“You’ve probably spent your whole life thinking that you’re the only one involved in your consciousness. But as these stories so clearly illustrate, you may simply be CEO of a giant neurological corporation.”
“It really makes you think, you know. But then I start to feel bad cuz that means these people are working super hard to make it happen, and I end up letting my mind go blank so they can rest.”
Photon Analyst extraordinaire. Twice divorced from the same gal. Clumsy father of three. And, very late for work. Flint Rodd is one of the most unambitious, unmotivated, and generally uninterested cellular beings there is. Throughout this series we'll tag along with him, his assistant Harold Oculus, and all sorts of teeny tiny people who must band together in order to keep an anti-visionary cult known as The End of the Gaze from spreading their prophecies of Blindness, Cognitive Dissonance, and Dopamine Receptor Failure.
Will they be fast enough to stop this group from ushering in the fabled Age of Depression? Or will they sit idly by while the entire Nervous System is thrown into chaos? There's only one way to find out...
There are more cones in the retina of your eye than there are people in Los Angeles. When particles of light, photons, enter through the cornea, they are simultaneously existing as wavelengths. These wavelengths create a signature in the form of an electric charge. This electric charge is analyzed by the cones, and interpreted. This interpretation is sent through the optic nerve, and delivered as an electrical impulse in the brain. This occurs 14,000,000,000,000,000 times every second. Or, 2 million times per cone per second.
Now imagine a single cone in an infinite sea of similar cones. Imagine a ball of blue light far above this cone. It has a tail behind it and in front of it. It continues to move closer to the cone. Then the top of the cone opens, and the light disappears.
Pitch Black.
Now this, is what you see:
Standing on the corner of the street in the rain is a man in a white overcoat and matching cowboy hat. He is restlessly shifting his fingers. The walk sign turns on, and he drifts toward a building that is so tall he cannot see the end of it. When he gets to the door, a holographic face appears.
“You’re super late,” it says.
“Shut up STAN.”
The cowboy hastily enters the building and walks up to the front desk. Sitting at the desk is an android with silicon skin.
“Morning Tim,” the cowboy says.
“Hardly.”
“Does Mr. Dimsdale know I’m here yet?”
“STAN just told him. He should be walking out of that door in three...two...one.”
Suddenly a large man dressed the same way as the cowboy comes barging through with a stack of papers so high he can barely balance it.
“Flint! Where in the hell have you been?” he exclaims. “I expected you back two milliseconds ago. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused me? I should fire you right here on the spot.”
“I’m sorry Mr. Dimsdale, but something happened with the kids and I...”
“Don’t wanna hear about it Flint. Just take this paperwork to your office and get started on it right away. You’re department is about 6,000,066 units behind. Let that sink in.”
“I’m truly sorry Mr. Dimsdale but...”
“G--dammit Flint there’s no time. The entire southern quarter nearly detached! The Host was blindsided by a baseball. The media is really riding my dick on this one and that is the LAST thing I need right now. I put you in charge of whites and reds because I thought you could handle it. If you can’t, then we need to have a separate discussion.”
“No sir, sorry sir.”
Mr. Dimsdale hands Flint the stack of papers, and leaves in a huff. Tim the android shrugs his shoulders while typing. Flint takes a deep breath, and makes his way down a separate hall. While walking down the hall he passes by several highly active rooms. People are rushing this way and that with charts, clipboards, and measuring devices. In every corner there are spectrographs, voltage meters, and sine waves streaming on projector screens. Flint turns into one of the larger offices, which he shares with his assistant Harold Oculus. Harold is sitting at his desk, hunched over a notebook. He is writing down a binary code in reference to a blinking red light in the middle of the room.
“Morning Harold.”
“Mr. Rodd.”
“I told you, call me Flint.”
“Yes sir.”
“Of all people I expected you to be happy to see me.”
“Not today sir. We’re behind, as you probably know.”
The same holographic face from the entrance pops up in front of Flint and says, “Six…Million…Sixty. Six. Units. Flint.”
“Shut UP STAN,” Flint scoffs. He swipes his hand through the air and STAN disappears.
“I really hate him sometimes,” Flint continues.
“Trust me,” Harold sighs, “he’s done nothing but remind me of my shortcomings since I started working in this office. I think he has it out for us.”
“Well I don’t give a flock of flying...”
“Besides, this whole month has been just the worst. It’s the same pattern, over and over. 1101100100110. I mean, not even 1101000100110 every once in a while.”
“Your life is so boring.”
Flint apathetically sits down at his desk and attempts to begin sorting the paperwork.
“I’m serious!” Harold says, “Either the host is unconscious, or we’re watching the sex scene in a movie. No way we’ve been staring at the same point for three entire seconds.”
“We’ve been knocked unconscious. Dim says it was a baseball.”
“Yea if you believe that crock. He’s a real piece of work. You know, I told him that there was an unusual burst coming into sector seven, but no, he wouldn’t listen to me. Said I’d had too many cups of coffee. It’s not my fault he’s never been on a crisis management team before. I know a fast moving object in a blindspot when I see one.”
“I know you do Harold, that’s why I hired you. You’re the best there is when it comes to Rapid Photon Recognition in Unusual Circumstances.”
“Right, that’s why I’m still an assistant.”
“I’m working on getting you promoted Harold, trust me. This business is just as much about popularity as it is photons. You have to earn your status.”
“I earned when I singlehandedly caught a seizure before it happened. That was me!”
“I know, I know. It was in all the journals. Everyone upstairs was very impressed, but they were still the ones who had to turn the host’s head away from the strobe light in time.”
“Yada yada. Maybe I’m past my prime anyway. I’m fully aware that it’s all down hill from here. I mean, I’m three minutes old, and I still don’t have my own office space. Next thing I know I’ll be retired. Then I’ll be dead, and the Host will just go on living like nothing ever happened while someone new takes my cell.”
“You’re doing fine Harold. There’s no need to get discouraged. This is very important work. Of vital importance, some might say.”
Harold shakes his head and pours himself some coffee out of a thermos. He offers Flint a cup. Flint gratefully accepts, and he lights a cigarette to go along with the tasty hot beverage. He separates the paperwork into stacks, and begins to read. Meanwhile, Harold leans forward silently and watches the red light flash. Over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and...
Over.
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.
According to The Scientists, there are—on average—100 Billion stars in a galaxy. Coincidentally, there are also approximately 100 Billion Neurons in a human brain. Neurons communicate with each other via electrical impulses sent over empty space. This empty space between Neurons is called a Synapse. Thus, if the Neurons in your brain communicate over empty space, and the sum total of this communication throughout your brain generates the personality that is you, doesn’t it stand to reason that the empty space between stars in the galaxy could be considered a synapse, and the sum total of the electrical impulse communications going on between them would generate a galactic personality?
While your subconscious is trying to figure out whether or not that’s true, why don’t you read the following words:
Picture in your mind a cone shaped building the size of the Empire State. The building has a soft red tone, and there is a glowing blue orb far above it. As you move closer to the building you see the front door. You go through the front door into a reception area. There are hallways on both sides. You take the left hall, and after walking some ways you stop by an open door.
Flint is sitting in his office twiddling his thumbs.
“Harold, can I ask you something? As a Friend?”
Harold is doing his usual, staring at a blinking red light.
“Is that not how you usually ask me things?”
Flint takes a sip of his delicious hot coffee.
“There’s a difference between a professional question and a regular question, obviously. Do you not know that?”
Harold momentarily stops writing down phrases of binary code, which is his job.
“Is that the question?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Harold, I’m beginning to wonder how aware you are of the subtleties in life. Should I be concerned about your job performance? Earlier today you said you were unsure whether or not the Host was unconscious, or if they were watching the sex scene in a movie. As assistant to a Photon Analyst Extraordinaire such as myself, and therefore in charge of determining what the host is seeing, shouldn’t you know the difference?”
“Technically no. Photons are still entering both visual ports. I would have to personally contact someone in the ONC to know for sure.
“Obviously yes, if the folks at the Optic Nerve Center are experiencing network connectivity problems they can’t send information to the opposing hemisphere, but that doesn’t change the fact that the photons entering the visual ports would look drastically different in either case. In the case of a movie, the voltage would be much higher, being that the photons are coming from a screen projection. In the case of unconsciousness they would be lower in voltage due to the fact that they’re passing through the closed lid of the visual port.”
“The lids don’t always close during unconsciousness.”
“Harold, did you even go to high school?”
“Yes. They must’ve had a different curriculum in your day.”
“My day? Harold, the System Wide Paradigm Shift of Year 12 took place 10 minutes ago. That’s well before either of us were in high school and absolutely nothing has changed in Science since then.”
“Well then you got an answer wrong on a test all those seconds ago.”
“Harold, all I’m trying to say is that light coming from a screen into an open visual port and light coming through a closed lid is clearly distinguishable.”
“Not if the brightness on the screen is turned down and the photon that this particular cone is picking up is reflecting off the areola of a nipple.”
Flint pauses.
“What’s a nipple?”
Harold pauses.
“Are you asking me as a friend?”
Flint’s eyes flare up with rage. Just then—right at the wrong time—the super annoying holographic face that is STAN appears.
“Flint, there’s a call for you on line 7. Mr. Dimsdale says it better not be personal.”
Flint throws an old cigarette butt at STAN and reaches for the telephone. Harold looks at Flint with both disgust and pity. He puts headphones on and goes back to work, staring at the red light. Flint presses a blinking button on the phone.
“Photon Analyst Extraordinaire Flint Rodd of Cone 243 in the Nether Region of Left speaking.”
The voice on the other end of the line comes through slightly distorted.
“Is that really the first thing you say to everyone who calls you?”
“Hello Ms. Cortex, my twice ex-wife, why are you calling me?”
“You could just say Flint Rodd speaking. If a person calls your specific office on purpose, they only need to know that it is you speaking.”
“Don’t nano-manage me.”
“Flint, what have you been doing that someone from V1 would consider erratic?”
Flint lights a cigarette.
“So, are you dating anyone?”
“Jesus mother of Christ. Will you just answer my question?”
“Is he nice, this Jesus? I swear if he’s harmed a hair on your head ill kick his ass.”
“I’m not dating Jesus Christ, Flint. How dense are you?”
“Then why did you say his name when I asked if you were dating anyone?”
“It’s an expression Flint. When something or someone is being difficult you say Jesus mother of Christ.”
“Is that an Outer World thing? I’ve never heard it.”
“Yes Flint. Jesus Christ, you know, the guy in that book the host has read throughout history.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The one who comes back to life after being used as a human sacrifice. He saves the world.”
“Not ringing any bells.”
“Seriously, who doesn’t know who Jesus Christ is? And how have we not talked about this before? He’s the Outer World equivalent of The Personification.”
“The Personification of The Narrator?”
“Yes.”
“Oh THAT guy. I didn’t know that was his name. I thought you weren’t supposed to say it. Sort of a, he-who-shall-not-be-named, type of thing.”
“Well, in terms of The Personification yes. But no one actually knows that person’s name so it’s not a problem. In the Outer World they call it the Son of God, and that son’s name is Jesus Christ. You’re not supposed to use it for no reason. Subtleties Flint, come on.”
Flint covers the speaker on the phone and sneakily checks to see whether or not Harold is eavesdropping. He’s not. Flint doesn’t worry.
“When did you become so interested in Outer World plot lines? You used to think it was all gobbledigook?”
“I still do. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things about it.”
“Why are you calling me?”
“I already asked you. What are you doing that V1 would find erratic?”
“I can’t speak for V1’s opinion but… I don’t know. All I did this weekend was take Vader, Sunny, and Holly on a tour of the Endocannabinoid System. We learned about the mysterious existence of Cannabinoid Receptors.”
“Flint, there’s nothing mysterious about them. They recept cannabinoids. That’s it.”
“Well of course, but don’t you think it’s a bit odd that we have receptors for a compound that isn’t present in the host? We aren’t even sure that it exists, much less why we have receptors for it.”
“Cannabinoids come in from the Outer World.”
“Well, they haven’t as of yet. There’s a whole system laying dormant, and that seems like a bad thing. What if someone is keeping the cannabis from us on purpose? What if all our brain-wide societal woes are a result of this dormant system? The whole brain works best in unison. Even you must agree with that.”
“Yeah, whatever, I do. Flint, are you suffering from paranoid delusions again?”
“I may be paranoid, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t hiding the cannabis from us.”
Ms. Cortex, Flint’s twice ex-wife, rubs her temples with impatience. She’s sitting in her office twirling a pen. She leans back in her chair and puts her feet up on the desk. She knew that Flint would deflect any further questions if she kept at it this way. Not because he’s clever, but because he responds best to questions that he believes are purely personal. The Man from V1 needed this information, not her, but Flint didn’t need to know that. She proceeded as such:
“Flint, have you learned anything particularly interesting lately?”
Flint perks up. He gazes lovingly at a picture of himself, his three kids, and his twice ex-wife that he keeps on the desk.
“You know, I have actually. Sunny was telling me about something he found while surfing the Brain-Wide-Web. He said that there is a place in the center of everything called The Population Control Center. He says it’s a secret facility that only a select few know about. AND, in this facility there is a special room. They say that every single person who has ever gone in this room has never come back out, and yet, the room is empty the next time you look. The call it The Empty Room of Emptiness. The ERE for short. It’s a conspiracy theory obviously, but a pretty good one don’t you think?”
“Sure it is Flint. Okay I gotta go. Bye.”
The phone call ends. Flint is both disappointed by the sudden disconnection, and confused. He looks over at Harold and lightly taps his fist on the desk in defeat.
Off in a separate part of the Brain, Ms. Cortex has just hung up the phone. She has all the information she needs.
“Thelma, get in here!”
Her secretary walks into the office.
“Yes?”
“Get the Man from V1 back in here. I need to speak with him again.”
“Right away Ms. Cortex.”
Before Thelma can even go back to her desk and make the call, a Man of blue skin in a green suit with a pink pocket square folded into three points materializes in the transfer tube at the end of the hall. He approaches.
“I’m here to see Ms. Cortex.”
Thelma is shocked. How did he know to come back, she thinks to herself. The Man from V1 mumbles something.
“Time isn’t real Thelma.”
As the Man from V1, otherwise known as Ryan Regulus, goes into Ms. Cortex’s office, Thelma is left to ponder whether or not telepathy is real.
Ms. Cortex sees Ryan entering and stands up.
“Close the door.”
“Naturally.”
“So, I talked to Flint.”
“Obviously.”
“You said you needed to know what information he had?”
“Clearly.”
“Well, along with our son Sunny, he seems to be investigating a place called The Empty Room of Emptiness. It’s supposedly located in The Population Control Center, a facility that may or may not exist at the center of everything.”
“Of course.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it real?”
“Ms. Cortex, I’m going to need you to go visit Flint. You must help him find this Empty Room of Emptiness. Take the kids with you. It will be a nice family trip. At least that will be the premise.”
“Why do I have to do that? Ryan, can you be a little more forthcoming here? What’s the beef?”
“Okay, I’ll be Frank with you.”
“Please don’t. I hate Frank.”
“Don’t we all… Ms. Cortex, much has changed since our last meeting. V1 has decided on a plan that will work not only for us, but also for the cult your father is in.”
“The Order of The End of The Gaze?”
“Yes.”
“Everybody wins?”
“Yes again.”
“Well, what’s the plan?”
“One of our Agents spent a great deal of time combing through the e-book your father possesses. It says, word for word, that someone with a heart lighter than a feather will open the door to the void and usher in the Illuminated Man of Midnight. This man will bring a message to the brain wide collective that is of such hope, justice, and prosperity that it will stabilize all excess negative forces and restore balance to the hemispheres. Due to the timing of this event, the threat of Blindness in the host will not be eliminated, but it will be limited to one visual port. No Melancholia will take hold, and thereby no Depression.”
“How does that satisfy the Order of The End of The Gaze and appease my father’s drive to study the mathematical language of the universe?”
“It’s simple. With one blind visual port, the prophesy of Blindness set forth by The Order will be realized. Seeing as the Blindness will be in the left visual port, they will all be very satisfied with their rightness. On the other hand, everyone in the right visual port will be left to go on living as if nothing ever happened. Cortex Visual Arts can move forward under your supervision, and your father can start his Mathematical Language Decoding facility. He wishes to study the data coming into the Blind visual port. His mythology states that complex geometric patterns emerge in such an empty space.”
“Sounds good in theory. How can you be sure that it will work out that way? Seems like the whole thing hinges on this Illuminated Man of Midnight appearing out of nowhere. You’re assuming that if we find The Empty Room of Emptiness, he’ll automatically show up. But what if he doesn’t? And even if he does, how do you know his message to the Brain wide collective will be of a positive nature?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because is reason enough.”
“Well it shouldn’t be.”
Ryan looks out of the floor-to-ceiling window in Ms. Cortex’s office. He ponders.
“Ms. Cortex, on second thought, you should take Flint and the kids to see your father, their Grandpop. Neo Cortex.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You must.”
“And if I don’t?”
“None of this will work.”
“You’re certain?”
“Surely.”
Ms. Cortex stands there in defiance. Before making a decision, she runs through all the possible outcomes she can think of. She takes into account all the information she knows about the human brain. She turns it over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and…
Over.
