!
The path of many others was simpler: For scales on the dram you could get another minor upgrade to your flat, or more protective clothing from the elements. But these were just a temporary fix to larger problems, and often the excitement over these incremental changes was nothing more than a distraction.
I guess I’m lucky. I could be out in that mess, but I’m in here with a hot meal and dry clothes.
The collector studied their meal briefly. Mealworm risotto: big slices of worm and some mottled rice in a questionable white sauce. A puck of sweet potato, unflavored.
School lunches all over again.
They sat back in their standard issue chair, their rough hewn shirt and pants scratching at their hips, shoulders, thighs, and chest. These clothes were, in all likelihood, produced more hastily than even the meal before them. Which was saying a lot, as the meals were prepared in semi-automated assembly lines using overly-reclaimed ingredients. The worker sighed, lightly clapped their hands to their face, and got back to work. Bites of the rations would be suffered through between data entries.
Beetle. Nope, using a skip voucher. Four more left. Not too bad. If it’ll help me keep my streak without getting stuck then so be it. Just not feeling beetles today.
Spider. Oh, I know this one! Sphodros rufipes, the red legged purseweb spider.
Correct. Another locally occurring spider, specifically another false tarantula like the Torreya trapdoor. These are so fascinating. They make silken tubes and lean them up against rocks or trees and wait for something to climb on them. Then, when the prey crawls up the side of the tube – WHAM. They burst out of the tube wall and pull the unsuspecting climber in. So unsettling…
Beetle…
Fine.
…
Correct.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat…
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The door. Bathroom break.
Lemme check my app. Is the bathroom vacant yet?
Nope, estimated 1 minute 15 seconds wait time.
Doable, gotta lock in my request right when they finish.
…
Vacant. Submit.
Damn, somebody else got it. There’s only the one operational stall in this hallway. I’m really gonna have to go soon… Better buy a reservation slot so I don’t have to race to submit a request.
Bought. Estimated 3 minutes 35 seconds till vacancy.
Seriously? What did you eat?
…
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The door?
The door! Green light above the door, time to go. Better get to it before I get overage charges.
The data collector hurried to the door and made their way into the hallway. The low-lit, wooden channel in the cypress made an 80-foot, curving hallway lined with a dozen or so doors. and twice as many smaller service hatches above them checkering the walls and ceiling. The collector turned left and power-walked around the bend to the end of the hall. Their clenched, staggered hustle to the bathroom was a battle against time. As they reached the end of the hall they chose the last door on the left, whose glowing green sign above the lintel read VACANT. They hurriedly entered and took care of business.
Better.
…
I hate this new process. They said it was more efficient to keep each hallway limited to one bathroom. And because the residents here were designated “low performing” they figured socializing would distract us from working. So they implemented the Hall Pass app. Only one out at a time for designated periods of time based on some performance algorithm.
Not that I socialized much before the changes. I already knew I was behind in productivity, so meeting new people was low on my list of priorities. Sure, I had friendly interactions with coworkers but I don’t think of them much these days. Work is easier…
Well, that’s about that then. Too close to overage for comfort. I should be good for now.
After making their way back down the hall to their apartment the collector closed their front door. The lintel’s light shut off and a mechanism locked the door soon after.
No more distractions. That lootbox is around the corner. I’ve been waiting for a while now, and my drop rate will be a lot higher due to the streak. Drop rarity, too.
Next…
Oh, easy: Whip scorpion. Weird looking, frightening even. These things are huge and their appendages are nightmarish. Like the worst parts of a spider, scorpion, and bacterium put together. Does the gallery show a size?
Yup, 8 ½ to 13 feet long, minus the tail. This one seems bigger than average, so likely Mastigoproctus giganteus, the giant whip scorpion.
Nailed it. Not only are they huge, but they spray this gross, acidic concoction that smells like vinegar. Supposedly it makes a potent solvent. So there’s that…
Lootbox! I don’t need any coupons, I’m good. I just need that-
72-hour wage multiplier!
Jackpot! I’m already on a streak of nine, so if I get up to ten and add in this…
Math later, work now. I got this. Only 72 hours left…
68 Hours Remaining
Good good good. I can’t believe I’ve been this lucky. Sometimes the system will go in patterns and lean on specific areas for identification. I suppose its supply and demand for whoever is requesting the ID’s. So far today it’s been primarily spiders, by far the easiest order for me. I’ll have to keep this maximum streak bonus going for a couple of days. As long as I don’t get too many beetles I’ll be in the clear.
55 Hours Remaining
I have catalogued beetles and only beetles for the past 12 hours. I have not seen a single arachnid, butterfly, or any other group of bugs since the initial set of spiders. I’m not trying to complain here. I’m lucky to have so much work, but there are so many kinds of beetles. There are 400,000 different species of beetles, and most of them look the same. I’ve been trying to reduce my research time, so I’m down to one skip voucher. Either I run into another lootbox with skip vouchers or I’ll be stuck searching. I can’t get any incorrect submissions or else I’ll lose this streak and have to build it back up again. Then what? All of this nonsense will be worthless. I just hope I can make it through these beetle-heavy entries before too long. For now, bed. I’ll be up sooner than later.
51 Hours Remaining
That should do it. Not a lot of rest, but enough…
Better make another ration. I’m gonna need the energy for today.
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The knot in the wall. They keep these levels of the Plant unadorned, so you’ll get knots and holes in the walls. They told me it was “to preserve the cypress’s natural splendor”. They didn’t want to spend a red scale on paint – fine. At least be honest about it. So I have to look at this 3-foot wide knot in the side of my wall all day, every day.
The window and desk.
At least I have the window. Still raining out today, so not much consolation there. After I make it through this weekend I should request use of my vacation hours. Don’t know how many I have saved up, but if I really need to I can dip into my wages for an extension. Then again, if the rain doesn’t let up that won’t matter.
Well, back to it then. Ambrosia ration. Gross. It’s supposed to be like fruit salad, but I don’t think they use fruit. Seems more like grubs in a sickly sweet and savory sauce. Not a fan, but it’ll fill me up.
Another beetle.
Fine…
…
Right, likely a bark beetle. Like THAT narrows it down. Time to open the encyclopedia. This is gonna be a while…
38 Hours Remaining
Still no end in sight to the beetle onslaught. Why in Troika’s name am I still getting beetles? The odds of it are so low I can’t even…
I’ll open up the Collector Stream Channel in another window. Maybe they have some insight. At the very least, the ads will keep me awake.
The data collector opened a new tab on their browser for the Collector Stream. The browser window filled with dozens of Fold Sigils, advertisements, and illustrations of bugs. Some electro-folk intermission music played in the background as a timer counted down the seconds till the stream’s next segment. It read 5:34. Then 5:33, and so on.
The collector sighed and clicked on an ad amidst the sea of other banners and flashing icons. It featured the huge jaws of a tiger beetle in front of an ornate flask with the words Tiger Beetle Energy Drink emblazoned above both. The bottle was made of sap glass and encircled by copper-colored, metal ornamentation reminiscent of vines, wings, and beetle horns. Its liquid, as seen through the gaps in the metallic wrapping, was a glowing, blue-green concoction colored similarly to the shell of the drink’s eponymous beetle. Below the title read the brand’s slogan, “Live Fast! LIVE FASTER!!”
As the collector clicked on the ad, another sub-window popped up with their account information, balance, and two buttons: accept and decline. The decline button was noticeably smaller than the accept one, and went unused as the collector confirmed their purchase. The tiny window morphed into a friendly, virtual rhinoceros beetle. It winked cartoonishly at the data collector in appreciation, its word bubble exclaiming, “Thank you! Your purchase is on its way.” The rhino beetle skittered to the corner of the screen, serving as a delivery status indicator. It ambled along in place, as though in a hurry to get nowhere fast. A series of bars above it indicated the current step of the delivery. For now, only the first bar was filled and topped with the word Ordered.
The channel timer read 3:48. Another pop-up window appeared. It read, “You have a number of unused dessert vouchers. Would you like to redeem one and add it to your order?”
Ugh, the milkshake vouchers again. No, I do not want your flavorless, beet milk slushes.
Hard pass.
The collector clicked the tiny decline button. The window turned into another rhino beetle, this time frowning with its mandibles. Its word bubble read, “Are you sure? You have declined this offer 73 times. Would you like to order one for later?”
73? Wow, I guess I’ve been working more than I thought. Definitely time for a vacation. But first, to take care of this thing…
As the collector went to click decline once more, they noticed the button was gone. They grabbed the window with their cursor to see if it was a graphical glitch, but to no avail. The only change was the expression of the rhinoceros beetle who began crying pixelated tears like an underfed virtual pet. It exclaimed, “No! Don’t throw me away!”
I hate this targeted advertising. Lemme see if I can get rid of it…
The collector pulled the window to the trash bin at the bottom of the screen. The rhino beetle’s expression intensified, and its virtual tears flowed more heavily in turn, like a pair of rushing faucets. As the collector let go of this beetle, it successfully disappeared into the trash. After a moment though, the bin began jostling back and forth. The collector right clicked it, and selected the option Empty Trash. The bin made an brief shriek, followed by an intense, yet muffled, combustion. The lid rattled and its sides bowed out for a moment. A sizzling sound accompanied a thin trail of smoke snaking its way out from from under the lid. The collector stared blankly at their screen in disbelief. It glowed a quiet, fluorescent blue throughout the darkened apartment.
W-what the hell was that? Why would they program that in? Just to make me feel bad?
After taking a moment to shake off the shock, they began distracting themself with a bleary-eyed review of the initial order. The Out for Delivery bar was almost full, but the status beetle beneath it was no longer walking. It was looking over its shoulder at the smoking trash can, formerly the incinerator of its fallen comrade. The collector clicked on the seemingly shocked delivery beetle, only to bring up an expanded summary of the order. When they closed the summary, the beetle marched once more as though nothing had happened. Before the collector could give it another thought, the countdown timer went from :01 to :00.
The stream’s chilled-out intermission music gave way to vibrant, mock-war pop rock. Screeching tech-guitars and large drums made a powerful base for ethereal chanting, and samples of buzzing bees melded with horns added extra warmth and fullness. This combination gave the theme the feeling of a Sunday night sports channel. The intro’s overly vibrant, bold typeface read:
DATA COLLECTION TONIGHT
The text was surrounded by streams of ones and zeros, as well as glowing squares representing bits of data flying around. Then, the title card gave way to a sweeping camera pan over an applauding audience towards three seated hosts. Two of the hosts wore butterfly-scale-laden blazers, and the third a dress made of flower petals and moth scales. They all smiled toothy grins as the camera closed in. The camera focused on the right member of the three who wore a tailored, blue morpho butterfly suit. It glittered a strange, translucent grey-blue under the studio lights, a trick of the eye inherent in the morpho’s scales. His short, dark hair shimmered with a sheen of unnatural pearlescence. After the applause died down, he spoke to the camera.
“Welcome to another installment of the Kaleidoscope’s Review Series! On your personalized stream, we’re playing-“ The host’s confident, practiced diction gave way to an overlaid dubbing by another voice. The former mouthed some vague nonsense while the sound clip of a supremely underpaid, half awake intern mumbled, “Data Collection… Tonight.”
Personalized stream… More like cookie cutter stream. They just make the same show for dozens of different jobs and hobbies. Then they dub over whatever parts as needed and fill the rest with the occasional news segment.
Applause followed the placeholder for dubbing, and the host continued. “I’m your host Roger Stillwell, and I hope you are too!” The audience laughed a knowing laugh and cheered at this apparent catchphrase. The data collector rolled their eyes and moved the stream to the corner of their screen. They began working once more while trying to stomach both the rations and the show’s host.
Dear Roger Stillwell,
I hate your jokes and I hate you.
The service hatch in the ceiling at the other end of the apartment opened. Out of it descended a fluttering, suitcase-sized beetle clutching onto a canister. The diamond-shaped chip adhered to its back was lined with a series of lights blinking in sequence, and its cables snaked their way into the various gaps of the beetle’s chitin. The drone buzzed its way over to the collector and placed its package on the desk. The collector opened the tube and removed its contents without so much as looking at the drone hovering beside them. When the tube was empty, the collector closed it and tapped the top twice. In response, the chip on the beetle’s back blinked orange, then green. The beetle retrieved the now empty canister and made its way to the still open hatch before ascending back into the service channels. The door closed soon after. The status beetle in the corner of the collector’s screen crawled out of view as the transaction concluded.
The data collector removed the dried leaf wrapping of their delivery, revealing a bottle of Tiger Energy. Its copper-colored, curvilinear design and glowing, teal contents made it the nicest looking thing in the apartment. The collector popped the cork top of the bottle. Its liquid fizzed and a jet of blue-green carbonation fwoomped out of the bottle’s mouth. After a moment, the drink settled. The data collector took a swig and grimaced. The drink’s biting fizz and acidity was only matched by its overly-sweet and tangy flavor. Drinking Tiger Energy was like getting struck by lightning in a citrus grove.
Data Collection Tonight droned on and on in the background as the collector continued to identify beetles and take swigs from his frightening brew. The hosts talked about market prices, their love lives, and how rewarding it was to help their servants convert to the Fold in lieu of giving them tips.
Submit.
Correct. Give me a spider.
…
Dammit.
35 Hours Remaining
The collector clicked madly at the image galleries and encyclopedia entries on their screen. Their eyes were bloodshot from both lack of sleep and staring at their screen all day. The stream still played in the background as the segments rolled on and on, and though the stream had gone on now for three hours not a single segment referenced data collecting. So far there had been 15 ad spots, 4 product-driven testimonials, 5 freeform discussions, and 2 fluff pieces about people being saved by the Fold and its life altering technologies.
Then, as the collector contemplated closing out the tab, one of the hosts gestured to a large screen beside them. It was titled with the words Data Collecting Update. Bullet pointed tips appeared beneath the header, each line being doled out letter by letter as though being typed hurriedly by another underpaid intern. The tips were as follows:
Be sure to eat, drink, and sleep
Keep up that multiplier
Use energy drinks or coffee for the long haul
Utilize any unused dessert vouchers for a sweet treat
Have fun!
The data collector stopped typing or clicking, but instead stared blankly at the stream in the corner of their screen. After showing the tips for long enough, the camera cut back to the hosts, who smiled and laughed raucously. The collector closed the tab, ending the hours of background content that served as an undercurrent of distraction. The apartment fell silent, save for the gentle hum of the computer, its susurrations a constant reminder of what was still in store.
28 Hours Remaining
In the wee hours of the morning the data collector listlessly clacked away at their keyboard, their head bobbing and lolling from the ravages of exhaustion. Fluorescent blue light still filled the apartment, its shape morphing like stymied moonlight eclipsed by the collector’s weaving head. Rain still peppered the window as the city slumbered peacefully, with whatever sunrise this hazy morning could offer still hours away.
Submit.
…
Correct. Now… please give me a spider. Gimme a moth, anything. I’ll even take a cicada if it’ll keep me from-
Beetle.
…
I’m never going to escape these beetles. I need to make it through one more day. I can’t go any further than that, I need a vacation. I don’t even care about the rain anymore, I just need out.
They retrieved another ration from their footlocker. It was one of three remaining, so they opened their meal app to restock. Its window was comprised of almost entirely of ads, sprinkled with help and contact forms, and dotted with actual ration packages. They selected the basic package for two weeks and added it to their cart. Exhaustion reared its sleepy head once more, causing the collector’s eyes to close and their body to begin slumping onto their desk. As their head nearly slammed onto the desk, they woke with a start. Sleep would soon be the victor at this rate, so they decided to put their groggy fate into the hands of a more capable power than themself. They scrolled to the top of the page and found the iconic Tiger Energy once more, its beetle mascot’s mandibles powerfully gnashing before the alluring bottle of elixir. The collector clicked on the banner and their cart appeared. As they went to click the accept button the collector paused, and after a moment adjusted the order. The quantity of Tiger Energy went from x1 to x3.
That should do it. Just for today, no more. Just one more run and it’s over.
The data collector clicked Accept, and the delivery beetle once more thanked them and scuttled to the corner of the screen. The collector sighed, and warmed up their ration. As the ration’s heating element did its thing, they opened the home page of their data collecting program. Its options included panes for employee information, job reviews, pay stubs, the collection identification portal, the encyclopedia, and other various tools and resources.
The collector navigated to the forms for time off requests. Instead of lining up the forms as a series of relevant links, the system organized the requests as products and packages. The images and pricing were laid out like options for renting a timeshare. This page, too, was inundated with ads, but their content was focused differently than those of the meal app. They focused on weekend getaways, events throughout the Kaleidoscope, the city’s entertainment district, and personal entertainment packages for home. These final, more domestic packages included anything from new channels for streaming to entertainment appliances and services.
The ad that stood out among the rest, as it took up a quarter of the right side of the screen, was a sultry silhouette of a person posing against bright pink, orange, and yellow clouds. The text above the gyrating, androgynous figure read, “Need company? We come to your door and into your…” The text continued beneath the figure, “heart.” As the collector’s cursor passed over the ad its background filled with hearts and the silhouette gave the viewer a come hither gesture.
Subtle. I can’t bother with companionship right now, and even if I could I wouldn’t. Something about a romance delivery service feels… wrong. But I suppose it’s easier than using funds to make your way to the Kaleidoscope to socialize, or pay for premium social sites.
The collector scrolled past the ad to the bulk of time-off requests and compared their options. The time limits of each package were anywhere from 10 minutes to 10 days, the latter of which was exorbitantly more expensive than the former.
Maybe just a couple of days. I could a ferry out to the Edge and see the Marsh. Haven’t been outside the Dome since Mom saved up and ferried us all out through Snake Creek. I’ll book the tickets when I finish up. Just… One more day.
4 Hours Remaining
Torrents of rain battered the window of the data collector’s apartment. Midday in the Swamplands gave way to sheets of precipitation and charcoal grey cloud cover. The spectrum of lights throughout the city struggled against the downpour. Lamplights twinkled weakly high up on the Spires like so many dying stars, and they dappled random alleyways below like blobs of honey bobbing in a sea of tar.
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The collector sat at their desk, plunking away at their keyboard clumsily. Ration trays littered the floor, and mostly empty bottles of Tiger Energy lined the corner of the desk, their glass and metal glinting in the blue fluorescence. On the computer screen a confirmation window of a successful submission popped up. Points were tallied and added to the collector’s total funds. Then, another image appeared. An ornate puzzle box made of many kinds of wood and lined with glowing stripes popped up in the middle of the screen. The collector stared at the digital box, silently taking it in. The soft roaring of raindrops against the Plant raged on.
After what seemed like an eternity of contemplation, the collector clicked on the puzzle box. Its various sections slid apart, and the glowing strips filled with a strangely beautiful ooze, making them shine even brighter than before. The box’s hidden machinations gave way as its lid opened, revealing a diamond shaped ticket. The stylized ticket fluttered out of the box. It read: 72-Hour Wage Multiplier x2.
What?
The data collector rubbed their eyes and clicked on the ticket. It dissolved into a glittering stream of data and zipped over to the multiplier bar in the corner of the screen. The current multiplier doubled, and its timer increased by 72 hours.
Wait, it isn’t supposed to go higher than x32. It’s stacking with the other 72-hour ticket. And it even extended the total duration. So if I were to keep working for few more days…
They paused, looking out their window. The storm raged on and, as though answering any doubts of its intensity, a burst of lightning filled the night sky. The collector instinctively flinched, and a second later thunder rumbled throughout the darkened city.
The collector turned around and looked at their door. The sign above the lintel was dark, aside from the blue of the computer screen bathing the wall in a pale light. They turned back to their computer, and navigated to the time-off section of their employee portal. They scrolled down past the sea of ads to the weekender packages. After scrolling through the pricing of each package, they looked back to the corner of their screen. The timer of their multiplier read 76:18:34, and counted down the seconds thereafter.
The collector scrolled back to the top of the page, and clicked on an ad for Tiger Energy. They increased the quantity of their order and pressed Submit, turning the window once again into a delivery status beetle. The rhino beetle scurried to the corner of the screen and resumed its usual march to nowhere.
45 Hours Remaining
The collector powered through another entry hurriedly. The confirmation page gave way to the next request, this time for a nondescript, reddish-brown beetle. The data collector popped open their fifth energy drink and took a swig. The other bottles were strewn about the floor around their desk.
What are you? WHAT?! I’ve been seeing you around you little cretin! I know you’re trying to mess with my flow. Fine, but you can’t beat me! Get it?! Beet?! HA, I should be the next Roger Stillwell! I’m on fire, I got this. I got this. I’m gonna find you, you puny, glorified roach…
They opened the encyclopedia to their beetle bookmarks. When reading or scanning, the collector incessantly clicked the blank space next to each wall of text. This anxious tic caused their muscles to tighten, and their already aching wrists sent bolts of pain through their arms. But they ignored the pain, alongside the other dozen effects of overworking – the beetle was in their sights.
Or so they thought. After half an hour of scanning any relevant sections for the beetle in question the collector stopped searching. They knocked their knuckles against the tabletop of their desk, ground their teeth. Taking a particularly acrid gulp of Tiger Energy, they switched tabs on their screen.
Damnit!! If I can’t find this one… I can’t go to a forum and ask, it’ll cost too much. And if anyone finds out my user ID and they report me, I might get a penalty on my account. Underperforming can be disastrous to your score, and even worse for your quarterly review.
Fine! I’ll use another skip voucher, you win. I just want you out of my sight…
They opened their inventory tab and clicked on their voucher wallet. The skip voucher line read x0 remaining vouchers. The collector clenched their jaws, felt a heat rise up in their chest. They navigated once more to the submission pane and clicked through the gallery of images associated with the beetle.
It’s just a beetle! It isn’t special, it isn’t unique. It can’t spin webs or fly very fast or do anything other than gnaw on wood. IT’S JUST A DAMN BEETLE!
They hovered their cursor over the submission box and clicked once. A blinking bar awaited their answer, disappearing and reappearing every second like a ticking clock. As the collector was about to type, a separate window popped up. This one was in the shape of another friendly rhino beetle, and its word bubble filled with text. It said, “Hey! You still have a number of unused dessert vouchers. Why don’t you take a break and have a delicious shake on us?”
The collector’s eye twitched. Their cursor shot to the corner of the beetle’s window to close it out. It zipped out of the way and giggled, saying, “Oh no no! You can’t get rid of me that easily!” The collector chased after it frantically, accidentally closing out tabs and selecting pieces of text on the way. The beetle laughed audibly with a high-pitched voice, taunting the collector. As the pursuit rose to a fever pitch the collector faked out the beetle and swung their cursor to where it was headed. But as their cursor landed on it the beetle it gave a look of fear, extended a set of wings out from under its elytra, and fluttered off screen. In that instant, the data collector misclicked. They pressed the Submit button next to the empty submission box. Time slowed down as the next page loaded. It showed the submission status: Incorrect. The total multiplier in the corner of the screen went from x64 down to x4, leaving only the doubled-up 72-hour multiplier.
The data collector shot up from their chair with shaky knees and yelled at the screen, “NO! NO DAMMIT NO!!” They picked up an empty bottle of Tiger Energy and hurled it at the knot in the wall. It shattered, and its metal frame fell to the ground with a thunk and rolled toward the door.
The collector breathed staggered breaths in-between intermittent lip smacking and wiping sweat from their brow. They slumped to the floor beneath the knot in the wall and began weeping openly. Sobbing between hoarse coughs and painful gulps for air, they lay in the shadows of their apartment. Their legs stuck out into the pale blue light as their feet bumped awkwardly into the bed frame before them.
I can’t keep doing this. I’m so miserable and I don’t want to be here anymore. I don’t remember where I am, or where I was before. All I have are scrambled snippets of a life before, and even that feels more and more like a dream every day.
Why can’t I just be okay with walking away? I… I don’t want this.
I want out.
The collector looked up at the darkened sign above the lintel. Then, over to the window. The rain fell steadily outside, a warning to those seeking adventure. It pattered on and on, as though saying, “Perhaps another day then?” The data collector took a few deep breaths, wiped away the tears, and proceeded to get up. They leaned on the chair beside them for support and, after a few moments of struggle, got to their feet.
After catching their breath and refocusing themself, they sat down at their desk. The screen was still on the submission status window with the result Incorrect filling the middle of the screen.
I remember when being wrong meant I didn’t get to go out with friends or get an allowance. Mom would slave away at the factory and come home to another one of my failed tests. She’d just hang her head and say, “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.” And I was devastated. I thought it couldn’t get any worse than that shame.
So I made my own way. I dropped out of school and pooled my money with some friends in hopes of starting a business in the Marketplace.
I was wrong once more. Once I gave them my savings, I never saw those friends again. Without a scale to my name or a place to live, I made my way to the Plant for work. It was fine, for a while…
The collector sighed and switched tabs to the employee portal. They selected the time off menu and scrolled past the companions and media stations to the weekender packages. While hovering over the basic weekend ferry bundles, their eyes caught a deal slightly further down the list. They scrolled down to it: a discounted ferry and local flight 10-day package.
It’s cheaper than usual, but way out of my budget. Or, at least I’ll have made a lot less from this whole ordeal than I would’ve liked…
But I need to get out of here, longer than a day or two. I just want to wake up somewhere far away from these four walls.
They closed their eyes, took a deep breath, and clicked on the 10-day package. After a couple seconds, they opened one eye, then the other. A new window came up, one unfamiliar to the collector. It had the standard Accept and Decline buttons, but added other, more pertinent information as well. Text above the buttons read as follows:
We are experiencing a
larger than average number
of orders at this time.
Est. Wait Time: 1 Month
The collector squinted their bloodshot eyes at the notification. Its pinkish-red text sat like a stone in the middle of the window, half-warning and half-apology.
Wait time? What do you mean wait time? Wait for what? How can they have too many orders? The ferry makes plenty of trips, and all I need to do is walk out the door. I get a couple of days, sure. But a month? Dammit…
Closing out the screen, they scrolled up to the weekender packages. After selecting one they proceeded to scan the details of the confirmation window, only to see a familiar warning before them.
2 months? What the hell?! I didn’t even know they had wait times on time-off packages, and now this? This is beet crap! I just want a couple of days…
Fine fine fine, I’ll look into single day passes. And if I stay out late enough I’ll pay the overage.
They opened a single day package. Its notification read Est. Wait Time: 3 Months.
The collector tensed once more and tapped their desktop with two fingers impatiently. They scrolled up to the top of the time off packages. This time they selected a 10-minute package with bated breath. The order window popped up, and its notification read Est. Wait Time: 6 Months. The data collector froze.
What is going on? Why would they make us wait on a 10-minute break, let alone for 6 months? What if there’s an emergency or I need to go talk to HR? What if I want to go to the store? Or visit somebody?
6 MONTHS?
The data collector gave the screen a quizzical look. They scrolled back down to the single day package and opened it. Its notification now read Est. Wait Time: 9 Months. They closed the pane and scrolled down to a weekender package, whose notification read 1 year. They frantically selected package after package to find one that was currently available, but each new order caused the notification’s wait time to go up further and further. They clicked on the 10-minute package once more. Its notification read Est. Wait Time: 4 years 6 Months.
The collector laid their head down on the desk stared off into nothingness for a good while. They lost focus in the grain of the wall beside them, its aimless patterns only grounded by the immense knot dominating the middle of the expanse.
The knot in the wall.
…
They must be punishing me for underperforming. I thought I was doing a good job, but I must be lagging behind. The only way I’m getting on that elevator and leaving this place is by erasing my work debt.
The collector picked up their head from the desk and turned to the unlit sign above the lintel, then back to the computer.
Or…
They opened the bathroom app. Its wait time was 1 minutes 42 seconds.
Better. Now if I calculate the overage charge for being a whole day late from the bathroom…
Wow, that is ludicrous. Maybe I can get away with an hour or two.
That’s… doable. Not great, but way better than half a decade of waiting.
As they counted down the seconds till vacancy their cursor hovered over the Submit button. With less than a minute remaining the collector shifted their cursor away.
How will I get down? I didn’t make a formal time off request, so I won’t be able to get the elevator doors open. I need to have the doors open when I leave for the bathroom. Dammit…
No, it’s fine. I just need to order an oversized package. They’ll send it on the back of a larger delivery beetle instead of a drone. Then they’ll have to use the elevator.
Missed that bathroom slot. It’s fine, I need to make an oversized order anyways.
They were pricing out a bulk order of rations when inspiration struck. They opened their digital voucher wallet. Their dessert voucher line read x44 vouchers. The collector redeemed all of them, to be delivered immediately. The window morphed once again into a rhino beet, whose face lit up with an expression of joy. Its text read, “I’m so glad you’ve reconsidered! I hope you enjoy your sweet treat.” The beetle made its way to the usual corner of the screen.
Good. That way I can save a bit on this slapdash vacation. Now, to wait for the order and time a bathroom request to coincide with the delivery. As far as the return trip… I’ll cross that road when I come to it.
44 Hours Remaining
The order took a few minutes to go from Preparing to Out For Delivery, but eventually the status bar was nearly filled. The collector waited patiently as the estimated wait time till vacancy came and went.
Whoever’s in there is definitely getting slammed with overage charges. Not as bad as the ones I’m about to get, but still…
They peered out the window once more. The rain had died down to a drizzle, but the skies were still dark grey with clouds.
I could wait for a sunnier day…
But can I? At this rate I’m not sure. Rain or shine, I have to see it for myself.
Just then, the app updated. The collector hammered away at the Submit button. The sign above the door turned green in kind. They rushed to the door, opened it, and made their way around the bend to the far end of the hall. But this time they would be ignoring the awaiting bathroom stall, aiming instead for the neighboring double doors. Their weakened legs wobbled, causing the collector to tense up and strut haphazardly. They hobbled past other apartments and service hatches until they eventually found themself at the opposite end of the long, curving channel. The elevator doors were shut, and showed no signs of budging. They had beside them a call box with two buttons: one with an arrow pointing up, the other an arrow pointing down. The data collector tapped a foot impatiently, and after a minute of loitering decided to give one of the buttons a try. They pressed the down arrow, but it gave no indication of activation. It simply depressed, leaving the collector only to ponder on its effectiveness. They tried the up arrow, to similar results.
Inconclusive. Well, wasn’t planning on that working anyways. I just need to make sure that when the beetle gets here, whenever that is, I’m ready to go. Not sure how long the door will be open, so when it does I need to slip in between-
The elevator doors opened. The collector could see between the gap in the doors a pale green, cabinet-sized beetle carrying a large container, whose contents audibly sloshed inside. It lumbered deliberately into the hallway, pushing the collector up against the wall. Nearly pinned, the collector grabbed the straps of the beetle’s cargo and pulled themself onto its carapace. As they tugged at the cargo straps, the beetle’s payload lurched to one side of its shell. They sidestepped across its back between the leaning cargo and wall, making their way to the elevator doors. As the doors began to close behind the backend of the delivery beet, the collector leaped forward. The doors halted and the data collector grinned impishly.
As they passed through the gap between the doors, their smile faded in an instant. Before them was not a welcoming elevator heading for the ground floor of the Plant, but instead an empty elevator shaft. Their eyes peered down the shaft for only an instant. The low-lit channel was a seemingly bottomless pit, and dozens of stories down a handful of delivery beets scaled its walls. The collector began tumbling through open air when they instinctively whipped back around. They shot an arm toward the set of doors, grabbing onto the edge of one just barely. It had begun closing, but as it threatened to ensnare their fingers the collector stuck their leg into the gap. The shift in momentum caused them to fall onto their knee. It hit the hardwood of the hallway floor, sending a jolt of intense pain through their leg. The doors shuddered, and opened once more.
The collector breathed heavily and gripped the sliding door tightly. Their white knuckle death grip on it only loosened when the door threatened to retreat into its recess in the wall. Though their legs were still shaky, the collector tensed and pulled themself up off of their knee. Searing pain threatened to make the leg give way, but adrenaline helped them push through it. They launched themself forward, reaching for any lifeline to replace the now retreating door. Their grip found one of the delivery beet’s cargo straps. They pulled hard, extricating themself from the chasm and into the hall. As they nearly got their footing, the strap snapped, causing them to tumble backwards towards the open elevator doors.
As their back passed through the threshold of the doors, they reached for any remaining handhold. They found the box with the elevator call buttons, whose solid, sharp edge gave some grip for the collector. With one last heave, they gritted their teeth and pulled themself forward. Their body passed back into the hallway, completely clearing the elevator doors who, now unimpeded, slid shut. As they did so, the collector leaned back into the set of doors. Their lungs burned, knee throbbed with pain, and stars dotted their vision.
After catching their breath for a few seconds, they pulled themself to their feet once more with support from the call box. With some difficulty, they rose to almost their full height when the box cracked. It popped off the wall and fell to the ground, causing the collector to tumble to one side. Stomach lurching, their weakened body swung sideways. Their head hit the wall, causing their vision to focus to a pinpoint, and then fade to nothingness.
43 Hours Remaining
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The bed.
Wait, no…
The door?
The collector’s eyes focused and adjusted to the floor of the hallway. They picked up their head quickly, causing the hall to spin wildly. The lights and service hatches trailed in their vision like so many kaleidoscopic fragments. They closed their eyes and laid back down, dulling the swaying world around them. Their face rested in a lukewarm wetness, of which they now realized covered themself and pooled on the ground beneath them.
Wha… Blood?
This isn’t blood. It’s sticky like blood, but…
Their eyes opened to two thin slits, just enough to suss out the mystery substance. Bits of wood littered a puddle of white, bubbly liquid, whose creaminess was beginning to solidify and cake to the floor.
Oh. Beetle milkshakes. What is beetle milk, anyways? I don’t think you can milk a beet.
Wait, what happened with the elevator?
The collector eased themself up more slowly this time. As they turned toward the set of elevator doors their head throbbed on one side. The doors were closed, but the call box with two buttons was no longer beside them. Instead, it lay on the floor next to the collector. They leaned over to inspect it. Other than some cracks alongside the box’s edges it looked the same as before, save for a now apparent issue with its design: the back of the box was a single, plain piece of wood lacking any sort of inputs or outputs.
How does it connect to the elevator? If there aren’t any cables then how…?
I guess it could be wireless. But there are way too many levels in the Plant. There’s no way they would have the whole system be wireless at this point.
The collector began to stand, but a sickening ache ran through their leg. They sat back down abruptly as echoes of the injury rang in their kneecap like the waning din of a tolling bell.
Right… Dammit. I’ll have to stabilize it when I get back to the room. Take it slow, nice and easy.
Slowly, methodically, they rose to their feet. Leaning against the wall, they caught their breath and tested the strength of the functioning leg.
Still weak, but it’ll do. Less than a hundred feet and I’ll be home.
No, not home. But it’s safe…
For now.
They began limping their way down the channel in the cypress. The hallway lights, while normally somewhat dim, were searing in the eyes of the collector. Each one that passed felt like a torch threatening to burn them, but after a while their eyes adjusted to the lighting. A swath of beetle milk adorned the left-hand wall of the hallway. Its milky froth painted a stuttered, foot-wide brush stroke at chest height the whole way, and small puddles dotted the floor beneath it. Furthermore, the middle of the floor was dotted with splotches and dotted lines of milk heading down the hall.
Beetle tracks. Looks like it came and went. Does that mean my delivery…?
The collector rounded the last stretch of the bend. Before they were even in sight of their door, they heard a peculiar, repeating squelching noise. Their curiosity was answered almost immediately as they reached their doorway. The entryway was littered with dripping bags of beet milk and snaking cargo straps. One bag was caught in the door, which opened and closed repeatedly on it. This caused the bag to squirt more milk on the floor, adding more and more to the substantial puddle at the collector’s doorstep.
Gross, it smells so sickly sweet. Maybe most of it got outside…
They reached the puddle and stepped clumsily over it and through their front door. They slid the crushed milk bag into the hall, and the door gratefully shut in response. The light above the door was red now with the word OVERDUE, but a few seconds later it dimmed once more. The data collector turned around to scan the room for anymore signs of debris.
Their floor was covered in dozens of milk shake bags spilling out of a broken shipping box, some intact and bulbous and others half empty. The majority of the bags had spilled onto the collectors bed, which was now completely soaked in the slush. A puddle of sickly sweet cream pooled in the middle of the bed, dripped off the side, and trickled onto the floor. The apartment was flooded with a thin layer of milkshake, the thinnest parts of which began caking to the wood. The thickest pools of milk just coagulated strangely.
The collector could only stare in horror at the mess before them. As the breadth of smells began seeping into their nostrils, their guts gurgled upsettingly. With such a concentration of various odors came a hint at the substance’s true nature. Sweet, sickly spoilage cut through mustier undertones, earthy and organic in nature. The collector’s eyes welled up, and as they blinked the tears away they began seeing the scene for its mustiness rather than the sugary stickiness. They closed their eyes and breathed, tasting the air filled with that strangely familiar smell. The room began taking shape in their mind’s eye, but the slushy milk drippings were replaced instead with-
Blood.
The hallway, door, bed, floor, and walls of their room were covered in blood, but not human blood. In their data collecting the collector had learned about the blood of insects and other arthropods, which could sometimes be yellow, green, transparent, or even milky white.
These milkshakes are beetle blood. This room is filled with… This smell…
The collector opened their eyes and began to dry heave, until finally their nausea welled forth a thick stream of vomit. After spitting up their previous ration into the mess, the collector stumbled to their desk chair. They retrieved a bottle of water from a desk drawer and proceeded to wash their mouth out.
Once they had taken a few seconds of quiet reflection, they turned to their computer and opened their bathroom app. It was inundated with various notifications warning them of overage fees and disciplinary actions. They closed these out and paid their now massive bathroom bill. They then panned over to the miscellaneous services pane of their employee portal, their face stony as though far away from the horrific scene around them. Near the bottom of the list was a series of cleaning packages. They selected the Deluxe Edition and confirmed their order. Once the payments were made, the collector reviewed their billing history over the past few days. They sighed, placed their head upon their desk, and cried silent tears to themself whilst waiting for the cleaning crew to arrive.
36 Hours Remaining
Pale blue flickering light filled the darkened apartment once more. A huddled figure sat at the desk like a rime-covered corpse at twilight, slack jawed. Their eyes were reddened and ringed with deep, dark circles. A near lifeless hand clicked the mouse periodically, and slowly scrolled its wheel to scan the pages of the encyclopedia. Every few minutes, the hand would shift the mouse to open another window and select the submission box for data entry. The figure’s mouth shut slowly and smacked their lips to wet their dried out maw with their stale tongue. Their shaky hands floated over the keyboard, lowered tentatively like a descending moon at night’s end, and began typing letter by letter the proposed entry. As they pressed Enter, their slow breathing halted, and their muscles ceased to move whatsoever. Then, the results screen appeared with the word Correct.
Repeat.
…
…
…
The collector’s leg was now strapped with a splint along with a cooling pack, formerly the refrigeration pack for the shipment of beetle milk. When they had been waiting for the cleaning crew to arrive hours before, they cleaned up whatever belongings they wanted to keep safe from the drones. While the Deluxe Package cleaning was comprehensive enough to cover a mess of this magnitude, it had its downsides. The work was still done by a series of specialized drones, and as such made communication with the workers a non-factor. The automated crew aimed to clean the whole apartment to certain specifications, meaning anything left out would be discarded.
So the collector had to scour the apartment for anything of use and put it away for safekeeping. They had collected the straps from the cargo beet and some pieces of wood from its crate, the combination of which would later become their splint. Furthermore, their retrieval of crate pieces led them near the heaping pile of milk bags, which had inexplicably stayed cooler than the others strewn about the apartment. They had surreptitiously stuck an arm into the pile to investigate, and to their surprise found a refrigeration pack still holding a considerable chill.
They had hobbled over to the chair to prepare the splint when their foot bumped into something hard and sharp, caused them to wince in pain. They shifted aside some milk bags with their good leg revealing the sharp, metal ornamentation that once wrapped around a bottle of Tiger Energy. They debated for a moment whether to keep it or not, shrugged, and stuck it in their footlocker. An hour later the cleaning crew arrived and went to town on the sopping mess that was the collector’s apartment. After a considerable amount of sopping up, vacuuming, scrubbing, and debris collection, the cleaning insects packed up and went, leaving the apartment cleaner and emptier than before. The most noticeable difference in the room from its pre-spill state was the lack of a mattress. The milk had seeped into it too much, making it near impossible to clean.
Thus, the bed frame now held nothing. This change had prompted the collector to price out a new mattress, but the numbers caused them to have second thoughts. They figured, Why not just run the clock out? You haven’t been sleeping much anyways. Maybe if you catch up you can start a payment plan on a new mattress. So five hours and some energy drinks later, the collector sat in the darkness, worked wordlessly, and regretted a number of their decisions.
Correct.
…
…
…
They reached over from their chair and retrieved a ration from the footlocker. They activated its heating element proceeded onto the next entry.
Beetle.
Wait, I know this one…
You’re the one from before. Reddish-brown, crappy little beetle. Why are they giving me you again? Dammit!
Still without skip vouchers, they contemplated their short list of options in dealing with the beetle. The ration was ready, so they opened it while thinking up a plan of attack. They mindlessly took a couple of bites until the smell of the ration had finally seeped its way into their nostrils. It smelled familiar, so much so that on the fourth bite the collector’s eyes widened and they dropped their utensil. The ration was an ambrosia one: thick, creamy, and musty. The collector spit the mouthful into their trash can and took a hearty swig from a bottle of Tiger Energy. Its fizzing, acerbic tanginess cut through the sickly sweet taste. They slammed down the bottle and took deep breaths, as their head tingled with the strange shininess and excitement brought on by the drink. They slid the ration into the trash in disgust, but a couple of pieces missed the bin and rolled onto the floor. They leaned over to pick up the brownish, spongy bits reminiscent of-
The collector froze. They rolled the pieces between their fingers, making them slide and squeak between their fingertips.
Mushroom? Close, some sort of fungus. But what is so familiar about that…?
Their eyes widened once more. They turned to their computer and hurriedly began typing. They navigated to their bookmarks and found the section for bark beetles. Sandwiched between staggeringly long lists and a myriad of folders was one specific folder titled Ambrosia beetles. They opened the folder and selected the beetle in question. It was reddish-brown, hand-sized bark beetle named Euwallacea fornicatus, or the Tea Shot Hole Borer. It was the very same bark beetle waiting to be identified by the collector. They read on about the specimen that had avoided their grasp for the past few days:
The Euwallacea is a kind of ambrosia beetle, a grouping named as such for sharing a peculiar trait. Ambrosia beetles carry fungal spores as they burrow channels into the wood of trees. The spores grow into an ambrosia fungus, symbiotic fungi farmed by the ambrosia beetles.
The collector glanced at their trash can once more in disgust, then continued.
Euwallacea fornicatus is even more unique than other ambrosia beetles. A male of the species is born blind and wingless. It is a clone of its mother, has no father, and never meets either. They have dozens of sisters who come by periodically and mate with the male before scuttling off to their own activities. But the male ambrosia beetle doesn’t leave. It lives its life in a channel in the tree, never seeing the outside even once.
The collector processed this as best they could, their tired brain connecting the wires of half-buried thoughts piled in their sleepless mind.
Not the sky, the sun, the breeze, the rivers or the bay. The bark beetle is forever condemned to its four walls.
They sat with this information for a long while. The pattering of raindrops against the trunk of the Plant whispered in the darkness, and thunder in the distance heralded the coming of nameless, shining monsters throughout the sky and its cloud-covered expanse. The data collector’s expression was deadened, until something out of the corner of their eye caught their attention. Their view turned to the window above their desk, and their eyes narrowed. The window was filled with a darkened, rainy sky and large trees dotted with lights as before, but one small detail gave the collector pause. They stood up from their chair and leaned over the glaring computer screen until their nose was almost touching the glass of the window. One of the lights in the distance, one of many dotting the bark of the Kaleidoscope, was obscured by a darkened dot.
Maybe a bug or machinery blocking it? Sure. But the angle…
They tilted their head from side to side, their eyes glued to the black square. They leaned back. The raindrops passing by the window were somehow behind the spot. It blocked the single speck of space entirely.
So it’s a smudge on the window? A perfectly square smudge.
Unless…
They raised a hand slowly to the window, made a fist with it, and gave the window a couple solid knocks. Their knuckles bounced off of its glass interior, but when they looked for the spot once more it was gone.
Strange. I could’ve sworn there-
The spot appeared once more, then disappeared. It flickered under the glass periodically.
What is that? It looks like a dead pixel.
It was in that moment that it all came together for the data collector: the stream of obscure beetles, the useless call box, the extended wait for time off, the tantalizing wage multipliers, the lack of any socialization, the access to a regulated mate, and, now, a tele-screen acting as a window. This screen had promised to give the collector a view of the outside world, as though to suggest they were a part of that world. They were instead given a video stream of a curated version of the world, a lie. The collector belonged now to that world. Specifically, much like the ambrosia beetle, they were meant only for this burrow in the Plant. Aside from being supremely successful in a system built to make them fail, their fate would be between these four walls. So, the collector did what any reasonable person in their position would do.
They stepped back, shakily lifted their chair, raised it over their head, and clumsily chucked it at the window screen. It cracked the glass slightly and fell on their desk, knocking over their monitor and various desktop accessories before tumbling onto the ground. They picked it up and threw it again. And again. And again. They continued to throw the chair until it shattered to splinters, the pieces scattering across the desk and floor.
The collector yelled to nobody, coughed hoarsely in their dimly lit studio, and cried heavy tears to a world unaware or uncaring about their plight. They limped hurriedly to the footlocker, looking for any other heavy object to cause some damage. They found at the top of their collected scrap pile the metal filigree of the bottle of Tiger Energy. Its sharp corners and surprising heft made it the likeliest candidate, so the collector immediately chucked it at the screen. Whether it was truly meant to break the window screen or just enough to finish the job of the chair is unclear, but the scrap metal rocketed toward the screen and shattered its glass. Its sharp points stuck into the screen’s glass, causing its pixels to drain their crystalline fluid down the wall in a messy rainbow of shimmering destruction.
The collector heaved tired, long breaths, then retrieved the scrap from the wall with a hearty tug and plowed it into the screen once more. And again. And again, until there was a hole straight through the screen The tech behind it was made of harder wood and resin, but was thin and gave way quickly to the collector’s onslaught. Behind that was the softer wood of the tree itself, which splintered out from the hole in the false window. As the collector made a significant dent in the wood, they stopped to consider their plan of attack.
This isn’t working! I don’t think this way will open to the outside.
I mean, it’s a fake window, right?
The knot in the wall. The window and desk. The bed. The door.
The door. They knew the door wasn’t a way out, or at least not THE way out. Going down that elevator would be too risky, and likely patrolled by service beets and drones.
The window and desk. Scratch that, the screen and desk. That way’s a no go, they lied to me about the window.
That leaves the bed and knot in the wall.
I suppose it could be either way. I could move the bed out of the way and start there.
But the knot in the wall…
The collector took a swig of Tiger Energy and pondered his options for a moment. The sharp, twinkling rush filled his mind and cut through some of the haze of exhaustion until-
THAT’S IT!
The knot in the wall. If they lied about my screen, maybe they lied about the apartment next door. What if they wanted me to not know the direction out, so they put fake doors in the hall? That would mean that either wall could be a candidate, but the knot in the wall is naturally occurring. Knots are just branches as you see them in the trunk of the tree, and since branches radiate straight out from the center of the tree that means this knot is pointing the way out!
The collector picked up the piece of scrap metal and began digging at the knot in the wall. It proved much more difficult to carve through, its wood being denser and tougher than the rest of the tree. They hacked away at it for a few minutes until their hands ached. After breaking to cool their hands on the cooling pack, they reexamined their strategy.
The knot is way too hard, but that’s definitely the way out. I can dig beneath it or next to it. That should be easier.
BUT that might place me next to or below a branch. I don’t know much about where I’ll end up, but I do know a few things. I want to be on top of the branch since I don’t know what’s beneath it. There’s a good chance there’s nothing for a few stories. I saw in the elevator that the drop from up here is real, and unless a walkway, bridge, or balcony is below me I can’t trust anything but the branch. And if is raining I’ll have to be ready for slick surfaces. First thing’s first: in order to get on the branch I’ll need to carve above it.
They limped over to their desk and pushed their computer to the ground. Parts shattered and broke, but the collector only kicked them out of the way. They began shifting the heavy wooden desk bit by bit over to the other wall. Once it was in place, they climbed up on top of it with their metal scrap in hand.
I hope this works. If it doesn’t, I’ll have nothing left. But if it does…
They felt unable to think of the possibilities ahead, so instead they focused on the task at hand. Another shift on the clock chipping away, but this time not at a pile of data. They began carving chunks out of the softer wood above the knot in the wall.
0 Hours Remaining
The collector worked relentlessly at the hole in the wall, with only the occasional breaks for sleep, food, or energy drinks. Their hands were bruised and bloodied, but the hole before them was much deeper than before. As they stuck the gnarled scrap metal into the hollow and scraped away at its back wall and sides, chunks of wood pulp filled the empty space. They’d drag pieces out and onto the desk and floor, and repeat until they had made the space deeper or wider. Then, as they chipped once more at the back wall of the hollow, they felt the tip of their makeshift chisel pierce through. The collector withdrew their arm and peered into the tunnel. The hollow was a couple feet across and some more deep, and in the middle of the back wall was now a small hole which let through a blinding light. It lit the face of the collector, who looked more haggard than ever.
Lamplight, maybe? Guess I’ll have to find out for myself. Almost there…
Revitalized by the promise of escape, the collector powered away at the walls of hollow until, finally, the hole was complete. They peered out the widened hole at what lay beyond and were surprised by what they saw: sunlight.
Why would they do that to me? I’m grateful for being safe from rain, but… It seems like such an unneeded lie. I don’t understand. Do they hate me? Do they want me to suffer? To feel safe with them? Comfortable? Well, now they don’t have the choice. The only choice is… mine.
That somehow made things harder for the collector. To be beholden to no-one but oneself could be freeing, but it also made you responsible for your own success, your survival. Could they make it outside these walls, when the only life they could readily remember was within them?
Their only answer now was in their actions. The collector eased themself off the desk and gathered whatever supplies they could scrounge up. After collecting them into a pile, they took off their shirt, made it into a makeshift sack, and filled it with the supplies. The data collector looked one last time to the door and bed, stepped up onto the desk, and crawled out the channel above the knot in the wall.
——————–
Bloodied hands reached out from the hole in the side of the massive cypress tree. They clawed at the bark along the branch that extended from its trunk, grasping blindly for any handholds. As their fingers wormed into the divets between the chunks of bark, the hands tensed and shuddered. They gripped the rough wood, dragging along with them a set of tired arms and the rest of their body. As they reached farther along the branch, searching for the next handhold, they found a gap and pulled once again. Painful grunting came from the channel in the trunk of the tree. Bit by bit the hands dragged out their owner: a gasping, half-naked figure.
The figure’s legs passed through the channel, they kicked forward and launched themself onto the branch of the tree. Its rough bark cut at their papery skin, but they crawled through the pain, heaving shuddered breaths in the light of day. The haggard figure was filthy, malnourished, and covered in cuts and bruises. They wore only a pair of canvas pants, with one leg rolled up above a splinted leg. To their simple belt was tied a piecemeal satchel fashioned from a ripped up shirt, filled various junk and rations. The figure rolled onto their back, careful not to twist their splinted leg, and eased their breathing into a slow, deep rhythm. After a few seconds of calm, they opened their bloodshot eyes.
Above them were hundreds of cypress boughs dotted with walkways, bridges, buildings, and wires. The open air between the branches was filled with the buzzing traffic of so many bug riders and drones zipping along designated airspace thoroughfares. Between the mass of structures and commuters, far beyond even the branches of the canopy, the figure could see the open sky. It was crisp blue and cloudless, as though rainstorms were only an old wives’ tale meant to keep children in at night.
The figure sat up with some difficulty, and looked at the rest of their surroundings. They were sitting on a 4-foot wide branch, dozens of stories up the side of a skyscraper-sized cypress tree. Hundreds of feet away were three other similarly sized trees, unique in ornamentation and style. The figure craned their head over the edge of the branch carefully, as a gust caused it to sway slightly in the breeze. Hundreds of feet below was a thriving metropolis comprised of seemingly millions of people filling its streets, houses, and towers. Even more staggering was the multitude of bugs working alongside them, numbering in the tens of millions. The city center was on the edge of a huge lake dotted with ships, and in every direction past the city and lake were thousands of other trees similar in size to the four comprising the city center.
The figure remembered this world in which they grew up, but somehow in this moment it felt so alien to them. Seeing the outside again was like waking up from a long, troubling dream. Tears dripped down their gaunt face. The figure rose shakily to their feet and took in the world around them. Massive, wild, and free of the channel’s constraints once touted as safety measures, this world was both harrowing and wonderful. They were, for better or worse, home. ~