Pyramid Daze: Part II

THE MAN FROM V1

It is estimated that 300 million people worldwide suffer from clinical depression. The population of the United States is roughly 326 million. Imagine that every single person in the entire country--minus Texas--is laying on the couch trying to come up with a reason why life shouldn’t just be over already. 

Now that the weight of that number is in your head, consider the fact that the visual center of your brain consists of about 280 million neurons. There are two primary types of information traveling through this part of the brain. The first is concerned with the recognition of an image, and the second is concerned with the movement of that image, or lack thereof. In other words, they are asking, “What is it?” and, “Where is it going?” 

Now imagine an interlocking web with spherical structures scattered throughout. Imagine that there are lights traveling along every strand of this web. All of the lights traveling one way are white, and all of the lights traveling the opposite way are red. Some of the spheres the in places they intersect are brighter than others. Focus your thoughts on these spheres. 

Now this, is what you see:

There is a woman in a light grey suit sitting at a desk with a phone in one hand, and a pen in the other. She is flipping the pen back and forth between her fingers. 

“I’ve told you a million times sweetheart, no one knows what happens when you fall off a bridge. I wish I could give you an answer but its impossible to prove anything one way or another...I know...I know...Your dad should know better than that by now. Next time stick to the cartoons okay? Okay. Have a good time and I’ll see you when you get home. Love you too.”

The woman hangs up the phone and spins her chair around. Behind her is a curved window taking up the entire wall. Outside there are countless office buildings, all spherical in shape, and each one is connected by a series of suspended roads. The woman stands up and goes over to the window. She looks down and sees a never ending abyss below her building. She suddenly gets the chills, and turns away. Her secretary Thelma bursts into the office. 

“Excuse me Ms. Cortex, but a man from V1 is here to see you. V1!” 

“Where? I don’t care. Send him in.”

Ms. Cortex sits down, and a man with blue skin comes walking into the room. He is wearing a green suit, and has a red pocket square folded into three points. The door closes behind him.

“Hello, my name is Ryan Regulus. I’m a private eye hired by L.T.M. Distortion Reduction. Are we alone?” 

Ms. Cortex looks around the room. 

“As far as I can tell.”

“Good.” 

The man slowly sits down on a couch that is on the far side of the room.

“Are you aware of the events that took place a microsecond ago?” he says. 

“If you’re referring to the jumper from Peripheral Analysis I only know what I saw on the news this morning.”

“Your father hasn’t attempted to contact you about it?”

“We share a name, but our connections end there.”

“Are you aware of his attempts to cover up the story?”

“No, but they’ve clearly been a huge success.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Circle gets the square.”

“This is a serious problem.”

“The jumper, the cover-up, or my sarcasm?”

“The jumper, Ms. Cortex. There is a Department-wide conspiracy that links your father and the jumper to the Order of the End of the Gaze.”

“What’s that? A homo-erotic suicide cult?”

“Not gays Ms. Cortex. Gaze. As in to look at something intently, or with surprise and often admiration.”

“And what do these people do exactly? Other than look things up in the Temporal Lobe.”

The blue man leans forward and folds his hands together. 

“They believe that in a matter of milliseconds the host is going to lose vision in both eyes. They believe that this will give rise to a type of dark energy called Melancholia. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of it. Practically every person that works in a G-protein receptor believes in it. But I can’t imagine that my father takes it seriously. I certainly don’t.”

“I’m afraid it’s more developed than you think. After that baseball impacted the left Visual Port, it sent a skullquake clear to the other side. They’re saying that this was a direct sign from the Outer World that harkens the End of the Gaze. They are also saying that your father was in possession of an e-book that predicted this celestial sign, written minutes before the event. And they say that this book was discovered and read cover to cover by the jumper before he decided to leap into the unknown.”

“And where does this alien force known as Melancholia come into play, Mr. Regulus?”

“The initiates of the order, including your father, believe that it has been periodically coded into us since The Birthday, mythologically known as the day the host was given consciousness by the goddess Mrs. Robinson. They believe that it is soon planning to cause the temporary paralysis of 144 million neural employees, and that during this time the blindness with be able to take hold. In the wake of this event, the entire host population will be effected, specifically the system of sensory perception in which you find yourself employed.”

“My father believes this?”

The blue man leans back, crosses his legs, and puts one arm up on the sofa. He lights a cigarette.

“Not only does he believe it, he is planning on using it to his advantage.”

“If they’re right, which, why? The whole structure of Cortex Visual Arts would atrophy. It would be completely unusable, not an advantage. Besides, I’m not a multi-host theorist, blindness is a myth.”

“Ms. Cortex, I shouldn’t have to tell you that the other hosts seen from both Visual Ports are legitimate entities. There is ample evidence. The Pineal Center has proven that they are conscious without a doubt, just like our host. We’re living in a new age Ms. Cortex. Other host societies exist, we aren’t alone. And as far as your father goes, he wants to turn Cortex Visual Arts into a center for decoding the Mathematical Language of the universe.”

“Mathematical Language my ass. I don’t buy any of it. Sure these Outer World hosts have played a role in our understanding of the cosmos, but they are merely creations of the Brain Collective. I shouldn’t have to tell YOU that sensory information only contains other hosts because we choose to interpret it that way. It’s relatable. We see what we know. In my mind there is no conclusive scientific evidence that any of these other hosts are self-aware. They are projections that we create from the infinite photonic mass of space, and we sell them to the nervous system for the emotional benefits. We’re magicians, movie makers. Hollywood, if you want to use an Outer World term.”

“I’d have to say that I disagree with you.”

“Well I don’t give a flock of flying photons.”

“You sound like your twice ex-husband.”

“Flint? Oh my. Wait...you’ve spoken with him?”

“I haven’t. But he’s become a person of interest.”

“What could V1 possibly want with him?”

“We believe that Flint may be aware of what’s coming, along with his assistant Harold. None of the Department heads in Cone City have been willing to comment on the alleged effects of the baseball, and yet our surveillance team has noticed some erratic behavior on Flint’s part. He hasn’t spoken to you about anything?”

“I send the kids down the neural pathway every third second, just like the court says I’m supposed to. I try to speak with Flint as little as possible.”

“Well, as much as you may hate it, Flint could be our only chance of stopping this thing. If he is willing to share the information he has, then we might be able to convince the Immune Agency to send back-up. Or at least take the claims seriously.”

“And if the I. A. sends back-up you really think they’ll be prepared to deal with two supernatural forces that may or may not even exist? That’s absurd.”

“What else are we supposed to do? Just sit here and wait for everything around us to collapse. We have to try, vain as our attempts may be. If the Melancholia doesn’t get us, then maybe the Blindness will, or vice versa. There’s even a chance of the Melancholia morphing into Depression, but I for one don’t want to be standing on the sidelines if it happens. I’d like to know that I did everything in my power to prevent it. Could you at least call him?”

Ms. Cortex rolls her eyes and sighs. She starts flipping the pen through her fingers again. 

“So I’m going to be spying on my twice ex-husband. Great. And who do I report to in the event that I find something. You?”

“Yes, I’ll be your point of contact. As you can probably guess we are trying to keep this as quiet as possible. People would lose their sh-t, needless to say.”

“Needless indeed. And what about my father?”

“Don’t worry about him. I’ve got my own people on it. Your only concern is Flint for the time being.”

Ms. Cortex stands up.

“So are we done here?” she says.

Mr. Regulus rises to meet her, and they shake hands. 

“Truth or no truth, you’re doing the right thing here.”

“That's not what I asked.”

Mr. Regulus nods with resignation, and leaves the office. He makes his way down the hall, and steps into a glass cylinder in the corner. Electricity surrounds him, and he disappears. Meanwhile, Ms. Cortex calls for her secretary. 

“Yes Ms. Cortex?”

“Get me Flint Rodd...and make sure the line is secure.”

“Right away Ms. Cortex.”

Thelma grabs the phone and dials by pushing the same button 37 times. She puts the speaker to her ear. The phone rings over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and...

Over.