Mundane Beginnings
Thom Croose woke up to the soothing sound of his alarm clock shrieking, “You are late!” in an increasingly shrill British accent. He tried to hit snooze, but the clock had developed arms overnight and swatted his hand away—even though it wasn’t even 7:15 yet.
Whisper Pines Apartments was supposed to be quiet, but the walls were thin and the tenants unmedicated. Thom lay on his back and counted the ceiling stains, which had recently reconfigured into a perfect likeness of Tom Cruise giving a thumbs up. He flipped them off for good measure and rolled to his side.
His phone, charging on the windowsill, buzzed with a stack of unread notifications. The first was from a persistent spammer: “URGENT: TOM CRUISE! Please confirm appearance at StuntmanCon 2023, Las Vegas.” Thom deleted the message, as he’d done every day for three months.
The second message was from management: “Dear Residents: The elevator is currently in use by Mr. Pritchard, who is stuck between floors. Maintenance is on it. Please use the stairs unless you’re also stuck. Thank you for your patience.”
Thom debated whether this was a thinly veiled threat. Then the British alarm clock’s arms seized his pillow and began beating him with it. He abandoned sleep for the marginally safer bathroom.
He shuffled to the sink and let the faucet run until the water stopped hissing and turned from pink to clear. His toothbrush was missing—again. He used his finger and spit, calling it a job well done. In the mirror, his reflection still showed the mustache he’d shaved off two weeks prior, with an “I MISS YOU” post-it stuck to the corner. The lights flickered overhead, making a low, mournful ”meow,” but Thom didn’t look up. There were some mysteries a man with his level of ambition could live with.
In the hallway, Mrs. Dingleberry was out early, wrapped in her usual bathrobe and conspiracy. She stood with her ear pressed to the wallpaper, whispering, “I can hear you,” to either the pipes or the ghosts she claimed lived in Apartment 3G.
She caught sight of Thom and scuttled over, slippers squeaking. “They took it again!” she declared, shoving a piece of paper at his chest. It was a missing toaster flyer, the third this week, each one with a slightly unique description of the appliance (“chrome finish, moderate rust, last seen humming to itself”). This included a hand-drawn rendering of the toaster with a halo and angel wings, along with a caption that read, “Gone too soon.”
Thom accepted the flyer and nodded solemnly. “I’ll keep an eye out,” he said. “You’re such a good neighbor, Tom,” Mrs. Dingleberry said, pronouncing it “Tom” with such finality that the “h” could’ve been in a witness protection program. “I always knew you’d look out for us. My late husband was the same way. Handsome, too.” She eyed his slippers, which did not match.
Thom escaped to the kitchen and looked for coffee. The machine was new, an office cast-off from Input Unlimited, his place of employment and existential inertia. He pressed BREW, and a raw egg immediately pelted him. On the second try, a fresh K-cup launched itself at his forehead, then hissed at him like a disappointed goblin.
He sipped his coffee, thick as gravy and unreasonably blue, and checked his phone. There were seven more emails from Input Unlimited, all marked “HIGH IMPORTANCE.” He ignored them.
Someone was singing in the hallway, off-key but with gusto. Thom leaned out the door and saw a neighbor—Greg, the new guy—seven feet tall, wearing sunglasses indoors, and walking with the careful deliberation of someone who wasn’t sure his bones went the same direction every day. Greg waved, missed, and then waved again, this time contacting the general area of Thom’s face.
“Good morning, Mr. Croose,” Greg said, pronouncing it exactly as if reading an unfamiliar word in a foreign language, possibly while being electrocuted. “Morning,” said Thom, who’d long ago learned not to ask questions before noon. Greg leaned in, conspiratorial. “If you see a toaster, let me know. But don’t touch it. There are… consequences.” He nodded gravely, then tripped over the doormat and vanished up the stairs.
Thom peered down the hall at the elevator, which was indeed jammed halfway between floors. Through the gap, a pale hand protruded, waving for help with the resignation of a Civil War field medic. Someone had written “BYE PRITCHARD” on the door in dry-erase marker.
He opted for the stairs, stepping carefully around a potted plant that seemed to be mid-argument with the mailman. The plant was winning. The mailman handed it a bundle of circulars, which it digested with noisy satisfaction.
On the ground floor, the front window overlooked a patchy lawn and the Wyrdwood sign, still misspelled “Wyrdword” after three years of community petitioning. Thom paused at the mailbox. Inside were the usual: coupon books, utility bills, and another fan letter meant for Tom Cruise. This one included a Polaroid of a small child, labeled, “You jumped on my mom’s couch once. She’s never been the same.”
Thom pocketed the letter for recycling and opened the building’s front door. It stuck, as always, then let go with a sound like a walrus sneezing. The street outside was bright and early, and so far, only moderately on fire.
He fished in his pocket for his sunglasses (they weren’t there), so he just squinted instead. The sun, which rumor held was actually an industrial heat lamp installed by the previous mayor, bore down with all the subtlety of a police interrogation.
He checked his phone again: two new voicemails, both from his boss, Mr. Gribbs. The first was unintelligible—just a series of grunts, thumps, and what sounded like a motivational poster being shredded. The second was clearer: “Tom! It’s Gribbs. We need to talk. Urgently. Also, are you free to sign a Top Gun DVD for my nephew? You’re a hero to him. I’ll bring it to your desk. Also, bring donuts.”
Thom closed his eyes, visualizing the exact amount of energy it would take to get to work, and felt a small, painless stroke. He started walking, hands in pockets, and was nearly sideswiped by a child on a motorized scooter, pursued by a swarm of what looked suspiciously like bees in tiny vests.
The sidewalk was crowded: an old lady walking her dog (which walked her instead), a street artist painting with mayonnaise, and the town’s official “Ambassador of Weird,” who wore a sash and distributed pamphlets about UFO etiquette. Thom sidestepped a glowing puddle, nodded at the Ambassador, and tried to think about nothing at all. He sighed, pocketing his phone.
It was shaping up to be a perfectly normal day in Wyrdwood—meaning everything was slightly off-kilter.
Thom Croose never looked both ways before crossing the street, which would’ve been reckless. But in Wyrdwood, the traffic had developed a mutual agreement to avoid pedestrians, even if it meant driving up on the sidewalk or into a parallel dimension. He walked with his head down, phone in hand, letting his legs do the thinking.
The neighborhood awoke in waves. A man with a tinfoil hat stood on the corner, shouting about the squirrels. “They’re watching, man! Don’t you see the pattern? The tails! The tails spell doom!” He shook a fist at a telephone pole, then at Thom, who shrugged and said, “Noted.”
The air buzzed with the breakfast smells of burnt toast, engine coolant, and something vaguely floral that was probably illegal. Thom’s route took him past a convenience store with a window full of handmade signs:
• “NO MASKS”
• “NO OUTSIDE TIME-TRAVELERS”
• “NO LOITERING (UNLESS YOU’RE BUYING SOMETHING)”
• “WE’RE WATCHING THE SQUIRRELS TOO, CARL”
• “NO COMPLAINING ABOUT THE GLOWING SODA”
A line of children with identical backpacks waited for the bus, ignoring a breakdancer who spun on the sidewalk with robotic precision. One kid held up a missing toaster flyer, and the others groaned, like it was a daily school assignment.
Thom passed Greg, who had upgraded his “disguise” to include a novelty mustache and a T-shirt that said “HUMAN.” He was feeding breadcrumbs to pigeons, which had orbited him in a loose, hypnotic pattern. Greg saluted Thom, then snapped his fingers and whispered, “Stay sharp, friend. The breakfast appliances are out for revenge.” The pigeons nodded in unison.
Halfway to Input Unlimited, the sidewalk buckled around a bubbling portal. A neon sign above it flashed: “WARNING: UNSTABLE SIDEWALK. USE OTHER SIDE.” A city worker in a hazmat suit leaned on a shovel nearby, drinking a green slushie. As Thom approached, the portal burped up a street cone, which bounced off his ankle and rolled into the gutter.
He barely noticed. He was too busy doomscrolling through his inbox. The emails from Gribbs had taken on a tone of desperation: “Tom, I mean it. BIG day today. Don’t let me down, buddy!” There was also a memo about “Casual Wednesday,” which read: “Dress for Success, or Just Wear Pants. Preferably Both.”
Wyrdwood Central Park was a block away, and Thom cut through it to avoid the morning rush at Caffeine Station. The park was as usual: joggers running in slow motion, teenagers racing remote-control drones shaped like donuts, and the town’s statue of Old Man Wyrd, who legend said founded the town after getting lost on his way to a dentist appointment. The statue had gained a new feature—a donut hat, courtesy of the teens.
There was an alien bake sale at the main pavilion. Booths sold Day-Glo pastries and “meteor muffins,” and the bake sale workers all wore rubber gloves and “DON’T ASK” buttons. A guy with silver skin and a lumpy head tried to hand Thom a sample. “It’s only slightly radioactive!” he promised.
Thom took the sample, but put it in his pocket for later.
He could see the neon glow of Waffle Castle down the street, a medieval fortress topped with syrup banners and animatronic knights jousting in the parking lot. Waffle Castle had been there forever. It was the only place in town that offered a loyalty program, free refills, and court-mandated apology cards if your order was late.
Thom liked the idea of Waffle Castle more than the food itself. There was something comforting about a restaurant that looked like it could withstand a siege. He crossed the street at a crosswalk occupied by two mimes, one of whom was stuck in an invisible box and the other narrating his suffering with wildly exaggerated gestures. Thom considered offering help, decided against it, and kept moving.
A block from Input Unlimited, he checked the time. Still early. He briefly considered turning around and calling in sick, but remembered that last time, Gribbs had shown up at his door with a chicken soup and a camera crew. He did not want to risk that again.
As he reached the office building, a mailman exited, wrestling with a package that vibrated ominously. He nodded at Thom. “For you,” he said, passing the box. “It’s from your fan club.” The box was already half-open, and inside was a plastic bust of Tom Cruise, eyes following you no matter where you stood.
Thom dropped it in the nearest trash can, which promptly spat it back out. He tried again. Same result. The trash can rattled and sighed, a sound that said, ‘I’ve got enough baggage, thanks.’ Thom finally balanced the bust on top, where it could survey the parking lot in peace.
Input Unlimited was a drab, two-story building, sandwiched between a taxidermy boutique and a vape shop for pets. The lobby smelled of printer ink and mild regret. A motivational poster above the door read, “Input Makes the World Go Round! Someone had scribbled a frowning face to replace the “u” in “Input.”
A group of employees milled outside, smoking or pretending to. They wore the tired, half-zipped parkas and limp ID lanyards of people who knew the difference between time and eternity.
He entered the lobby just as the receptionist, a new hire named Robbie, greeted him with practiced monotone. “Hello, Tom. Big day, huh? The boss is waiting for you in the Fun Zone.” Thom set his jaw. ’It’s pronounced Thom. Rhymes with ’bomb.’″ Robbie stared at him blankly, as if Thom had just revealed the secret to cold fusion.
Robbie winked, which was hard to pull off when both eyes blinked at different times. “The Fun Zone,” said Robbie, gesturing down a corridor lined with cartoon animal stickers and an actual, functioning claw machine. “They want you there for the morning huddle.” Thom checked the clock and groaned.
There was only one thing he hated more than morning huddles, and that was being mistaken for Tom Cruise. Today promised both.
He trudged down the corridor, dodging a stray drone that whizzed overhead and left a trail of confetti. On the wall, a TV monitor blared muted footage from last year’s office holiday party, where someone (possibly him) had set a cheese fountain on fire.
He reached the Fun Zone, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door. A confetti cannon went off, showering him with sparkles and ticker tape. It was, all things considered, still only Wednesday.
When the confetti settled, it coated the cheap carpet of the Input Unlimited Fun Zone in a glittering, ankle-deep slurry. Jessie was already there, her arms full of coffee, a Bluetooth headset in one ear and two pens clipped to her bangs for emergencies. She grinned at Thom with the manic energy of a motivational speaker about to go off-script.
“Croose!” she chirped, tossing him a travel mug with his name (misspelled “Tom Cruise”) on it. “It’s Mocha Monday! Except it’s Wednesday. But I’m back-dating my optimism. Get in here; it’s huddle time.”
Sarah bounced in behind her, distributing tiny handmade motivational cards. Someone cut each one into the shape of a smiling animal. Thom’s was a frog, blinking up at him with googly eyes and a caption: “Leap into Success! (But not into the radioactive puddle on your way to work.)” Sarah smelled faintly of Play-Doh and lemon squares, her bright scarf trailing like a streamer.
“Hey, Croose. You’re gonna rock today!” she beamed, handing him the frog. Ben lurked by the whiteboard, arms folded, eyeing the room with calculated suspicion. “Do you think if we all stand in a circle, we’ll get vaporized?” he asked, deadpan. “Because last time, I swear, someone replaced the coffee filters with dryer sheets.”
“Good for digestion,” Danny mumbled from the corner. He was the only person in the office who looked more tired after a holiday weekend. His desk was a graveyard of empty snack wrappers and non-working pens.
At the front, Alex was explaining the finer points of copier maintenance to anyone who made eye contact. “Talk to it like it’s a person,” he said, tapping the manual for emphasis. “If you threaten the copier, it prints your W-2 backwards.”
No one challenged him. The last time Alex argued with the copier, it retaliated by launching staples into the ceiling tiles for a week.
The huddle began. Jessie clicked a tiny bell, which produced no sound but prompted everyone to clap, anyway.
“Welcome to the daily sync!” she said, voice amplified by sheer will. “Top priorities: first, Gribbs wants all the TPS entries completed before lunch. Second, there’s cake in the break room, but Ben has declared it a trap.”
“It’s probably a trap,” said Ben, not looking up from his phone.
“Third, if anyone sees the new intern, please let HR know. He went to make copies, and no one has seen him since.”
There was a pause, broken only by a low, ominous rumble from the copier room. Sarah turned to Thom, bright-eyed. “What’s your goal for today?” Thom shrugged. “Don’t die. Ideally before noon.”
“Aim high,” she said, without being discouraged. Alex raised a hand. “I have a question about the printer queue—” Jessie cut him off. “Print support is fourth on the agenda. Danny, anything to add?” Danny sighed, an epic exhalation. “Just that if the coffee tastes like regret, it’s because I used the last of the Tuesday blend. We’re on rations until the afternoon delivery.”
The huddle was mercifully brief. They scattered to their desks like bowling pins, leaving a trail of glitter and sarcasm behind.
Thom strategically positioned his desk between the janitor’s closet and the emergency exit, in a spot that was technically a fire hazard but offered excellent sight lines to the snack table. He logged in, scanned his calendar, and immediately muted all reminders.
He took a sip of Jessie’s “mocha” and winced. It tasted like the color brown, but not in a good way. He set it down, and watched as Sarah’s scarf floated by, trailing a faint shimmer of static.
A shriek echoed from HR. The haunted copier had claimed another victim.
Jessie jogged past, arms full of paperwork, talking to herself at triple speed. “If I can finish the Schumann files by eleven, maybe I can get a jump on the Spengler backlog, and—wait, is that the new donut flavor?” She veered toward the break room.
Ben wandered by, hands in pockets. “If you stare at the motivational poster in the bathroom long enough, you can see the despair in its eyes.”
Thom nodded. “I just blink at it and move on.”
“That’s probably healthier,” Ben said, then wandered off, possibly to research existential monotony or to check if the cake really was a trap.
From his desk, Thom had a perfect view of the copier room. The door was cracked open, and inside, the new intern negotiated with the machine. It spat out pages with increasing ferocity. A pale face peered through the paper avalanche, mouthing a silent plea.
Danny shuffled by with a cart full of dead batteries. “Copy room’s getting hostile again,” he noted, not stopping. “Give it half an hour. If we don’t hear from him, we’ll send in Sarah,” said Thom.
Sarah, currently at her desk, was writing affirmations on sticky notes. Each time she stuck one to her monitor, it fell off almost immediately, but she didn’t mind. She just wrote more.
By mid-morning, the office had reached peak chaos. Jessie was juggling three calls and two spreadsheets; Alex was lecturing a paper shredder about best practices; Ben was running a secret poll to see who believed in the “ghost in Accounting;” and Danny had already claimed the only chair in the break room with working lumbar support.
The copier room shrieked again. This time, it was personal.
Jessie poked her head into Thom’s cubicle. “Emergency: can you cover the phones while I save the intern?”
“I don’t know how to transfer calls,” said Thom. “Neither do I. Just press buttons until the noise stops. Also, if anyone asks, the Schumann files are on track. Lie with confidence!”
She disappeared before Thom could respond.
The phones rang in chorus. He answered the first: “Input Unlimited. How can I help?” A voice, high and frantic: “It’s gone! My numbers! They’re all gone!” Thom glanced at the screen. “Have you tried turning it off and on again?” There was a click, and the line went dead.
The next call was slower, a man drawling, “This is Waffle Castle. Can I speak to Tom Cruise?”
“Wrong number,” said Thom. “But I’m told he’ll be at the Soggy Squirrel after five.” The man remained undiscouraged. “I hear he’s a big fan of the Siege Stack.”
“He’s more of a ‘bottomless mimosa’ guy,” said Thom, and hung up.
He cycled through six more calls before Jessie returned, dragging the new intern behind her. His hair was full of paper scraps, and his eyes had seen things.
“You did great,” Jessie said, giving Thom a thumbs-up. “Also, Robbie says Mr. Gribbs wants you in his office ASAP. It’s probably about the cake incident.”
“What cake incident?”
“Ben ate it all,” said Jessie. “But you’re the fall guy.” Thom squared his shoulders. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, avenge me.”
He navigated the cubicle maze, passing the haunted copier (now purring contentedly, the intern’s tie sticking out from the paper tray), and reached the end-of-hall office with “GRIBBS, REGINALD—MANAGER” on the door in Comic Sans.
He knocked once, entered, and braced for impact.
The lighting in Gribbs’ office flickered with all the reliability of a faulty memory. Yellowed motivational posters covered the walls, with most of them featuring eagles or hands shaking over mountains, and all were slightly askew. On the desk sat a glass globe filled with stress balls, a mug shaped like a trophy, and a single piece of cake on a napkin labeled “DO NOT TOUCH.”
Mr. Gribbs was mid-pace when Thom entered, arms folded, brow furrowed in what could only be called professional concern. He wore a suit two sizes too small, and his tie had a permanent coffee stain that might have been a birthmark.
“Croose. Sit,” Gribbs commanded, gesturing at a chair upholstered in duct tape and hope. Thom obeyed, hands clasped, and tried to project the air of someone who had not, in fact, eaten the forbidden cake.
Gribbs leaned over the desk. “Big day,” he began, lowering his voice as if national secrets were at stake. “I know you’re not a man for theatrics. But I need you focused. Laser-focused.”
“I can do that,” said Thom, not moving his face. “Good, good.” Gribbs nodded, tapping a folder with “CONFIDENTIAL” on the tab. “Listen. Word is, upper management’s watching. They want to see ‘engagement’ and ‘synergy.’ They want to see us shine.” He said the last word as if he were addressing a detergent commercial. Thom waited for the rest, which came in a hurry.
“I need you on this, Croose. You’re the guy. The closer. The… team player.” Gribbs flipped the folder open and pointed at a photo paper-clipped to the inside: a color printout of Tom Cruise, mid-stunt, hair flying in a wind that could only be described as heroic.
Thom blinked. “That’s… not me.”
Gribbs laughed, loud and awkward. “Of course not! Of course. But the resemblance, you know? Around the eyes. The nose. Classic Croose. We have a sense of humor around here.” He didn’t laugh a second time, just stared.
“Anyway.” He spun the photo to face Thom. “I need a favor. My nephew, he’s got a birthday coming up. Loves the movies. Loves the action. I was wondering…” Gribbs trailed off, suddenly bashful. “Could you sign this? For him? You don’t have to do the whole ‘Ethan Hunt’ thing. Just your name will do.”
Thom considered saying no, but the moment passed, and so did his will to argue. “Sure,” he said. “Atta boy!” Gribbs thumped the desk, beaming. “You’re a real mensch, Croose. I mean that. Also, you’re not in trouble about the cake. That was a test. You passed.” He produced a gold pen from nowhere and slid it across the desk.
Thom took the pen, uncapped it, and signed the photo. “Best wishes, Croose.” He slid it back. Gribbs clapped. “Beautiful. You’re a natural. Oh, and one more thing. This Friday, there’s a corporate mixer. The theme is ‘Mission: Impossible,’ which, ha ha, I suppose is a little on the nose. But I want you there. Mingle. Network. Show them you’re more than just the face.”
Thom nodded, already plotting excuses. “Great. Dismissed!” Gribbs pointed at the door, but then softened. “And Croose? Never change.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Thom said, and left the office, photo in hand.
He returned to his cubicle, placed the signed picture next to his monitor, and wondered if the real Tom Cruise ever had days like this. He hoped so.
The rest of the day blurred past in the usual haze of emails and copier wars. By the time evening rolled around, he and the crew had migrated to the Soggy Squirrel—a dive bar in the sense that it looked like it had survived a plane crash, then opened for business without bothering with repairs. The booths were patched with duct tape and optimism; the floor was slightly sticky, and a mounted squirrel behind the bar wore a tiny pirate hat and an expression of silent suffering.
Thom and his crew had their usual spot—a round table near the back, wedged between the jukebox and a wall mural depicting the Wyrdwood UFO landing of ’82. Jessie arrived first, already double-fisting cheap beers, her planner open and bristling with neon tabs. Sarah and Ben followed, Sarah carrying a tray of “Squirrel Bites” (deep-fried, unidentifiable, but delicious), Ben carrying a flask he claimed was “for emergencies only.”
Danny arrived late, looking like someone who’d lost a bet with gravity. He slumped into his chair and immediately commandeered the nearest menu, scanning it for signs of hope.
Alex was last, pausing at the door to run a diagnostic on the coat rack. “Still wobbly,” he pronounced, then made his way over. “If we pooled resources, we could fix it in an hour.”
“Or we could just drink,” said Danny, already pouring from Ben’s flask into his own glass.
The jukebox played backwards for a minute, then stuck on a loop of “Stairway to Heaven” performed by a polka band. No one seemed to mind.
Jessie tapped her pen against the planner. “Okay, agenda: decompress, drink, and make fun of Croose for being a local legend.”
“Hard pass,” said Thom. “You’re all legends in your own way. It’s just that most of you should be institutionalized.” Sarah laughed, popping a Squirrel Bite into her mouth. “You should feel flattered! There are like three petitions to have the city rename a street after you. ‘Cruise Control Avenue.’ Get it?”
“Not funny,” said Ben, but he was smiling.
“Speaking of legends…” said Alex, leaning in. “I heard you signed an autograph today.” Thom rolled his eyes. “I’m retiring from the business. Effective immediately.” Jessie flagged the bartender, who glided over, avoiding the sticky spots by muscle memory. “Two house specials and a round of whatever’s not on fire,” she said. The bartender nodded. “Kitchen says the soup is ready. Want it now or after the first round?”
“Now,” said Danny, voice hollow. “Before my willpower recovers.”
The bartender scribbled something and drifted away. Moments later, a bowl of “Soup of the Minute” arrived, steaming and slightly blue. As soon as it landed on the table, the tabletop levitated a solid three inches, plates and glasses shivering but never spilling.
No one commented.
“Favorite moment from today?” Sarah asked, eyes on everyone. “Watching the copier eat the intern,” said Ben, deadpan. “I’ve never seen paper move that fast.”
“I liked when Croose handled the cake crisis with a straight face,” Jessie offered. “Even when Gribbs tried to guilt-trip him into signing that photo.”
Thom shrugged. “I’m dead inside. It helps.”
“The only good part of my day saw that potted plant win an argument with the mailman,” said Danny, stirring his soup. “It’s the minor victories.” Alex sipped his beer and made a face. “This tastes like old batteries.”
“Everything in here tastes like old batteries,” said Danny, “but you get used to it.” Sarah nudged Thom. “Any plans for the Mission: Impossible mixer?”
“I plan not to attend,” said Thom. Jessie snorted. “You’ll cave. We all will. It’s company culture.”
From the front of the bar, a loud crash signaled the start of Karaoke Roulette, a weekly event where song choice was determined by spinning a literal roulette wheel. Tonight’s theme was “Lost Hits of the 1980s.” A man in a cape climbed onto the stage and began belting “99 Luftballons” in aggressive falsetto. The table vibrated with the sound, rising and falling in time with the singer’s volume.
“I don’t know if I love or hate this town,” said Ben.
“It’s home,” said Sarah, and everyone nodded, even Danny.
The night wore on, drinks accumulated, and the conversation spiraled into a contest of who could recall the weirdest event in recent memory. Jessie remembered the time a squirrel ran the town marathon and placed third. Alex recounted the Great Printer Uprising of last year. Sarah recounted the story of the PTA forcibly removing the mayor from city hall when he tried to ban Monday mornings.
As the tables finished their second round, the bar’s TV switched from muted sports highlights to breaking news. A reporter in a silver suit stood outside Input Unlimited, microphone trembling.
The reporter intoned that someone had detected strange energy readings here just after five p.m. “Eyewitnesses described unusual lights and minor disruptions in local gravity. Management did not comment, but authorities advise residents to avoid the area until further notice.”
Live footage of the Input Unlimited parking lot showed several cars floating a few inches off the ground and the haunted copier pelting the reporter with loose paper. The table went silent for a moment. “Is that—” Sarah began.
“Our copier,” Ben confirmed.
“Should we be worried?” Jessie asked.
Danny sipped his drink, expression unchanged. “If it’s still working, tomorrow’s just another day.”
Alex grinned. “We should probably get hazard pay for this.”
Thom stared at the TV, then at his friends. He felt a familiar, sinking certainty that whatever tomorrow brought, it would be at least as weird as today.
“Drinks are on me,” he said and the table cheered.
Outside, the portal glow flickered through the bar’s grimy windows, painting the night in impossible colors and no one batted an eye.
