FISCHER

CHAPTER 1 ― INTRODUCTIONS

Fischer had a terrible headache. He didn't know if it was because of the stress of the exam, because he didn't have anything for breakfast, because of the horribly decorated and ventilated room or because of the two or three liters of beer he drank last night. Cold sweat, cold hands, inexplicable boiling sensation coming from his forehead and neck, you know the drill. Luckily he was a tall, robust and somewhat inexpressive grunt, so people didn't usually notice when he was internally dying. The other students probably wouldn't have noticed anyway, everyone focused on their own mortal condition in face of inevitable execution by four-hour test.

They handed the exams. "They" being those weird people (not teachers) that appear from time to time and act like they belong in lectures and hand out things and for sure have some reason to be there, but in regards to Fischer had no name, no tongue and no soul. You can even cheat in front of them and they don't care. Noble animals. 

―Dude, are you alright?

The tongueless had spoken.

He just stared at him, saying nothing until he left, following him with the eyes the whole time with a thousand miles stare. When Fischer didn't know what to say, he usually said nothing until they left him alone. He can seem quite intense when he does it. Intimidating, even. But he doesn't really means anything by it. He's not dumb or mad at you, he just... didn't care that much about the whole thing. I mean, about the whole "the world" thing. He learned the technique some time long ago by accident and it became a foundational internalized part of his identity as an stable holistic social heuristic to most problems in life. The rest of his personality kind of followed after that breakthrough to kind of make sense along with it. Now, he doesn't even have to think about doing it. It comes natural. Most of the time he doesn't even know what the hell they said to him. Most of the time, it doesn't even matter.

Once he had his particular rectangular paper with questions in front of him, he started thinking. What class am I in. What I am studying. And eventually reached the conclusion that it was something vaguely related to the history of the world. With that out of the way, he could now focus on staring blankly at the exam pretending he was reading it while fighting a brave battle to stay awake. He started to negotiate with himself how much time and pages would he have to write in order for the effort to be considered an honorable (but failed) attempt at passing the test. It was the same strategy he used to employ at football. He ran drills and run precise calculations to at which point fainting would be considered a proof of effort instead of a ridiculous sign of embarrassing weakness. The line is much thinner than what one would think. Once decided, he just fell instantly. He didn't even have to fake it. He didn't even want to play stupid football, with the stupid ball and the stupid helmets and the stupid running; his parents made him do it to get him out of the house. In fact, he only stopped now that he was going to university with the pretext that he needed to focus on his studies. That was better than saying to his parents he just didn't like the damn thing. I guess he's the type of person that would rather hold a benevolent lie that involved doing something he doesn't want to do three times a week during two hours during a whole decade than having to deal with the emotional fallout of a ten minutes conversation about the aforementioned thing. Similarly, he didn't give much of a fuck about history. Much less about... whatever generic ancient history course he was in. Collage was not imposed on him the same way football was, but it still felt like a chore. For the moment, he felt ambivalent about the whole thing, and only did it because he felt he had to until he could find a convenient excuse to stop doing it (which may never came until graduation). Like football. He just didn't understand why they had to do it in the morning. And in days that come after other days. Couldn't they just make some extra days that are like, apart from others, and make the exams in those? In his own words, uttered at the last second ―this is stupid.

And he fell asleep.

Fischer woke up to find out he was drooling over the table. He cleaned it however he could with one of the blank pages he was supposed to be making the exam with, and instinctively looked at the analog clock the other side of the classroom. Very slowly, in a way in which you could see the mechanical gears of his brain trying to make sense of the numbers, he realized he had been sleeping for a solid three hours and a half. So he only had an hour to actually do the exam. No, wait. Half an hour. That's even less. That's half.

He jumped on his chair, and began writing. Only he knows what, because the questions of the exam remained untouched and unread at the side. Eventually he must had realize it, because he suddenly stopped and reached for them.

―It's fine. Don't panic. You got this. No I don't got this. I know nothing about this stuff.

He liked to talk to himself. Sometimes slightly too loudly.

―What do I do. This is a disaster. I don't even have a pen. No, wait. I have, in pocket.

Eventually, he decided to mostly invent everything dropping names of things and places and years that sounded familiar to him and hope that whoever graded his paper was too busy to actually read it and just gave it points based on general aesthetics. Which is a thing that can happen, I guess. I mean, it's better than nothing. So he started writing, and really got into it. He used some fancy conceptual concepts about stuff and invented some new ones to explain certain occurrences like "historical umbrella" and "metastrology" that he felt he had read somewhere. It was truly a work of art. If most people can't appreciate it, that's their own fault. Definitively not his.

The professor and her assistants were watching the whole process, dumbfounded and mesmerized. It had almost an hypnotic component to it. The classroom had been vacant of other students for about twenty minutes, and they had nothing to do but to watch, and hear, the whole act of Fischer waking up and starting to write like a madmen. They would had presumed him dead up until that point, if not for all the snoring. They didn't even change postures when he finished, stood up, his whole body and shirt covered in traces of pen ink due to the ferocity of his efforts, and handed them the pages; that looked like contrived amalgamations of words and diagrams and symbols more than an actual readable text. Then, he left the scene of the crime.

―They don't suspect a thing.

Thought for himself the worst white-collar smooth operator criminal student of the whole galaxy.

CHAPTER 2 ― AVOIDANCE

―I'm still grading the exams, I should have the results posted online at the end of the week. It went quite well, as I said it was a quite easy one. Fischer, come talk to me after class; I want to talk with you about your... exam.

An internal alarm rang inside Fischer's head. That was never a good sign. They caught me, he thought. They have finally realized I'm an idiot and don't know what I am talking about. 

He lived with that fear. Not only about class and that sort of stuff, but about anything. He was the world champion of impostor syndrome, just that in his case, it was often quite justified. He survived through life making up stuff, the primary intention behind his every move to pretend he knew what he was doing, an automaton simulation of how one should do things in order to appear like a legitimate human. That same morning, he tried to get a snack from a vending machine. He waited in line behind some girl that was talking on the phone about some stuff, then picked up some money from his wallet, put it in the machine, pushed some buttons and got some snacks. The whole thing felt like a sophisticated charade. His every movement slow and orchestrated and trained for. And it worked. He walked along the hall afterwards, feeling civilized and accomplished. "Another day fooling them all." Without that perfectly crafted simulation, God knows what he would do if he wanted a chocolate from the machine. Maybe wrestle with the thing, throw it against the floor or down the stairs, throw some leaves with his bare hands at the air in celebration and run away afterwards. The problem was, he was a human being, trapped in perpetual simulation of himself. Most of the time him being the only audience. Somehow, he had convinced a piece of mushy meat we call brain into believing the dream of being the instantiation of a human. And others.

But now they knew.

Luckily, it turns out that the best way to pretend how to do things and know things is to actually do and know them; and that's how he got through high-school, ignoring the fact that the moment that you actually know the stuff that's no longer pretending. So his own way, he was an impostor of being an impostor. A man truly committed to his craft.

―But that's not pretending. That's how you actually do things.

―You don't understand.

It had happened before, someone discovering he was dumb. It was not a nice experience. They kicked him out of piano lessons after several months of successfully pretending he knew how to play a piano. And pretending that he wanted to learn how to. In fact, the only thing he wanted to learn how to play with was the teacher's daughter's tits. Then also in the school, when he was little. His mother got worried. They made them go see someone that presented himself as a "doctor" that made him some questions and ran some tests. In the end, they reached the conclusion that he wasn't "dumb" dumb. Just dumb in a very odd, very practical very dumb way. 

After all, you don't need to be dumb to be an idiot. Everybody can if they try hard enough.

―What am I going to do. They will kick me out of collage. I mean, I will just walk around every day and pretend I am still going to university for a couple of months and years, but after that, what am I going to do?

The guy sitting in front on him looked confused. Fisher was talking, if not to him, "towards" him.

―Is that guy talking to me?

―I don't think so. Don't mind it, he does that sometimes.

―But he is looking at me.

―I don't know man. Try to talk back.

―Dude, are you alright?

Fischer looked confused. Didn't change posture, didn't change eyesight. But he did answer.

―No.

So he devised a plan. A plan so cunning, so perfect, that rivaled his exam performance.

He would not go talk to the teacher after class.

So he spent the next weeks in a spec-ops mission to avoid him at all costs. He would run around hallways, peep through holes, look behind corners, infiltrate the security room to check camera footage to learn his routine paths. In class, he would wear clever disguises, like sunglasses, masks or fake mustaches. Although he dropped them after realizing everyone would stare at him even more.

But despite all his efforts, one day, he made a mistake.

And in that split second of dropping his guard, sleeping at the top of a table in the cafeteria where he was in his most vulnerable, the teacher appeared from thin air.

―Fischer! Are you alright? What are you doing sleeping in here?

―The library is closed.

If the professor was confused at that remark, she didn't show it and simply said:

―I understand. Do you have a minute? We still have to talk, don't think I've forgotten about it.

He had no escape, so he decided to go along. To face his fate like a man once and for all.

―Actually I have class now.

―Really? Which one?

What a way to call a bluff.

CHAPTER 3 ― FAILING UPWARDS

They were in the professor's office in the department. Fischer had never been there. It was remarkably unremarkable. There were like, stuff on the walls relevant to some things and like, a board and a desk. Also a calendar. And an old desktop computer.

―So. Do you know why you are here?

―No.

―Well, I have read your exam.

Fischer started sweating. He started to think about an escape plan.

―Did I pass?

―"Did you pass." Mhhhh. No. I don't know what you were thinking, young man. It had nothing to do with the questions. This is a joke. I have the sensation you have been learning absolutely nothing from my class. If it were up to me, I would fail you the whole semester and make you write a hundred page essay to reenter. But...

He audibly swallowed his own saliva. Which made him choke, almost fall from his chair and make a lot of noise in the process. When he was recovering, half crying half laughing, he saw the severe but annoyed professor's expression.

―But...?

She sighed. And started to look at a document she had on top of her desktop.

―But somehow your essay slipped through the cracks and ended up in the hands of the head of department, who thought it was, and I quote "a remarkable post-structuralist study about the nature of civilization" and that I didn't understand it because it was "well beyond the scope of the class". And don't miss this, this is great: "wasn't constrained by the baggage of factuality".

He had no idea what she was talking about. She took a sip of her coffee.

―Let me ask you a question. Do you get bored in class?

―Well, sometimes.

―I understand. Why is that? It's because the topics are boring or because you find the inherent conceptualization of the way we teach history limiting, too tied to both chains of causation and materialistic banana idiosyncrasies?

―Totally the second, yes. Especially on Mondays.

―I thought so.

They looked at each other in silence. She looked at him like if she was evaluating things and nodded. He decided to imitate her and nod too. But it was a charade, there was nothing to be decided. Someone knocked at the door, and the professor stood up out of Fischer's view to briefly talk with whoever was the other side. They whispered and shared glances at him. He tried to make as if he found the image in the calendar very interesting. Soon, he didn't have to fake it. It was very interesting. There was a snail.

―I would like you to meet someone.

A man entered the scene. He had a white coat and an ugly professor sweater with a jimbo underneath.

―Fischer, this is Doctor Miller.

"Doctor". Fischer didn't like the sound of that one bit.

And they talked for a bit. Miller was quite a nice fella. He asked about his home, his grades, and a bit about some seemingly unrelated subjects. Fischer tried to defuse the bomb, and appear as normal and unremarkable as possible, but nothing seemed to deter his interest. He tried to sound as smart as possible. Lastly, they talked about the exam, and Fischer had to come, on the spot, with plausible rationalizations and explanations about the things he said in there, although he didn't fully remember them. It was going well. Too well.

Suddenly he had a terrible realization. He had been swimming in the opposite direction.

An internal alarm rang inside Fischer head. It was worse, ten times worse than what he though. It's not that they though that he was dumb. They thought he was smart.

It had happened before. It was not a nice experience. His mother got worried. They made them go see someone that presented himself as a "doctor" that asked him some questions and run some tests. Then, they made him go to a bunch of extra classes where very annoying kids solved math problems that had letters instead of numbers in them. They let him go when they made him solve some of those in front of the whole class and just did nothing and said nothing for a couple of minutes until they let him go home. Which in his book, was the correct solution. Sometimes, math is more art than science. In the end, they reached the conclusion that he wasn't "smart" smart. Just smart in a very odd, very practical, very dumb way. 

Not even in a sort of comical or interesting way with superpowers like these guys that could remember like a thousand digits of pi, and also unlike Forrest Gump, his childhood hero, where in a narrative way the ingenuity and determination surpasses limitations that hold most of us back and that reveals that limitations are fiction and self-imposed and that eventually reveals the power of consistency and love and care. None of that. Contrary to popular belief, limitations are quite limiting. Being dumb, quite dumb.

They gave Fischer a handful of documents.

―Let's do a little test. Don't worry about it too much. These are summaries of innovative essays from different fields and times. I want you to read them carefully and tell me what you think of them. I will give you twenty minutes. Starting now.

Shit. Like if the situation wasn't bad enough, they would even make him read. Fischer couldn't concentrate. He glanced over the papers, but couldn't retain a single line of them. He had to think of a strategy. He had to play dumb, make sure they understood he was out of his depth. Which, honestly, wasn't going to be very difficult. Before he realized, while he was glancing over them in a calculated reading pantomime that required more effort than actual reading, the twenty minutes had passed.

―Well, tell me. What do you think about them.

―I... I don't understand any of this.

―Interesting. Do you mean they are too hard for you?

Maybe he was overselling it.

―No... It's more like, they are just complicated stuff for complicated stuff sake.

―So, what you're saying is. They are pseudo-intellectual garbage.

―Well, I don't know if I would go this far.

Both professors stood aside to talk between them.

―You see Bertha? The kid is even humble. He realized instantly these were decoy essays.

―What do you mean "decoy essays"? You even wrote one of those.

―And that's how I know they say nothing and are garbage.

―Patrick...

―The test was a trap, and he nailed it. I will take him from now on.

Eventually, the doctor stood up. The other professor followed suit.

―Fischer, there's something I would like to show you.

His professor take a sip of an unsuspecting mug, that must have contained some strong coffee because she flinched like if it was a particularly bad brand of supermarket vodka.

―I want nothing to do with this.

And they left the room, the two alone, and started to walk further inside the department.

These halls were as boring as one can imagine. That kind of dirty white walls and painted sterile doors that lead to more boring offices. The whole building was modern, the kind of modern that spells utilitarianism. Fischer had explored the campus, because he often got lost, and it was full of classes and labs with mechanical instruments in them that said nothing to the imagination. Dull.

Like reading his mind, Miller made a remark about them. Now that they were out of that room, he seemed way more relaxed.

―It's like a mind factory in here. Young students come in, graduates come out. They all follow the same procedures, and fit the same mold of knowledge. Which is knowledge, and that's not bad, but it underlines an overall dull representation of the world, inside the set of all possible representations that would make sense and produce sensible predictable power. Don't you think?

Fischer didn't know how to respond to that. Is not that he didn't agree or understand the matter. But still had nothing to say about it. He was trying to compute the cleanest way to get out of whatever this is, and afraid that mindlessly agreeing with Miller would make him appear smart. So he said nothing.

―A man of few words. I like it.

He was making it worse.

―I mean, it has a function. Nobody can tell there isn't one. We not only give knowledge and tools but essentially we sell certificates of competence to the world, through not only packs of information but also through the assurance that the people that have them are able to sit for about eight hours a day in a chair and do what they are told. And we produce papers and documents that might seem like nothing but one day might be useful into inventing a slightly more useful vacuum cleaner, have potential medical applications in the early detection of breast cancer or give a more sensible explanation to why the price of rice fell a little bit in some god forsaken part of the earth five hundred years ago.

Again, silence. They now passed a couple of reunion rooms, crossed a portion of the way that was actually exterior to the building, and re-entered it through some kind of basement in which they were now walking upon a suspended floor of metal bridges with metal bars on the side.

―But I'm going to tell you a secret. That's not why we are here. That's how we fool them into letting us do whatever we want. I mean, the funding is also nice, but we can get that from other sources. The main reason is so they leave us alone to pursue our own interests.

Something about that actually awoke Fischer's attention.

―Our own forms of knowledge. Free from the obligation to produce "results" and from the rigidness of "academics". And I know what you are thinking. "But you are academics!" But to answer that, we are maybe not the kind you imagine.

It looked like he already had this conversation many times.

―Did you think some of the smartest people in the world gather in one place just to eventually have an slightly better job in some random corporation? No, no. That wouldn't be very smart of us. We have better uses for the best minds of the generation. In a way, you can consider all your academic life until this point an informal trial to get you here. This whole building, this charade, was built on top of something much more important, and much much older.

Now they reached an electronic door. It looked quite neat, and you had to pass a badge into a computerized system in order to cross it. Miller gave him a badge that said "Guest" in it, and skillfully typed a bunch of things in a small computer screen with only one hand that let them access. It was very impressive. At the other side, there was a hall. With another door. Which annoyed Fischer to no end. The building was now for some reason much older, almost classical. With columns and old paintings and dark wood furniture.

―This building sure likes being dramatic.

He had broken his silence. This surprised both of them.

―You think so?

―Yeah it's like...

He started thinking deeply.

―Why not instead of building places that make you enter things don't you just build more of the thing?

The professor or doctor or whatever looked mightily confused, but tried to make sense of the affirmation with genuine intellectual curiosity. That was unusual. Fischer expected a professor to either scoff at the idea or lecture him about how wrong he was. That was a noticeable and nice change.

―Are you suggesting that most of what defines form is redundant self-serving identity formation and that function should rather be encompassed within the being itself, meaning his own homeostatic and productive processes; from the inside towards the outwards with expansive force, instead of as an isolating carcass in which you can define "inside" and "outside"?

―Sure.

―Very interesting.

They stopped before opening the last door. It was much more simple, but with a beautiful decorated wooden handle with golden details.

―Have you been here before, Fischer?

―No.

He lied. One time he rumbled there looking for a particular hot chocolate machine that was cheaper than the others and let you put more sugar in it. Although, he didn't remember how he got through the security systems and the background classical music and all that. To be honest, he didn't really paid much attention and barely sensed nothing out of the ordinary. But he didn't open that particular door.

―Come. I will show you around.

CHAPTER 4 ― SUSSIE AND HIM

―So it was just a cafeteria?

―Not "just a cafeteria". It was the normal regular cafeteria, the same where I was sleeping at the beginning. In his words, it was more like "this place is his own cafeteria" like if it had some secret hidden identity, as if he was the Batman of cafeterias. He insisted it was some kind of special site, but they even had those small overpriced bags of chips, so I don't know. Looks pretty normal to me. Well it's a little bigger than a regular one, and has some books and sofas, some people walking around normally doing god knows what.

―Like a library?

―In his words, it was more like "this place is his own library".

―He keeps saying that.

―I mean, there are also like different zones and stairs and other doors and a ping-pong table. He introduced me to some people who were just sitting around. There were two old men arguing about hoplites. Some girls were taking selfies. There was a guy walking barefoot that smelled like weed. The usual college stuff. I really don't know if he was serious. For the way he talked, it sounded like some kind of secret Hogwarts shit going on there, but it all looked pretty mundane to me. Apparently I can go hang there whenever, and according to Doctor Professor, I should.

―And will you?

―I mean, I don't know. It's the cafeteria, I already go there sometimes to have lunch, I won't stop going now. I have to show up there each week to do some "counseling" and "tutoring". They even let me have the chips for free, and they weren't those plain ones, they were orange flavor. What worries me is the people.

―Are they wizards?

―Well, they do speak in riddles. And talk in paragraphs. But it's mostly nerds and weirdos. Most of them don't even have beards. Also that guy that kept calling me Adrian for some reason.

―You have to go! It sounds so exciting! As if you have found some kind of secret club. I wish stuff like this happened to me... It's all so normal in nursing school... 

Fischer was talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Yeah, I am as shocked as you are. Fischer had a girlfriend. And a cute one at that. This girl showed up at football practice one day when our hero was in the stands just watching because he had a broken something but was instead just tired and started talking to him. He stared blankly at her without saying anything, confused at the situation, but she seemed immune to the technique. 

That was about three years ago. He tolerated her presence and talked to her every day; which in Fischer love language meant he would die rather than let anything bad ever happen to her. Also her hair smelt nice.

―So you flunked the test again, right?

―Yeah... But according to Doctor Professor I don't have to worry about it.

―You really need to remember that guys name.

―"Don't you think it's better if we don't limit students drowning them into compartmentalized areas of knowledge?" Which sounds nice, I guess. But I still have to graduate, or my mother will kill me.

―Hahahaha. You're so mean. I'm not sure he has that kind of funny caveman voice.

―He has, I swear it.

―Sounds like a nice place, anyway. And you never know what will come out of it.

―Yeah... I wonder how long will it last. Until they discover I'm dumb, I guess.

―Babe, again with that. You're not dumb, you will belong just fine.

―Yeah, yeah... I know what you mean. But I'm still not one of... them. Whatever they are. I have no idea what they expect me to do. They keep telling me to "pursue my interests" and that it will come naturally from there, but I don't know what they mean.

―Learn some magic trick.

She was joking, but Fischer thought about it briefly. He didn't know any magic tricks. Yet.

―How is Oliver?

―Sleeping. Do you want me to talk to him?

―No, it's fine. Just say hi to him from me when he wakes up. I have to go, we talk later.

―Byebye!

―Bye.

Oliver was her cat.

Fischer hung up up the phone and lay down in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. He didn't actually have to go anywhere, just needed time to think. The situation worried him mightily, more than he confessed to his girlfriend. To his side there were what Professor Doctor referred to as a bunch of "foundational cyberweapons". And then, expecting to receive some kind of high end tech futuristic rifle, he skeptically looked back at the smiling professor. They just looked like books. He was unsure as if he had to read them differently or throw them very hard against someone to make them work. You know those kid detective books that come with a magic detector thing that tells you the secret answers? But there wasn't any. He checked. And he didn't specially mind reading, but a lingering feeling that they will made him do some quiz about them made him dread doing it. Life is a never-ending journey that just leads to more homework.

He used to read a lot, before he was a teenager. He found a mediocre book about some miserable middle aged man and read it over and over. He knew there were more books, even a whole series about him, but he didn't hold it against the author too much. He just liked that one and didn't see a reason to read another.

"This one has everything." He used to say. "I don't understand why people bother writing more."

Fischer started to leaf through one of them to see what it was about. Then, defeated, he closed it and just read again the titles; like trying to decipher some secret code in them, or hidden button. With no luck. They were just books. Simulacra and Simulacrum. Chaos and Emergence. Godel, Escher and Bach. On Growth and Form. Something like that. It was always something and then something else. It was very tiring, why couldn't they focus on one subject at a time? Very derivative, if you ask me. The last one was about plants, which he at least could understand. Or so he thought until he opened it. He liked plants. At least they didn't write books, nor give each other homework. They just stood there, being plants. We all can learn something about them.

He discarded them, somewhat violently, across the whole room. Then, he dragged his feet across the nonchalantly decorated single sized dormitory in the baby yoda slippers his girlfriend got him for christmas, and searched through an unpacked box that he hadn't bothered to open when moving into the college dormitories half a dozen months ago. It was full of clothes he was supposed to wear during the semester and at the bottom, behold, his stupid book. It had been a while since he last read it.

He discarded it also and resumed the intensive task of resting, this time on the floor.

CHAPTER 5 ― ENKIDU

Fischer spent the next days alternating between going to class and hanging aimlessly at that bar, academy of magic, or place. He observed various kinds of phenomena there; groups of people doing sort of lectures to themselves, having endless conversations about seemingly random topics, students reading strange manuscripts and research papers. That guy kept calling him Adrian for some reason. Regular dudes with overly expensive notebooks. There was a giant board of cork with announcements and that sort of stuff in them, with a discolored old pink page that said something about joining the "Lemurian Time Wars", and a wall full of photographs of what he assumed were taken in that same room. Most of them he didn't know, but some of them were some important people that he had seen before in the cover of books or inside the pages of textbooks. He guessed this place used to be very important, but didn't understand why.

The whole place didn't add up much. As much as he explored, he seemed to reach the same conclusion.

―This is just a cafeteria.

He killed time playing by himself in the ping pong table. A couple of times he tried someone to join him, as it was quite autistic to just run around all the time trying to play both sides. In retrospect, asking the old woman with a walker and whispering about it briefly to a guy that was wearing headphones was not the best attempt at it. Eventually someone very short with huge glasses appeared and very respectfully asked him to stop making noise for a while, and intimidated, he agreed and didn't touch it again.

―Why do they have this if you can't make noise?

He thought to himself, with a grunt.

A similar thing happened with a trumpet he found.

One day, a group of people left a somewhat closed space, and he roamed around to try to understand what they were doing there. From the outside it just looked like talking, and didn't muster the courage to just get in their conversation just for him to stand awkwardly among them understanding nothing they said. They sure liked big words. There was a huge table, with mountains of essays and strange manuscript magazines. He opened one at random and found his own exam.

―What the fuck.

―Yes, it caused quite a stir. They had to publish it.

The guy that kept calling him Adrian had approached him from behind. Fischer didn't like him. He closed the magazine and left him without giving him even a glance. He followed him.

―Adrian! Come here, man!

So he just began to walk faster, eventually losing him, not without losing sight of where he was going. The moment he turned to see if the guy was still following him or not, he crashed with what seemed to him an immobile block of pure steel in the middle of the hallway. From the ground, he regained his senses, only to see a huge man, towering over him like a tower, built like a truck, with a martial air, that looked at him from above. He had one of those shiny pendants military guys wear. They waited for a bit in silence, until the man-truck reached an arm towards him and helped him stand. They maintained a prudent distance between them.

―New guy?

―Yes.

―Hm.

And the man went past him and went inside.

Fischer regrouped himself and continued his way outside. He didn't come back for a week, until he had that famous "tutoring" with doctor professor. He wondered what that would be about. What was he referring with "secret knowledge" and what the military guy was about. He left his imagination go wild. While in class, he randomly drew pictures in the pages of what should be his lecture notes; they were full of wizards, aliens and dinosaurs.

―So, what have you been doing this week?

―You know. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.

―Anything in particular has piqued your interest?

―No, nothing in particular.

―It's normal. Don't worry.

Doctor Professor took a sip of his beer. Fischer stared at his tea mug. He doesn't drink tea, he just wanted to impress the doctor. He also wore an oversized suit and had tried to comb his hair. In hindsight, this proved to be quite ridiculous. "This" was tutoring? They were just talking in a bar about nothing in particular. He didn't know what he expected, but expected something more. Maybe "he" was the one supposed to actually do something, his sense of inadequacy tingling in his stomach. For a moment he debated internally, the words of his girlfriend echoing in his mind. "Do a magic trick." He had brought a yo-yo in his pocket. That was something. But at the last moment he decided against using his trump card and just talked honestly, albeit with enough caution to not be too honest, like you do with a psychiatrist that has actual powers to send you to loonytown, about what was bothering him.

―It's just... I am not very sure of what I am supposed to actually "do" or what do you expect of me.

―I feel you. We have all been there. Well, here.

―So?

―I don't have a straight answer. We expect great things, this institution is and has always been about excellence, but telling you a way forward would betray the same mission we are trying to accomplish. I don't know what you should work on.

And he took a sip of the beer. Fischer looked at it with envy.

―I have an idea. You major history. It was what you wrote that magnificent essay about. Try that again. I don't usually give "homework", but if that's more comfortable to you, for next week bring me a new essay about whatever history topic you want. Even better, I change my mind, make it be about the Neo-Assyrian Empire.

―But I don't know anything about the Neo-Assyrian Empire.

―Come on, don't be shy. We both know that's not true.

And he laughed, the son of a bitch.

―Well, I have to go. I have more people to get slightly drunk with this morning. I know what you think, "professors". Right?

―But...

He had a ton of questions. About the photographs, about the military guy, about the weird books.

―If you have any questions or don't know where to start, there are great sources of information around. You can ask Slinger there, he knows the place well.

And he pointed at a nearby table. Fischer turned, only to see that guy that kept calling him Adrian waving at him and smiling with an air of sufficiency. He turned around, visibly disgusted, but when he did, Miller was no longer there with him.

―Fuck.

Reluctantly, he stood up and sat in the chair front to him.

―I knew you would eventually come to me, Adrian.

―Don't call me Adrian.

He sounded hostile, but to recognize that guys existence was a big step from him.

―So, what do you need?

―A dictionary.

He wasn't willing to admit to that grimly dude he didn't have a clue what the Neon Assyrian empire was.

―What for? There are not dictionaries here. They are banned.

―Why the hell are dictionaries banned.

―They imprison meaning.

He said, like if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

―That makes no sense.

―Just go to a regular library.

And just stood there. Eating a croissant. What a big help.

―Tell me, what do you carry in that huge bag of yours?

―Well, textbooks. And notebooks. And my lunch.

―What for?

―I have class.

―Pffffff! Do you still go to class?

He said it with a superiority grin. He absolutely hated the guy.

―Not because I like it.

―Just tell that professor of yours to get you into the program.

―What program?

―What do you mean what program? Do you know anything about this place?

Evidently not.

―Well I guess they don't let newcomers get into that so easily, if not, word would spread out and any normal himbo would want to come here just to do nothing and get a free pass at college.

Silence. That fit very well with something Fischer would be precisely interested in, but he wouldn't give that guy that kept calling him Adrian the gift of a show of interest and curiosity, something he was very clearly fishing for. Not that he needed it. The guy loved to show off then he knew something someone else didn't.

―Basically it's an official "student program", in which they don't have to take regular tests or go to regular classes and instead can "freely pursue their intellectual interests" taking whatever courses they want, even if they are of a different major or too advanced from them. But of course they advise you to not go to too many; there's a lot of burnout. Then eventually they give them a regular degree on whatever they were originally studying.

Fischer couldn't completely hide his intellectual interest towards scratching his parts during three years.

―But they only give them to those who "show their worth" here, so to speak. They don't give it to any idiot. Also free food at the cafeteria.

And he pointed at this croissant. Again with the fucking grin.

CHAPTER 6 ― BOK

With the stolen pastry still in his mouth, Fischer tied a red ribbon ribbon around his forehead, put the Rocky IV soundtrack on his computer and opened a word document with the intention to work on his neo-serious essay, surrounded by dictionaries and books. And then just stood there not knowing what to do. He had already done everything he knew about working hard, and yet nothing was happening. He even chucked down an energy drink, and still nothing. Mere minutes later, he resorted to just smashing his head against the keyboard and looking up afterwards to see if something "written" in the screen made any sense.

―I give up.

―Babe, don't give up. It's only an essay, you can do it.

He was talking to his girlfriend, this time through some generic face-time computer program with a shitty webcam he didn't remember where he got. She was wearing her pink pajamas.

―I'm not made for this. I have enough trouble with normal homework and normal exams, all this pretentious intellectual sect stuff is too much. And that guy keeps me calling me Adrian.

―Have you tried telling him to stop? Does he even know your name?

―I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

She sighed, and then looked at him devilishly.

―So rough day, huh? Maybe this helps.

And then she proceeded to lift the top part of her pajamas and show her breasts to the screen.

It did.

Fischer worked hard, harder than he ever did. He read stuff and then tried to understand it, he searched Wikipedia and copied and pasted stuff into the word document, and then he even changed the wording of some things to make it seem his own. He worked on that essay the whole week during spare hours, he even got to the second page of his search engine and plagiarized the opinions of obscure people in random internet forums about the whole thing. But only people that didn't have anime girls as avatars and instead dead philosophers and writers. Culture, wars, agriculture, geography, food. A total all-encompassing descriptive piece that could be featured in a historic encyclopedia. He was on fire.

When the entire week ended, he had in his hands a ten page essay, the longest text he had even written by a margin of nine pages of difference, more or less. He was strangely proud of it. Was this what it felt like to do things properly? Maybe he wasn't the idiot he thought he was. Maybe he deserved this one win.

―This is garbage.

Said Miller, and tossed the essay aside. Fischer stood up enraged, ready to punch the guy.

―Why?!

―This is about the Neo-Assyrian Empire!

―You told me to write about the Neo-Assyrian Empire!

―Yes! But I don't care about any Neo-Assyrian Empire!

―I don't care about the Neo-Assyrian Empire either!

―Then why have you written about it?

Fischer was confused, tired, angry and unwilling to answer "tits". Way too many emotions for a day.

―Understand me Fischer, I could have gotten this from anywhere! This could be in an encyclopedia!

―Since when is that a bad thing? That's what you always want!

Doctor Professor dramatically took off his glasses. You could see his usually hidden baggy eyes. He was also quite tired. Fischer noticed it and relaxed a little. He methodically cleaned them, and when he put them back, talked with a softer tone.

―You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding as to why your last essay was good. Your last essay was good because it abstracted the underlying conflicts of a certain topic and conceptualized them in a more general way into something else that didn't have any particular resemblance, but where the intersection of the systems was much more clear and answered indirectly. You have to stop thinking of nations as blobs where stuff that makes sense happens. They're an emergent phenomenon from individual wills and interactions, it takes place not in a world map but mainly in the minds of those that live in it. It's ideas. And that's with everything. 

―But it's not "wrong". Everything I said was in some book!

―A book? A book is not a book. Stop thinking you know what things are just because you have a name for them. Book, book. That's just an identifier. It sounds weirder the more you say it out loud. Book, book. Try it.

―Bok.

―Exactly. My point is, we already have encyclopedias. And textbooks. And dictionaries. Well, not here but you get the point. We have expanded our scientificesque knowledge of the world towards all directions expansively, during the last two thousand years into useful explanations about how things are, and comfortable chains of causation that seem to explain why. But the reductionist representation has it's limits, and the sparse threads of knowledge are disconnected between them, chained to their own isolated pre-existing conceptions. Incapable, no matter how exhaustive, to offer predictive power over the world, only ever smaller marginal hindsight.

Fischer gave him the hardest silence treatment he could muster, but sat in his chair again. This place was his own asylum. Professor should seriously consider starting an ASMR Youtube channel.

―Knowledge, as we understand it, has plateaued. Do you know why?

―Aliens?

―Hahahaha. No.

Miller stood up, and starting pacing towards a window. Fischer was unsure if he was meant to stand up too, and he resorted to just staying where he was and looking at the sides awkwardly. The professor was lost into his own monologue and he could barely hear him anyway, and he didn't want to disturb him.

―And you might think "but don't you need to have a deep understanding of the particular topics you talk about in order to draw those missing connections?" but that only buries you deeper into a particular rabbit hole, with the vain hope that eventually that particular knowledge eventually shows itself to be the whole world, the same inherent conflict of systems organization.

―I understand.

He didn't.

―So it's your choice, really. How do you tackle that problem. Continue writing about the Neo-Assyrian Empire if that is what calls you. I won't oppose it anymore.

―But...

―That's enough for today. See you next week.

And just left. Leaving Fischer thinking what the hell was that all about.

He looked around. The place was busier than usual. Conversations merged into background noise.

―Wait. Does that mean I have to write again about the same thing?

―Sounds like it, Adrian.

In his office, Miller was reflecting. He tried to read again Fischer's essay. Perhaps he was too hard on the guy, he was sure he didn't make a mistake recruiting him. He just needed proper guidance, like he once had. Although, what had he actually done with it?

Thinking that, he naturally, without thinking, walked towards a bookshelf, where there was a black and white picture of a group of serious looking young people with glasses. Somewhat on the center there was someone he knew too well, in a sea of otherwise interchangeable faces. He took the photograph off the frame, and turned it. There was something there written in clean cursive calligraphy. 

"Graduation Class, Physics 1974".

CHAPTER 7 ― AMOR FATI

Next week, the same happened.

And then the next. Miller tried to be patient.

―The problem is, you seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding about where ideas come from. They are not about just learning stuff from books and applying them like as if it was some formula. Neither about writing essays that look good as formal essays but don't say much of anything at all. Because the reaction will be "Well, this is fine. So what?". It's about constant interest driven intellectual activity aimed at no particular end. Much less an essay. 

Fischer was, as usual, turning red in silence.

―Look at this place. People come and have conversations. This place is not inside the university, this place is the university. The institution was built on top of it. People with diverse interests come here, engage with others, and then try to prove each other wrong. Then they go home, or class, explore the hyperspace of available ideas and write stuff that is in essence self-serving bulletproof daggers, and that's how ideas are born. Don't get lost in the formalisms.

He didn't know much about that stuff, but sure he was getting tired of having "fundamental misunderstandings" about pretty much how everything worked in the world. College, taverns, money, government, history, science, girls, football. The list went on and on. 

―He don't like me.

―Why do you say that? You don't know that.

Fischer was talking to his girlfriend again. This time, unfortunately, she was wearing a bra.

―I just don't fit there. Professor Doctor keeps berating me for no reason. But it's not only him. That guy keeps calling me Adrian. Nobody wants to play ping-pong. I don't know what to do. He told me to talk with others but I don't know with whom. Or about what. Or how.

―Just try to talk to someone, don't worry too much. That's how I always do it. 

―With who?

―With anyone! I know I always tell you, but you should really try to make friends.

―I tried!

―Really? Did you!

―Well... I sat with those old guys that only talk about hoplites once.

―And how did it go?

―They looked weird at me and kept talking about hoplites.

―Is that a chess piece?

―For what I could understand from the conversation, I think so.

―Maybe you should talk to them about that empire of yours. They are old, maybe they remember something.

―Yeah... yeah! That's actually a good idea! Plus, one of them had a really weird accent. But... I don't know.

―I think I know what you need. They don't see you as one of them, because you don't look like one of them.

―Are you suggesting I should age a hundred years by tomorrow?

―No, not that. You told me most of people there are nerds and weirdos, right? Do you still have that buttoned shirt I bought you?

―I don't know. Let me see.

Fischer looked through their unpacked stuff. He had gotten around all this clothing stuff by wearing the same two hoodies in a never-ending cycle of sometimes cleaning the one he wasn't wearing on Friday. He found it.

―Put it on. Where are your glasses?

―I dunno.

―Don't you need them to read?

―Yeah but I never wear them because they make me look like a... nerd.

As he said that last word, a light-bulb lightened in his head. This might actually work. He could even borrow some stuff from the guy next door. He was a loser, he had Dragon Ball shirts. So for the next day, he assembled all the pieces, and walked to class with big steps, saying "hi" to people he didn't even know that looked like nerds. He felt liberated, like part of a secret club he didn't understand until then. This was the greatest psyops operation of all time. This must be what being popular felt like. Guys were looking at him. Girls were ignoring him at usual. He even approached a couple of pale kids his age standing a head taller than them with double the shoulders and asked them about the Neo-Assyrian empire, like as if he was asking for directions. No luck. He scoffed at them, making him feel very smart, and made them a sign with double finger pistols and a wink as he was leaving.

He crossed that guy in the hallway to the tavern. He just stood up there, checked him out and just said.

―Nice shirt.

And nothing more. Didn't call him Adrian this time. The costume worked.

Full of confidence, he entered the scene. Unfortunately, the place was emptier than usual, so nobody turned around to see his new look. The hoplite guys weren't there either. Maybe it was their day off. He could only see a middle aged black man sitting in a table for one, wearing a suit, with a suitcase cast aside. Well, it was better than nothing. Going against his deepest principles, he approached and prepared to talk with a complete stranger that had done nothing to him. It couldn't be that bad.

He looked at him for an instant, as he was sitting down, and continued to write in his book. He didn't seem bothered at all. At least until he started talking.

―You look like a phony.

―What?

―You look like a phony.

Fischer felt like a bucket of water had been just emptied in his head. This was a stupid idea. This was all a stupid idea. He made a gesture to leave.

―Don't worry, I don't think the others will notice. I just have already seen it all. Please, stay.

He said that, all the while he was doing his thing. Fischer looked closely. He was writing inside a hardcover book. Just the book didn't have any text in it. Is this how books are written? Fischer wasn't sure. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked at him straight in the eye. He had a hidden intensity. You could not explain it, but Fischer felt it instantly in the hair behind his neck. Looked old and young at the same time, with what couldn't be described in any other way than arachnid features.

―You don't know who I am, do you?

―No, sir.

―Are you afraid?

―Yes, sir.

―Why?

―I don't know.

―Sir.

―Sir.

Using his whole face at once, in a complete transformation, the man smiled.

―You don't need to call me sir, darling.

Made a gesture with his hand saying that, offering it in peace. He had his fingernails painted. Also was very strong.

―Anansi.

―Fischer.

So that was fucking weird. 

The rest of the day had also some mixed results. He managed to talk with some more people, and a chubby girl had taught him how to pretend how to do a rubik cube. You just follow a series of pre-established steps and it's done; he had no idea why he did them and what effect they had but it completed the cube every single time. He only had to concentrate in making a concentrating face and the magic trick was completed. Nothing the girl could say about that being what everybody does could curb his enthusiasm. He pretended to like and/or care about a lot of stuff he had already forgotten about. He cleaned in public his glasses. Also he played at chess with a couple of guys. His grandfather had taught him how to move the horse when he was little, so it was no big trouble. He would had been fine if the guy he was playing against didn't blatantly cheat.

―I am not cheating. This is an actual, real move.

―Since when?

―Well there's come controversy, but it's generally accepted that the modern rules of chess solidified somewhere between the XIV and XV century.

―I don't believe you. My grandfather didn't fight in the war for this French bullshit.

―Dude, it doesn't even matter. You are behind by a thousand pieces anyway.

―Then leave my hoplite where it was.

―No.

They had to restrain him.

At the end of the day, Fischer let himself fall into a nearby sofa, exhausted. He had advanced nothing in his search for something neo-Assyrian to write about. Well, at least now he knew that in fact hoplites were in fact chess pieces. That would come in handy in his next week exam about Ancient Greece. Because that was still a thing, by the way. Life is not like those sitcoms where stuff happens and then when the next thing happens it's like the thing that happened before is no longer happening, like in the news. 

Then, like if he hadn't realized what he was doing until that point, he noticed he was actually reading the book he had in his hands, a book nobody had told him to, a huge one he bought only to hold in public places to make him look smart. He had an small but potent existential crisis.

―What have I become. What the hell am I doing. I have real classes and real exams.

He covered his own face with both hands.

―I just need to apply myself, to the things that really matter, and stop all this nonsense. I don't want to be liked by these people. I don't have stupid fucking "intellectual interests" to explore. I am not like this people. I just want to be left alone, get a degree, work some worthless job and marry Sussie. Those are my interests. Nothing more. Is that so bad? And if I have to go to class and study normally for a couple of more years, that's what I will do, and that's that. If I had focused on studying for that history test instead of going to that party nothing of this would've happened. This is a sign. A wake up call for me.

But Fate had other plans. She was carrying a huge old tube TV with both hands and didn't see Fischer's legs standing out from the sofa. If it weren't for his early developed stupid dad instincts, she would have probably almost definitely killed herself and the television. Instead, luckily, Fischer had time to save the TV.

―Oh shit, are you alright?

The girl was struggling on the floor. Fischer left the TV delicately on the couch.

―No...

And then stood up, like nothing had happened. She had blue hair, was in her early twenties, and had a strange tattoo Fisher could have swear he had seen somewhere else.

―But I will be. Can you help me put this over there?

―Sure.

They moved the TV over to the table in front of the sofa, that was covered with gadgets and cables.

―We used this huge thing instead of a normal one because it was the only one that happened to work with the console. They were making some sort of study about emerging metagames and transient Nash Equilibrium, so we cracked the OldStation to run all the games to make some simulations. Me, I did that. I am good with computers. Anyway I didn't find a big enough trash so I am putting it here. Thanks for helping me! I am Fate, well that's how they call me. Who are you? Cute glasses.

He had fallen in love. 

That was the dream console of his childhood.

―Does this have Ultra-Smash?

―Yeah, well. Like I said, all the games.

He debated internally. No, he shouldn't. He had stuff to do. A life to be lived. A newfound resolution. Oh my god these are the original controllers. Well, he could play one game. Just one, to take the edge off. Then, he could go home and just focus on what he really was supposed to be doing.

―Hey, are you there?

The girl was snapping her fingers in front of him, but Fischer was too far gone. She chugged, and continued her path. "What a weird nerd." And left him alone with a controller in his hand. 

You can imagine the rest.

CHAPTER 8 ― FISCHER GPT

Two weeks later.

Fischer was drowned in the same sofa, with empty pizza boxes, cheap beer cans and cheeto dust all over him. He really wasn't in good shape. He had lost track of time, days and nights, and just had participated in a two week bender or sleepover only he was invited to. People had come and gone during the days, watching him obsessively playing Ultra-Smash with interested curiosity, but without actually getting too close. I guess they thought it was some kind of performance. Weird stuff like that happened all the time. Well, not like that, just weird stuff.

―Fischer!

―Yes! Yes! What!

He had woken up. In front of him was Miller. He stood up hastily. It was daytime.

―What are you doing? I return and find out you have not appeared in class, nor taken your exams, and come here to find you sleeping and... whatever the hell is going on here! Do you even have your essay about the Neo-Assyrians?

―Mhhhhh. No.

―I leave two weeks. Two weeks! And the whole place falls down.

Fischer looked around. Everything was more or less the same.

―I wouldn't say...

―Do you have any excuse for yourself?

Sure he had come back from holidays combative.

―Yes. Yes, of course. I have been working on... You see this is about...

Fischer's brain cells were working overtime to try to come up with a justification on why playing videogames and eating pizza was completely justified instead of doing what was assigned for him to do. Luckily, he had a lot of experience on that task with his mum. And girlfriend. And other professors. And flatmates.

―C'mon, c'mon think you stupid dumb-ass. Be smarter.

He tried to remember random words and concepts he had heard and read about these last months here. And somehow he managed to cook something from that soup that sounded palatable. A word salad so nasty about emergence and complexity and Nash Equilibrium and metagame, we don't have the permits to repeat here.

―I just need a bit more time, to... put it together. But it's done. Well, it's almost done.

―Is it?

―Yeah.

Miller sighed, alleviated. Then, he started laughing.

―I was kidding! I told you to pursue your interests and you are doing so. Do I care if they are intellectual in origin or a video-game? No. I mean, "I" don't. Your teachers are furious at you for flunking class though, but I'm sure that's not a problem. Just study a little for the finals to compensate and you will be fine. An A will be enough.

―What?

―AND you actually have something? That's great news! Good job Fischer, good job. I'm proud of you. I'm dying to hear all about it. Put this all together, wrap it up, and send it to my office next Monday. Good luck!

And he left, visibly happy.

Fischer, methodically, without even daring to start an internal dialog with himself, left all his trash exactly where it was and left the place to go back to his usual bedroom. He saw a million missed calls from his girlfriend, spent two hours on the phone in a conversation full of shit and full of crying. It was nighttime when it ended, leaving everything more or less resolved. More or less. Who knew. Certainly, not him.

He proceeded to punch a concrete wall. The whole building trembled. He felt impotent, he felt the dumbest he had ever felt. He fucked up. Big time. There was no silly occurrence out of the grave he had dug for himself. He needed to sleep.

Woke up the next day to the sound of his first alarm. Like a soldier. He mechanically showered, had breakfast, made coffee, forgot about it, brushed his teeth, grabbed his backpack and got going.

―Today, I am a robot. No distractions. Just work.

He kept repeating that to himself, like a mantra. It kind of worked. He sat at a table in the library (the regular one, not the one with dictionaries banned) with a computer and went through a ton of articles and books about game theory; that turned out to be math; and everything remotely related to what he had invented the day before he was working on. Hours fell upon him like heavy rain. He had two days. Started watching stuff about the game itself. But people were just talking about the game. Superficial stuff. Everything sounded increasingly superficial. Descriptions of abilities, obvious statements about powerful characters, shallow tier lists. It was like, they saw the game but didn't understand the explosion of complexity any single decision was really like, and how they spiraled into metastable strategies.

―Holy shit I am starting to sound like them. Concentrate, concentrate. Stop looking at the game. I am a robot. Read books.

But as hard as he tried, he had to admit he had nothing. He tried again the next day, with identical results. He had only a page of doodles and scribbles he had done while thinking about nothing at all. In a last ditch effort, he skimmed through the pages of the books Miller had given to him the first day. Nothing.

That was it for him. It was already noon. Tomorrow, he would be dead. Gone. Vanished. How on earth could he recover from skipping classes during two weeks and getting all the real teachers mad. He couldn't. He hadn't got an A since elementary school. And that was in gymnastics.

―It's over.

He said, as he surrendered to the sofa that had been his ultimate demise. And with nothing else to do, he started to play again. One game. Another. He was on a streak, on the zone. A guy sat next to him, but he didn't even notice. And during a moment, watching the character selection screen, competing online in the low elo brackets of an obscure outdated game, he had an idea. For a fleeting, precious moment, it all made sense. The disconnected threads of complex concepts and arcane information had converged into his brain, all the books he had been reading, all the excerpts of conversations he overheard. The words of a thousand sages and the cumulative knowledge of a thousand nerds coalesced in his head. "Remember... Every decision contains the whole world..." That's it. That was it.

―I should play EarthDigger against Metabro.

And he did.

CHAPTER 9 ― DOWN-B

―That was great.

―Who the heck are you?

Fischer, upon winning the game, had finally realized someone was sitting next to him at a prudent distance. It was a skinny and pale guy he could remember walking around the campus. He looked slightly ill, probably because of lack of sleep and sun.

―Sorry, I'm Jeremy. You must be Fischer.

―How do you know my name?

―You kind of stand out here. Also, I read your article.

―Oh that. Did you like it?

―Didn't understand a thing.

He liked that guy. Seemed honest.

―Do you want to play?― Extending him a second controller nobody had the guts to pick up.

―Sure.

And they played a couple of games in silence. Jeremy was not bad. Although he got lost in complicated combos and overly high-level strategies instead of mashing over and over the broken down-b attack his character had. So he lost every time.

―I've seen what you did there with EarthDigger. Nobody would've come up with that pick.

―You think so?

―Yeah. I think you are into something.

Upon winning another game, Fisher tossed aside the controller. He was tired.

―Yeah, it doesn't matter anyway. Nothing really matters.

―It's a bit much, this place. Right? It does that to people. Well, it does that to me.

―Uh?

―I mean, you think you know things, then you come here. And you can't sleep because every idea folds into itself. Sometimes you think you realized something, or glimpsed the real complexity of a particular topic. And that moment is great, and addictive. But then the next second you come back and find yourself further abstracted from practical solutions to the most basic task. That's why your pick was impressive. You managed to cut right through the Gordian knot.

―What is a Gordian knot?

―A knot very hard to untie. It represents complexity.

Fischer was very surprised to have gotten a direct and simple answer to a question that he could understand. Those were hard to come by around here. He liked that guy.

―Why do they ban dictionaries?

―I guess it's because they perpetuate the illusion that concepts are built with definite meanings, instead of around a social game of language founded on loose associations. You can thank Wittgenstein. Miller is a big fan.

―You kind of lost me there.

―I know, I know. It's part of the idea anyway. Don't worry too much about what stuff means, and just use words.

He chuckled.

―That's what has gotten me in this mess.

―What mess?

And Fischer explained to him the situation.

―So now I'm dead. Done.

―Well... actually, probably I can help you with that. Your idea was not that far off. Probably I can muster some more words and make you something actually meaningful to present to him.

―Idea? What idea? There is no idea. I made it up.

―Even if you can't see it, inside that mumbo jumbo I think there actually was an idea. I saw it on the screen. When we make up stuff, the best actual way to do it is to actually create something and represent it. Hallucination is not a bug, it is the actual process of factual knowledge. I learned it when I was working on AI. It's ideas all the way down. Like with tortoises. You feel me?

―No. But I like tortoises.

―Anyway, the point is that there's something there. We can write it together if you want. I won't take credit.

―Why are you helping me?

―I dunno.

And they spent the night autistically talking about UltraSmash, Jeremy taking notes like crazy and later typewriting stuff in a notebook, while Fischer kept talking and playing at the same time. In the morning, he actually had something to show Doctor Professor. A three page study about transient metagames signed by them both. Was this cheating? It felt like cheating. He had made some group work in highschool, and the formula didn't change much, he played games while others did all the work. Jeremy insisted it was not the same.

―Collaborating is not cheating. In any case, I am the one cheating. I am taking your ideas, translating it into English and in the process making them seem my own. Are you sure you want my name on the paper?

―Please.

―Here. It is done. Miller should appear in about half an hour. But I can't stay. You'll have to defend it on your own.

―What?! I don't even know what all this means! I haven't even read it in full!

―You will be fine. Just read it while you wait. I have to go now. I'm sorry.

―Don't be sorry. I owe you my life. Hey, let's play ping-pong when you come back.

―Sure!

Fischer watched, as his guardian angel left the room. The dude didn't eat or sleep during the whole night. He looked like he could fall to the ground at any time. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten the whole pizza by himself. He asked but Jeremy told him he didn't want any. Maybe because of the pineapple. But he didn't have time to think about that. He had an essay to read, a document whose understanding upon pended his whole future life. He fell asleep almost instantly. And dreamed of impossible dragons.

CHAPTER 10 ― SUPERCRITICAL

When he woke up, the document was no longer in his hands. He sat up, and saw Doctor Professor reading, mumbling to himself. To his side, a cold and abandoned coffee cup. Fischer approached nonchalantly, and sat in front of him. Respectfully waited for him to finish reading, hoping he would not ask much.

―Fischer, this is... It's just... I don't know.

―Is it good?

―Yeah, I mean, I guess. I feel I don't fully have the capability to tell. It's like, free verse poetry, or a Pollock. I don't know if it's nothing or I am just not smart enough. Makes me feel pretty stupid, actually. Do you know the feeling?

―I vaguely remember it.

―And did you come up with all this just by playing that silly videogame? That's impressive. I'm going to be honest here: it is not what I expected; but to be fair I am telling you to do stuff like this because I don't know what we want. The edges of knowledge are tricky seas to navigate.

What the hell did Jeremy write in there.

Miller was still thinking, going over the pages. Fischer was tired. And needed a beer. So he got one, a real cold one. They had the fridge connected to the physics department, where they used a very expensive super collider to freeze them to death while maintaining supercritical so they don't turn into ice. Fascinating stuff. They hurt like hell when chugged down. It didn't matter. Liquid courage, that was what he needed now.

―Hey, Mr. Professor. There was something I wanted to ask you about.

Doctor Mister Professor signaled him to continue, without removing the eyes from a weird diagram.

―You see, I have been missing some of the classes, and I find that ultimately they take a lot of my time... I could focus more on this stuff if I had some more, leeway. I don't know, if I was in some sort of program that let me do my... thing.

And then stopped, and waited for an answer.

When he realized he was supposed to say something, Miller looked at him with surprise.

―What do you mean? What program?

―You know that program where we don't have to take tests and they pay for our stuff so we can do other things but they still graduate us anyway. You know what? This is a mistake, I wasn't supposed to know this. But somebody told me. I'm sorry. Forget about it, I will study for my finals, right?

―Keep calm Fischer, it's fine you don't have to apologize about it.

Fischer had overheated, which was a contrast with the drink. He had tried to backtrack mid-explanation, but the damage was already done. Professor now knew what he was all about. He fucked up. Spoke about it too soon. Only had been here for about a month and a half. Then, the professor talked again.

―I just don't know what you're talking about. There's no such program.

―There isn't?

―Never has been.

―Then what the fuck am I doing here?

―Pardon?

That slimy little pimp had played with him. There was no program. And thus, no reason for him to be here. What the hell was this. What the fuck was he doing here. He could be, right now, fucking his girlfriend in a nursing school apartment. And then, play some videogames. And then, study to get a close pass at the normal exams. He chugged another beer down. Which hit him hard. Something about the situation, the sleep deprivation, the alcohol and the liquid nitrogen had a bad reaction, and he stood up. Approached a nearby table against a wall, that gave a view towards the whole room, and climbed it with a huge jump. Everybody present turned to watch him at the same time. Miller was the last.

―You're all a bunch of entitled presumptuous bastards.

He only thought that far. But everyone was staring, and didn't feel like coming off the table yet, so he continued talking.

―I am not smart. I tricked you all. My exam was some nonsense I just wrote so I wouldn't flunk a normal first grade history test, and you eat it all up like it was something. Nothing you ever say makes any sense and it's just stupid. Everything I have done here was an elaborate fraud to make you feel like I'm smart but I'm not. But you're no different!

He pointed directly at the guy that kept calling him Adrian, who looked at the scene in complete disbelief and at the same time, like it was a Christmas miracle.

―You only run around pretending you know things, everything orchestrated with the sole purpose to make yourselves look superior to each other and nothing more. You don't care about these things. You only think you do because you have fooled yourselves too, but you're idiots. "Everything is relative, this and that". Every word you mutter is not about truth or reason but an attempt to optimize for "what could I say that would make my parents and professors love me because I'm smart". And you know what? They don't! Because you're idiots. "Oh, look at me I have ideas". I have ideas too. What about books but nobody understands them. What about math, but with letters in it. What about chess, but with time travel and more dimensions. What about music but it fucking sucks. You all make me sick.

Somewhere in the middle of the rant he realized he was wearing a NASA shirt. He took it off, struggling a lot to do so, in the clumsiest, dumbest and slowest way possible; getting tangled in his own simple T-shirt, knocking away his glasses in the process. Now there was just an angry, half-naked huge guy on top of a table, screaming his lungs out.

―And you know what? I am done! I'm going now to fuck my girlfriend. A shout out to Jeremy, he's a real one.

Dropped a non-existent mic, came off the stage. And left just like that.

A few people laughed, a few people clapped. Most people were silent.

CHAPTER 11 ― MANHATTAN

Chance wanted, for some reason, for that day to be the day of some important reunion, so important people were present to witness Fischer's meltdown. Among them, almost every head of every department of the university. They rushed into an adjacent room, still shocked at the occurrence. They started talking administrative matters. Miller was deeply focused on his own thoughts, not paying attention to anything said. The scene had visibly left a deep impression on him.

―Miller, are you with us?

―Yes, yes. Sorry.

A middle aged woman with severe expression and a ridiculous hat had asked him. But he retracted.

―In fact. No. Guys, all of this you are saying is very important, but I think there's an elephant in the room.

―You mean your last simian recruit? I found it kind of grotesque. Like if God had given an animal just enough sentience to mock the entirety of the human race.

Asked another man, very similar to Miller in aspect, age, demeanor, clothing, hairstyle, beard, but used a slightly more expensive chalk. Imported, from Japan. Also a slight german accent. They looked at each other adversarialy.

―That young man. I like the cut of his jib. Who is it?

An old, very short professor had asked. In fact, forget about who says who. Just imagine it however you want. Writing reunion scenes is a drag if I have to explain everything, and cuts the rhythm in half each time. If you have trouble, imagine that scene in The Lord of The Rings where they are talking in Rivendell about the fate of the world.

―A new guy.

―That was certainly quite a scene. He's bold, I have to give him that. Is he any good?

―He's the one that wrote that Neo-Assyrian essay.

―So, what do we have to talk about? He says he's not coming back. This is a free country. I don't see what that's gotta do with us. It's just another first year, it's not like we are short on those. We don't need him. I have a room full of people next door that can write like that.

―Then why are they not doing it?

The head of philosophy was about to reply, but Miller had passed him a document over the table. It was the last work Fischer had given him, co-authored with Jeremy. The professor and the ones directly sitting next to him started to read it carefully.

―This is a Pollock.

―It just seems nonsense to me.

―I'm... not quite sure.

―Who is Jeremy?

―What is an EarthDigger?

They passed it along, and sometimes had to be stripped from the reader's hands. When they finished, they looked at Miller, who was very serious still.

―Gentlemen. Sometimes we don't remember it because it all seems so quiet. But we are in a war. And we are stranded on the enemy beach.

―Not this again.

―Andrew, let him finish.

―I have been to Belgrade. Everyone is the same. If we are in this situation, they all are.

―So there's where you have been this past weeks.

―Something has to change.

―We already know your point, but Miller; you seem to forget that this institution is older than all of us put together here. It has survived, maintaining its internal idiosyncrasy, three world wars, the catholic church, the burning of the library of Alexandria, the fall of the Roman empire (twice), MTV and the flooding of the first floor, and always come out on top. We just don't see the huge need to change now.

―This is bigger than all that.

―Are you joking?

―Yeah, we had to wear slippers for a month.

―Come on Francis, don't joke about this.

―I'm not! I start to feel my age, you know?

―In fact, if anything, it's our way of thinking, our method of knowledge, the only one that has proved, time and time again, to be able to subvert our own pitfalls and push back against external forces. After (and thanks to) all our efforts, we're stable and running.

―You're wrong. We are in a giant spiral.

That caused an outrage, quickly stopped by the old lady, with a teacher banshee like shriek.

―Enough! All of you.

Then just returned to her usual mellow voice.

―It's just that, Miller. I don't see why this is relevant to anything. We have had this conversation a million times. What does it have to do with the naked boy?

―The point is. We need him. And not only him. We need real, transformative people. You guys babble about the sacrosanctness of this institution. But this is not an institution. We are a bunch of guys that meet at a bar. We have carcinified, converged into the same organizational pattern. Institutionalized ourselves. When was the last time we had a party? When was the last time a player came here and found another one?

―This is not what we are about.

―It certainly isn't.

―It isn't? I think I'm in the wrong pub then.

Everybody looked at Francis, the old man. He scoffed.

―You guys are young so maybe don't remember, but there used to be some wild stuff going on here. You don't get smart people to come here just under the pretense of fruitful conversation. It can work for a while, but eventually you only attract and create pretentious assholes like us, as the young naked fella was suggesting and what I guess Miller is talking about. The internal tension of the informal structure is creating snobs. Have you seen that photography of Feynman at the entrance? How do you think we managed to get him to come? We threw wild parties. One time he did two ladies in this very sofa you are sitting at.

The two people sitting on the sofa stood up instantly, visibly disgusted.

―Oh, come on Gilberta. You have five kids and a million grandchildren, and you know where these come from. Don't be all sophisticated now. We had it cleaned a century ago anyway. Or I think we did.

―This is all very fascinating Francis, but I don't think anyone wants this turned into a frat house.

―Me neither. But you guys have to agree something has to be shaken up. Do you guys really want to spend the rest of your days watching another reinterpretation of Death of a Salesman? ―He listed things, looking at the respective head of department of each particular topic.― Listening to enterprise interdisciplinary synergistic jargon? Seeing another incomprehensible piece of performative art in the hallway? Another idiot suggesting a theory of everything with the same foundational flaws of the last one, reading another paper on the possible medical applications of whatever, another social commentary that looks like a scientific paper to give it an air of legitimacy instead of owning up to his arguments, another subversion of the hero's journey, another philosophical analysis of post-modernity that references pop culture and has needless footnotes about Hegel and Marx, another re-imagining of Bach with an ethnic instrument, another...?

―Oh God no, please stop! You're killing me!

Francis was covering his head with both hands, shaking in horror.

―They seem to be obsessed by that sort of things. I don't get why.

―I do. They are doing it because they think we want them to.

―Then I don't know where they get the idea from.

―It's identity performance. The result of a losing arms race towards individuation.

―What?

―Intellectual Peacocking.

―Gross.

―No, it's not. They do it because they get caught in certain topics and certain problems and transform the instrumentality of "solving problems" into a transcendental goal. It's just that they get so entrenched on it that they keep solving the same problem over and over, or different ones but never changing again the necessary conceptualizations they internalized on the way there.

―Your point is that we should do new things. But we already do new things. We all do. We slowly aggregate knowledge until eventually someone generalizes it. This is the way, it's slow, but it works.

―And how on earth does that "someone generalizes it" exactly work? Magic? Such a task is not like the other. Accumulations of small technical improvements don't change paradigms. It takes something else to create new things.

―Like what?

―We have no earthly idea! Nobody does. If we did, I would be in Vegas right now.

―Exactly, thanks Francis. We do things, but we do them the same old way. New old things. And it works, when it works. It has worked.

―Why force it then?

―Because time is speeding; running out. Have you been out there? Have you talked with a seventeen year old recently? They're hyperreal. All of them. You know this. You all know where this is going.

The room fell silent for the first time in several minutes. Then, they started talking between themselves. Miller stood aside with his arms crossed, convinced to have made his point clear. The silence came back, a sort of decentralized decision taken.

―So, what's your plan.

―I want to create a program. Not just for Fischer, but for about a dozen of them. A class with full credits of whatever they are studying, access by invitation. Free inquiry, no obligations, surrogate graduation, no tuition. No tests, no grades, just supervision. An hour a day, with free lunch. He, I will take as an associate. I want to see what they can do if given the chance to make something their own. I want to get ahead of the game, for one time in our lives.

―This is madness.

―I agree, it's too much.

―Is it? Do you guys want to be the ones to call Santa Fe at the end of the semester and tell them we have nothing again?

Everyone looked at their feet, cowered in both shame and fear.

―I thought so.

―How are you going to find them, anyway. This guy, Fischer. Seems one of a kind.

―Don't worry, I have run the numbers. He will eventually find them. It's gonna be fine.

―But why do you need all that stuff? They're there, just meet up with them and do whatever you want.

―They seem to be lost in the persistent illusion that their careers hold some value. I don't know why. You can buy them in eBay. Plus, we will need them to focus all their energies in the direction we want. And the best way to do that, as you all know, is to convince them that's what they want. And the best way to do it is, for the moment, is to let them do whatever they want. To do that, they need some degree of freedom.

―Sounds like a fairy tale. Are you sure it's going to give results? Have you run the calcs?

―Twice this morning.

Gilberta was thinking. Miller talked to her very low.

―Belgrade. Cairo. Shanghai.

―Hmmm.

―Mallorca.

She lifted her head, and inhaled deeply.

―I'm in.

―That's my girl!

Others were still not convinced.

―By supervision I guess you mean "your" supervision, right?

―That would be the idea, yes.

―I'm going to say it. I don't like the idea. But I get that it's going to be done anyway so let me just say that I don't think you should be the one to run it. At least not the only one. Andrew?

―I want one too.

They all looked shocked. They all expected him to heavily push back against the idea.

―I want my own team.

―So, to start. This is not anyone's "team". We are all in this together. Enough with the stupid rivalry. If someone supervises some kids in this stupid program or whatever you call it, that doesn't make it their own tools of war. I will help you guys, even if it's only to ensure that doesn't happen.

―Very well then. Just a little detail left.

―What now?

―Funding.

―Funding? That's no problem, Miller. Just talk with Nansi.

Miller's heart stopped for a microsecond. He could not hide it very well. Whoever said that smirked with malice. The reunion dissolved shortly after. Miller and Andrew shared a glimpse of each other eyes.

He was exhausted, standing up next to the door, saying goodbye to everyone. This was not the day he had expected, at all. Not in his wildest dreams. Just Francis remained to leave the room, and as he put his old hat on his old head he turned to him with a severe look he hadn't used in a while.

―I agree on your what. But I don't think anyone here apart from me fully understands your why.

And left, as jolly as ever.

CHAPTER 12 ― CABBAGES AND KINGS

A week later, Fischer had come back from his spiritual journey to nursing school, and was again on campus. He prepared his backpack and was ready to go back to class and try his best to act as if nothing had happened, confident that if he just pretended hard and long enough, eventually all would get back to normal. And he succeeded, for about the twenty minutes he needed to go from his bedroom to the faculty, where he found Jeremy sitting in the stairs that lead to his class, waiting for him.

Five minutes later, they were walking aimlessly through the exterior gardens.

―What you said was very true, I think we all feel the same, one way or another.

―That's not true.

―Well, it's different in any case, but the whole "pretending to be smart" bit was quite on point.

―Still not the same.

―The difference being, you actually are smart.

―Am I? I don't know. I think you are too caught up in the notion of smart-dumb as the absolute spectrum of possibilities, but I don't think that's a good way to categorize people. Yes, I can do some things most people can: solve certain kinds of problems, play certain games, get certain grades. But you can also do things I can't.

―Like what?

―Win at Ultra-Smash, have a girlfriend, jump without a shirt over a table in front of dozens of people.

―But that's not very useful.

―Neither are mine.

―That's true.

Jeremy smiled at his own absurd expectation about him, keep telling him how smart he was, something he had grown accustomed to through his life, and hated the concept of, but still some part of him desperately needed.

―It's like, we are walking different directions in a sense.

―No we aren't.

―I mean figuratively you idiot.

Fischer laughed at the idiot remark.

―I mean, everyone, since I was little, was convinced that I was smart. And they convinced me. You sort of create your identity around that from that point, and even if you are not very smart, or just were born in January or you have a slight developmental lead in some cognition area, and enforce that idea because if you're not the smart one, if you don't invest yourself into maintaining that definition, then who are you? It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

―That's deep man.

―And some part of it works, it makes you do things you wouldn't do that actually make you "smarter" than you would otherwise become. But on the other hand, the actual best solution to the problem is to perform, even to yourself, whatever makes you appear as such, in order to perpetuate the narrative. You actually develop smart and stimulating interests that align with your now internalized sense of self-worth. But when that narrative falls short (because you met actual smart people, or because you fail at things dumb people don't) as it always does, you try to justify your exceptionalism at all costs, and it becomes a prison of expectations. Until eventually the gap dissipates completely, and you slowly realize you are quite dumb. And with that goes your self-identity.

―I don't see what that has to do with me.

Jeremy frowned slightly. He was getting honest and sharing deep realizations about himself, and this guy didn't care about them unless they had to do with him. But then shrugged. Actually, why would he. He did the same, over and over again.

―The point is, you seem to walk the other way, and we meet at the middle. You are somehow convinced you are dumb, but the compensatory effort you exert when trying to understand things you don't gets you forward.

―You mean when I invent the plot of a movie when I don't understand the dialogue and it turns out to be not that far off?

―Yes! Exactly. You may not realize it, but doing so you make a high-level abstract conceptualization of the world, which is then free to be applied to a variety of situations not directly linked to the original topic. That's why Miller likes your essays when you let your mind go boundless and stop trying to do what you perceive smart people do; or what mediocre teachers tell you.

―Oh.

―And slowly, you are realizing that you are "smart". Whatever that means. That's why we walk in opposite directions.

Fischer thought about it deeply, exerting himself in the process. His head started normal, then red, then normal again. When he had finished his process, talked with a soothing voice.

―I don't know. I still think you are smart in a way I am not. I think this whole thing is just a form to make you sound smarter than people that try to show they are smart.

The young skinny kid automatically went to reply against it, but then froze in place due to the horrific realization that the idiot might be right about him. He made a mental note to think about it later. He had to run to Fischer to catch up, as he hadn't realized he was walking alone and continued talking.

―How do you know what I said in there anyway? You weren't there.

―You don't know? Someone recorded it. It's on YouTube.

They passed along a group of idiots, one of which directly pointed at him for the others to see, and proceeded to take off his shirt and started dancing.

―Hey Fischer!

Fischer's blood had abandoned his body, and now was rocking a terror pale tone. No, please, no. Would people recognize him now, laugh at him, and worst of all, strangers would try to talk to him on the street?

―Let's go someplace else.

―Yes!

And he started running into the woods behind the parking lot. Which was a bit excessive, especially considering he used to play football and had still some stamina from those days, and fast legs. Jeremy, who instead played in the chess team, really had to make an effort to not lose him. Again. When he reached him, Fischer was again talking, while he was holding his knees and trying to not vomit.

―I had a good run, anyway. This university stuff was fun. Shame it didn't work out. I will go to my father's, learn to plant cabbages or refuel disposable lighters or whatever he does and live the rest of my life without opening a stupid book. Yes, that's what I will do. It was nice meeting you. Give me your address, I will send you a postcard when I get there.

He was serious.

―Wait, wait, wait. What do you mean.

―I'm leaving. I failed my classes, everybody laughs at me, I'm leaving.

―Oh yeah, right. You don't know yet. Miller got you into the program.

―Who's Miller?

Jeremy was stunned. This is not how the conversation had played out in his head when he was thinking about it. Fischer had an outstanding capacity at subverting expectations, regardless if he considered it valuable or not.

―Really? You were supposed to say "what program".

―Sorry I'm not very good at this.

―At what?

―I don't know! What are you talking about? Just tell me whatever you have to tell me and that's it.

―They made a student program. You really have to talk with the professor, but I think you're supposed to be a teacher. He said you don't have to go to classes anymore, or take exams so you can focus on this instead. In fact, that's why I was looking for you, he asked me to tell you all this. I mean, we signed that paper together and all, but I had no idea where to find you so I went to the...

But Jeremy's voice was fading away, behind the increasing, initially timid and subtle laugh of Fischer; now in full eruption.

―Hahahaha.

―What's the matter? Are you OK?

―HAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Now rolling on the floor, covering his whole shirt with leaves and only half-dried mud from two nights before. Jeremy was watching the scene, unsure on how to react. Everything he said or did just made him laugh even more. He laughed a little bit too, but eventually couldn't follow, and just sat there in disbelief. I mean he actually sat there, because it was taking so long for Fischer to stop laughing that he was getting legit tired of just standing. There it was, the future of the centuries long secret institution he had worked so much to get into, wallowing in the dirt. It was fascinating. And then, in the same way it started, the laughter fizzled out. Fischer stood up, remarkably calm and serious, removed some leaves from his trousers, some tears from his eyes, and started walking.

―Let's go see Miller. Do you know where he lives?

CHAPTER 13 ― ISAIAH

―Why do you want to know where he lives? Shouldn't he be in his office?

―Yeah. Where professors live.

―Alright.

They started walking again towards the campus, trying to ignore the few people pointing at him.

―Listen... aren't they mad at me?

―I don't think so. Maybe a bit shocked, but that's fine.

Fischer tried to worry, but for some reason found the whole thing very funny instead. They arrived at the reception and asked for Miller's office. Then went there, and got informed that he wasn't there. They looked at the bar, at the department, but nothing.

―Like I said, let's go where he lives.

―No, you said "go where he lives" but you meant to go to his office. Now you mean "go to his house".

―Yeah, where he lives. Do you think professors live in his office? That's ridiculous. They have houses as well.

Jeremy couldn't figure out if he was kidding or not.

―Do you know where he lives or not?

―Yes, yes, I do. But I don't know if we should go there.

―Why not?

―OK, you win. Whatever.

A few minutes later, they were in an adjacent urbanization next to the campus, where some weird houses and apartments tried to give the impression of a normal separate neighborhood. For some reason, they didn't quite accomplish said task. This place always have an eerie feel to it, a sort of simulacrum takes place. They are on the surface normal houses, with their front gardens and parked cars, but you always know an academic lives there, an entity whose true place in nature is a classroom and don't quite make sense outside of it. Ever met a teacher in a supermarket, trying to pretend they have a normal grocery-shopping life? It's like that, but with houses.

―Ding-dong.

Fischer liked to say it when ringing people's houses.

―By the way, why do you know where he lives. That's weird.

But before he could answer, somebody opened the door. It wasn't the professor. Nor his wife. A handsome and tall middle aged man with a wardrobe and slippers opened up. They became paralyzed, and Fischer turned violently red. They didn't know what they were expecting. In fact, they weren't expecting anything at all. Still, they weren't expecting that. Jeremy snapped out of his confusion, and used Talk.

―We're here to... I mean. Is this the professor's house?

―Well, it's a professor's house.

―Miller.

―Honey, there's some white skinny student here to see you!

A voice from the other side of the house uttered something vaguely resembling "tell him to see me in office hours", but with a lot more of swearing in between those words.

―...and some strange boy that appears to be his bodyguard! Or the gardener! I'm not sure!

"Sounds familiar." He first thought. "Oh shit, that's Fischer." Miller realized, and reached to grab some pants. A minute later he appeared at the door, where Jeremy had been sharing awkward glances and mundane questions with that man. Not Fischer anyway, who had been solidly staring at his feet the whole time.

―Guys! What are you doing here? Come in! Come in!

They reluctantly obliged. The house was quite normal, but still had some eerie feeling. It was quite obvious Miller hadn't decorated it himself, and the only things that were actually his contrasted with the whole setting; strange gyroscopes, models of aircraft that didn't actually exist, world maps, diplomas and books. Lots of bizarre books, both manuscripts and with hard cover, mixed with unrelated common books that made the whole mix even more enigmatic. Like collections of cooking recipes made by nuns or the complete collection of that lame series of vampires and werewolves that for some reason loved the same inane chick that Fischer had watched the movies just to know how terrible it was and wasn't at all obsessed about not even in an ironic way because they were so stupid.

Finally, they took a seat in his living room. Including Miller's partner, whom they were very sure he was wearing nothing beneath the wardrobe. Fischer spent the whole time asking God to make him not uncross his legs at any time.

―What a surprise you guys! Fischer, I was not sure I was going to see you again. Where have you been?

―I... Girlfriend.

―Oh, you have a girlfriend, I didn't know that!

He concentrated mightily to not say anything else.

―So, enough chit-chat. Did Jeremy tell you about the program?

―Yes.

―Magnifique! That saves a lot of time. Then, are you in, I suppose. It was your idea after all.

Jeremy looked at him, puzzled.

―No, yes. I mean. Yes. But why. No, what I meant is: what?

―Very well put. No, I understand your concern. There's nothing to be worried about. For now.

―Great.

―Then, you're in? Fantastic. Jeremy, can you leave us a moment?

Miller had put a lot of effort asking that as if it was a completely normal thing to do, but noticeably changed his tone after that. And he left, towards the kitchen with the unknown man, sharing looks with Fischer that meant "what the fuck" and "I don't know." Fischer decided to go with the flow, but wasn't liking it one bit.

―I have a task for you. And it's not easy. Don't worry you will be fine. First I will have to ask you to drop what you're doing, that means no more of your usual classes, no more Neo-Assyrians, no more video-games. Yes, I know how much you love your classes, you have your backpack with you and all, but there's a more pressing question. You don't have to worry about those anymore. When this is done, we will give you a graduation.

What a rollercoaster of emotions those sentences were. Fischer dizzy and regretting getting out of bed already. And it wasn't even 10AM, so way ahead of schedule.

―This "program" is not just for you. I need more people to become part of it, but I have a problem. I don't want the usual run-of-the-mill students, or we will fall into the same pitfalls. I want to find unusual people, out of the box people. Exceptional people. And I think you're the man for the job. People like... well, people like you.

Silence.

―Fischer, is that a snail crawling up your shirt?

―Oh, yes.

And tossed it aside. More silence. Fischer realized the situation required an explanation.

―It's from before.

―Right.

Even more silence. Fischer, against all odds, decided to break it again.

―How am I supposed to do that?

―I don't know! That's the best part. Do what you have been doing, integrate with the community, walk around college, find interesting people, participate in things, go to random classes. It will eventually happen. You will figure it out.

―Yeah but... To do what?

―We have no idea. Isn't it exciting?

He wasn't sure if it was exactly exciting or not. But the plan had some resemblance to the part of that movie where eleven guys had to unite to help a guy flirt with Sandra Bullock or break into a casino or something like that. He exposed the idea to Miller as clearly as he knew how.

―Yeah, something like that.

If that meant fulfilling his dream of doing nothing for the next four years, he could do that. Especially when his imagination acquired some spy shit overtones. They were in some secret recruiting mission now. The game was on. Suddenly, he remembered something obvious.

―What about Jeremy? He could help us.

―Yeah... Jeremy. You wrote your last essay with him, didn't you?

―Yeah...

―Let me say it this way. What do you think of him?

―I dunno. Good guy. Smart. Knows things. Walks slow.

―He "walks slow", doesn't he?

―I suppose he does.

―Then we wouldn't want him in our team, would we?

―Well, I mean, if we are walking very far...

―Exactly! Exactly! I'm glad we're in agreement here. I didn't know how to bring this up. He has been a great help, but he doesn't walk very fast. Don't talk to him about all this, will you? I don't want him to be mad. It's nothing personal, from you I mean, it's not like you don't like him or anything, it's just he's probably not the best fit.

―No, he's not very fit.

―Excellent.

Miller stood up, and Fischer did as well. He regretted it instantly though, as Miller continued talking while pacing around, which made Fischer sit again, just very slowly, because he didn't know if he was supposed to or not.

―I count on you then. Let's meet tomorrow to check the progress and bounce ideas. We should have a complete team in about a couple of weeks. You have time now! We will be seeing each other quite often. I don't want to put pressure on you, but this is a great opportunity, to surpass the boundaries of knowledge, to laugh in the break of a new science, to create something of our own!

Before they could notice it, they were walking away from the house. Jeremy wanted to know what was the conversation all about, but feared asking directly, as Fischer looked very pensive and self-reflecting. Eventually, the man himself chose to share his thoughts openly.

―Man, sitting is hard.

―What?

―Sometimes you have to stand, sometimes you have to sit. And you never know when you have to stop doing one thing and do the other.

―What did you steal?

―From where?

―The professor's house. What did you steal.

―I didn't steal anything!

―Really? I stole this book.

―Why?

―I dunno. I like to steal random stuff from people's houses. Sometimes. Don't you?

―No, actually. I don't.

―Weird.

―What's it about?

―I don't know. "The Survival Manual of the Hedgehog. Pocket Edition."

He opened it.

―It says: "In case of danger, curl into a ball".

―What else?

―That's it. Then there are about a hundred blank pages.

―Let me see. Holy shit, you're right. No author, no editorial. Nothing. Written about a hundred years into the future according to the date. What do you think this means?

―I don't know. Makes as much sense as anything else the professor says or has or does.

―You better give it back.

―Why? It's mine. I found it.

―Yeah, in his house.

―You wouldn't be a snitch, would you?

But they were mistaken. In the back of the last page, another line could be read:

"Advice not meant for porcupines."

CHAPTER 14 ― OUT OF THE BOAT

Fischer spent the next few days in his underwear, doing nothing but eating giant bowls of cereal.

―This is the life.

He was very proud of himself, his schemes finally had worked. One day he began to get a bit bored. He tried watching some TV, and looking at funny internet cat videos, but eventually got bored of that as well. They somehow didn't satisfy him as they used to, but didn't know why. The straw that broke the camel's neck was when he discovered himself reading the books the professor had given him some time ago, this time not even in any kind of intellectual performance. They even began to make a certain semblance to actual sense. That's when he decided he needed some fresh air, and suited himself to go to the bar once again.

On the way, he decided to buy sunglasses. That way, they wouldn't recognize him from the video, and added a certain vibe to the whole secret recruitment spy narrative.

He had to find some smart people. That couldn't be too hard.

―Most of these people wear glasses anyway.

But he looked around, and he could only see the usual kind of students. That guy was inefficiently solving a linear equation, that one is writing a pedantic essay in German about Nietzsche that didn't even contain any original insights, those two sound smart but are just paraphrasing the latest economics class they have been to. I'm kidding. He had no idea about any of that stuff, but still he could see the aura of pedantic and self-important people; or how everyone called them: people. How was he supposed to distinguish them from one another? They looked all pretty smart to him. Should he just pick a bunch at random?

The waitress came to the table and gave him a beer he didn't remember ordering. When asked why, she answered.

―You just look like a beer kind of guy.

And continued to chew gum and turned the volume up on some random reality TV show she and the other waiter were watching. He decided to call Jeremy to help him out. Although...

―What did Miller exactly tell you?

Fischer hadn't remembered he wasn't supposed to tell him about the whole program stuff. Although he didn't remember why. Because he walked slow or something. He decided to tell him anyway and later figure it out. They could go jogging sometime.

―He told me to find some smart out of the boat people.

―To do what?

―Some kind of project.

Jeremy started thinking. Fischer put a pair of sunglasses he had also brought for Jeremy on him. Unfortunately, he didn't remember not everybody has a huge squared face and they looked comically big on him and about to fall.

―Usually I would tell you to just go to every possible department and take the highest ranking student of each one. But if Miller asked you to do this it must be because that is not what he wants, or he would have done it himself. Are you sure he wasn't more specific about what or who he wanted or why?

―They should walk fast.

―Go to the track team.

Fischer was already leaving towards the sport installations when Jeremy grabbed his sleeve.

―I was joking, I was joking. He sure likes cryptic advice.

―He also told me to go to random classes, meet people, involve myself with the community.

―And why didn't you do that.

―I don't know. It sounds like a lot of work.

―Well, you have time, don't you?

―I don't even know where to start. I have only been to my history classes.

He chuckled.

―Can you imagine being such a loser that you go to random classes and do extracurricular activities on top of the ones you actually have to do?

―I go to random classes and do extracurricular activities.

―And I respect that.

The wind whistles.

―Let's do something, let's go grab a list of classes and activities and you pick the ones that seem interesting to you. Not smart, interesting. And we'll go to a couple of those each day. That wouldn't be too much.

―Don't you have your own classes and stuff to do?

―Well according to that program of yours, I won't soon. So it doesn't matter much.

―About that... uhm.

―Yes?

―We should really go jogging sometime.

From that day on, they spent their days doing some light exercise, appearing into random places like ceramics class, student syndicate vegan lunches and falling asleep in WWI commemorational master lectures. Fischer was shocked to learn that there was a first world war.

―I knew about the second, but I didn't ever realized it was called like that because there was a first.

―Didn't you major in history?

―Must have been another history.

After a week of doing that, he was exhausted. And as far from finding "special smart people" than when they started. But it still beat the whole regular student stuff. At least he didn't have to worry about taking tests and doing homework about the classes he was attending, which made him kinda-sort-of-somewhat enjoy some of those, even when he couldn't understand them. In fact, after a certain threshold of not-understanding, he always felt as if they made slightly more sense. It was weird, as if you could enjoy more a class of Latin if you knew Chinese than if you knew Italian. And even better if you, like Fischer, knew nothing about any of those. Jeremy was experiencing, to a lesser degree, the same phenomenon; just that in his case, it was new. Fischer navigated the waters of total uncertainty and partial information like he was born there, while his new unlikely friend was insecure about it all. When they weren't together, he was reading and studying like mad to try to keep up.

―I guess you kind of hit a wall, after a while. Sooner or later the explosion of complexity becomes too much.

―After the wall, you keep going.

―But like, it's not even possible to understand things in a language you don't know, even in an abstract way. Nuance is completely lost somewhere along the way. You kind of understand, but it's pseudo-knowledge that doesn't compute with the other pseudo-knowledge. You end up talking about quantum stuff like these new-age nonsense healers. How can you even conceptually understand what's a Hilbert Space without knowing what's a vector?

―You're overthinking it.

―How can you comment on a painting if you don't know about the artistic movement it belongs to and the life and miracles of its author? Well this last one is not the same, but... Wait, is it the same? No, no. It isn't. The case is can you actually "construct" something with such knowledge? Well now that I say it I also realize that has a lot of potential consequences towards... is knowledge utilitarian? I don't even know. How can I be so stupid?

―It's easy. Just don't think much about it.

―But...

―Shut your fucking mouth and brain and hit the fucking ball.

―Yeah, right. Right. I don't have to rationalize everything.

And the ball flew just by. Jeremy was really having trouble with everything physically related to balls.

―Are you sure this is "light exercise"?

―Ball!

After a fast trip to the infirmary to discard "concussion", they retired for the day and went to chill at the cafeteria. It was emptier than usual, so you could hear the TV. Still that reality show where everybody yelled a lot and everybody seemed to be sleeping with each other. It was quite confusing. Fischer could also hear the waitress. Jeremy was busy holding a bag of ice over his head.

―Amanda is jealous of Cindy, because Joel's twin brother has chosen Patricia to do the racing contest with him and so she doesn't have first bathroom rights, while she gained access to a private one during last weeks gala.

People live truly remarkable lives.

―So she will fuck her boyfriend in about a couple of days or so.

Majestic.

―Listen, Jeremy. I have to be honest with you. There's something I need to tell you.

―Tell me.

―Your name is kind of long. Can I call you Remi?

―No.

― D:

―Fischer, I'm sorry I don't feel so well. I think I will skip our stuff today.

―It's fine. The doctor told you to rest. You better do it, the advice cost the university ten hundred million dollars. I will manage.

So he made some popcorn in a microwave he found at the other side of the bar, and went to some random classes. The next day, Jeremy didn't come back. Neither the next. Or the next one. The days were passing. He wasn't managing. He had to figure out something fast.

CHAPTER 15 ― EMPEROR CARACALLA

Turns out, he just had to turn around.

He got so caught up in the whole activities and classes stuff, that he had forgotten he was actually meant to be looking at the people attending them. Just not in regards to the class itself as a valid construct, but for its edge cases of the tic-systems that comprised their metabolism. Well, this second part was Jeremy's idea, that called him on the phone to tell him he was fine but still recovering. But the turning around thing was his.

Thing is, he was in a random class sitting in the first row, the professor was talking and writing on the board, and he had the genius idea of very slowly and making quite a bit of noise, turn around his chair towards the crowd. What he saw there were dozens of people writing notes, both in paper and keyboards, a couple of guys dozing, another with their eyes lost in the infinite of space and time, and between them all, separated by a couple of rows, a girl and a boy actually listening and watching. They noticed him, eventually, after a couple of solid minutes of staring at them directly. The girl stopped playing with her pen, briefly smiled and shyly covered half of her face with a notebook. The boy waved at him with one hand. He knew that guy. Well, he didn't know him, but he had seen him before, in some other class or dance practice or a theatrics presentation or something.

Fischer waited outside the class after it ended. Between the whirlpool of fleeing students he could see the girl hastily escaping before he could react, but as he was lamenting the lost opportunity, the guy tapped his shoulder jokingly and openly smiled. From far he didn't notice, but he was deceptively and naturally handsome. He had a natural, messy hair feeling around him. And glasses. They began walking around. The guy took an apple from God knows where and started munching it, with skin and everything. Fischer felt a shiver just from seeing it.

―I've seen you around.

Fischer finally decided to say, trying to avoid watching him eat more apple.

―Did you? Where?

―I don't know. In some other class.

―That's possible.

Mission failed. Munch, munch.

―What do you major in?

―Actually I do music. I play the violin. There, in the conservatory.

―Then what are you doing here? Don't you have anything else to do? A girlfriend or something.

―Not really. You know, I also know who you are. You're the NASA shirt guy, from the video.

―Oh, that.

―Very interesting stuff. At first I didn't know, because of the sunglasses. But now I remember. You're quite a guy. Also I have seen you in classical history lessons, but that was a while ago. And you were sleeping most of the time. You have changed.

―What do you mean.

―I don't know. I see you, more awake now. How come you no longer go to these?

―I have other stuff to do. Let me ask you something.

―Go ahead.

―Why do you go to random classes? Are you part of a secret club or something? Do you go to the cafeteria sometimes?

―Are those related? I don't know. I like it. No. Not very often, I go to grab a coffee sometimes, when the vending machines are broken.

―Do you go to these alone?― He was thinking about the girl.

―Yeah, I do. Sometimes I meet other people that also do it. But we don't know each other much. I'm sure you have crossed them, one time or another. There's a few of us. I call them travelers.

Fischer had the sensation he had missed the trees for looking at the forest too much.

They kept walking. Fischer was like: "Uhm," and the guy was like, "What." He was thinking about telling him about the program, to come see the professor that same afternoon. Why was it costing him so much? Why was he doubting?

―Ok. You got me. What's the catch.

―Meaning?

―You seem so... functional. You study cool stuff, go to classes for pleasure. Something is not right.

―Oh, that. It's because I'm dead inside.

And he smiled openly, with total honesty.

―What?

―All of this. It means nothing to me. I just don't care. About anything. Ever.

―I don't understand.

―It's not like I'm depressed or anything. I'm just empty. And this gives me the placebo of something. I'm just a simulacrum of a person. An open recreation of what a person is supposed to look like. You are actually staring at nothing, I'm not even here. I hate everything. Including myself.

―Even me?

―I don't know, I barely know you.

―I'm sure that, if you give me an opportunity you can hate me too.

―I'm counting on it.

Fischer was mightily confused. He stopped on his tracks. The guy continued. He walked quite fast. Fischer sprinted full speed to catch up. After that, he had overcome his block, and grew in confidence about approaching random people and asking them to participate in some obscure random mission in a bar tomorrow afternoon. Offering to pay their lunch helped a lot too. He started to see what he considered "special smart people" all around. It was quite funny, actually.

Some dude was crossing the campus on a mechanical scooter at top speed. He was wearing a Pokemon hat.

―Uhm...

A gardener tied a mower to a "Don't Step On The Grass" sign in a way that it ran around in circles and he could instead of working, eat his lunch.

―Uhm...

He saw that girl that almost killed him with a television, Fate or Destiny or some other stripper name whose name was just a pun and I didn't expect to come again into the story, fall over some normal looking stairs for no reason at all.

―Uhm...

A lady over sixty had decided that, after a lifetime of raising children, it was time for her to get an education. She also appeared at random classes. And made a delicious apple pie.

―Uhm...

Fischer caught some guy at a computer in the library talking to some kind of AI anime waifu he himself made an avatar for. He made a substantial jump when he realized someone was looking over his shoulder and tried to run away.

―Uhm...

That guy that walked barefoot for some reason. He also liked going to weird stuff.

―Uhm...

An exasperated dude talking nonsense in an open student political reunion, everybody waiting him to finish so they could go back to talking their usual nonsense stuff. It was a sort of a parody. He had the making of a real class clown. A middle ground between existential levity and despair, fueled by laughter. Fischer could remember him asking stupid questions in philosophy about aliens and Disneyland. Needless to say, he liked the guy.

―Uhm...

He went to the cafeteria. Someone was making robotic arms that solved Rubik cubes. He ignored him.

―Hey Jessica. Did Amanda fuck Cindy's boyfriend like you said?

―Two times.

You guessed it, also "Uhm".

CHAPTER 16 ― FREAKS

The next day, Fischer was waiting for them at the cafeteria. He was killing time talking with the old guys that spent all their time talking about hoplites. As they began arriving, they joined in. Jeremy was back. They were quite happy about it, they never had so much attention, but they were a little worried the topic of the conversation would drift away from hoplites.

―I don't understand. Why don't you guys just arm a bunch of guys and make them fight over and over? Make a sport out of it. Maybe this way you will finally figure out how they did it.

They looked at each other. They had never thought of that.

―How are we supposed to do that?

―Aren't you professors? Make it give extra credits or something.

―Or make it a TV show. I would want to watch those guys hit the shit out of each other.

―And you could also film the training and the drama and them stealing each other's girlfriends.

―Make teams and a championship, the best way to fight would emerge from the competition.

―With real weapons! Each military should have a team.

―Whichever country wins gets to rule Antarctica.

―War should be televised.

―It is. Has been since Vietnam.

―That was a flop. And a real downer. I was thinking more like Vikings.

―Does anyone have a camera?

There was a contagious and stupid can-do attitude floating around.

Until Miller arrived.

They all said hi to him in various manners, as Fischer had told them they were waiting for some professor to tell them what was it all about. But Miller looked at them completely petrified.

―Fischer. Can I have a moment?

―Sure.

And they went where they couldn't be heard. The crowd looked at each other in doubt.

―What the hell is this?

―You told me to find some smart people.

Miller looked at the bunch. A couple of weirdos, the waitress, the clumsy blue-haired, more weirdos, an old lady and a gardener that just said "No hablo inglés" when someone talked directly to him.

―What? I did what you told me.

―Did you lose your mind? This looks like some kind of D&D group session. Do you think that magically somehow they will use their particular weird abilities and interests in a relevant and unexpected way? You watch too much TV. And is that Jeremy? I told you to get rid of him!

Fischer was legitimately mad at him.

―What were you expecting? You tell me nothing and expect to do I don't even know what! Jeremy has been working a lot to walk faster, we have been jogging sometimes, it's just that he got hit with a ball very hard!

―What are you even talking about. Fischer, get rid of all of them and start over. We don't have much time.

―What? No.

―What do you mean "no"?

―No. I won't. These are my guys. You told me to do whatever, and I did. You have no power over me.

―I will revoke your program.

―I don't care.

―That includes free cafeteria rights.

―Guys, this is over. I'm sorry to have made you come over here for nothing. Goodbye.

Nah, I'm joking. Fischer was adamant on his position. He could have lots of defects, but lack of absurd and instant loyalty to people he hadn't met in his life and had no obligation or connection to wasn't one of them.

―I just don't know what you were expecting.

―The idea was for you to go to random classes, meet with interesting people, and that those people eventually start doing that too, smart people that are good in their fields (and not the waitress) slowly building a sort of informal multidisciplinary club collaborating in projects in an organic and endearing way because of their own interests and ambitions... and then this program thing would come as a natural progression of those developments. Not because you have promised them free food!

―That sounds like an incredibly specific and unlikely narrative you should have told me about before and planned beforehand instead of expecting it to pop randomly into existence.

Miller lowered his arms, defeated. He didn't want to recognize it, but Fischer was right.

―Let us do this. Whatever this is. These people are smart, I swear.

―But what do these bunch of misfits have different than other weirdos just picked from the street?

―Well, that they're here.

―Are you suggesting your seemingly random selection is in fact a deeply curated method led by the laws of convergence? Well, I guess lots of seemingly unrelated things had to go off for them to be here... There could be hidden patterns...

―Yes.

―Well, I guess it's too late to start over anyway. But this is on you. Teach them everything you have learned here. They have to deliver. If they don't, you're out.

―Deal. Wait, what? What have I learned here? Deliver what?

But the professor had already started walking towards them, thinking "to hell with this".

―Guys, let me be brief and concise. You are now in a special secret program. It will function as a class that gives credits for whatever you are studying for. Double the usual, actually, so you will get a bunch of free time. The class is exactly here, in this very table, and consists of you getting free lunch. If you don't even study here, you do now. Any questions?

Silence had overcome the whole group. Fate rose her arm to ask a question.

―And... do we have to do something?

―Interesting question. With an equally interesting answer. "No." More questions?

―What do you mean "no"?

―Well, I advise you use this time to work on your own stuff and projects and art and essays and interests. Go to random classes. Meet here for lunch and share ideas. Fischer knows all about it. He's been in this since it started.

While technically true, Fischer had a funny face with both eyes very open that meant "no, I don't".

―What if we don't even study here?

―You do now. Everything clear then? Formal details will eventually reach you via mail. We'll see each other around here. Also this bar is a special place and yadayada. If you have any doubts, any. Don't be shy. Like I said, just ask Fischer.

And left.

A gust of wind audibly passed, adding emphasis to the uncomfortable silence. To Fischer, it sounded like a hurricane. They started bombarding him with questions. Miller looked at the scene from the other side of the glass. He didn't know what to think. Did Fischer know what he was doing? Did he?

He got closer to overhear what they were talking about.

―No hablo inglés.

What a fucking disaster.

CHAPTER 17 ― CIRQUE DU SOLEIL

After the initial chaos, the group fell into tense silence. Unsure how to proceed, unsure about what to do, unsure about how to process it. They all looked at Fischer for answers.

―Guys I know the same as you do. This professor just keeps appearing here as if he was Gandalf and gives me stupid missions and then leaves.

―It's as if he expects something to emerge from this.

And again they fell into their own thoughts.

―What I get from this...

The handsome musical nihilist started saying. Let's call him Bob.

What were you expecting? People have names that don't always fit who they are.

―Is that we can just act as if we do something, and we will have free meals. I don't know about you guys, but I don't trust him. I will continue doing my thing, but come here for lunch and enjoy the free stuff. Who's with me?

They all nodded in agreement.

―But we have to actually do "something". It doesn't matter what he says, he expects something.

―What constitutes as "something", anyway?

―I don't know. He made me read some books and write some stuff.

―Let's do that, then. Bring them over, we will kind of read them and we will write some stuff.

―We could do some magazine and put it together.

―Or website.

―We could call it a "research unit" or something like that.

―Researching what?

―The world.

―Yes! Yes! You all do stuff, don't you?

―What do you mean?

―You can do some nihilistic violin stuff, you can write about walking barefoot, you can invent some technology shit, you can write about AI girlfriends, you can I don't know you get the idea. We could teach Carlos some English. I'm sure he has lots of things to say about plants.

―What do you mean "nihilistic violin stuff".

―Guys I think we are seeing this the wrong way. We can do whatever we want! It doesn't have to be a sham, we can actually do that stuff sincerely. We have time and space and resources to develop ourselves into knowledgeable human beings and create something new and unique.

―Yeah, I don't know about that. I prefer the sham idea. Let's just focus on pretending we do.

They all nodded in agreement again.

―It's decided then. Good job everyone.

Most of them prepared to leave until the next day, but not before shaking hands with one another, introducing themselves and saying goodbye.

―Will you guys still go to classes?

―I guess. From now. Maybe to the ones I really like.

―For example?

―Art History is quite good. The teacher's husband left her for a young student last year, so she teaches like she's got something to prove.

―There's no motivation like revenge.

―Sounds cool, maybe I'll come hang out.

―I've never been to a university class. Is it fun?

―Well "fun" is a strong word. Just try it. Maybe you will like the drama ones.

The atmosphere was noticeably more relaxed once the dust settled. The general conversation broke into half a dozen different pieces, discussing personal interests and planning their projects for the near future. Fischer remained in his seat, with Carlos at his side. They looked at each other, and put their feet on the table, somewhat exhausted.

―Io mi nombre is Fischer.

―Entiendo el inglés. Simplemente no lo hablo aún muy bien.

―Mucho gusta to know you a ti también.

Fischer had found himself at the center of a cultural movement he himself had created and was the central piece of, so he was frankly and clearly out of his depth. People came to him with questions about topics he had no idea about, and he only could gesticulate a lot as he tried to explain to them what the professor would probably like.

―Guys, he thinks we are some kind of misunderstood genius intellectual people. Be creative.

―What do you mean exactly by that?

―What do you mean "exactly"? I don't know, if I knew I would know it, and I don't. You know?

―No.

―If you write poetry, write it upside down; if you paint a landscape tell a monkey to collaborate with you; if you do some experiment stuff get the math right but totally misinterpret the data. Even better, don't run the experiment, just say you did and make up the results. Use your imagination!

There's a compilation of some of his best advice:

―Have you tried writing this poem in computer code instead?

―Make your sad existential diary into a review of Zelda Ocarina of Time.

―You don't need to write anything. Just bake some muffins.

―Can you make your "Hitler did nothing wrong" essay a bit less Nazi?

―That looks like a random collection of 4chan posts. Good job.

―Careful, don't trip there. There's a false step.

He was a master at his craft.

―How does it feel to be so popular?

Fischer was talking with his girlfriend on the phone.

―I'm not popular. They just listen to me because the professor told them to.

―Nah, you're popular! I told you you were smart. Don't let it get to your head, will you? With great power comes great responsibility, don't abuse it.

Now that he knew, he absolutely intended to abuse it.

―How's Fate, by the way?

―Who?

Susie asked it in a relaxed tone, but it was a loaded question. She had not forgotten the almost two weeks he spent "playing videogames" without talking to her, before he came to see her. Fischer had diffused a bomb whose existence he didn't even know of. Turns out "who" was the correct answer.

―The pretty one.

―Oh, Fate. She's fine. I guess.

Turns out, that was not the correct answer.

Days went on, and the group was bubbling with activity. They sort of appropriated themselves a corner of the bar that was pretty much self-contained, where they met every day, discuss things and collaborate in their projects. Very fast it started to include more and more things, like pile of obscure books unreturned from the library, the ping-pong table, a couple of consoles and sofas, empty cans of soda, snacks and the television where they together watched Jessica favorite reality TV show while having lunch. They become really invested, trying to come up with reasonable predictions and betting with each other on the outcome. She was really good at it, and began to amass an small fortune of chocolate coins. Carlos was getting good at English surprisingly fast. They took turns having basic conversations with him, until he could kind of understand what was going around. The old lady took the task with a lot of heart. Before they could realize, he was baking pastries. Soon they were spending a lot more time here than just for lunch purposes.

They decided to start posting their stuff onto an online blog platform whose domain they bought with a couple of bucks they found under the sofa. They named it after a character from the fighting game. Nobody but them and some guy from Scotland read it, but they were quite happy with the result. Miller was pleasantly surprised with the outcome. He appeared often, but tried not to get too involved because "it was better not to interfere too much with the natural process of homeostasis and transistasis within the group". When he did, they just showed him some work in progress and mentioned the words "emergence" and used the suffix "hyper" once in a while as Fischer had instructed them to do. It worked wonders.

At first they were quite distant and formal between them, but eventually (and because Fischer made them do some exercise and play games together from time to time, fearing they would walk too slow for Doctor Professor's taste) natural relations and subgroups of aligned minds started to form; but not like gangs, as the groups overlapped each other in more than one way. A subgroup went to classes together, another was interested in the same music, another played videogames, another this and that. They became like a happy and strange dysfunctional family.

The nihilist violinist and the barefoot guy went for a smoke outside, as they were the only ones that did. Well so did the baking old lady, but she had bridge that night.

―Bob, right?

―Robert, actually. Only Fischer calls me Bob, I don't know why.

―Strange fella, isn't he?

―You don't say. Sometimes I don't know if he's a mastermind or a complete idiot.

―I don't know either. But to be honest, I don't really care. I like this thing he's creating either way.

―Right? It's like. I started making nonsense, just for fun, using over the top crazy ideas. But I've become strangely invested in my own. Suddenly, I want to know more about things so I can sort of one-up myself and others. Make it believable, actually subversive in an odd but grounded on reality way.

―I know what you mean. I'm reading five hundred page books and have been a week writing a half a page essay. I don't think I've ever put so much effort into anything in my life. Well, into anything, actually. Nobody reads this stuff anyway.

―We do.

―Yeah, and have some laughs. Friday nights are awesome.

―Sleepy Sundays too. Great documentaries. I liked the one about the penguins.

They smoked in silence for a while.

―You think he does it on purpose? Was that his goal?

―You're talking Fischer, right?

―Yeah.

―I don't... know. I don't know. Kinda makes me feel we're puppets dancing at his command, if that's true. He can be smart, but I don't know if he truly is this kind of hidden mastermind.

They turned around, towards the glass wall that showed the interior of the bar. There was Fischer, drowned in the sofa, with only his head visible above the table in front of him. He was in some kind of journey of self-discovery about his own leadership. In a completely unhinged power trip. He talked to Jeremy. "Can you pass me the peanuts?" And Jeremy did. Fischer eyes opened up and glimmered. Susie was right. I guess that the moral of the situation (if any) is that if you gotta have someone become drunk with power, let it be someone with a very limited imagination regarding what "power" can be.

―Yeah, I don't know about that.

―What's the deal about you, by the way? Why do you go barefoot?

―It's a long story.

―As long as it ends before the cigarette does, I'll be fine.

―Do you know when you start doing something one day and it kind of becomes your thing so you can't stop doing it because then you're nobody once again? That. Also, once you get used to do it, feels really good. Like "really" good.

―That sounds... extremely self-aware and stupid at the same time. How did it start anyway? You forgot your sneakers at gym class one day?

―No. It actually started here in college. One day, I decided it. I was a normal kid before.

―Does it beat being a normal kid being a weird eccentric dude everybody fears to talk with?

―Oh yeah, for sure.

Robert laughed. The cigarette had consumed itself long ago.

―I miss the talks though. But I feel I'm too far gone now. Too committed into whatever this is.

―So it's not some sort of ideological social thing where this is like a symbolic representation about how you don't care about other's expectations and how they perceive you and you will live life on your own terms?

―No, God. No. I care. You wouldn't even imagine. It's not any kind of statement. Also the contrast with the grass and the cold stone of the hallways feels pretty good. You should try it sometime.

―Maybe I will. Maybe I will right now.

And after jumping in the interior yard for a while they came back in, both barefoot.

CHAPTER 18 ― HARD COVER

―This is just pretentious nonsense. You could learn a lot from Luca and his Ocarina of Time review.

Fischer was talking with the class clown dude.

―What do you mean? It IS pretentious nonsense. Like everything else.

―Nah, it's not the same. It feels like pretentious nonsense. It should feel like something. Even if it is actually pretentious nonsense.

―I don't get it.

―I don't care. Start over.

He was furious. Fischer had been rejecting his work for weeks, and had nothing published. He wasn't feeling part of the group, nobody liked him, and was feeling personally targeted. He tried to be funny, to get on people's nerves, to do his usual after a lifetime of being a clown. But that only made him dig deeper into despair, albeit giving him brief flashes of momentary laughs and detached superior satisfaction when he tried to be funny and subversive with edgy jokes and racist remarks. Soon, people stopped laughing. Which only made him double down. Last week, he decided that he was a nazi. As always, slowly becoming the characters he ironically portrayed in what always started as practical performative jokes.

Clownie (yeah not his real name, Fischer liked giving stupid names to people) stormed out the door, and as usual, went to Jeremy to complain.

―He don't like me.

―Fischer? No, it's not that he doesn't like you. ―It totally was.― It's just that sometimes it's hard to understand his feedback. He wants you to succeed, as everybody else.

―Are you sure this isn't about that time I ate the last peanut?

―I'm sure. ―It totally was about that.― Actually I am working on a Fischer Universal Translator with Luca. It's a large language model whose only purpose is to translate what he says into plain language. Do you want to give it a try?

―What the fuck. Yeah, why not.

―Write here what you want translated.

Jeremy passed him the computer, and Clownie typed his previous conversation with Fischer there.

―What do you mean? It is pretentious nonsense. Like everything else.

―It's not the same. Even though it might seem like it, others' work has a raison d'être behind their unusual choices of structure and themes. While you have been wasting your time trying to make a simulation of what an original essay should be, others have actually lived life and found a way to express themselves. From the top, they look at you, and laugh. You have always been a clown, haven't you? There's actual content there that has found its best way to be expressed on, and that includes some layers of meaning; whereas your latest works are amalgamations of self-serving pretentious language whose sole purpose is to look as if there is something there. Sometimes, as my beloved mentor used to say, the best way to actually pretend to communicate something is to actually have something to communicate. Maybe you could find your voice if you delve deep into something you legitimately care about, and maybe even make it be a parody of what you were trying to accomplish with it, linking it with yourself and your own journey as a deeply flawed human being trying to impress or be noticed by others.

―I don't get it.

―I don't care. Start over.

Clownie was at first impressed. He quickly transitioned to existentially terrified. Fischer had seen through him as if he was made of transparent glass. Instantly and instinctively, he covered the screen with his hands so Jeremy couldn't see the conversation, and looked at him.

―Pretty cool, huh? It's a little verbose, and I fear it oversimplifies things. But still works.

―Can you delete this?

―Sure. Just press there.

Once the conversation was deleted, Clownie seemed a little more relaxed. Introspective, even.

―Who the fuck is Luca? The dude you made this with.

―The anime waifu guy.

―Oh. This Fischer AI is really something.

―Honestly, it was just his AI Waifu model. I just made some tweaks to her.

―Uhm.

Jeremy looked at him. "Strange" he thought. Clownie wasn't feeling like telling jokes.

And that continued, for a while. They started seeing him less and less, until one day he came back radiant, smiling, if only a little disheveled. He looked like he hadn't seen a lot of daylight during a couple of weeks. He approached the group, everyone looking, and put a hard-covered book on the table. It was a five hundred page autobiography and memoir named "The Class Clown" with a very serious and mature cover consisting of the title and a photograph in black and white of himself.

―Have you written an entire book about yourself?

―No way. This must be fake.

Lots of hands tried to grab the book to check it themselves. Others just stared in disbelief. Robert was the fastest. He checked it carefully, looking to see any signs that it wasn't a real book. He didn't find any. He turned it upside down and everything. Then opened it and started turning pages and reading it diagonally.

―You actually have written a fucking book.

―I know! Isn't it hilarious?

―I don't know if "hilarious" is the word I would use. Congratulations, man.

And shook his hand. They all imitated Robert. The author kept laughing as if this whole thing was some kind of practical joke; which to him, it was. Fischer was watching from the other side of the table, using his best poker face. Him and the others took turns to pass it along and observe the unlikely artifact. Clownie was visibly proud, and he kept bragging.

―I don't know. You guys keep talking about this writing stuff as if it was very difficult, but it turns out it's not that hard. You just have to power through a couple of existential crisis and RedBulls and...

Clownie couldn't finish the sentence, as he fainted in the middle of it. They all stood up instantly, very alarmed, until they decided to pick him up in their arms and take him to the infirmary, everything during an intense minute that passed like a storm. Jeremy and Fischer remained in the cafeteria to take care of the aftermath. They would go visit him later. Turns out he fainted from exhaustion and lack of electrolytes. Fischer couldn't hide from Jeremy he was genuinely impressed by the whole thing. It wasn't even about the book itself. He read it and it was, as he suspected, pretentious intellectual bullshit; but in a way strangely self-aware about it. An accumulation of self-serving nothing so dense that it actually made it something.

He couldn't help but respect the sheer force of will and commitment towards stupidity.

―I didn't know he had it in him.

Jeremy and Fischer were still sweeping the floor of broken glass and general mess.

―Clownie? Yeah...

―I also didn't know you had it in you.

―Me? Had what?

―I actually already knew Claude when he first came here. We went to the same highschool. Different class though. I've never seen anyone, any teacher motivate him to actually do anything of substance. You really have a talent for this.

―This being...?

―This being this!

And he opened his arms, a little bit dramatically. His broom fell off.

―You motivate people, I don't know how.

―Shut up.

CHAPTER 19 ― UNBEARABLE

A couple of things started to happen simultaneously, very slowly, and then all at once. This was how it first went on.

―Hey Fischer. There's something I wanted to tell you. All this writing stuff... it really doesn't fit me. I'm really tired about writing about the Neo-Assyrians, I don't see the point. Could I do other stuff? Like, music or... Fate also wanted to make some sort of videogame stuff.

―Yeah, sure.

Fischer was distracted these days, with his face hidden behind a copy of "The Class Clown" and didn't really want to be bothered. What followed was an explosion of all types of things being created and presented, that really broadened the scope of the project and gave some challenges about how to publish it on a webpage. Like, you can upload photographs and stuff, but you can't really quite appreciate pancakes through their recipes or the natural shock of finding a seven foot shrub sculpture of a biblical angel made out of some random bush when going to class. Courtesy of Carlos.

What I meant to say is that, you kind of had to be there to fully appreciate some things. And that links to the second thing that started happening.

―Hey Fischer. I have a friend to whom I kind of explained what goes around here although the professor told us not to, and I showed him some stuff we publish and he wanted to come here to hang out someday. Can he come? He's cool.

―Yeah, sure.

And the place started to really get busy, especially on weekends and after-class hours. Some other idiosyncratic characters started to appear and, first informally and later formally, started to participate in projects and eventually make some of their own. The place had some gravity to it. This was becoming a hub for strange people with their strange thing going on for each of them, kind of diluting the nucleus, kind of enriching them. They had to fight against letting their corner of the bar become a random popular social space with no specific purpose, in order to maintain the original vision: a random not-so-popular social space with no specific purpose.

―Hey Fischer. Can we...?

―Yeah, sure.

That was the conversation that started the whole thing of them developing a sort of cult following in other universities and institutes. All kinds of people, not only students but also professors and trade workers started to visit the webpage on a pretty regular basis, creating their own small community of constant but distant and unlikely commentators. Clownie was out with his agent (the gardener guy) to present the book in various places. To this day, Fischer doesn't really know what exactly he approved in order to accomplish all that.

―Hey Adrian. How's it going?

―Yeah, sure. Wait. It's you. What the fuck do you want?

After months of not seeing him, and of Fischer not noticing it but gladly welcoming such non-presence, the guy that kept calling him Adrian was back. He looked exactly the same and had the same fucking grin in his face as always. But he was wearing, above his usual stupid clothes, a distinguished light jacket with some kind of small and shiny insignia on the chest.

―Nothing. I just wanted to say hi on behalf of the team.

―What team?

―You haven't noticed?

On the opposite corner of where they had their little freak show, another freak show was in place. A group of about a dozen similar age students with the identical jacket Slinger was wearing. Only, unlike them, they looked a lot more diligent, clean and organized. They were clearly visible, had computers, robotic hands and they were walking around having conversations with each other with their own professor supervising the whole process. And no empty beer cans all over the place. You know, as if they were actually making something instead of just hanging around the bar.

―No, I hadn't noticed.

―Really? We've been here for at least a week now.

―No, you haven't.

―Yes, we have.

―No, you haven't.

―Yes, we actually have. Don't make this into a stupid thing where I say yes and you say no over and over just to fuck with me.

―I'm not doing that.

―Yes, you are.

And that went on for a while.

Turns out, as Miller eventually came to explain to them sometime later that day, it was Andrew Schneider's team. His weird professor doppelganger German arch-nemesis. I've always wanted one of those. He had been doing exactly the opposite Miller did, first systematically recruiting the top prospects of every class he could get his hands on, and then putting them in a strict program with clear objectives to accomplish based on rational accommodations based on a balance of their skills and interests.

―What a fucking loser. I don't want to put pressure on you guys, but you have to beat them every possible way.

Fischer was already grabbing a nearby baseball bat he had been saving for a special occasion, when a third professor showed up to put more context to the situation. Andrew also joined in, together with some of his disciples.

―Guys, I know it seems like you are in opposite teams and should compete against each other, but you are all in the same program. You are meant to cooperate with each other, share ideas and information, manage the common space.

Both professors slightly and almost imperceptibly grunted at each other.

―Sometime later in the semester we will have a convention here, in the university; the first in many years. There we will present some of your selected best projects to the representatives of other institutions in a special event. We expect the best and only the best. We don't have time to lose (nor reputation) in dumb conflicts between ourselves. And that goes for you two too.

―Look at that. ―said Fischer to whoever was beside him, with sufficiency. ―They're like children.

Then a student they hadn't yet seen, that looked like their unofficial leader, presented itself.

―I'm Jay, by the way. ―and smiled, with his head slightly inclined as if he was looking at everyone from below, scanning the group; he stopped to look at Fate, made the fastest wink in the history of things that actually happened, and continued, saying― Nice to meet you.

Fischer could tolerate Clownie, even if he could be a little much at times. He disliked the guy that kept calling him Adrian, him and his fucking grin and greasy hair. And let's be honest, in general he hated most people for no reason at all. But that guy. That guy was something else. He looked like someone who only learned to play the guitar to film himself without a shirt casually making an unnecessary and uncalled-for overly sentimental cover of an otherwise okay popular song. Some part of him wanted to simply pounce over him that same instant and rip open his rib-cage with his bare hands and maul his face, only to later put his remains over a big rock as a reminder for everyone else and as a proof that he was in fact the bigger bear.

Luckily for the carpet and those tasked with cleaning it every other week, he just stood there and watched the rest of the scene trembling with irrational anger.

CHAPTER 20 ― SILK MOTHS CAN'T FLY

Pressure started to pile on Fischer's shoulders. Between the usual having to deal with people in general, the fact that they were now actually supposed to present something to that stupid convention (that was that, anyway), Miller insisting now on having almost daily meetings to check progress, all those guys on the other team being in his general eyesight and not disturbing him in any noticeable way being a nuisance with their presence, the seemingly always increasing number of people hoarding turns at the ping-pong table and the barefoot guy being better than him at Ultra-Smash, he was reaching his limit. He longed for the days he was getting bored at his bedroom eating cereals in his underwear. Even when he did pretty much the same at the bar.

One of those days, when he finally was getting a moment of peace in the middle of dealing with the usual nonsense, a heated and emotional discussion broke over a table. People were getting involved, a girl was crying, two dudes started shouting. He appeared in the middle of it, breaking whatever was happening.

―Can someone explain to me what the fuck is going on now?

―Me and Linda have a fundamental disagreement about the nature of the universe being fundamentally harmonious or chaotic, which has important implications on pretty much everything we can think of.

―Oh, my God. Who the fuck cares. Can't you two beat each other with your fists outside like civilized people, instead of just pointlessly arguing about it!

And left. Which left those present mightily confused.

―Is he serious?

―I think he's being sarcastic.

―No, I think there's more to it. What does Fischer AI say?

―Give me a second. Here. It says that he is allegorically saying that we should transfer our ideas from the petty social to the artistic and intellectual realm. Presenting your position from the ground up in an organized and sensible manner in a way where they have actual power over others and towards transforming the world.

Which was not what he meant at all, but the point is that he was getting increasingly annoyed. The group was in effervescence, in the middle of a mutation and changing at the same time in lots of directions in a myriad of different ways. Fischer missed more simple times, and despite him claiming and wanting to be left more or less doing his own thing, he also liked it more when the whole story was more about him. But he wasn't willing to admit that last part, not even to himself. What followed was the straw that broke the camel's back.

―Who the fuck ate my peanuts?

The whole room froze in that moment. They knew storm was brewing, but they now knew it was past its critical breaking point. After all, everyone knew by heart the first rule of Fischer's club: Don't eat his stuff. Also the second rule. In fact, there were no other rules.

Fischer had gone to a locker nearby in the cafeteria itself where he stored his shit (with no actual lock in it, as it cost an entire dollar to get) only to find it slightly open with a missing snack he had been saving the whole afternoon to eat. It was next to all the similarly open lockers where they stored general stuff that was pretty much free for grabs, only his had a distinct sticker on it by the Denver Broncos that meant "do not touch".

―Who did this. ―he said it calmly, and nobody dared to make a sound― Nobody huh? I understand.

He breathed deeply.

―This is it. I am done. I'm fucking tired of all these people I don't know just hanging around here thinking they own the place, smelling like weed and eating my snacks. I'm tired of all the professors making us do stuff, of those jacket wearing turds and everything. Fuck you all and your projects and essays and conventions and whatever. This is not serious. I am done.

And he left.

People breathed kind of worried kind of relieved. Worried because they didn't know if he was serious about the "being done" thing and what that meant. Relieved because he didn't throw the kind of tantrum they feared, and didn't even remove his shirt. They consulted Fischer AI translation, but it was as confused as them. Something about focusing efforts and intellectual pulse more into the substantial and transition from a phase of explosion of ideas. Something about "fatigue" and "internal social breakdown". The things Fischer said were so nuanced and practical at the same time that advanced, that they would need soon a Fischer AI to interpret the words of Fischer AI. They tried to develop some kind of nested architecture in a simulated environment full of artificial agents, but they were still far from success.

―Well, he did say "this is not serious". Maybe they should take it more like that.

But that was their problem now. Not Fischer's, who just stormed out of the room and into the hallway direction he didn't even know where. In fact, when he noticed, he realized he was lost.

―Where the fuck am I.

He was surrounded by empty white walls that gave a feeling of ominous terrifying sanitized liminal space, like the ones they have in cozy and inviting places like medical institutions and modern architecture high-schools. He crossed a door, and passed next to an empty reception desk that showed signs of recent activity, that led to a slightly larger space. He could hear some sounds of people talking coming from adjacent rooms, and some staff wearing white coats could be seen entering and exiting rooms that scared the shit out of him. This was some kind of hospital wing, but it had a certain uncanny feeling he couldn't shake off, no matter how normal it looked now that he was in it.

A man, not much older than him, that didn't look like part of the staff but rather a patient appeared walking and quietly talking to himself in front of him. He seemed both distracted and concentrated, a bit deflated, with grey and empty eyes.

Fischer decided it was a time as good as any to socialize.

―Excuse me. Hello? Where the fuck am I?

―Silk Moths Can't Fly.

―What?

The man looked at him, not understanding what he didn't understand. Did a brief shrug.

―Silk Moths Can't Fly.

―Yeah I know, you already said that. What is this place? Is it some kind of asylum?

But a known voice shouted across the room. It was Miller, pushing a wheelchair in which an old lady was seated. He looked at Fischer after shouting his name, and signaled a staff member to take care of the wheelchair as he hastily approached him and accompanied him out of that place. His strange interlocutor quickly disappeared from sight. Miller didn't even look at him directly. During the way out, Fischer could see interior courtyards with lots of lights and plants, and windows to what he suspected were fake sources of sunlight. They walked for a while until they were, first in the normal part of the university, and then outside. Then they stood there. Fischer watching him in silence. Demanding an explanation. Miller knew he wanted one.

―I didn't mean for you to discover that place until much, much later.

―But was that place? A nursing home? An asylum?

―I guess you could call it that. But more precisely, it's more like this whole place ―and he opened his arms when saying that, meaning the whole main university building― sometimes tends to become its own asylum.

Silence.

―This place (and I mean this whole place, not only this wing) is not only a center for knowledge. It's a safe haven for those who for one reason or the other, can no longer live in the outside world. Sometimes they don't want to, to deal with the mundane, and find solace inside these walls. Sometimes those who spend too much time here lose contact with reality, and are only capable to speak in incomprehensible terms. They themselves often call it the Babel virus. To this day we have no idea what that means. The post-structuralist epidemic of the last decade was ravaging. And sometimes...

Miller gulped. Unsure how to put it best.

―Sometimes they simply lose their minds. That's when they come here. The things we do, the things we talk about, the limits of knowledge we explore. They're not calm waters. I know they seem pretty mundane to you, but lots of people lost themselves trying to navigate them. They have implications, outside of their immediate context, that require total reconceptualizations on how we see, behave and experience the world. It can break people.

Uhm.

―Who was that guy?

―Uhm? Who?

―The guy I was talking to. Who was it.

―Just a former student of mine.

He said it with certain feigned indifference, as if he didn't want to talk about that or wasn't important.

―But you don't have to worry about that. You will be fine. Just don't come here again, really. There's not much to be seen apart from misery. I have no idea how you got here, let alone slipped past the reception. The security is usually very tight. Just focus on your things for now, take small breaks if necessary, drink plenty of water. The pressure we put on you, sometimes it can be quite hard. Get on our nerves. Have you noticed it already?

―Yes, I did. In fact, now that you mention it... could I take a couple of months off? I'm feeling quite tired. The pressure and everything. The weight of knowledge.

―Two months! I said small breaks Fischer, you can't take two months! In three months it's the convention, we are at crunch time. Just go home, have a good night's sleep, and we met tomorrow at the club as always. Three o'clock. I have to leave you now.

And started to walk again towards the building. But the image, or rather shadow of his former student might have crossed his mind, because he turned towards Fischer again and determined to not let history repeat itself.

―Remember, if you need anything or you are experiencing some kind of mild discomfort or anxiety due to a very specific and easily solvable problem you could deal with yourself, you can count on me.

―But...

―Anything else, talk with the secretary!

CHAPTER 21 ― MYSTERIOUS GIRL

Fischer woke up the next morning, feeling like shit. He remained in bed for a while, and it was quite comfortable, but eventually also felt like shit. Got up to get breakfast, but he had forgotten to buy stuff because the last weeks he had grown accustomed to just going to the cafeteria and eating there. So he stole some of his roommates' cereals, and because they were healthy whole grain stuff with no sugar, also tasted like shit. He refused to change his pajamas, played some games, watched some garbage television, masturbated a couple of times, and managed to waste the entire morning and evening doing jack shit. He had already done nothing early so he got that out of the way already and now he was free the rest of the day to properly rest. It wasn't until the afternoon when he gave up. It was too much pressure. He couldn't focus on lazing around and zoning out like he used to. His mind would wander into things. Before he noticed, he was doing some light reading on the Neo-Assyrian Empire from one of the books that were in his room left from the starting weeks of it all. He was procrastinating procrastination. Put a jacket over the pajamas, didn't even put on proper shoes, and left the house.

He hated how being somewhat active and somewhat social and having real stuff to do kind of ruined doing nothing. All these years of practice for nothing.

Mechanically, without even thinking about it, he had walked all the way towards the bar. He didn't mean to go there, but there was also nowhere else for him to go. He sighed, and kind of resigned himself. This was his life now. Put his hand on the handle, already could see people in the interior through the semi-transparent windows, like shadows dancing around. But before he could make the force to turn the handle and enter, he felt a presence behind his back. And turned around.

It was that girl.

―You're Fischer, right?

It was the girl he saw the day he met Robert, the shy one actually looking during class that dissipated when it ended. She was carrying a huge backpack and lots of textbooks between her arms. Not particularly pretty, quite normal, or better said with a very rare air of normalcy around her that made her look quite authentic by accident. He was too busy processing to actually answer.

―Here.

She extended to him a bag of peanuts. The same brand that was stolen from him the day before.

―I'm sorry. I didn't know they were yours. I was going to say it, but you got quite angry very fast and I got a bit scared. And it was my first time here. Are you still angry?

She said, very cautiously. He didn't know. He was supposed to be, yet he wasn't. Like, at all.

―No. I mean. It's fine.

And just stood there, with the hand still in the door handle.

―Are you going in? I barely know anyone. I don't want to go alone.

―Yes, well. I was. I'm not so sure anymore.

―Why is that?

―I don't know. On second thought, this place is kind of lame. Do you want to go somewhere else?

―Uhm. I don't know if I will have the time. You see, I'm kind of busy; I go to a lot of classes and I have to meet here to do some group project we have to turn in tomorrow. Because we had to turn it in last week but I asked the teacher if she could give us one more week because I was very busy with the mid semester exams and... I'm sorry, am I boring you? I know this is not very exciting... Not compared to what you guys do here. Whatever it is.

―Then... Yeah ok, don't worry. No, it's not boring don't say that. I wasn't saying it like, I don't know.

―We can some other time though! When I'm less busy. I know it sounds like an excuse, I'm sorry.

―No problem. Sure. We'll see each other.

―Bye!

Fischer was left there, holding a bag of peanuts in front of the entrance, feeling quite stupid. He didn't know what came over him. What the hell was that? He didn't even like her. I mean, not like "like" her. He just liked her like he could like any other girl. Did the fact that he didn't get mad because she ate his peanuts and returned them mean that he liked her? Usually no. But we are talking about Fischer here. It's like a black box. He already had a girlfriend anyway. He didn't even think of her in that way, or any way whatsoever. It was like if the intrusive question that if he did like her or not was perpetuating itself into a real feeling without the need for any interaction or her being or not being any particular way or him liking her or not. Does that make sense? Like a damn virus. But anyway, the situation was that now he was standing like an idiot not even having a reason to go in (as he told her he wasn't going inside) and she was inside. He had no other place to go, nothing to do, and a million things more in his head than when he left his room. This was way too much.

―I could be playing UltraSmash in my room right now.

Turned around, and started walking back home in the longest yet plausible route he could find.

CHAPTER 22 ― LIMBO

The next days passed in unreal time, like a whole season in a bottle, or in one of these crystal spheres that when you shake them or turn them upside down and then back again a semblance of snow falls through the liquid as if snow was falling from the sky. Until it's all on the ground. Then you shake them again and watch as if hypnotized. Or like a lava lamp. Yeah, actually I take it all back. The next days passed like in a lava lamp. His parents had always banned them. He would get fixated on these kind of things, like television, the fireplace, the spinning washing machine. They feared he wouldn't sleep with one in his power; and they feared right.

Fischer couldn't sleep.

He had a lot of small and sometimes big problems as a consequence of his idiosyncratic nature, but that one was new for him. He could usually sleep anywhere, anytime. In fact, his parents had to ban sleeping out of hours in the house, because they feared he would sleep all the time- They were right to fear him. Also they liked banning things. Never had to ban dictionaries though. He made a last ditch attempt at falling asleep, really concentrating and closing his eyes to the point of making his whole face squint and body tremble. Unfortunately, that's not how you sleep, like, at all. He gave up.

―Uhhhm?

―Hey babe, you awake?

―Mmmmm. No...

―It kind of seems from the fact of you answering that you are awake.

―... I'm so sorry babe, but I really need to sleep... I love that you call me more than what you promised (they had a legally binding relationship contract about that) but we have already talked like four hours today and tomorrow I have class...

Oliver meowed in the distance from the other side of the bed, as if approving of the remark.

―I can't sleep.

―Have you tried using the teddy bear I gave you?

Fischer turned around to look at a fluffy bear of medium size holding a heart his girlfriend had given him for St. Valentines or Christmas or their anniversary or Independence Day or some of those.

―I don't trust him.

―...

―Sussie? You there?

He checked the phone. She didn't even hang up on him, just fall asleep. He hung up and starting pacing around the room, muttering incoherencies, mad with his girlfriend; who these last days had won her place in heaven dealing with his antics. He really wasn't handling actually getting what he wanted and having nothing to do very well. The days of his self-declared vacations were piling, and nobody from the university had seen or talked to him for a while. He sure knew how to maintain a flair of mystery around his persona. Suddenly he accidentally kicked one of the feet of the bed with his naked toe, fell to the ground and started rolling in agony and redirected towards himself and the bed anger. Maybe he was indeed getting crazy, like those people Miller talked about.

"Silk Moths Can't Fly".

What the hell did that mean? He was a bit odd and had a little trouble sleeping, but he wasn't crazy batshit insane. Still, he wanted to find out. "Tomorrow." He said to himself, and then stood up, grabbed Teddy and went again to sleep. His detective sense was tingling.

Next morning, he put his big boy pants on and went for a walk. It was already past noon, and he hadn't seen much sunlight in a couple of days, so after the initial shock with the intensity of reality, he put on his sunglasses and everything returned to its usual reality gray.

―Ah, much better.

At first he only intended to go around the block to get some groceries, as he had been doing for the last couple of days. But he was getting slightly more adventurous each time. First, he dared to roam around for the first time around the vegetables and fruit aisle of the supermarket. Didn't buy anything, but watched things as if he was interested, which for some reason was very funny to him.

―Can you imagine actually buying these things? People must think I am some kind of big shot.

Then, the next day he pretended to think which brand of cereals to buy before grabbing the usual ChocolateExplosion 3000. Then the next, paid his groceries with exact cash, I mean with the coins and everything adding up to the exact amount and leaving no space for change. He felt as if they had awarded him the crown of "best customer ever", and felt very proud. That went on, for a while. Sometimes he even went shopping twice a day. Twice! Eventually, the supermarket got very small for his thirst of adventure and small antics. He didn't want to go back to the cafeteria lifestyle, but he missed a little bit of general... agency. He started to take every time slightly longer walks. Go to different shopping stores, see the world. Then he would come back to his bedroom, call Sussie, play on the console and do some light reading on the Neo-Assyrians. I know it started as a joke, but that shit was really addictive. Fischer was really hooked. The key is, you don't have to read it as boring history. You have to read it as a bizarre piece of fan-fiction that sort of happens to be true. This way it doesn't feel so unrealistic, and it's more relatable.

―What do you mean you feel identified babe? What do you have in common with some a million thousand year old Assyrian king? I sure they didn't even have things.

―No, no. Not with the king. With the whole empire.

―You feel related at a personal level with an old country?

―It's not that I feel related. It's that I am the Neo-Assyrian Empire. You know? Like, the totality of it. Their history is my history, in so many levels, like, trans-hierarchical levels of organization levels. It's like doctor professor says: "every topic contains the whole world".

Sussie rolled her eyes so hard it broke some kind of unofficial world record. She was wearing cute pink fluffy pajamas. Which I guess is relevant. I don't know, I like to imagine people. Do you know that scene in the Simpsons where they are inviting people to go to a party or whatever and after a succession of characters appears Mr.Burns gossiping in girly pajamas, face down against the bed, doing curls with the telephone cable (how the times change) and his legs standing up like a high-school girl? That, but with Fischer. Minus the pajamas. She's the one wearing the pajamas.

―Marcus. I think you should go back to the club.

She only called him that when she was dead serious, as if she was his mom.

―What club?

―That weird cafeteria university club, you know what I mean. Now that I think of it, it's kind of weird that we haven't got a name for it, we talk about it all the time. If you ask me, it looks like a massive oversight.

―Yeah it's weird.

I'm sorry.

―But anyway, I don't want to. They make me do things, and they're weird.

―But baby! You are making me go insane. Most of the time I don't even know what you're talking about anymore. You either have to go back there or just return to your normal life. Please promise me you will think about it.

―I thought you didn't want me to go because Fate was there.

―Honestly, I'm willing to make the sacrifice. Just promise me you won't talk or think about her.

―Won't it happen like the polar bear thing?

―See? What the fuck does that even mean?

―That thing where they tell you to not think about polar bears but it's impossible because when you try to not think of that thing you have to think about not thinking about that thing, and that's thinking about the thing.

―... Whatever. Sure. Just don't fuck her.

―I wasn't going to!

―Aha! So you did think about it!

And that went on and on for a while. When the conversation ended, Fischer couldn't stop thinking about fucking polar bears. I mean, about fucking Fate. Well, not that either. He didn't care about that girl at all. Who he actually wanted to fuck was Mysterious Girl. Wait a minute. No, don't think about that either. And that wasn't even decided yet. Jesus, he only met her like, twice; and it's not like she liked him anyway at all or made any signs towards that, so it didn't depend on him like at all. If that would be the case, that would be great; not because then he liked her or anything (not at all) but because then he could refuse the offer with the high moral position about it and not just not try something just because he didn't know anyway if she was into him and that wouldn't prove anything...? He lost track. The whole thing just made him really confused.

―Concentrate Fischer, concentrate. Just don't fuck anybody and you will be fine.

Said to himself, with his hands covering his ears like trying to stop his own thoughts, as he left the bedroom and went towards the grocery store. He needed some fresh air. Today, he had the mission to talk with the cashier using a false accent. Without laughing this time.

CHAPTER 23 ― THE THREE BODY PROBLEM

Fischer exited the store, but he didn't feel like going back yet. So, groceries in hand, he started walking.

Do you know, when you walk aimlessly, how sometimes you end up following over and over the same path? Either because it's entrenched in your memory, because in the desert you would walk in circles or because sometimes paths tend to converge. The case being, he found himself in the middle of campus. Did a round, looked at a tall building, and went home again. The next day, he would do the same.

He didn't mind walking around there, in fact he liked it very much. People were busy, went places, wear sometimes funny self-important or overly dismissive clothes that meant "I don't care" while clearly caring too much about not caring at all. But even then, he did it cautiously. He didn't want to meet anyone he already knew, specially no one from the club, specially not Miller, so he walked in strange routes that led him observe from the distance concurred places before deciding to join in. Avoiding people, while going to his favorite confluent places, while crossing plausible locations for Mysterious Girl to appear while not admitting to himself he was looking for her; that was a difficult task, that should require all of his concentration. Because he didn't even know where to find her, and didn't know what classes she took, so the only thing he could do is wait for o'clock hours and try to be in certain places at that time that sounded or felt like places a person he didn't know at all would be more likely to be at. All while having some plausible denial to himself about why he was there at that time and sabotaging willingly his own search from time to time so he could better feign chance. Which sounds stupid, but somehow works.

At assuaging his consciousness, not at finding the girl.

Obviously.

Right?

This is Fischer who are we talking about. He didn't have to concentrate doing that. He did it by instinct. It was implicit somewhere in his brains under layers and layers of behavior that for him just meant "going for a walk". The wisdom and practicality of normal people never ceases to amaze the calculating mind. A computer would try during eons to triangulate all of those things and come up with an approximation to the best possible answer to the three body problem. He did it in flip-flops.

―Hey! I didn't expect to find you! What are you doing here?

―Fischer! Well, I come from class and go to class. And what are you doing here?

―Oh, you know. Hanging around, buying some groceries.

―In the economics faculty?

―Well, which better faculty?

She laughed like angels laugh. Well, like highschool shy mysterious simple girls that cover their mouths when laughing but in a cute more than childish kind of way because she used to wear braces and her self-esteem and legacy social standing in their school microcosm doesn't quite match her actual beauty so they developed genuine interests and not hubris instead of being popular too early forever ruining them kind of angels.

Then they just stood there in brief silence.

―Do you want to...?

―To?

―Grab a coffee or...?

―No! I'm sorry I have to go to the other building. I mean yes, I want, but I can't.

Fischer's heart sank.

―I have an idea! Why don't you come with me though? I will show you my faculty! It has some cool stairs and it's huge you will like it.

―Yeah, sure. Let's do that.

And they walked, for a while. Both unsure about what to say and how to proceed. A bit of tension is fine.

―How come you go to so many classes?

―Good question. I don't know. I do too many things, I keep signing up to things, that's why I'm always busy. But there's so much cool stuff to do! Don't you think?

―Yes, it happens the same to me. ― He was and always have been a dirty liar.

―It's a shame I can't do everything. My sisters always tell me to stop from time to time but every time I do I always find something new. You must be into some some wild stuff in that secret club of yours. Every time I see them they are doing something different and exciting! Do you go there often?

―Sometimes.

―You have to take me there sometime.

―I don't know. Yeah, sometime. But not now. I'm also trying to keep it cool and rest a bit.

―Oh, come on. I have shown you my faculty. Do you like it?

―Yes, the stairs are pretty cool. And there are pictures and stuff.

―Well, now you know where to find me.

Suddenly, Fischer's phone rang in his pocket. Which was weird, because he tried to always keep it at home, and in silence, and disconnected, and at home. He looked at the contact name calling him. It was Sussie, with a bunch of hearts she had put herself there when saving in her boyfriend's phone her own number. He quickly covered it and put the phone back in his pocket, unanswered, almost dropping it during the process a couple of times. He exhaled, alleviated.

―Who was it?

―My girlfriend.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He shouldn't have said that. Why the instinctive truth, all of a sudden?

―Oh.

She didn't seem disappointed, or appointed. Just surprised. As if she didn't even thought of the possibility or even pondered about the possibility of the possibility because she hadn't thought about any particular way about Fischer at all. Still, the "oh." remained. Why did she say that? Did she care? Why? Did he think she cared and said it as a rejection (rejection to what? did she imply at some point she liked him? because she didn't, or at least she thought, maybe she does unconsciously) or he didn't think it didn't mattered if she cared at all, was she somehow expecting in some weird way to be liked by default or him in particular, or was in general? Why did she think that...? She lost track. Concentrate Mysterious Girl, concentrate. You have class.

―I have to enter class now. Bye!

"Was that too sudden?". "Wait, too sudden to what end?"

She spent the rest of her day thinking in self-reinforced loops that went nowhere and only managed to increase that stupid interaction and Fischer's presence in her subconscious. He had an unbelievable talent to live rent-free in the minds of random people for no reason at all. Except when he didn't try.

Fischer stood there and watched her disappear, as confused as ever, still wearing flip-flops.

―These are actually cool stairs.

CHAPTER 24 ― SPIN-OFF

Fischer expanded his usual shopping walks to the totality of the university; minus the bar and the places he had been with Mysterious Girl with, obviously. Not because he didn't want to meet her, but because he didn't want her to think he wanted to meet her because that would imply he liked her, which he was not certain of but wanted to find out; in which case it might be good to actually find her and show he didn't care if she thought he was into her because that would mean he wasn't. Or the opposite of all that. Either way, he was wandering, and maybe because that day he was wearing his lucky detective shorts, he managed to find the way into the strange asylum.

―Oh, right. I was looking for this place. This is a thing still.

He had completely forgotten. Since the Teddy episode, he could again sleep more or less well again. And if sleeping with a teddy bear was a problem for a six foot twenty year old, he could always take a trip to the nearby psychology department one evening and they would quickly patch him up.

Fischer turned a corner, and saw that this time the reception was not empty. There was a lady behind, with half-glasses solving crosswords and a security guard in all white in front of her. The situation would require all the wisdom he could muster, so he decided to call the wisest person he knew in the whole world. His grandpa. He explained the whole situation to him, and he quickly answered.

―Son, stay away from that girl. The shy ones are always the worst ones.

―No grandpa. The other problem.

―Get rid of the Teddy bear.

―No. The other, other problem. The getting into the crazy ass secret asylum one.

―Oh, that. That's easy. Remember what I always tell you.

―Yeah, yeah. I know. "The best way to get into a government or institutional building is to act as if you belong". I know that, you have told me a million times, since I was little. But how do I do that?

The conversation ended shortly after, he made the false promise to go visit sometimes, and now knowing what to do approached reception pretending to take small sips from a soda can he found in a nearby garbage. Obviously he got immediately stopped and confronted by the staff.

―Boy, where do you think you are going?

Maybe the times had changed since grandpa's. Fischer stared at the guard with his signature blank stare and about ten to a million seconds of solid silence. The time it took to remember the rest of the plan.

―No hablo inglés.

The receptionist and the guard looked at each other, and eventually shrugged, and let him pass. Maybe the times haven't changed so much after all: the shy ones are still crazy. Once he was in, he didn't know what to do, but he didn't want to look like it as the receptionist was still watching, so very convincingly he took the first route he saw and started to walk. He could see a couple of doctor-looking people with pens in his front pocket in the distance, and was approaching them at a normal pace to try to mingle with them and try to figure out from there what the hell was this place and what was going on when a door opened to his side, grabbed him by the sweater and pulled him in with unexpected force. And then, the door was closed, and he inside.

At the beginning, there was only darkness. And then, someone, turned on a light. And there was light.

Simple as that. Not any God intervention, just the electrician. And plumber.

―Who the fuck are you? Where am I? Are you crazy?

The three questions Fischer uttered while getting up from the floor answered themselves. It was that young guy he met the last time he came here, that only uttered that stuff about silk moths. The former Doctor Professor student. They were in a simple room, with a simple desk and a simple bed and a simple window showing the simple sky. It looked so inane and normal and normative that was clear it was a room inside a mental institution. Once I was with a girl and she was kind of normal but then she invited me to her room and I kid you not, the walls were totally empty. Like, a bedroom with only a bed and a closet. She had been living then for years, years. It creeps me the fuck out, but she was a little chubby and she knew it so she invested a lot of effort into sex. Anyway, back to the story.

Mysterious Guy was in a meter distance of him, his eyes fixated on his, standing on the floor on all fours, in an almost feral position. That didn't look like the almost catatonic person he met the last time. He hadn't uttered a word, Fischer didn't know if to completely stand up or what. He did, very slowly, and lifting the palm of his hands in symbol of surrender. That thing was still looking at him very intensively. Fischer decided to break the silence. He needed to reduce tension. He needed to solve the urgent situation he was in, in which he himself had put himself in.

―Silk Moths Can't Fly?

There was a moment of silence, and the staring continued for a few more. Then the feral boy reacted, and started laughing and rolling on the floor. Then, as that started, it ended, with him rising into a perfectly normal stance cleaning some glasses he had on the desktop. While still laughing a bit under his breath. Then started to talk to him with absolute normality, timbre and pace. That also revealed that Mysterious Guy was actually Mysterious Girl. Well, mysterious girl number two. Let's call her J. Fischer didn't know which one of those separate thing scared and/or surprised more. He would really have trouble making his usual tier list.

―You must be the new Miller's boy. You must be wondering why...

―You're a girl!

We have a winner. She rolled her eyes as if looking for Jupiter and Mars.

―Really? I do all this and the only thing you're interested in is if I am a girl? You're just like my father. What? Can't I have short hair and behave strangely? I blame it on my brothers, really. I know I don't have huge tits but I can also be feminine and... Look, they're not nonexistent either.

And she just flashed him out of the blue. Fischer felt the indescribable instinct to turn his head and not look, which betrayed his deepest principles, but managed to not do it to not disrespect his host. I don't know. Some girls just feel wrong to see fully as girls for some reason. Don't ask me why. Instead, Fischer resorted to nervous laughter.

―What are you laughing about? Are they that small? It doesn't bother me really, I like them very much. Do you want something to drink? I have orange juice, pineapple juice aaaand... you're lucky. Apple juice. They don't give us this one that often. You're right, not the time for juice, really. We have lots to talk about.

And now she just stared at him, as if the last thing was a question.

―Yeah well... you're a girl...

―Yes I think that has been sufficiently proven. Do you want me to...?

―No, no, no. I believe you. I mean you're a girl and you're crazy so that's why you are here also and that who you are so, there go all my questions really. Well, wait, wait. I have one more. Why is this place? How come are you crazy?

―"Why is this place."?

―Aha.

―"How come are you crazy."?

―Uhum.

―What kind of questions are those? Why do you have such a dumb face? Has Miller recruited again from the football team? ―That felt personal.― I am NOT crazy! Well, I am crazy, but not "crazy" crazy. I mean, not now. But that's because I take like, a lot of drugs. Which reminds me.

And she opened some small box from the desktop and chugged a couple of prescription pills. Then half a liter of water.

―Let me answer so we can get this over with. I am sort of crazy because the world is crazy and I seem to be the only one that sees it this way. I don't know if they are dumb or just playing pretend. They have these models about reality and entire structures of knowledge and then something changes and they just say, well, that's curious, and go on with their lives. As if everything didn't demand for everything to be reconsidered and re-calibrated and changed of paradigm. Is that crazy? I don't think so. They just don't see the implications. I do. I glimpse them. And get a bit lost on them, I admit. Let's make a test. Let's assume that for some reason, pi is three now.

―Ok.

―What does that change about everything?

―I have no idea.

―Exactly! At last, one smart person in this room. Forget about what I said about your dumb face. It's impossible to know the implications of anything at all. Do you know about that thing where a butterfly can cause tornadoes on the other side of the planet? It's that, but with everything, all the time, everywhere. Just some butterflies seem to know. And we have no idea how. Not even that, the tornado seems to know. And to this end, the wind protects seemingly random little butterflies through time to finally materialize itself into existence. Once that's done, they retire them here, and that's why this place is. And we kind sort of see it, but still talk in terms of simple currents and temperature and blablabla. Like that means something. Do you understand me?

―No.

―I like you. You're bold. Now it's me who has some questions.

―Wait. I have another one.

Fischer spoke with a strange tone of authority that wasn't common in him, reserved for important matters and important occasions. J noticed the subtle change in the air very clearly.

―Tell me.

―Is the apple juice with pulp?

―Of course not. We're crazy, not savages.

Hehe.

CHAPTER 25 ― SPIN-OFF (PART 2)

More than the boring joke itself, that small interaction deeply impressed J. Fischer's intent to engage in that conversation with naturalness, both seriously and both with a silly tone. Normalizing the situation, being willing and signaling he intended to stay and that he was both no threat to her and that he would listen. All that spoke volumes to her. It's like, she knew Fischer was... simple, and that simplicity was weirdly comforting. Maybe she wasn't so crazy (even or thanks to all the drugs) and more than that felt a little lonely here, and talked so fast and so chaotic not because of the loose associations related to schizo people, but because she feared she would lose the attention of who she was talking to. But that didn't matter that much, because Fischer wanted apple juice, and that meant he would hang out for a while. That meant relax, take it easy, I'm here for you, this is a normal world, you are allowed to feel normal and also inappropriate in my presence, not be perfect; it's ok. Not only she slowed down, but also started to smile a bit more.

They were there, slurping juice with a straw, both sitting in the minimalist size one bed, like a pair of two brothers that couldn't be more different but happen to like each other quite a lot. Fischer told her a lot about what they were doing with the professor and about the whole conversation they had last time.

―What I don't understand.

Slurp.

―Is why Doctor Miller chose you to do all this? I mean. No offense, but... you're an idiot.

―None taken. I don't have any idea either.

―It's all very suspicious.

―Suspicious? Why?

―Oh. Don't worry about it. It's all just part of a massive global conspiracy for world domination.

―That kind of sounds like something to worry about.

―It's really not. It's not like anything you can do can change it very much. I advise you to run from here, plant some potatoes in a farm and never again come back to an academic institution or open a book in your life. I don't want to talk about it.

―It sounds a lot like you actually want to talk about it.

―No I don't. For your own good, also.

Fischer used all of his persuasive power. Even he didn't know he could be so sly.

―It's a shame, because I really like conspiracies.

Nailed it. With which I want to say that he looked dismissively at his nails when saying it.

―You do? Like which ones?

―Like alien stuff, Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster and...

―So dumb ones.

―They said they were true on TV.

―I guess that confirms them.

―And I made some research.

―Did you?

―Yeah.

―And what did it say.

―The truth.

The unexpected severity of the affirmation made J's apple juice take a wrong turn.

―How can you say that to me with such a straight face? It's not fair! I almost choked to death!

―I am being serious!

―Well I guess... in a sense one could understand conspiracy theories as modern myths that encapsulate concepts, contradictions or important phenomena inside the hyperspaces of the collective unconscious. Stable configurations of narrative ideas that come to fill the blanks of causality explained causality based representations of the world. So, in a sense, I guess they exist.

―So are you saying Nessy exists?

―Well, technically I am saying that the idea of Nessy exists and that's even more important but... no. But don't worry, there's a monster in Scotland. Just not the kind of monster you are thinking of.

Fischer was thinking about aliens.

―So, if my theories are dumb. Let's see yours, if you're so smart.

―You think I'm going to fall for such obvious taunt?

―I do.

―Smart guy. Here it comes. The world is a simulation of itself, in which individuals and institutions form a decentralized network hidden in plain sight that seeks to alter the course of history by producing ideas and introducing them into the culture altering its course. Seeking to influence the future with seemingly inane actions like writing certain books, altering key pieces of art through inspiration, sharing certain memes or taking certain decisions. Individuals, as carriers of that information, act as both agents and weapons that are bred to make history converge into a great and definitive unique representation of the world in the search for efficiency and the promise of a better tomorrow; acting in self-interest but being pushed by micropolarization into greater structures on which they form a sort of ribosomic or multicellular life forms like nations, ideologies, religions and cultural identities that seek to self-instantiate themselves.

―So... your conspiracy theory is that people do things because of reasons.

―Exactly. More or less. That would be a way to put it.

―That sounds...

―Yes? ―She said it with expectation.

―Either incredibly complicated and convoluted or completely and utterly inane and mundane.

―Exactly! That's the marvel of it. You get it.

―It's this even a conspiracy? Like, of course they do. With propaganda and stuff.

―Yes but the memetic technology in which that task is carried out is, and had always been, more advanced and sophisticated that you think. Much more. Propaganda is only the surface. It's everywhere. It's in books, it's in language, it's in narrative, it's in the water.

―I don't know. It's not that I don't believe you but... No offense, but you are in a mental institution and we are having this conversation while you have practically dragged me into your cell. It doesn't strike a lot of confidence.

J looked around, as if the situation was suddenly revealed to her and she hadn't noticed until then.

―None taken.

More slurping. Fischer had loudly finished his cardboard juice, which marked a transcendental "beginning of the end" to the casual conversation.

―You know, I'm beginning to understand why Miller picked you. And dumped me here.

―Really? Why?

―You seem to be some sort of memetic vaccine against the curse of knowledge, and prevent some kind of neo-intellectual inbreeding. A solution to the virus epidemic of Babel.

―What I don't understand. Slurp. Is why you guys talk like this.

―Like what?

―Like we are in some kind of biblical star wars intellectual thing. Like if we are in the future.

―Because we are! Fischer, you woke up this morning and put some synthesized music chosen and recommended by an artificial intelligence you can directly speak to, that controls The Algorithm behind a huge global decentralized network of almost infinite information. And through broad influences on such network architecture and vehicles like platforms, they redirect interest engaging in forms of cultural cyber-warfare to alter the memetic DNA of entire nations through slightly recommending (to tilt the balance of sacred patterns of social interaction) videos of people dancing, pictures of cats and drawings of frogs while getting you away from knowledge. Music that aligns your behavior through resonance of internal space vectors of emotion towards pleasure ends to your known neural pathways, luring your spirit into vibe-based clusters of experience. Then you took a breakfast made of genetically modified cereals grown, designed and shipped from continents your ancestors never knew about, in the process computing inefficiencies in the grand calculator of value that is economic global trade. Everything, including you and me, from our births, is directly or indirectly part of an emerging psy-ops operation since at least the seventies. Germany sent an ideological bio-hazard in a train called Lenin to make the Russians lose WWI. And that was a century ago. Do I have to continue? We are in the future. Start acting like it.

―You... I mean, I... Don't know. I will think about it.

He liked conspiracies, but that was a bit too much. Like conspiracy theorists trying to one up between themselves with meta conspiracies that included itself the notion of conspiracies. This one was so meta that could very well just be real. It sounded more like a Johnny Harris video; just way too forced and way too soft. Without planning to do so, he stood up, ready to leave. J didn't move, and looked worried instead.

―Will you come back to visit?

―Yeah, sure!

―Do you promise?

―I do.

The girl briefly looked at his eyes and sondered in their profundity. Fischer felt instantly transparent, intimidated by a power he hadn't perceived until now. That tomboy girl was not just a loony. He really wanted to come back. J, probably already knowing this, smiled satisfied.

―Oh, by the way. Try to not be seen here. Specially by Miller. Wait at least a couple of weeks to appear. The password to get through the reception is...

―Yeah, I know. "No hablo inglés".

And left. Leaving J puzzled with that last line.

―How did he know?

CHAPTER 26 ― LIDIA

Mysterious Girl woke up. It was Thursday, and that meant... Thursday. She really wanted to sleep more, not only because she was tired but because she loved her bed very much. But as a morning ritual she didn't remember when or why exactly she started doing (probably to avoid existential madness) she told to herself, moving her lips and everything but emitting no sound.

―Don't think. Just get up.

She sprinkled a lot of this through her day, but most of them concentrated in the morning and during crisis, like if she had to do something after ten pm or if she had fallen in love for the Nth time that year. Once she managed to get out of bed, a process that involved throwing a lot of pillows, she undressed very bluntly and took a shower. Then put some bathrobe, eat some sparkle-colored cereals with lots of sugar with a banana somewhere in there to give the placebo of healthy food. Then, with a lot of precision, love and care dressed herself; almost in an imagined pseudo seductive performance no one else could see. That ended when she struggled a little bit more than she would like to admit putting on one of her regular jeans.

―Come on. You can do this.

She began her mirror ritual of drying her hair, doing some stuff, putting a little bit of make-up here and there, enough to look natural and casual and at the same time not enough so she could think of it as "not really make-up". She looked at herself at the mirror for a second and performed a quick cute smile. Perfect. Didn't even have time to actually look at herself to the eyes. Realizing how late it was, she put a pile of already prepared books and stuff inside her backpack, brute forced her way through her sport sneakers, that between the jeans and them left a slim line of very light pink socks visible and another of her ankle. They may be incredibly expensive, but no man has lost his mind over a Rothko the way certain specific boys tend to do while looking at similar patterns that just happen to involve a woman's skin. I mean, porn is fine. But have you ever seen a window that seems to lead into an entire ocean?

And left, her roommates still sleeping when she closed the door.

Most of the time, when talking to her childhood friends (not much time to make other ones) about the subject, she claimed she didn't understand why some random guys seemed to get obsessed with her out of nowhere. Which drove her least lucky girl friends crazy; even sometimes the prettier ones. Most of them eventually got tired of the situation and learned that overly obvious promiscuity was an equally, if not more, effective tactic; and she lost contact with some of them. But to be honest, for someone that didn't care about it and that almost didn't notice about it happening (or claimed to) she sure spent a lot of time trying to instinctively cultivate a specific version of herself with some specific and rather abstract qualities. You couldn't catch her doing anything improper, challenging authority nor falling for common defects, treating others badly, etc. But she knew that rather by virtue, that was the result of her obsession with being told she was a good girl. She hated that idea. Tried not to think about it. Tried to do lots of things, which was her way to be more "interesting" than that. But she couldn't help it. That was too integrated into her. Performing as a "good girl" she actually became a good girl. And now she had no idea of what part of her was an impersonation and what not. Was she a fraud? Was she boring? Also feared being discovered not being as ideal and normal and acceptable as she liked to portray. While at the same time part of her thinking she was actually a terrible person if a person at all because of it. What can I say. People are complicated. Even those who are not, some of them became NPCs by action of a paralysis by analysis personality superloop, and not because of lack of underlying complexity.

She navigated most of the day fine, through a variety of classes and activities. Homework for the evening started to pile up. She dutifully annotated every single piece of it in her agenda, and tried not to worry about it very much. After lunch, she received the results of a test and they were not very good. She seemed a good student. I correct, she was a good student, in the sense that she applied herself and listened during class and did everything she was told to. But between her impossible schedule and nerves when performing and the secret conviction that she was not very smart, she failed often. Excused herself to the bathroom, where she cried a little and also since she was already there went to pee.

―I'm stupid and ugly. No, you're not stupid. And you're beautiful.

It may seem (it was) an insignificant test, but she had really worked hard for it, and now felt really stupid because it didn't pay off, because she did that instead of using her time to go to a place with her friends that really wanted to go, and because she cared about the result. But she recovered fast. It was a tactical crying session between breaks, not crying "crying".

Next, she had a generic math class. Halfway through it, she lost track of what was actually about, and began daydreaming holding her head with one hand while drawing circles with a pencil. "What was she daydreaming about?" You might wonder. There were two main categories: unrealized escapist fantasies that only existed in her mind to be somewhat cathartic and end up not doing simple things she could actually reasonably do to change for the better her life and dick. Perhaps a bonus category was both at the same time. This time though, it was just dick. She snapped out of it about ten minutes later, the complicated scenario of social interactions and networks of events already constructed in her imagination before actual action. What a waste. Maybe she would try to remember it all later in her bedroom, or take an extra shower tonight, if she had the time (she won't).

―No, don't think about this stuff. It's not the time. You are in college.

Which sometimes sounded as.

―You don't deserve it.

Which had a lot of complicated undertones and psychological implications. A Freudian scholar would have a field day with a regular girl being sincere for twenty minutes.

After that class, that lasted about an extra half an hour, she had to exchange buildings to reach the next one. She had realized at the last moment that she didn't print a necessary document to give as part of a practice the day before and had to appear briefly into a department to give it and then go back to the class but in no way in hell would she come in late because the teacher closed the doors and entering then would make everyone look at her as she crossed the classroom to her usual seat during several seconds. She started to almost sprint, and could feel sweat threatening to show itself and challenge her image of pure girl. "Dirty, dirty." Said the children, pointing at her child self, in a scenario during elementary school that never actually happened. In the middle of the imaginary chanting, she met, or rather collided, with a brick wall. Called Fischer. But because this is not a highschool or young romance novel drama, she didn't fall and he helped her get her things and crossed their eyes at a key moment. Rather than that, she just stumbled a little and actually hurt her forehead against his chin. It was actually visibly red, as she would after discover in abject terror.

―Are you ok?

―(Oh God, not now. Why did it have to be now.) Yes, yes. Sorry it was my bad.

―Where the hell were you going so fast? You have to look forward when you run. My coach always told me to...

And kept talking. Which was a luck, actually. She had some time to think about what to do. It's best to let them talk. "What do I do?" She had forgotten about not thinking about Fischer lately, so she wasn't quite ready for the situation. Even if she did, that guy was like a polar bear. Is he wearing flip-flops in January? And she was sweating. And she was super late. And she wanted to go with him. And she didn't want to because I don't know, what if I like him. And she wanted him to understand that it's not that she didn't want, but that she didn't have time, but she didn't want to say it in a way that would imply she liked him because she was not sure, and not in a way that would make him not like her or assume that she didn't want him to not like her. You know the drill. While her brain was cooking, they had their regular fast interaction in which she ended up saying she was busy and Fischer told her not to worry about it. Again.

Somewhere in his heart, he was starting to understand that she would always be busy, no matter the reason why. Lidia went through the rest of the day, putting her thoughts on hold and blocking them with mastery and "haves to" until she had gone to all classes, to all club activities, made all homework, returned home, removed her bra, went through her phone, ate her supper, watched her drama (actually she was studying) and fell into her bed face-down.

―Don't do it. Don't think. You're tired. Just sleep.

And with everything unresolved, piling up into an incoherent and explosive mess that drained her each day a little bit more and took her very soul, she fell asleep.

The next day was Friday, which meant... Friday.

And so on and so forth.

CHAPTER 27 ― MILLER

Miller woke up. It was... some random week day. Who cared. Not him, obviously. Just another shining day to get stuff done. He deactivated the alarm just seconds before it actually rang, like every morning. Then he patted the other side of the bed, but it was already empty, like every morning. Without thinking much about it, he got up, raised the curtains (it was raining) had some instagram breakfast his husband had left for him, went to the bathroom, shaved using his trusted Occam's razor and left for the campus; all while reading a light novel, drafting some documents, reviewing a research paper in Chinese about The Sapir-Whorf Hypothesis being obviously false and grading some essays. They all seemed to be perfectly reasonable, used notable and distinguished pieces of available literature and reached the same known and more or less accepted conclusions. All F's.

In his way to the department he had to almost dribble several students that were searching for him asking all sorts of questions about grading and credit validation, which annoyed him to no end.

―Why do you guys care about all that anyway? Aren't you here to learn?

―Well, perhaps if you didn't build a system based on those things we wouldn't care that much.

―We wouldn't need to do that if you guys showed some initiative when outside of it.

―It's a chicken and egg problem.

―No, it isn't. It's a you problem.

Then, once in it, he had to similarly run a course of obstacles made of actual professors and graduate students and assistants under his belt. They were even worse.

―No, I can't give you an extension. You finished the last one like, last week.

―Yes, but that one was because I wanted to study the historical and symbolic implications of crocodiles in emerging pantheistic civilizations and the resulting differences in emergent idiosyncrasy.

―What was the conclusion?

―That I can't raise them in my backyard.

―And what's this new one about?

―Alligators.

And then he had an impromptu reunion with other heads of department and the accountability staff. Gardeners were on strike, one of the dean's buildings was occupied by the anarcoprimitivist wing of the student council and several research ostriches had escaped from the art academy. When he realized he was the only head of department actually present (besides Francis) he left too.

―I don't know why they call an urgent meeting just to discuss day-to-day stuff.

Finally, he managed to reach his office, where he relaxed for a second inclining his chair backwards while holding a mug of hard earned tea. The door opened very suddenly.

―Miller! You have a minute?

And it spilled it over him.

―Yeah, sure. What is it?

It was Bertha. You know her, even if you don't remember her by name. It was that seemingly no-nonsense strict professor that brought Fischer into the department for the first time. The one who thought he was a bit retarded. Lovely lady, actually. Lots of experience. Very accomplished and knowledgeable. She had written a lot of hard books about geography people cited from time to time but nobody had actually read nor cared about at all. Which in this realm, tends to be a thing of pride. They tangled in conversation. It naturally drifted from curricular stuff to sushi restaurants to her disaffected married life and then to the sort of club bar thing Miller was always actually thinking about.

―But Miller, do these kids actually do something?

―It's a research unit. It doesn't have to "do" anything in particular.

―Researching what?

―The world.

―But what's it going to amount to? It all sounds very exciting and with lots of potential and everything. But it's dreamland. Years are gonna pass, they are going to collect their diplomas, and they will be left with no usable skills and you, with a bunch of magazine scraps.

―Relax, I know what I'm doing.

―Do you?

―Do you? You do the same!

Bertha looked at him, with her best professor stance. Miller knew he shouldn't shout at her. She knew. They have had this conversation a million of times and she was not going to change stance. Luckily for him, he didn't depend to convince her, so he could be quite honest.

―Look. I know what I am doing the same way anyone ever knew what they were doing when doing something they didn't know what they were doing. So it's fine. What's the worse that could happen?

And she left shortly after, biting her tongue, trying to not ask "How's Jaiden" in a poignant tone.

Sometimes, the character of a man is best described by the places he inhabits. His office was full of contradictions. Next to perfectly arranged cabinets full of alphabetically ordered documents were strange maps depicting the world in patterns of migration, full of places that didn't (or never) exist anymore and predominant feelings or definitions of certain words. Modernist architecture, full of old photographs. A constant remainder of the past and a constant yearning for a future, that either lost or too slow for his taste, seemed to never come. His computer desktop was clean, with distinct folders by topics but inside were a chaotic arrangement of abstract seemingly unrelated stuff: geographical data of the middle east, papers about statistical cluster analysis and a copy of the original draft of "El Aleph". But his old excavation gear was posted into the world, like an old abandoned trophy of something he no longer was. His schedule was solidly established but more suggestive than actually enforced. His ideas were sometimes more like fever dreams of far reaching consequences but he meticulously analyzed them using a hard logic he didn't know how to escape from. He was an inside-the-box thinker dreaming outside-the-box. Perhaps just trapped inside a bigger box. And he knew it. He was born with the rare curse of knowing his own limitations.

I guess that in a way, Miller is what happens when you take an old academic and make it endearly eccentric and then go backwards from there. Then you take a promising young student and restrict his ambitions, but not enough to extinguish them, so they sublimate when he grows and discovers that all this time he had been free but didn't realize it (and now he's institutionalized and doesn't know what to do with it or how to use it) and go forward from there. You somehow get a control freak that has a very loose definition of what control actually is, and is very much conscious of its true illusionary nature.

And that instead of like a magician looks and acts like a regular highschool teacher.

He sighed, and went on with his usual paperwork. Which ironically had very little to do with papers and lots with reading and sending emails. He opened his old university official account that looked like a webpage from the late nineties in his last generation computer and inside were about a hundred recent mails to answer to.

―Slow day. Everyone must be thinking about the weekend already.

So he started answering them, very calmly and composed, but at what looked like if someone was staring at the screen at a furious pace. Some of them were about university stuff, others were about normal other academic stuff, others were about weird other academic stuff, and a handful were about weird wackos that for same reason came to him with their crazy nonsensical theories about things. He could not wrap his head around why they contacted him, of all people. In the physics department his mentor used to have a curated archive of those, they called it "The Loony Carpet". Miller was in regular contact with all kinds of different people, ranging from other academic institutions, government agencies and mysterious individuals that, like him, researched most unusual stuff from around the globe. Brief conversations quickly turned into fully fledged discussions about a particular topic and then spiraled into dissertations about literally everything at all at once. Then he logged into Tor. There he started answering the latest message written in an old and abandoned forum post by a guy with whom he had started an argument more than a decade ago. That conversation alone spawned across thousands of pages, disseminating from the original topic and drawing a thin (sometimes even abstract) argumentative line that folded into itself like in some form of avant-garde form of art, a fractal multiplication of triangles or an alpha pruning tree search method of an infinite recursive problem nobody remembered what was supposed to be about. Then he visited a portal, made some calls, and deleted all traces. From this angle I can't see about what and to whom.

Once that was done, he realized he had forgotten to eat lunch. A salad and a salmon were resting cold in his side table, and he didn't even notice the aide bringing it to him, despite automatically and absentmindedly having with her a conversation of five minutes about her future. And to appear in his own class. He hoped his other underlings had improvised something worthy of his name, and that the student didn't forget they have an important exam the next day. For now, he had more important things to do.

He appeared at the usual cafeteria. Jeremy was there.

―Has anyone seen him today?

―Not a trace. But we have been doing things! Let me show you...

―No need. Have you guys at least printed the things I told you?

―We did but... I don't know if it's a good idea. Can't you just figure out where he lives? He must be in the university system somewhere. His phone. His parents. Something.

―Do you think I would come here if I hadn't already tried that? All the information is wrong, like if it was misspelled somehow. This kid is always a step ahead of me. Show me the posters.

Jeremy opened his bag and took out a bunch of missing person posters with a photo of Fischer in a Halloween costume in full definition. They knew it didn't look very serious, but it was the only one they had of him not counting the ones where he was violently sneezing. It even had a "reward" section. For unrelated reasons, that day Fischer felt the intense urge to get a haircut and wear again sunglasses.

―This is perfect. Post them around. Not only campus, nearby towns. And keep working hard.

Exiting the scene, he briefly crossed paths with Andrew and they very consciously ignored each other.

The rest of the day flew by, with Miller almost obsessively trying to do lots of work. Without even realizing it, he found himself in his own home again, eating pizza while delving deep into some kind of rabbit hole he was submerged into that week, consulting strange books from his personal library, reading papers and looking at unknown video channels in the internet, eventually scattering everything into nothingness. He scrutinized chains of comments on social media in random topics about celebrities and sport events, trying very hard do do "sentiment analysis" but that really consisted in frowning a lot his eyebrows in an attempt to crack some secret code between a myriad of meaningless information. Eventually, he realized it was very late already, and went to bed where his partner was already in; scrolling through some app or watching television. Once finished his "going to sleep" routine. The last part involved trying to fake sleep for a second or two before incorporating again and saying something to him. He already expected it. It could be the most random thing of the world or some profound observation about the nature of reality.

―You know. Sometimes I have the feeling history is just a fiction that just happens to have happened. After that, it's just puff. And it's gone. It's like I'm always chasing a shadow.

After a day, another long day of hyperproductivity, he was as far as ever, or even farther, to any actual non-defined goal regarding "understanding the universe" that when the day started. It didn't matter how many books he read (there were always more and more) no matter who he talked to; the web kept widening. The more things he knew, the less did they compute, the bigger the picture, the farther from it. The higher the definition, the less clear. No matter how he looked at it, it didn't compute. History didn't make sense. The world didn't make sense. And with that lingering usual feeling, he finally went to sleep.

He didn't need to think harder. That made it worse. He needed someone detached from the intellectual tradition and extensive cultural baggage that hard-coded the source of its own contradictions. He needed an alien. He needed Fischer.

CHAPTER 28 ― FISCHER

The guy that goes barefoot everywhere woke up.

Nah, I'm kidding. Let's go back to the big guy.

Fischer got up early. Like, really early. Mistook PM for AM early. Months, weeks, perhaps even days or a few hours had passed. He was in a daze, as if the writer of his story had gone on a wild self-indulging binge and completely forgot about his existence, along with the plot and half of the characters. Memory is a funny thing. Fischer dressed himself in usual sweaters and nonchalantly left his room and went into the cafeteria. Not driven by some conscious desire, nor by some particular determination. Scientists and historians have been debating for decades, but the best explanation regarding why is that he forgot why he stopped going in the first place, and so by pure instinct, being a hard-committed believer in not thinking very much, he presented himself in front of his astounded colleagues as if nothing unusual was happening at all. And started munching crackers.

―Where the hell have you been?

They congregated around him, perhaps expecting some incredible story involving CIA agents and libraries of forgotten and secret knowledge. He leaned into his chair, removing bits of bread from his clothes and going serious mode. He sure knew how to develop an aura of mystique around him, if totally by accident.

―I've been watching a lot of X-Files.

They looked at him totally dumbfounded. Not only by the affirmation but by the casual tone he used.

―Did you know it's real? There's a government conspiracy covering it all up.

―Wait, you're serious.

―Of course I'm serious.

―Based on what? What did you read? What were you researching? Who did you talk to?

―I told you. The X-Files.

―The show?

―Of course the show. What other files do you know?

―So it's nothing regarding us, what we have been doing here, or Miller?

―No, no. It's about aliens. You see, there's this guy and that hot redhead and...

―You know it's all bullcrap right? It's just a show.

―That's not true.

―There's no conclusive proof of any kind of extraterrestrial visit on Earth.

―That's because there's a government conspiracy covering it all up I already said it. Read a book. Jesus.

―Wait, wait. Have you seriously been missing for months and all this time you were just watching TV?

―Well. Yeah. A lot of it. What have you guys been up to?

Clearly, Fischer had good reasons to not want to talk about what he had been up to. Maybe it was better this way, maybe Jeremy had a vested interest in the results of Fischer's whereabouts being deemed "inconclusive" because that was his betting position in the poll they had made about the matter. The truth is out there, I guess, trying to ignore the giant elephant in the room eating all the snacks.

―So during this time we have been... let me think. It all started when we became more involved in politics and transformed into a radical activist group, first non-violent, then quite violent. That was a fun afternoon. Then we underwent a series of transformations, I don't quite remember how. From role-playing hobbyists, into a psychonautic resurgence of the sixties, then into experimental literature. There was a sailor phase. Then consultant think-tank for grassroots anarchist and fascist movements in europe, and the next logical step was to become full time youtubers, but that ended when we realized nobody really wanted to do that, and after a brief stunt as independent filmmakers we ended up well, back to where we started, pretty much.

―So, not much also, I see.

―Yeah I guess you could say that.

―And now? What are we doing now?

―Well, we have been watching A LOT of TV.

Creations often resemble their creators.

The group sort of dissolved from there, everyone trying to stop their brains from hurting at the cognitive dissonance that the return of the prodigal son had revolutionized them from neutral peaceful normalcy into a state of radical normal peace. So everyone went about their business, mostly. About twenty minutes in, everybody almost forgot Fischer even ever left in the first place.

―By the way. What about that congress thing we were supposed to do?

―Oh yeah. We kind of forgot about that one. It's tomorrow.

―Tomorrow? Do you have something prepared?

―Not really.

―Has the professor said something about it?

―He came by last week. He said that we better had something to present to show for all these months of hard work or that we were done and would return to our classes as normal students and do exams and that sort of stuff.

―What? WHAT?

―Well we assumed it was bound to happen anyway, with you out of the picture and everything.

―And you have done nothing?

―I already said. We have been watching a lot of TV.

Fischer entered panic mode. His new old lifestyle in total jeopardy. He began making weird gestures, standing up randomly, putting his hands around his head, and pointing at random people and directions. Suggesting all kind of last minute solutions and schemes, everyone more ridiculous than the last. It was kind of hypnotic, actually. Like a dance. Or a lava lamp. Eventually he got tired, and collapsed in a nearby chair. The second barefoot guy, the one that was actually kind of attractive, took his place. But instead of dancing, he did and said something very alien to Fischer's nature.

―Maybe we should just wrap up quite everything we have been doing here, instead of making a huge exposition of anything in particular. More like a wide research journal, half academic, half explorative. You know, about the various works we have been doing here. Not some huge controversial statement that warps the reality of the world or the integrity of the social sciences as a field of knowledge with deep implications in virtually every single philosophical form but is deep down just rooted on a hunch someone had while stoned.

―Yes... yes. That's what we need. A huge controversial statement that does all that.

―No, that's not what I said, I said that...

―The best attack is the best defense. We have to be bold.

―Yes, yes, something big.

―You know what? I don't care. Do whatever you want.

―We need to round everyone and make a complete draft.

―And then vote on the most outrageous idea.

―A complete recollection of everything.

―Then we spend the next twenty four hours developing it to make it look serious and perfect.

―Maybe we should...

But the conversation they were having was just buzzing in Fischer's world. He was absent, his eyes lost into the deep distance of the nearby television screen. Changing colors, and silhouettes dancing in the form of reflections in his eyes. In what he was seeing, something wasn't adding up. History didn't make sense. The world didn't make sense. And then it dawned on him. Something not adding up added up. Does that make sense? It made sense to him, at least. And that was enough. He stood up, and for the first time since he got here, he was confident and authoritative. And not as that time he made that terribly inappropriate hitler impression the day he confidently thought it was Halloween. This time it was for realsies.

―Guys.

Pointed at the TV. Everybody shut up and listened.

―Can somebody tell me what has happened in Big Daddy Love Archipelago III?

They kind of laughed.

―I'm serious. Tell me everything.

And so, it began.

CHAPTER 29 ― THE NEO-ASSYRIAN EMPIRE

Kolmogorov was standing in the hallway, looking through a window. He was an old man, with a white beard and white hair and a hat and a past and everything you can think about how an old stereotypical professor might be or look like. He was tired. It had been a long way from Santa Fe, and now he had been all day listening to random symposiums about subjects he didn't care about, hoping to fill an invisible social quota of attendance in the conference to have party rights in the wild world of nighttime academics. "Skirts are so short these days" he thought melancholically, staring at the trees and mountains in the distance.

But it was then when he realized that he was alone.

Where did everyone go? There were usually people all around, having chit-chat about who knows what or just standing around looking important. Sipping coffee, gossiping, trying to be recruited by big corporations... A man appeared, being in quite a rush, and he decided to ask.

―Excuse me but, where are you going, young man?

―There's something huge going on in auditorium two.

―And what would that be?

―I have no idea. They just called me. Something about an archipelago? Sorry I got to go.

And he ran away. The old professor stroked his beard, and decided to follow him. Obviously, that is, at his own pace.

When he finally arrived, he found an unusual sight. The chamber was packed. It had started slowly, very slowly. They were very clearly amateurs; you never take the 3AM shift. But clearly what they were talking about should be of great interest, because a slow trickling had filled the place until it became a torrent. Soon there were no chairs left, and people were just standing in any empty space they could find. He had to fight to find a place where he could actually see and hear what was going on, which reminded him of going to the concerts, something he hadn't done since... well, last fall.

In the speaker's place there was another unusual sight. What Kolmogorov judged later when talking to the press as "a group of punks" or "a culturally insensitive gypsy carnival recreation" had taken the stage and were talking in turns. To judge by the tone, he arrived quite late at the scene and the explanation had been going on already for about forty to fifty minutes. A pink haired lady chewing gum was now talking to a perfectly silenced crowd of people deeply thinking and massaging their beards and scratching their heads in a variety of ways, totally immersed. She was quite comfortable talking in public and had been doing for a while. Her style was curious, almost as if she was talking to some friends in a hairdresser salon more than to a distinguished crowd of hundreds of the best minds the country had to offer. Also, she was doing her nails.

―So, that's when Branden hooked up with Mickaelya in Brian's bed. But not the Mickaeyla that had been married to his brother, but the other Mickaeyla!

Reactions from the crowd:

―No!

―That can't be!

―I knew it!

And then some other punk got the microphone, and attempted to wrap it up. He was quite nervous. And a bit of a nerd if you ask me.

―So, to summarize what you have been hearing here: the behaviour of people in the series could be predicted by modeling of neural networks trained on countless hours of trashy reality television, proving to be turing complete.

Members of the crowd visibly agreed.

―And that worked fine, until they introduced The Hotline. As you guys know by now the hotline was an access the participants of the show had to the internet, breaking the cycles of homeostasis and transistasis that made prediction possible by moving them to a stage with triple periodicity, precursor to criticality.

More agreeing.

―At first it was thought as a means to just make hot tub streams and soft-porn stuff, but then some participants started chatting with their donors. Mostly harmless stuff. Enter Mike Wazowski.

A huge guy with a picture of a yellow mouse in his T-shirt pointed at the ceiling and, after a brief but intense comical visual skit with the controller, the picture of a small funny looking alien that was just a ball with arms and legs appeared on the giant projector screen.

―Wazowski, who we suspect is not using his real name, is a user in the illegal secret dark internet prediction forums of Big Daddy Love Archipelago III. We have been beating him somewhat consistently over the last months in most mid and long term predictions, gaining an amount of money over all this time that sums up to twenty-five Canadian dollars. He was taking it quite hard. But that all changed when the hotline appeared. After a few days he became active making donations to appear in the chat, spending hundreds of dollars to introduce what we thought was regular simp nonsense. But from that moment, he began to crush the prediction bets. So much, in fact, that the chance probability of natural occurrence has been measured by the regular probabilistic models as "more unlikely that the computer doing the calculation being a boltzmann brain" upon which the computer scientist quit his job and started planting potatoes.

Some rumoring and whistling started, but dissipated quickly when the speaker went on.

―And so, given that Brian had been working out to impress his military transvestite father and stole his fiancee's boyfriend's protein shake, we can only conclude that not only is human behaviour predictable past its point of criticality, but it can be directly influenced in seemingly innocuous ways (both on an individual level and at a large scale) in the desired direction.

―Which is exactly what happened in the Neo-Assyrian Empire.

Fischer had made that last remark, unprompted.

After that, a silence lingered for about half a second. Until the room exploded in unanimous laughter.

All hell broke loose. People with glasses holding papers that haven't publicly shown emotion in decades were uncontrollably crying, chairs were falling or people were jumping in them, Kolmogorov himself was rolling on the ground and two women that didn't know each other were hugging with tears of joy going down their cheeks. When someone seemed to recover, he or she would fall instantly into a renewed fit after seeing someone else's reaction, or glimpsing at the still standing projection of the green alien in the big screen, or remembering a particular word of the closing of the lecture. The talk would become a stuff of legends, talked about in every single conversation regarding the conference during the next twenty to hundred years as the best bit of unexpected stand-up comedy ever conceived.

But someone wasn't laughing. Amid the rioting crowd, Miller was glued to his seat. His hands exerting an incommensurable force gripping his own armrests, sweat marks darkening his clear blue buttoned shirt, and his face distorted by a mixture of surprise, seriousness and horror.

CHAPTER 30 ― OZYMANDIAS

―Yes! Exactly! This same face! Stop it, you're killing me!

They were in Miller's office, in front of the man. Jeremy had to hold Clownie and told him to stop laughing as, very obviously, the professor wasn't in the mood for jokes. And when I say "they", I mean it. The whole gang was there, crowded in the tiny office most were seeing now for the first time.

Miller visibly hadn't slept, eaten nor shaved during the past dozen-or-so hours, and was recollecting his thoughts to tell them something predictably quite important. When he stopped fighting inside and finally started talking he did so with a slight distaste in his mouth: seriousness mixed with reluctance.

―I won't enter details about what happened yesterday. It was, a good effort. I am proud of you all.

The compliment didn't foresee any good news, a subtlety that most didn't catch on to.

―So when I tell you this, I hope it doesn't come as a result of that, nor a punishment.

―Tell us what?

―Let me finish. The university has deliberated that we cannot sustain the program anymore.

They all looked at each other. Except Fischer, that was deadlocked into Miller's eyes. He was unusually quiet and observant. Perhaps because he had a mighty hangover and a little bit of trouble processing information. But the fact is, he could see the appearance of the professor was racked with humiliation.

The others weren't so stoic.

―What?!

―Why?!

―What do you mean?!

―Calm down. It's a pure logistics and budget decision. Some stuff has come up, and financially this end of the quarter wasn't so great. This, plus the fact that other departments are starting to see as unjust that we can have this program here and not them, so we will freeze the idea until better conditions arrive or we can find an arrangement that satisfies everyone. Your tuition for the semester will be taken care of, and you will go back to your original curriculums and classes, have a special mention in your files as having partaken in a special program serving the university. Any further accommodations needed will be handled by the secretary of student affairs. Just down the hall.

They were stunned, and after a brief shock, they started to protest.

―No, no, no. None of that is true, please don't take it personally nor as an affront to the work you have been doing here these past months. Take this time as a taste of the academic life you can live here if you graduate successfully and find somewhere where you can follow your own projects with all the resources a university or research institution can offer you, with complete and total liberty.

He stuttered a bit right there.

They were all looking at Fischer now, who was impassible. He had taken it like a champ, and was now watching with his eyes fixated on some point of the desk in front of him.

―Now...

And Miller made an effort to fake a smile for the first time.

―I hope you're not too worried about your cafeteria rights! Hahaha. I have arranged so you can all have free lunch there still, as a token of gratitude for the services served.

Fischer wasn't having it.

―Other than that, you will have to vacate the space that was ceded to you, as it's needed for. Well, because they will be making reforms. So coincidentally, it won't be available for reunions nor late-night shenanigans, understood? Does everyone understand this? Good. I advise you now to go take your things from there as soon as possible...

―But...

―And to see the secretary for any further questions. I hope we can all see each other soon.

They left the room in silence, not knowing what to say or how to look at each other, and mechanically started walking towards the cafeteria, where big cardboard boxes were waiting for them already. While leaving they saw the other group of students, happily talking between them waiting in front of Andrew's office, probably awaiting their same fate. They said nothing to them. In fact, they barely remembered they existed. Slinger shouted at them.

―Hey Adrian! Very funny presentation yesterday!

But then again, Fischer wasn't having it. He would, later, tap the wheels of his car, but that is not now part of the story, nor proven until agreed as guilty by a jury of his peers. Instead, he walked slowly with the others, ignoring the speculations and commentaries about what just happened and why.

―Did we really fumble that hard?

―The budget stuff sounds like total bs.

―How can you lack funds AND reform the cafeteria?

―This was bound to happen. The conference changed nothing.

―It wasn't that bad, was it?

―At least the afterparty was great.

―I don't remember anything.

―Fischer drank like a gallon of beer.

―I'll have to go back to serving tables...

And bla, bla, bla. They put their stuff in the boxes. Which was a lot more stuff than anticipated. Most of the things, it was not even clear to whom exactly they belonged. It was a weird scene, an impromptu separation of assets that would have produced big fights in any other context for any one item, but that was being performed here in a few minutes and with no visible discussion at all. Fate tried to give Fischer the console she repaired with all the pirated games, but Fischer wasn't having any of them. Robert gave the barefoot guy his small portable keyboard. Robert gave Gilberta something of equal sentimental and symbolic value I can't be bothered inventing now. And the ex-ex-waitress took the very clearly not their property wall-mounted television of the cafeteria to her home. With all the cables.

As they were wrapping up, and some of them had no longer anything else to take back or steal, the situation was turning itself into an awkward goodbye. It didn't have to be a goodbye, they all would be around for the foreseeable future, studying or working in the same place, and nothing stopped them from meeting in other places and for other reasons. But it was a goodbye. Nobody was saying it tho, just patiently and making small uncomfortable gestures and lingering around with the hands in their pockets, testing the structural integrity of their boxes and whatnot. Until the last of them had everything in their power, looked at each other, and just in the moment someone was already opening his mouth to say it Fischer turned around and unceremoniously left without saying a word.

Taking the example of their no-longer leader, the others followed suit, and dispersed in every direction.

Knock knock.

―It's open.

―Miller.

―Andrew.

He sat on one of the scattered free chairs.

―How did your guys take it?

―They offered a lot less resistance than what I was expecting. Other than that, you can imagine.

―Mine offered quite a lot.

―I know, I heard. I guess they weren't expecting it.

―Can I smoke in here?

―No.

―Whatever.

―What did they present?

―A wide research journal, half academic, half explorative about the various works they had been doing. Not some huge controversial statement that warps the reality of the world or the integrity of the social sciences as a field of knowledge with deep implications in virtually every single philosophical form but is deep down just rooted on a hunch someone had while stoned.

―Disappointed?

―A little bit.

He started smoking anyway, Miller pointed him to a small ashtray situated in the corner of the desk.

―So. What now?

The head of the history department looked at him as if his rival had turned crazy.

―What do you mean "what now"? Nothing. There's nothing to do. Nothing we can do.

―That bad?

―That bad. It was too much.

Miller looked during a half an instant towards the corner of the room. Andrew did the same.

―Well, it was fun while it lasted.

―Yeah, people laughed a lot indeed.

―Don't be so defeatist. That's a good thing, given the circumstances.

―It is. At least we can always depend on that.

Andrew started making maneuvers to leave.

―Good talk.

―See you around.

―Anyway, send my regards to Michael when you talk to him, would you?

―He's gone, Andrew.

The man fell into his chair once again in incredulity.

―Really? Like that?

―Like that.






CHAPTER 31 ― EPILOGUE

Meanwhile, in a galaxy far far away.

―It's aliens.

―It's not aliens! It's never aliens! And don't change the subject!

Fischer was sitting on the toilet. Something about it made him feel secure, as if this was his little comfortable corner of the world. What were they talking about?

―What were we talking about?

―You haven't phoned in weeks!

Oh, that's right. They were fighting.

―I haven't heard from you in forever, at first I was angry, and then sad, and then angry again, and I had already forgot about you and remade my life and now you call me to tell me a lot of nonsense about a professor, and the project, and a suspicious "lack of funds" to then tell me you think that what really happened is about aliens!

―It is about aliens.

―It's never aliens! Aliens is why you haven't phoned? Aliens is why you flunked on this "program"?

―I didn't flunk.

―I don't care! You haven't called in months!

―Alright, alright. I'm sorry.

―What was that? I can't hear you.

―I said I'm sorry!

―What happened is you went on that ridiculous stage, with your ridiculous new friends, gave a ridiculous talk, and the professor was so humiliated by the result that he had no other option but to smoke your asses back to the stone age! But that doesn't matter. None of this matters. We matter. But apparently, I am not that important to you!

He was getting more and more red by the minute. His pent-up aggression threatening to explode.

―I hope you don't think you can just say you're sorry and everything will be alright. I expect better from you Marcus. You don't dump me, I dump you, remember that.

―...

―Are you calling from the bathroom again?

―... I am.

―You're unbelievable.

―I don't know what to say.

―Say you love me. And I might start the process of starting of thinking of maybe one day forgiving you.

―C'mon, you know I don't say these things.

―Do it.

All girls that own a bright color pajama have a co-dependency related dark side, as Fischer's grandfather liked to remind everyone during festive occasions. They, in fact (fun little science trivia fact) have those colors to alert potential predators, as it primarily functions as a defensive mechanism. However it's not clear how this well-understood phenomenon translates to bikinis. But I'm sure someone is working on figuring it out right now.

Fischer relented. He came out of that conversation and that bathroom mightily exhausted, expecting to have a nice conversation with his girlfriend and be encouraged by it. Instead, someone yelled at him for half an hour. Which was totally justified, don't get me wrong. But it still hurt. He went straight to bed, clothes and shoes and all. He was still recovering from last night, and started to be well enough to think clearly. If he found somewhat poetic that this whole shebang started with a hangover and ended with one, he didn't say so. Although to be honest, that's not something that probably crossed his mind.

It all was circling in circles above him. These last few months. The cafeteria, the teachers, the asylum, the classes, the meals, the dorms, the girls, the boys, the nonsense. Hard to believe they really happened. And that he got used to it so fast. It was just yesterday he came here for the first time, a young man, full of hope and enthusiasm. Well maybe that's not the best way to describe him, but you get the idea. Was this what college was supposed to be like? He didn't know. Nobody in his family had been here before. All he got was movies and series that depicted it, but if they were to be as ludicrously bad at that job as they were depicting high school, he couldn't really trust them. And that was hard for him to say, with TV being his ground source of truth.

But well, he concluded. It didn't matter what happened these last days or weeks, the only thing that lay ahead was what was ahead, as his grandpa often reminded him. Or maybe that was his football coach. It also didn't matter. He fell asleep too fast to decide about it, and after a heroic amount of snoring, came out of it a new man. Got up, put his sneakers on, and said to himself.

―So... Now what?

[to be continued]