Synopsis (kinda?):
Humans have had a fascination with different scenarios and experimentation of the experience and the universe’s complications of possibilities, despite how rare or impossible based on scientific and physical limits. However, there is an operation down at the Curve Con Bay in which a facet of clones is working on the alignment of the gimmick of human existence and emotion, and the creation and combination of the mediums of art. Although creating a dimension, or what some might refer to as an “experimentational universe,” takes a lot of time, resources, and morality, they have successfully created about 18 universes, with the discovery of 2 more (including yours).
This dimension in particular has a design flaw due to the mishap of the characters’ actions, which was both unintentional and dangerous. It seems as if the time and strings of the universe were disastrously changed, the logic and algorithm of the world have been discarded, and the exposure to one of the employees has made the universe a specimen and an anomaly. It is going through a zig-zag, tied-down, enclosed lockdown, and it has been encrypted and frozen for later testing and philosophical thought embarking.
This is Sir Leto, someone you knew, and someone you forgot (maybe), and I will be your narrator today. I am also contributing to Project Universal Exposure’s first-ever experiment, in which you, the reader, can contain the universe mentioned in a physical format.
Be warned, the temptation to mess around and play with the container is discouraged, as the consequences are very much irreversible and devastating to not only you, but to the foundation of existence and life itself, creating a never-ending dilemma of contradictions because of your actions. Just merely consume and let it be known that the information given shall be distributed carefully, as the experiment itself is not authorized, and any occurrence of the delivery of that illegal knowledge can lead to me and you being trapped in a punishable, mind-warping, unforgiving system/dimension.
I’m not necessarily sure if I can let you enjoy the book. The dimension itself was made purely out of man-made hands (literally, they’re clones.), and the moral, ethical, and diplomatic implications of the control and whim of the operation not only give me inquiry and confusion, but also sickens me to my stomach due to the many possibilities of suffering, contradictions, loophole-bearing, grimy-slimy, and wreckless decisions that can be and could’ve been made. Just so you know, it’s neither your nor my fault for all of the universes’ problems and torture, and I hope that you can encounter and explore the other universes distributed, and create your own.
Love,
Sir Leto Vermillion the III
Chapter 1: The Beginning
The own of nothing-ness and the burgers and sandwiches of the cosmos(es) and the skis of strings is what we call the Universe. Once a time ago, something (or maybe someone) decided that something should be in the non-existence, and then BOOM! Then, existence was formed, the Universe.
Across the 4-dimensional scheme-string of time, the Milky Way (although cookies aren’t good when dipped in it) was formed. A few nebulae and stardust sprinkles there, and then our solar system, the Sun shining a little too bright, was created. After it cooled down, and after that,
KAPOW! BOW! Sizzle…
Our Earth Is Formed. [OEIF]
You can count the other planets if you like: Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune. But this story only focuses on Earth. After all, we live in it, and we would die on the others in a split second or a slice of a minute, or a morsel of an hour. Those other places may seem much more interesting, more scratchy or popping-locking metaphorically, but it is sort of our nature to forget about the planet that we call our house, not our home. The Earth is bubbling with the metals and the decomposed, cracking with paint, glass, and calloused skin, and the scratches and itches and burns and slices of the creatures featured.
It took a few more cuts into the complexion of patience to get us to where we are now in the story, and maybe a bit more for yours. The scars of yesteryears are shown through the skin of today, and today we have a wish. A wish that needs to be fulfilled by going into the unknown: space. Black void or Colorless abyss? Who knows? And, more importantly, who needs to fulfill that wish?
Seis, Mo, and Graff. Seis-Mo-Graff. Mo’s short for Cosmo, as the weird-smeared type of guy, or girl? (I’m not quite sure, necessarily.) Graff’s name is actually Graze, because dude’s kinda like a cow grazing on the grass (Thinking long hours and dilemmas while chewing imaginary grass or paper-glass things), and Seis’s just Seis. Some call her Sizzle or Sizzle-lean, due to her having rock candy and a hot head all (actually, only some) of the time. Sometimes the two mix, and the rock candy melts and bursts into sugar-coated rage. The three call themselves EARFQUAKE, because of course, all of their names when combined create the word seismograph, which is, to the unstringed, a device that measures earthquakes.
They’re some sort of misfit-grit gang. Well, it doesn’t seem as if they know they’re misfits. Or, more or less, if they cared. But, here’s the thing: EARFQUAKE might not care. But others do, and would, and will. Others that’ll treat them like burnt-churned blisters or just parallel nothingness(es) of a phenomenon. Even as the universe might be a contradiction, a question, and a pseudonym-acronym-algorithm of its own, it’s pretty evident that at least on Earth, no one likes getting bugged and cricket-ted.
Looking for a place on Earth in which free will guzzles around like a hyena, and where irritation is a little-to-no problem that could bruise, and grate your skin and brain like rusted hot metal fibres, EARFQUAKE hadn’t had much luck. However, as a little, ultimate final gig-and-gag, inside joke of theirs and to the atoms, they decided that they should go all the way to the Big Bo Bay, also known as “The End of Space”. The end of space is obviously one of the most lonely places in the whole complexion of the Universe, maybe even at the edge of the Universe as well.
Could it be possible? Maybe. The possibilities and intricacies of the grids and stitches of the line of code may be in favor of luck. I can’t be certain. Just, whatever you do,
Don’t tell me nothing when we meet at the Bay.
Chapter 2: The Stitch Stirred in Space
Once upon a time, there was a crack. A crack that buzzed and popped and grizzled to the beat. The ever-conundrum of sound and small sights graffiti-ed and slid across the road or pavement. The iridescent heat slowly bizz and mizz like a refrigerator. That was the crack of… eggshells.
Welcome to Groundbeef Opentown. A town that was stirred and mixed into a whole new city, slight-sight monger[er], in 1978. A nearby city called Hamlick Taker had to expand the territory to Groundbeef, and the two submerged into a meat-monstrosity of a city-town. The area that is the most drenched is called the Blink, and that’s where EARFQUAKE resides.
Seis and Mo are in an alleyway, right near a traffic-filled ring road. They were playing their own made-up game called “Tracking”, in which both of them throw the ball at a fast speed to confuse the other person (Graff), who’s tracking the ball by drawing where it goes. They don’t play around or in parks and playgrounds, ‘cuz otherwise the punts and pretz come around and disturb them.
Mo: Wait a minute, so you’re saying that—”
Seis: Noah told Rachel for cheating on that English test, and then she blackmailed him for spreading a rumor about Sasha that she was a lesbian. So Sasha asked Ryan out on a date, since he’s Noah’s best friend. I think they dated for a while…— like, maybe 1 month? And then they had this big fight at the stadium. Gutted blood and bled guts and all of that stuff. They probably went to the ambulance or something, because I saw Noah give Ryan dirty looks when he got that cast.
Mo: Whoa, damn. How did you get that information?
Seis: A lil’ snooping around while everybody drooping. I mean, no one suspects some quiet, lonely kid at the top right corner. I mean, even when they’re whispering, I can hear all the words they’re saying. Kinda like that rashy, maybe ashy-like voice. I think they’ll still be loud if they have laryngitis. No wonder there are so many confrontations in the “ths” and dices of seconds.
Mo: That seems… a little— I’m not sure if they’re going to say their business out loud. I mean, I get it, but wouldn’t they suspect you?
Seis: Look, I’m not sure. My class doesn’t really care if I’m a weirdo. I don’t think they know I exist at all. That could’ve hurt, but I already have you and Graff, so… It’s not that bad, maybe.
Mo: I guess… Which stadium was it? The one down the street?
Seis: No, I think that was in L.A
Mo: L.A.? How did they get there? Isn’t that like, expensive or something?
Seis: Must’ve been selected by the major. They’ve probably gotten a discount or something.
Mo: Huh… Hey, Graff, watch this!
Mo reached out for a runt-blunt bat in a nearby dump and smacked the ball, smeared burns and all. It flew above them and hit a nearby bottle in a curve. The bottle crashed down into bits-zits of glass, and it layered the pile of garbage that was there. It also has something in it, and the glass covered it like sugar on a mushed-grushed dessert.
They went to check it out, looking like meercats on the run for a crime with beef jerky and a disco-pop gun [maybe arson?], as the slick-sick, measurement-deprivation, bubble-broth of an emotion-gauze. The bottle had the stuff that no other bottle would have inside. There was a lot of hair, dampened with navy blue, bleach black-green, the smell of a bathroom-tiled living room, and the chemicals inside a cheap apartment block under the 45-degree angle of the sun. Stringed and strangled upon one another as if a malfunction of something so foundational [towards society?]. There was a black, grizzly, squishy-blank, hurtful of a ball, with the inside shown to be some sort of bread-like foam, and uncomfortable, monochromatic soap. However, the most important thing is this one singular piece of paper. Despite the wet ingredients of the whole gathering, the paper was dry, almost too dry. It looked like it needed moisture itself. The only thing it said was:
“As you can see, some things are meant to be. It is only your perception, your perspective of the universe, in which things are meant for odd. The possibilities of the strings in this 4-dimensional grid of the absence are forever continuous, and forever unexpected. It is odd for CCB to manipulate this fact, though.”
Too late for the other thing that’s there. Not in the bottle, but in the corner that is covering the exit. There are a few ‘wowzers’ of painful irritableness right across the street, and it looks like the bottle has become their hunting alarm.
???: Oh, hey dirt-pussies. Didn’t come to the playground ‘cuz you don’t wanna get played? Aww, don’t be scared, we won’t do anything at all.
??? #2: Yeah, yeah, right. Hey, Rack, get the cow. Get that, get tha–
Rack(?): What?
??? #2: *clicks tongue* Get that squiggly-ass cow, dude. That one, tackle them–
Rack(?): Aight, aight, hey, watch out *tackles Graff*
Mo: Hey, HEY,
Seis: No no, no, oh ma—
Mo: HEY, get outta there, you sick, slag-stone *takes Graff and punches*
???: *hits with a bat*
Seis: *Grabs jacket and scratches neck*
Mo: Oh, ahaha, you’d think that bird-bat, ain’t gonna stop me… *coughs* Oh, you sick-son of a—
Seis: Aight, stop, c’mon. This isn’t worth it; they have, bats, and, uh– let’s get out of here.
Mo: Graff, come. Just come, man. *hugs* Just, stay.
Graff: I…. am coming.
Seis: We… can go somewhere else. Look, YolkBlood Reeks. Right there *points*
Chapter 3: Looks-eye Mistake
The skies and hue of the whole place were stark blue. Maybe stark-stork blue, since there were quite a of storks in the sky. They flew around, but it’s not like you could see them very much. The whole city is very loud, proud, out-and-about in the day, mostly, kind of like the sunny-runny, rosey-glasses situation (interpretation interregation), unlike other cities that usually become more vibrant and jittery at night. Might’ve been because at night, sounds travel much more easily, or something like that. Weirdly, the nights are always up for frights and blights.
The city barked and bit and gnarled and snitched in the day. But at night, it was always so quiet. The only thing that you can see is blue and black. Perhaps fluorescent white and some mono-yellow, if you count the hanging lights like eclectic eyes and pill-bills. EARFQUAKE went to a nearby grass-patch, although it was a part of a park. It’s fine, technically there’s barely anyone there, and even those that are there won’t mind you, no matter how weird, queer, smeared, and those that are feared, the considerate mere-ed. Rhymes that liek won’t disturb the beats of the pavement, well, now at least.
The stars were like blown-out glitter and small feathers. Each of them has its color, but that color is barely seen, just like pixels on a big theater screen. The sky felt scaly, with a seaweed-like texture, and it seemed as if the dome of Earth was covered by a blanket.
Mo: I’m tired, man.
Seis: I mean, it’s night, I guess. Kinda dark out here (not sure if we should be here)
Mo: No, I don’t mean it like that. I just… Why does everyone treat us like we’re rat-cats or something? Like some sort of hybrid of creatures that they don’t like. Like bats like *screechs*. I-I, like, we didn’t do anything at all. We didn’t do… Like I… I don’t understand…
Seis: They’re going to treat us like aliens, Cosmo.
Mo: …
Seis: It doesn’t matter what we do; they only care about what we are. Pretty simple. You, me, Graff, we already know. We have each other, though, so I’d say it’s alright. As long as we’re together.
Mo: We don’t stay with each other all the time, Seis.
Seis: Staying? Why? We don’t have to.
Mo: I mean, we could, but your parents… I–
Seis: Look man, I said, I didn’t wanna talk about it. Could you just drop it? Please?… I don’t wanna talk about them… It’s not like they cared.
Mo: …
Seis: …
The grass was cool, encased with iridescence and the breeze of sneers. The funky-snares and the hi-hats marinated in the air, cracks, and rocks. The playground was shiny, saturated, and kinetic with the sparking of shoes, but now the markings and scabs of the made-up day have been fossilized into the slick-ruzzle of the night. Usually, people would be a little worried, and a little gallop would be done to get it done. Someone with dust-rust eyes and some grimy, maybe even slimy hands, would get you a jumpscare and a missing poster. But, hey. EARFQUAKE ain’t afraid.
Shivers and sliters and smear-links of the black-void-carpet-laid of the dimmed places give off a low-fidelity video. The darkness of the place mirrors the night sky. Either one of them is filled with the sniff-blitz-ness of the hands and fingers, toes and knees, while the others are filled with buzz, with synth, with a flim-film lens of perspective. It either tells us that we’re alone or not. Either the null, or the truth (is there more? Will there be more? ‘Til we burnt to a crisp along with the universe or deep-fry our civilization before it)
Mo: … I just don’t wanna be dead again.
Seis: We’ll be dead together anyway.
Mo: We can be dead now for all I care. I just wanna live without hassle before that happens.
Seis: Is there a place we could go to? We tried finding that, remember? Maps and all?
Mo: I don’t think we looked hard enough.
Seis: Are you sure there is a place? Are you sure there is peace?
Mo: … I don’t know. Maybe.
Seis: … I’m sorry.
Mo: … *turns their head away* I… maybe. Hey.
Seis: What?
Mo: Why don’t we go to space? Well, it might be a little chilly, but that won’t be a bother, won’t it?
Seis: Mo, we need a spaceship. Or at least a rocket or something, we’ll drown there.
Mo: Well, if you need one, there’s always that building there.
Across the contradicting grass and the city covered in a coat of dark seaweed and linen blankets of black was a tall, squared off, and restricted building lit up by the fluorescent lights, which were under the edges. Made-up gimmicks were surrounding the place like spotlights in a burnt-down theatre, and the only sign of anything other than blue or white was the grassy grey of the weeds inside the cracks of the road. They could use a good haircut. Everywhere on that building was lit up with the same white, fight-or-flight response color, and the logo [ASTRSP] was cursed with neon. It was coated with pure white, although the bottom seemed swampy and smelly in contrast. The lights were on, even though there was a sure reason that anyone was there working or in general. The skies bled across the pool, cloudy and soapy in response, with an electrical buzz beside it due to the generator across it. Dimmed so much so it looks like the ocean far into the night, and coral is being sparked.
Seis: Are you sure that’s the place?
Mo: Yeah! What do you think, it’s got the spaceship anyway. That BlitzedCrash 2000 has got to be somewhere.
Seis: How do we get there? Jumping over the gates and heading straight to—
Mo: The spaceship, yes! See, now you got it.
Seis: Well, I guess this is our last shot, anyway. We’ll die, though, don’t you think?
Mo: It’s alright, no one cares about us, anyway! Think abou–
Seis: What do you mean by that? Didn’t you say you wanted someone?
Mo: Well… I…
Seis: What? Tell me.
Mo: Well, if no one’s gonna care about us here, we’ve got nothing to lose. And besides, it might be painless? If we die?
Seis: Okay.
Mo: Yeah… Do you…like it?
Seis: I’m not sure about it, but I’d say so… (Just as long you’re happy)
The spaceship hovers like a lone mountain. The echoes of uncertainty and the clank, bizz, and clusters of the electrical and chemical panel become elevator music. The room combusted and bloomed with office-white lights, and the tritches are much of a broken metronome. The corporation, persuasive-pounce waved across the algae-like texture on the floor, and the places filled with the smell of sweat, burnt hands, and a mug. It is a labyrinth of its own, or maybe it’s because neither of them remembers memorizing the blue-and-white, sky-and-whys safety signs and maps [Maps for buildings? Maybe maps for the ‘isms and ‘tives will come soon enough.]
It might’ve been a quadrillion years, though the twists and turns of the atomic and paradoxicality mechanism that is time. The 3rd and 1st, along with the 2nd and 4th quadrant, all play a role in a scheme far away. Across the bay. They themselves created a string, except this one was unnecessary and unfortunate, and slipped into a seesaw-scalpel of guessing and judgment. The made-up night guzzled and clawed the accidental scratches and toothaches of the quantum rules and reason-seasonable, augmented articulations of truth and explanations.
And the speed gear cranked up, the dashes and dots of stars and pace flew throughout the journey. Would it bend time to the point where barely a mere second happened in the spaceship, to the point that centuries of drawn-out orbits, fuzzling-licking, shiny-frizzle-binary, and skin-rust-jeopardy? Maybe, they probably wouldn’t care. The black changes continuously, from thermodynamic colors, to the romanticness of galaxies, to just the black we know. To the rotten-spotted-reeks and the fractures of the reality of existence, and the ties of the hereditary trait of forever-known spacement, and the union-burden of a kill. Karmic alerts and astronomical philosophies would help them succeed, along with the good-riddance-gradient luck, which is also accompanied by purple-stars-electric-bars of rays and belts. But only for ¾th of the journey.
You see, for all its not worth,
They’ve reached the wrong bay.
> Hello?
Mo: Ah… look, there we go. – huh?
Seis: Who the hell are you striving for? Wha-What are you anyway?
Mo: Yeah, good point. And also, if you don’t mind
> What? Get out of here.
Mo: Well, what about those computers over there? If you’re not gonna be friendly, at least tell us whatever that is, and we’ll go. I wouldn’t see the reason to spill it if it’s a secret.
> … Fine. To be blunt with you, this is a simulation. Whatever you think of it, it is what it is. All of it, the only part that is real is you. If it’s painful, it’s supposed to be. Whatever actions or miscalculations of the possibilities of this dimension are said to have led you here. I think it’s the same old schmuck that has been there since the first eon began. The combination and commission-permission of the key to the lock of ignorance is for the sake of your concern.
Mo: …
Seis: …
> Look, you’re at the wrong place and the wrong time. But that wouldn’t be my concern.
Mo: Wait, what do you mean by concern?
Seis: …
> I wasn’t expecting you, but I shouldn’t have expected anything really. If I have to say, I would be needing you for something, actually. We have a few drafts of experiments at the Curve Con Bay, and we’ve already prepared some mechanisms and AMPs, as well as some extremely condensed notes of a matter-dot. Do you want to consider it? It may not be under your consent, but at least you’ll have your time to face your fate before your entertainment is broadcast.
[Overlapping]
Mo: What, man? No, of course not! But what do you, what do you mean by that
Seis: Hell no.
Graff: Too bad to be false. A ring-gang of rotten dogs does not dangle your morality for dopamine-yellow of insanity.
[Overlapping end]
> Thank you for your referral to our offer. We’re going to collect your blood and DNA for the sake of our 25-year project of the experience-experiment. Step right into the Electrical and Chemical Mass Distributor, and we shall put the Skin-Brain Translator on you, and then you’re done.
– I’m sorry
> Excuse me, what?
– No, no, nothing, no reason.
> … You only ask when you’re inquired about.
– Ok, ok, got it.
> Got it?
– Mhm.
