A measure of moonlight touched my bedsheets, reflecting off of the white and wooly material. Two flavors of white intermingled, warm and cold. My cat lay with her arm outstretched, paw touching the curtains which had been pulled to the side. Even in sleep, her tired eyes occasionally drooped open.

My thoughts kept returning to the cards. The mystery of where they had come from and the mystery of how I should respond. I turned ideas around in my head, but none of them seemed likely.

It was nonsense. The cards meant nothing. Why couldn't I shut down and go to sleep?

Green eyes yawned open and met mine. I returned the cat's gaze with a nod of acknowledgment.

Yes, I'm still awake. It's pathetic, I'm aware.

She half-yawned, half-meowed, then rose to her feet and arched her back in an exaggerated stretch. When she was done, she looked at me expectantly.

Yeah, yeah, message received.

I reached for my phone and used it to switch on the lights. They brightened to a dim blue.

If I couldn't sleep, I would at least do something productive.

I often found myself trapped in existential-like guilt. If my time on Earth was finite, then I wanted to make the most of it. While others set out to maximize fun, or comfort, or sex, my modus operandi was to maximize-

My thoughts skipped a beat and all motor functions paused. I stood hovered over a desktop in the corner of my bedroom. A finger dangled over the left-mouse button, poised to open a project file labeled JenguRPG.proj.

My finger physically itched, eager to press down on the mouse button.

And-

And my modus operandi was to maximize productivity.

I shoved past the computer chair and delicately grabbed the mysterious card from the bedside table, doing my best not to bend it. Next to the number 30 was text that read 'Do nothing productive for 10 hours.'

Another perfect personality match.

Whoever had printed these cards had an excellent read on Blaine and me.

That's when the second shoe dropped. There was now a slash through the text that read ‘20- Go 20 hours without using a computer.'

My next action might have been to grill Blaine and Brad to find out who had discretely added the mark, but a keen eye told me that neither of them could have done it. The black line was perfectly straight, and the ink wasn't from a pen or marker. Everything about it was too clean. Precise. As if the slash had been printed on the card all along.

Uncomfortable ideas were coming back into my head. Ideas that I had easily rejected because they were too improbable. I wanted them to stay rejected, and the quickest way to test my theory was a two-minute drive down the road.

I powered down the computer and snatched the car keys from the edge of my desk. My brain began constructing possible outcomes for what I was about to do.

It didn't take long to realize that I didn't have it in me; not without backup.

I deposited the keys on my desk and began to contemplate about timing.

How soon will one of my friends be available to come with me? 10 AM? Noon?

I would always be the first one awake, regardless of how late I stayed up. This query was a waste of time. I switched tacks.

If Blaine and I are meant to be competing, what can I do right now that won't be possible tomorrow? Also, if I do decide to... to try and "earn more points" than Blaine, how long do I have?

I had at least 20 hours, based on what our cards said. Because we were given the cards at midnight, that would give us each until at least 8 PM the following day. To prevent procrastination and inefficient planning, I set 8 PM as our deadline.

Now, what did Blaine's card say again?

I used the light of my cell-phone screen to navigate our unlit apartment. Blaine was asleep on the couch, shirtless and wrapped in my grandmother's quilt. I shone the light across the crude wooden floor and found the blue-bordered card tucked under his cell-phone.

I gingerly retrieved it, trying my hardest not to disturb him from his slumber.

The first line said to 'Tell an original joke and get laughs.'

My face went slack as I realized the silliness of what I was doing. If this did turn out to be an elaborate prank, and I bought into it, then there would be consequences. For one thing, I would lose credibility amongst my peers.

Or would I? A prank of this caliber required a lot of planning. Would the loss of credibility be discounted?

If this doesn't turn out to be a prank, there are things I will have wished I'd done while everyone was sleeping.

With renewed resolve, I compiled a text message for Brad.

Me: You Laugh, You Lose - Blaine Edition. If you don't laugh at anything Blaine says tomorrow, I'll give you $20. I'm serious. Also, you can't tell Blaine

The second line of Blaine's card said to 'Go 20 hours without using a phone.'

I used an app on my phone to schedule text messages to be sent to Blaine at a rate of once per hour, starting at 6 AM. The content of the texts didn't matter, so I wrote the first words that popped into my head. So long as he opened at least one of my texts, he would fail the challenge.

Having begun my descent into madness, I made my way to the kitchen. The third line of Blaine's card said to 'Drink a 6 pack of beer.' There were nine beers in the back of the fridge. I removed them and placed them in the oven.

In the four months that Brad and I had rented this apartment, we had used the oven maybe twice. It was for this reason that our fridge didn't contain any eggs, which was relevant to a line that appeared on both of our cards: 'TB- Break the most chicken eggs.'

My stomach ached, looking at the contents of the fridge. I cursed myself for the temptation and shut the refrigerator door. I was already at my caloric limit for the day.

There were no practical methods for dealing with the fourth or fifth lines on Blaine's card, so I ignored them for now.

I had done everything that I could.

When I returned to the bedroom, my frustration caught up with me. I wanted badly to boot my computer and work on the RPG, or the board game, or resume my art lessons.

But I couldn't. Why? Because a card said so.

A flash of worry caused me to reach for the yellow card on my desk.

Damnit, I was a fool. It's not fair. I should at least be allowed to play the game.

To my relief, the line about productivity hadn't been crossed out by what I had just done around the apartment.

It made me wonder what did count as 'being productive'. What could I get away with?

Unwilling to take any more chances, I turned out the lights and forced myself to sleep. It took a while - there were too many thoughts and quandaries to process. In the end, it was the mental exhaustion that put me down.

♦

An intrusive light woke me the next morning. The curtains were open, sending rays of sunshine directly into my eyes, softly burning them even when closed. My cat was perched on the other pillow, scrutinizing me closely, her tail flitting back and forth.

I forced myself to get up. However tired I was on a given morning, I preferred to get on with my day - most days - and especially today. Rolling my neck, I wandered into the living room, where I found Brad sitting next to a sleeping Blaine.

Blaine was stretched across the entire length of the couch. Even in his sleep, he was picturesque - slight grin, eyebrows raised, resting on his side with his hand on his hip. Inviting the random passerby to come and lie with him

Brad was on the floor, back against the couch, laptop tucked between his chest and legs. His hand traced a stylus across the laptop screen, adding pixels to a goblin’s face.

Brad’s role in our game development team was to produce art. He did decent work when he was motivated to, but I hadn't seen anything from him in weeks.

“You’re up early. And you’re actually working on the game?” I commented.

“Yeah, man! I don’t know why, but I feel a spark today!” he smiled, “Let me know what I need to draw next. The forest monsters are nearly finished!”

I swayed with fatigue, made my way to the kitchen, and cracked a vanilla Coke. Something was up. First the cards, and now a revitalized Brad. Perhaps he was the one scheming? It was a possible connection to consider.

Sore legs took me back into my bedroom, where I retrieved my phone to see if Addy had called or texted. Three notifications were waiting for me.

Message delivered: Lasagna cannon

Message delivered: Nightmare queso

Message delivered: Presidential churro

Nothing from Addy. That was unusual.

I tabled the thought, grabbed my hygiene tote from off of my dresser, and made my way to the shower.

Brad showered next, and then Blaine. I waited for them in the living room, watching an anime about overly sexualized Norse goddesses. Blaine had recommended it, and I had nothing better to do; I couldn't do any of the activities I was itching for.

Blaine came out of the shower laughing, and asked, "Hey, Alec. What's this about 'cursed quesadillas,' and should I be worried?"

Instead of providing insight, I dove to the other side of the couch to grab Blaine's card off of a side table. A perfectly formed line now existed across the twenty point challenge. I chided my self for not having the card in hand at the critical time. Doing so would have provided the experimental result I was looking for.

Blaine moved across the wooden tiles, water droplets falling from inside of his towel. Realizing that it was my last chance to do so, I cupped my hands around the card and attempted to crumple it into a ball. The plastic material held, barely bending under the immense pressure.

Blaine snatched the card from my grasp and looked at it intensely, then gave me a look.

"Did you-,"

"No," I stated. There was no use in lying.

"Did Brad?"

"Didn't see him do it. But maybe."

"What does this mean?"

"I haven't figured that out yet. But I have an idea?"

"And?"

"Get dressed. I'll get my keys."

Blaine gave me a stern look, nodding slowly.

♠

My 'plan' was admittedly bad. It was clumsy. I-

I couldn't do it.

I turned to face my friends, wearing an expression of defeat.

Blaine made a fist and Brad waved his hands. Egging me on. It was too late to turn back. They had put on clothes, we had driven all the way here, and they would murder me if I tried to explain the principle of sunk costs.

Too late.

Nervous, I turned back around, cleared my throat, and said, “Hey. Hey, fuck you.”

The Walmart employee turned on his heels, eyed me up and down, and said, “No, fuck you. What the fuck is your problem, man?”

I peeked at my card, which was perched in the front pocket of my t-shirt. Nothing had changed yet. Damn.

If I wanted my result, I had to keep going.

“I’m looking right at my problem... Bitch,” I replied, doing my best to sound serious. Blaine and Brad stood halfway down the aisle, pretending to shop for frozen pizzas.

The employee – waking from his morning daze – took a step toward me and growled, “Get the fuck out of my store, or I’m calling my supervisor.”

I began to falter. This really wasn't my area of expertise. If anything, this was Addy territory. Still, I needed him to raise his voice.

Rather begrudgingly, I said, “Wow. Someone’s a pussy.”

The employee cracked and advanced towards me, his too-large shoes flopping around with each step, “You wanna fucking have it out right here!?”

Meanwhile, the card in my pocket was updating, black ink tracing a circle around the number ten next to ‘Be rude in public and get yelled at.' In that moment, my clean-cut rational view of the world fizzled into nothing, and I nearly forgot that there was a six-foot man stomping towards me.

His hand reached out to clutch the back of my shirt just as I turned to run. With ease, he yanked me against his chest, and an arm wrapped around my throat.

“Call me a pussy now, huh? Do you get off on fucking with people twice your size, ‘bitch?’”

Blaine and Brad were hurrying down the aisle towards me. Brad was slower because he was carrying a frozen pizza.

“Woah, what is going on here?” Blaine asked.

“Mind your own,” the employee snarled, before adding, “This prick was standing in the aisle insulting me. You didn’t hear him?”

“Not really,” Blaine lied, “Brad, take out your phone and record this.”

Brad fumbled for his phone, keeping the pizza box tucked under his arm. Before he could point it at the man and hit ‘record,' the employee released his grip and shoved me into Blaine. As I caught my balance, my hands reflexively became fists. Adrenaline was pouring into me, prompting me to fight back now that I was free. But my mind was distracted. Racing. Flubbing around and trying to process my shattered worldview.

Meanwhile, the employee was walking away from us, mumbling something about trying to put another minority on the news. My heart sank, feeling guilty for the man.

“Brad, why couldn’t you just put down the damn pizza?” Blaine bickered.

“Yeah, ok. Where was I supposed to put it?” Brad argued.

“On the floor! Dumbass.”

“And ruin a good pizza?”

“It’s frozen. You’d have to chuck it like a football to- uh…, Alec?”

I looked up from my phone, hands still shaking from the adrenaline rush and the mental numbness. Google was open in my browser, and my thumbs were quivering over the keyboard. Voice wavering, I asked, “CIA or FBI? Which one deals with internal affairs?”

“That’s the CIA,” Brad supplied.

Blaine shot Brad his best ‘what the fuck?’ glare, and said, “No it’s not. CIA is for foreign affairs only.”

“Yeah, I know,” Brad lied, “But I heard on a podcast that they deal with internal affairs just as much as the FBI does, if not more.”

“What? You don’t even listen to podcasts.”

My thumbs dialed out ‘FBI number’ and I pressed ‘Enter’. A phone number came up in big text, and I copied it to the dialing screen. I raised the phone to my ear, then began idly walking away.

“Alec, what’s up? Are you fucking calling them?” Blaine asked as him and Brad scampered to catch up.

“Yeah,” was all I said.

“Why?” Blaine demanded.

“Hold on.”

I continued to walk while pressing numbers on the phone screen to direct my call to the right department. A few moments later, the ringing tone resumed, and I put the phone back to my ear.

We walked to the back of the store. When we reached the last food aisle, I turned and threw open one of the fogged over doors. My hand offered Blaine the card in my pocket before opening a carton of eggs and crushing one in my fist.

“What the fuck?” Brad commented.

“Shit,” Blaine remarked. I looked and confirmed that his eyes were on my card. I used the hand not soaked in yolk to take it from him, phone nestled between my ear and shoulder.

And there it was. Next to the word ‘TB’, the text ‘Break the most chicken eggs’ had disappeared and had been replaced with the number one.

“FBI. Please state your name and your reason for calling,” came a voice next to my ear.

I did my best to calm my breathing and gather my thoughts before I spoke.

“I am a resident of Pennsylvania. My friends and I have found some foreign technology that we'd like to give you.”

I waited for him to ask for elaboration. But a few seconds later, my phone made a noise and the call dropped.

No.

I stopped cold, all of my muscles turning to ice. My hand gripped the phone violently before it could slip from my hand.

“Alec, why are you so tense?” one of my friends asked. The part of my mind that handled sensory inputs didn’t bother working out who had said it. It was already fully occupied with solving a different problem. Processing a different voice.

The voice that had spoken to me from directly inside of my head.