“Omar,” Suman said loudly, “watch this!” Technically, Omar had already been staring straight at Suman. Nonetheless, Suman still saw a change in Omar's demeanor, and it was then he realized that Omar likely had the attention span of a wet brick.

At arms length, he held out his smartphone with the screen facing Omar. With a snap and a sliding noise, the phone pulled apart into two halves. In between, connecting the two halves, there appeared to be some sort of hidden collapsible screen that was dark and unlit. However, as Suman continued pulling the two halves apart, Omar saw that the darkness in between was perfectly black—like nothingness—which began to look less and less like a screen, and more like a void in space.

With a lavish, “Ta Da!” Suman gestured towards the “thing” he somehow held single-handedly.

Both halves of the phone showed a collection of thumbnails, but from where Omar sat, they were all too small for him to see clearly. However, such details were unimportant compared to the gaping, two-foot-wide, black void that sat ominously between the two halves of the phone. On top of that, the whole thing—as in the two phone halves and the void—was all just one single rigid structure that Suman was casually waving about like a stick.

“It was bizarre enough,” Omar thought, “for there to be some sort of logic-defying alien artifact in my living room, but then this strange man felt the need to show it off as if he was a game show host.”

At every viewing angle, the void appeared flat to Omar. Yet, at the same time, he could sense that it had some depth to it, though he had no idea how he knew this.

“It's not a void,” he realized, “it's like a hole or a portal to nowhere!”

Suman rotated the artifact so that Omar always saw the same rectangular hole, except that it grew and shrunk based on the orientation of the two phone halves.

At its largest, when the flat of the phone faced Omar, the dark hole was the same height as the phone, but two feet wide. When the phone was edgewise, the dark hole was only as tall as the phone was thick, while it remained two feet wide.

Next, Suman moved the artifact so that one of the phone halves rotated towards Omar. As he did this, the dark hole became narrower and narrower until the phone was edgewise again. The dark hole was so small now that it would disappeared behind the thickness of the phone, along with Suman's fingertips, before reappearing again. Near the perimeter of the hole, light bent and darkened slightly in a way that made the hole's edge seem fuzzy.

Even from where he sat, examining the hole made Omar's eyes go crosswise. “What IS that?” he asked in bewilderment. He took a moment to rub his eyes before he continued staring at the artifact.

Omar leaned forward, comically so, in his seat, trying to take a closer look without getting up. He'd have jumped at the chance, literally even, to examine the artifact more closely, but the cavalier way that Suman swung the thing around disturbed Omar. It was like Suman had a loaded gun that he was waving around conversationally.

“If I got in the way of that thing,” Omar thought, “would it pass right through me, or cut me in half? Or would I fall into the hole? Even if that's one out of three, I don't like those odds.”

The physics of the extradimensional pocket space makes the first two outcomes impossible. As for the third, it's the technology used, and its safeguards, that would prevent unwanted objects from falling too deeply.

“It's a portable storage space,” Suman said, matter-of-factly. Then, with his arm, he reached inside the hole—the portable storage space—and said, “Watch this!” Suman turned to sit slightly sideways so that Omar could look straight into the hole while his arm was inside it. “Now you see it,” he said, before he turning again, “and now you don't.”

Looking at the phone edgewise, Omar saw most of Suman's forearm disappear as though he instantly became an amputee. More than that, the only way for Omar to see the rest of Suman's arm was to basically look into the hole from Suman's perspective. At all other viewpoints, all he saw was the same hole as before, but without the arm.

“It's like a pocket dimension, completely separate from the normal space around us, except that it's only accessible with this cellphone.”

Omar began to think about the possible uses for this. “I wonder what would happen if I opened that underwater?” he thought to himself just as Suman started to pull his arm back out again. “I could just steal stuff and then say, ‘Officer, all I have is this phone,’ ” he thought. “Wait. If I lock the phone, does that also lock the extradimensional storage space?”

When Suman pulled his arm out, he was holding the end of a blue rod. It was wooden, Omar realized, and it was rather long since Suman kept pulling more out. Suddenly he yanked the wooden rod so that it slid out of the hole. Omar's mind raced, trying to process this surreal experience.

“Pay attention, Omar,” he told himself while struggling. But he just had so many questions. “Why does this guy even have this thing in the first place? What does he use it for?”

Finally, at the other end of the rod, straw bristles began to emerge from the alien artifact. Once it was free from the hole, Suman held onto it vertically, letting it fall so that the bristles hit the floor with a scritching thud. Recognition finally dawned on Omar, but it left him dumbfounded at the juxtaposition of domestic banality and science-fiction.

“That's a broom!” he said, almost accusingly. Omar's mind focused on the one question that truly mattered, and so he asked, “Why are you carrying around a broom in your extradimensional pocket space thing?”

Suman, who had a smug grin the entire time he'd been showing off his portable storage space, now appeared shocked that Omar would respond in anyway other than overwhelming amazement. He also didn't miss Omar's accusing tone. “I'm not—I don't carry around a broom,” he responded, somewhat defensively. Omar silently pointed at Suman's broom. “I mean, I just put that in there for this demonstration! Okay, fine. You know what … ,” he added loudly and clearly flustered.

The light of attentiveness that Suman had begun to recognize in Omar, winked out of existence. For a moment, he just stared at Omar in disbelief.

Meanwhile, Omar was busy thinking about more important things. “I wonder what would happen if I put a dog or a cat in there?”

“You know what, Omar?” he said again, despite knowing full well that he was basically talking to himself. “This is ridiculous! I haven't even gotten to the part about how we travel through time.”

Omar nodded while his subconsciousness went on red alert. “Excuse me. Could you say that again?”

Suman had had enough.

He angrily tossed the broom back through the hole, business end first, like it had just insulted his mother, and quickly pulled out a broadsword that was long enough that he needed to stretch both his arms to remove. Suman brought the flat of the blade down so that the tip pointed inches away from Omar's face, and then waited for the light to return.

It was only after a full second that Omar finally flinched back with his pathetically delayed reaction, and squealed, “Eeyaah!“

With a smug grin, and in a very obvious imitation of Jack Nicholson's “Here's Johnny!” Suman said, “Do I have your attention NOW!?”

⁂

Omar, who was halfway into a defensive fetal position on the couch, nodded emphatically. “Yes sir,” he said respectfully to the crazy person that uses a super high-tech device to do dumb things. “You have my full attention!”

Suman swiftly jabbed his sword into the hole, basically tossing it inside, and it “fell” sideways into the portable pocket space. “You want to know what's really funny about this?”

Omar nodded, then shook his head for a moment before settling on a silent and sheepish noncommittal shrug.

“Oh, calm down you big baby!” Suman said dismissively and a tad reproachfully. “It's gone. See?”

Omar began to relax from his defensive posture but flinched when Suman's phone snapped shut of its own accord. He coughed and adjusted himself in an attempt to regain some of his lost dignity. As there wasn't much to regain, Omar was ready by the time he began clearing his throat to speak. Omar knew what he had to do, and began shifting into that mindset. “Ah—uhm, yes. As you were saying, about the funny bit?” Omar's voice was still slightly shaky, but it was clear that he wanted to move on and forget what just happened.

With a manic grin, Suman responded with a mildly enthusiastic, “That's not even the weird part!”

“Holy hell,” he thought to himself, while trying to look like he was giving Suman his full attention. However, at the same time, he also couldn't help himself as he tried to make furtive glances at the front door.

Things were already weird for Omar, and dangerous, or so he thought. If this were any other situation, he would have long since asked Suman to leave, and then subsequently, made a run for it himself. This was, Omar thought, the surest and safest way get rid of unwanted guests in emergency situations. In Omar's experience, another's compliance was not a guaranteed thing, and so he naturally avoids relying upon that in these sorts of situations. Of course, doing this would have many obvious risks, such as having his stuff stolen, or letting too many bugs into his apartment. He hated when that happens.

This is why he preferred talking to people remotely, over the phone or online. In those situations, he always had to option to either log off, disconnect, hang-up, or in the case of a burner phone, smash it to bits.

⁂

Suman enjoyed that far more than he knew he should have, but now Omar looked like he was about to run out the door of his own apartment. Even now, Suman didn't regret using a sword for his his little demonstration, at least not as much as he regretted using the broom. What he did regret was his inadvertent use of enhanced strength and reflexes. He knew he could have made his point, just as effectively, without the use of superhuman speed and control, and as much as he would like to deny it, that was definitely what he did, according to his HUD. “It's not much, but I know I definitely had more QP and TEP than that. Geez, I really need to apologize and make it up to him somehow.”

Both “QP” and “TEP” are consumables used in “Reality Break.” The former refers to “Quasi-matter Points” while the latter refers to “Time-Energy Points.” Others, not affiliated with the game, also use TEP as a unit of measurement.

Due to Suman's quest requirements that state, “an informed offer must be accepted, rejected, or left for later consideration,” Omar's backup plan would prove problematic. If he did happen to flee, then Suman would likely fail a quest that should have been trivial. Despite this, Suman was not thinking about his quest.

However, before he could begin apologizing, Omar spoke first, though he was stammering severely.

“S—so what's that—where—I mean, the weird pent—um p—part, sir?”

“Geez, … he's so scared out of his mind that he can barely talk,” Suman thought, guiltily, to himself.

Although it was true that Omar was scared, this wasn't the reason he was stammering.

While Suman was having his crisis of conscious, Omar was having his own internal struggle. “I know he wants me to ask, ‘So what's the weird part, sir?’ but that's not what I want to ask. Now that I remembered, I can't stop think it. But I have to follow the rules and treat him like a ‘dumb-ass crazy person.’ So, it's simple. Just ask him the fake question.”

At some point, years ago, Omar realized that his life was governed by a system of rules, and that it was all thanks to the plan he enacted in the sixth grade; a plan which he later dubbed, “behavioral deception.” He'd been so terribly emboldened by how it successfully saved him from special education, and more importantly, how it brought him into the world of computers and video games, that not only did he continue his “behavioral deception,” he also expanded its use to every other part of his life.

Over the years, through trial and error, he learned when and how he could and could not be himself. With his limited attention span, he inadvertently became increasingly reliant upon his abnormally hyperactive subconscious mind, though he'd never realized it. Eventually, malicious compliance and subterfuge began to supplant regular compliance whenever he thought he could get away with it, and when he was wrong, his bizarrely intuitive subconscious mind did its best to bail him out.

Through out his adolescence, as his mind developed, so too did his system of rules. As a result of his behavioral deception, Omar inadvertently trained himself to make use of his hyperactive subconscious mind, which ultimately allowed him to be a mostly functional adult human being. His self-imposed social isolation only applied to real-world, in-person situations, and so his development was further reinforced when he played massively multiplayer online role-playing games. Then, of course, the games themselves also had their own reward mechanisms, and so on, and so forth.

Now, according to his rules, he must be “extra respectful” to the “dumb-ass crazy person” he inadvertently allowed into his home. The irony that Omar, of all people, would call someone else a “dumb-ass crazy person,” is absolutely lost on him. Additionally, his subconscious mind has also made Omar aware of an “interesting or important detail” regarding Suman, or something related to the current conversation. On top of that, asking about it now, also most closely aligns with Omar's mild need to arbitrarily avoid being compliant.

Ultimately this means he is trying to ask two questions at the same time. He does this, not because he is or is not scared, but rather because he's too dumb and crazy for that to even matter at the moment.

If that wasn't enough, he thinks he totally nailed it.

“Listen, … man. I'm sorry I scared you like that. Can we just forget that ever happened?”

Omar nodded and said, “Yes ,sir,” before he glanced at the door again, trying and failing to do it surreptitiously.

Suman sighed, and with a quick look at his surroundings, he remembered that he was sitting in a nice chair in Omar's crappy apartment. He then says, “How about this,” before grabbing his phone again, and opening it enough to stick his hand through. Immediately, he pulls out a $50 bill from his supply of “non-chronoactive” money before putting the phone away. Seeing how wide Omar's eyes have become, Suman smiles and thinks, “This just might work.”

“If I give you fifty dollars, can we just move on—like that stuff didn't happen.” he asked.

Omar actually stops breathing for a moment. He does this, partly out of politeness, but mostly in order to resist the urge to reach out and say “gimme, gimme!” Otherwise, he remains motionless and silent for fear he might mess this up.

“Can you do that?”

Omar nods emphatically, in genuine agreement, and with a big smile. He's clearly a cheap bastard that is easily bought.

However, Suman doesn't quite realize this, and so he asks “Really?” with evident uncertainty.

Meanwhile, Omar actually hasn't stopped nodding and smiling, but he does so now to say,“Yes, sir! That's easy for me. I do that all the time. It's okay—it's good,” and he starts nodding again.

And it really was okay.

Omar has tendency to mishear things, even though this “tendency” was really just a form of “selective hearing.” He also had a bad habit, one thankfully broken long ago, of “correcting” others, rather than allowing himself to be corrected. The resulting bad experiences typically occurred after old topics were reintroduced too frequently. There was some sort of limit here—one he surmised might be due to the intellectual deficiencies of others—and exceeding this limit was akin to injecting unnecessary drama into a conversation. This gave Omar the ability to easily ignore something he misheard and then simply “move on” like it never happened, and which in turn became something more. Originally it was just a rule, then it became something of a general strategy, and after that, it was enshrined as one of his core beliefs.

This general rule was Omar's strongly held belief that, “‘moving on’ was the height of laziness,” and thus “it should be encouraged.”

On its face, this general rule might appear to encourage a carefree, “what will be, will be” attitude, but it absolutely and most certainly does not imply this. However, this distinction, which is subtle and slightly disconcerting, can be more easily understood by way of a corollary rule of his regarding empathy. That is, “To empathize lazily is apathy, not psychopathy.” In other words, according to Omar, it isn't that he is incapable of empathizing with others, but rather that most of the time, he simply “doesn't feel like it.”

That is very much the way Omar typically thinks and behaves.

Suman, being blissfully unaware of any of this, says, “Okay, then,” but with a degree of caution, and before moving to stand and pass Omar the money. In the brief instant that Suman lowers his head slightly while doing this, Omar gets up, snatches the money from his hand, puts it in his pocket, and then returns to sitting like nothing happened. Even for the combat trained Suman, Omar moves so quickly and quietly that Suman initially thinks he dropped the fifty dollar bill. However, when he looks, he sees that it isn't on the floor, but then, more importantly, he sees Omar with the expression of a satisfied house cat; one that's perfectly content with it's ill-gotten goods.

The atmosphere in the room changed so drastically that Suman has to ask, “You didn't just, like—” and gestured at his head, “make yourself actually forget about what happened? Did you?”

“No, sir. I remember.” he said earnestly, before quickly adding, “It was long, sharp, and pointy. And very close,” and then nods with an almost vocal “mm-hmmm!”

“You, uh, don't have to do the ‘sir’ thing.”

“Okay,” he said, very easily, because it really was. He removed that bit of behavior from his current act as easily as one might peel a banana.

While Omar seemed relaxed and comfortable, Suman looked like he'd just realized he was in the twilight zone, in addition to feeling awkward enough for the both of them. “And—uh—you can just act normal—If you want to, that is.”

Out of “respect” for the “dumb-ass crazy person,” who can deftly pull swords and brooms out of thin air, Omar had to play along. This meant that he had to pretend to act “normal” as part of his deceptive effort to be “extra respectful”—which was itself a deception he'd inadvertently trained himself to use so that he could continue to be his normal self.

“Okay,” he said, again, and just as easily as before, because for him, it really was.

Suman noticed another subtle shift in Omar, and while he could barely perceive it, it was more than enough to leave him thoroughly confused.

Quest Update for: Informed Decision You Got His Attention!

Description:

Wow. So that happened. Also, as it turns out, threatening to kill him and then actually bribing him had no effect on his chronoactivity levels. Maybe you should just try talking to him. That's just a suggestion and not a new quest goal.

Earned Rewards: one non-chronoactive $50 bill (reimbursement), received; bonus rewards, deferred.

Nonetheless, he pushed on for fear that he'd miss the opportunity he'd just struggled to create.

“So, … yeah. You had a question?”

“Is that where your clipboard went?” Omar asked, without delay, and while pointing vaguely at the pocket that Suman stuffed his phone into.

Earlier, Omar asked, “S—so what's that—where—I mean, the weird pent—um p—part, sir?” in his attempt to ask two questions at the same time. He thinks that this gibberish was him successfully asking the question about the clipboard, while also simultaneously asking “So what's the weird part, sir?” Smiling proudly at his demonstration of social aptitude and self-control, Omar looked earnest and very pleased with himself.

Meanwhile, in confusion, Suman was staring at his own crotch. It took him a few moments to properly interpret Omar's question, which is understandable, given how it was so urgently important to one man, and almost entirely unimportant to the other. The question itself, wasn't bad. In fact, it suggested an attention to detail that was probably an astronomical feat for someone with the attention span of a wet brick. After sighing in a very deep and very audible manner, he asked, “Really? That's what you wanted to know?”

Omar shrugged noncommittally, before nodding emphatically.

“Uhm, yeah—I mean, yes Omar,” he said generously. “I dropped it in there when you went to get a shirt.”

“You're a professional, Suman. So start acting like it,” he told himself. “Just think of him as a foreigner or an alien with his own strange habits and customs.”

Omar nodded again before saying, “Thank you.”

The response was almost angelic, and while Suman appreciated the act of politeness, it also left him with more questions than answers. He leaned forward, as if he was about to start a serious conversation, and with his elbows on his knees he buried his face in his hands in a dramatic, gravity-assisted, double facepalm. “I don't understand,” he said in exasperation, his voice slightly muffled by his hands.

“Gaslighting” is a form of psychological manipulation wherein the perpetrator, that would be Omar, makes his victim, the very confused Suman, question his own sanity. This was a masterful example of gaslighting that made use of non-verbal social cues and tone of voice, more than it did with the actual words spoken. However, and perhaps more spectacularly, Omar did this while literally having no idea what he was doing.

Suman started counting to ten before he realized that he'd lose Omar's attention long before that. At least, assuming he was talking to that Omar still.

He was. There was only one Omar here, despite his varied iterations.

Hastily, he straightened and made eye contact with Omar. His attempt to call upon his professionalism again, was stymied by the sight of Omar petting the pocket where, Suman presumed, he placed the fifty dollar bill.

The now very defeated man asked, pleadingly, “Omar, are you always this difficult?” as though he could barely believe what was happening, which was also understandable.

Before he could stop himself, Omar began to shrug but then nodded happily again instead. Just as one might bask in someone's adoration, Omar basked contently in Suman's confusion.

His simple nod, as vague as it was, had been an honest admission, and he was very much enjoying being so open and honest with Suman. “Once again,” he thought, smugly to himself, “the Rules are working!”

Despite appearances, Omar wasn't a sadistic monster that fed off the misery of others. He wasn't a good person, by any stretch of the imagination, but he also wasn't trying to be evil. Where the behavior of most adults is vaguely guided by a system of ethics and moral principles, Omar's behavior is guided by a system of tactics implemented with minimal effort. Thus for him, his tactical victories are inherently good. Then, thanks to his hyperactive subconscious mind, his goals, if they aren't apparent, will work themselves out.

So Omar doesn't have a reason for making Suman, or anyone else for that matter, confused, but this uncertainty is normal and makes perfect sense to him. Should this confusion also prove amusing, then all the better.

“That was fun,” he thought, in reference to his question, “so why stop now?”

Interrupting the tall man, who was having some sort of private moment, Omar asked, “Can I trade my ticket for one of those?”

Suman, who had been therapeutically rubbing his temples, raised his head to respond with an incredulous, “What!?” that was a tad bit louder than necessary. Then, more quietly, he asked, “You want to trade your ticket for my clipboard?” as though he had to strain himself to say something that unbelievable.

“What!? No!” Omar said quickly while shaking his head. His tone suggested that, ironically, he thought that Suman's question was really dumb. “I'm talking about one of those cellphones with its own pocket dimension.” He looked at the dumb-ass crazy person with a measure of pity, but that alone quickly exhausted his emergency stock of compassion.

Ideally, he wanted both his own portable pocket dimension, and to keep the ticket. However, if there was a choice, he'd go with the pocket dimension.

Omar waited expectantly, like a child eager to violently unwrap all his presents. It was possible that Suman might have more goodies to offer him, but there was undoubtedly going to be a lot of pointless social niceties that he'd have to endure until then.

Given a moment to process the exchange, Suman begins to see an opportunity to related to this inhuman creature. “Actually,” Suman began, hopefully, as the obvious hit him. “With that ticket, you can get that and much more.”

“This is about that ‘offer’ you mentioned, right?” Omar asked, pausing long enough to add finger quotes.

Suman nodded. He's a generally optimistic person, to a fault, and starts to think that he could soon end this without any unnecessary bloodshed. “Part of this offer includes granting you the ability to travel through time, but there's more to the offer than—”

Normally, Omar would have scoffed at such a claim, but the impulse to do so was suppressed. As a result, he simply stuck to asking appropriate questions.

“Put your hand down Mr. Raji, and let me finish. You are probably wondering why I did not just start with a demonstration of time-travel,” Suman said in a manner that was distinctly not a question.

“Wow,” Omar thought, “that's exactly what I was going to ask, except with less sarcasm, laughter, and jokes about him being his own mom. Other than that, it was pretty much the same.” Even in his own mind, it wasn't entirely clear to Omar if he was being sarcastic.

“It's likely that an obvious demonstration of time-travel would've exposed you to enough chronoactivity to grant you the ability to travel through time, without even allowing you the chance to formally accept or reject the offer.”

That got Omar's attention. “Wait, did you say radioactivi—no, um, it was ‘Chrono-activity’,?” he responded questioningly, before correcting himself. “Are you going to throw paint on me,” he began to ask, “like that, uh, paint that changes colors when you—”

“No,” Suman interjected, holding his head in his hands again. Sometimes it felt like he and Omar were not having the same conversation.

Omar, in turn, wondered if the crazy person was getting tired. Then his attention wavered and his eyes drifted over to the ticket. Omar wanted to ask, “Are you actually dangerous?” but instead he mumbled, “but you're so pretty,” too quietly for Suman to notice.

“Why would I throw chromic paint on—no. You're thinking about the wrong Greek word. ‘Khroma’ is color, whereas ‘chrono’ comes from the Greek ‘khronos’ meaning—”

“Is this chromium-plated?” Omar asked, by way of interruption. That sounded more likely to him.

“How am I supposed to have a conversation with someone that only catches one word per sentence, and even then, mishears it.”

Like a jeweler, Omar examined the ticket closely with one squinting eye. After flipping it over in his hands a few times, he raised the ticket as if he were trying to see it in a more revealing light. Chromium is one of several silvery metals on the periodic table, and Omar actually had no idea how to tell them apart. “Or is it, maybe, an alloy of chromium and something radioactive like uranium or—”

Suman, interrupted Omar by snapping his fingers and waving his arms about.

“or, uh, plutonium?” Omar finished saying, while staring curiously at the crazy person.

“Hey, lisssten. Are you listening?” Suman said loudly, his arms still waving at Omar as if he were blind.

There was nothing wrong with Omar's eyesight, but he nonetheless wasn't paying attention to the arm waving antics of the crazy person. Instead, Omar was looking at the metal ticket, somewhat nervously, before gently placing it next to him on the couch.

Suman could barely keep up with the prodigious rate at which Omar was able to misunderstand things. “Stop that,” he said, somewhat sternly, but then sighed. “Listen to me—there is no M!” he said, clearly annunciating each word, but with all his emphasis on the “M.”

Quietly, Omar said agin, lamentedly, “But it's so pretty,” and Suman pretended he didn't hear it.

Suman snapped his fingers once more, and to his delight, the act succeeded in regaining Omar's attention. “There is no M,” he said again, but much more quietly. “It's ‘Chrono’, meaning ‘Time’. And it isn't radioactive.”

This made Omar feel a little bit better, but not enough to pick up the ticket again. Instead, he timidly raised his hand and waited politely to be called on, as if there was anyone else to call on.

After taking a deep breath, Suman tried yet another approach. “Omar. First, you don't have to raise your hand. Okay?”

Instead of nodding, Omar relaxed his fingers and slightly lowered his hand. In his mind, he was complying fully with Suman's demand while also being extra respectful. However, he was also waiting to be called on.

Pushing through, Suman continued with, “Second. It's chronoactivity. Chro-No-Activity. And third, we're talking about time and time-travel, right? Timmme-travvvel.”

Ignoring his instincts, Suman had to suppress the urge to add, “Can you say ‘time-travel?’ I knew you could!” because he did not want to believe that this could possibly be an effective strategy on a grown man.

Sadly, had he done so, it would have been very effective.

Nonetheless, Omar still had his hand raised while trying to pretend that it wasn't, while he waited to be called on.

Suman prepared himself for the worst and set his expectations low enough that they might as well not exist. Because he now expected nothing of significance, he believed he was ready for anything. “Fine. Go ahead, Omar. What is it?”

Omar finally lowered his hand the rest of the way. “So, … is it dangerous?” he asked while eyeing the ticket that sat beside him. “This ‘chronoactivity’?”

Suman froze for a brief instant before looking around. He wondered, “Am I being set up? Is this a big joke or something? Is there a god of irony out there who can read my mind and manipulate reality in order to create the most ironic outcome possible?”

Thankfully, this was a rhetorical question, otherwise things could have become awkward.

“Okay, that's a good question,” he admitted. “You know, I don't usually do this ticket stuff, and even then, no one ever asked that question. Though, with what I do do, I explain this in depth.”

Giggling, Omar mumbled, “Hehe, he said doo-doo,” to himself, because he didn't realize he was thinking out loud.

Suman groaned. “Listen. The answer is sort of complicated. So, do you actually want me to give you the answer, or do you want to make fart jokes?”

“Can't I do both?” he asked.

“Uh, you can do whatever the hell you want, but if you keep wasting my time, I'll probably just leave and let you figure the rest out on your own.”

Omar actually liked that answer. “Yeah, tell me. Is it dangerous? This ‘chronoactivity’ thing?”

“Physically—as in physiologically—no, not really. It won't give you cancer or anything, so you can touch the ticket all you want. It's not even chronoactive, for that matter.”

Omar didn't really like that answer, which is what made it perfect for his next question. He asked, “Butt? …” while making it clear that there were two tees in that word.

Suman said, “But …” in reply, while trying and failing to vocally emphasize that there was only one tee. Omar smiled and nodded for Suman to continue. “We say that the danger of chronoactivity—though really just permanent chronoactivity—is psychological,” he finally admitted. “Simply put, the stress of both time-travel and the two-dimensional nature of time can wear on a person's psyche.”

Omar said, “Uh-huh,” while casually looking at the coffee table. After he spotted the letter opener, he added, “So, your saying it messes with your head?” This started to sound familiar to Omar. “Oh! It's like movie Twelve Monkeys?”

“Weren't they already crazy to begin with?” Suman asked in response.

Deciding that this detail was interesting, but not important, Omar shrugged noncommittally.

“Well, in any case, this is completely different. Like—even if you decide to never travel through time yourself, you'd still have to deal with the ‘objective timeline’ changing, which usually happens several times a day.”

“What!? Several times a day,” Omar reiterated, with a mix of disbelief and horror; though mostly disbelief. “And you actually remember every timeline? How do you live like that?”

“Yeah … except it isn't that bad. The memories of the current timeline are almost always the strongest,” he said with practiced ease. “Usually, the memories of prior timelines are more ‘distant’ and they remain somewhere in the back of my mind. It is like they're placed in a filing cabinet with one lifetime per folder, each listed sequentially, all of which are instantly accessible without being in the way.”

“Being permanently chronoactive gives you a whole new perspective on reality, and that in itself is stressful. Some people handle it better than others.”

Quest Update for: Informed Decision 103% of Local Background Levels.

Description:

Omar still has questions. Also, that “103% of local background levels” is meant to sound more encouraging than, “3% more than you started with.”

Bonus Rewards: Deferred.

Despite his concerns, Omar was curious. After all, he was a fan of science-fiction. “How many, uh—timelines—lifetimes, or whatever, can you remember? And, what about you? Does this mean that you have, um, ‘issues’?”

“I remember thousands, at least, but in the current timeline, they're all just that; memories. And no to your other question. The AMIs do have an excellent medical plan,” he added with some humor in his voice.

“AMIs? Isn't that the ‘company’ you ‘work’ for?”

“Yes,” Suman said simply. He really didn't want to go into that.

“Okay, then. So, why me?”

“Huh? ‘Why you?’ what?”

In response, Omar just pointed at the ticket, which he still wasn't touching.