It was different this time. Now Omar had a wild look in his eyes as he leaned forward to say something. Speaking carefully, and in hushed tones, Omar began to ask, “They? … Who's—” but Suman cut him off by standing up again, and almost shouting, “I can't!” while throwing his arms up. “I just—I should go,” and then made his way to the door.

“I'm done with this,” Suman thought, in anger, and while nearly growling. “If they don't think that's enough for the quest requirements, then—”

Urgently, Omar said, “W—wait, wait, wait!” and despite himself, Suman turned around and glowered expectantly at the annoying man on the couch. In truth, Omar didn't actually have anything urgent in mind; he simply thought, somewhat impulsively, that it would be funny to say that to the obviously annoyed man. It was too much for Omar to contain, and the hint of a smirk that he failed to suppress, flashed like a twitch across his face.

That was all the response Suman needed. “He doesn't even need me for this bi—” Suman began to say, voicing his frustrations to the door.

However, like a thoroughly amused child who thought little of the consequences of his actions, Omar pushed the same button again and said, pleadingly, “Wait! I just have one more question!”

There was no such question. Yet, nonetheless, Suman responds to Omar's urgent plea, and thus demonstrates how he ends up in situations like this, and why he will continue to do so.

Again, he turned around, but this time his arms were crossed while he glared dangerously at Omar, who suddenly felt less amused. Suman's dangerous glare seemed to promise a swift execution, rather than mere violence. It was more than enough to make Omar question the wisdom of antagonizing the dumb-ass crazy person with instant access to medieval weaponry.

In his mind's eye, he saw a fresh grave with a tombstone that read, “Here lies Omar Raji. He just had one more question.” This was, as far as he was concerned, a message from the great beyond, and the meaning it held was very clear: if he didn't say something worthwhile, then he might not say anything ever again.

However, because speaking before he thought things through had worked so well thus far, Omar tried to say the first thing that popped into his head. Unsurprisingly, it was nonsensical at first. “Uhm—What—No! W—why! … Yes, why did you stay—no wait, I mean, were you forced to come here?” he sputtered loudly and desperately. Then, shocked by his own brilliance, he said, “Yeah! That!” while pointing at nothing in particular.

A thoroughly confused Suman turned to look at the electrical outlet on the wall that Omar was pointing to so emphatically. It was then, Suman realized, that there was indeed a question buried within Omar's inane gibberish.

Meanwhile, Omar finally began to think about the implications of what he had just said. With his eyes shifting from side-to-side, and while using unnecessary finger quotes, Omar whispered, “Are ‘They’ forcing you to do this? Like, with mind control or something?” As if that wasn't enough, he winked conspiratorially.

What followed next was an awkward moment that lingered long enough for Omar to think that something was wrong, as though things were ever right in the first place. Nervously, he fidgeted like an inexperienced public speaker who, while standing before an audience, was uncertain about what he should do with his hands. He fidgeted exactly like this, except that he did it with his face.

This awkward silence drew on as the now dumbfounded Suman stared, openmouthed, at Omar, while he screwed his face, this way and that, as though he was searching for an appropriate facial expression.

This was, of course, exactly what Omar was doing, and realizing this with certainty, it dawned on Suman to ask, “Are you trying to look helpful?”

“Are you saying that you need help?” Omar answered in a tone that actually sounded genuine.

Had they been on the phone, Suman would have been completely fooled by Omar's mastery of falsely authentic tones and inflection. However, they were not on the phone, and Omar had winked dramatically again, thus completely ruining, twice over, his own expertly feigned sincerity. Thinking his ruse was successful, Omar's face had frozen on his most recent facial expression. Unfortunately, the expression made it seem as though his question had a sexual undertone to it.

Suman doubled over, stumbling slightly, while he held his face and chuckled darkly to himself like he'd lost his mind. He hadn't actually lost his mind yet, as he still has many more years left before that happens.

A look of confusion and concern replaced Omar's inadvertent effort to proposition the tall man, whom he noted, was now between him and the front door.

Both men questioned the mental health of the other, with one of them cowering on his own couch, while the other, who now sat on the floor next to the door, laughed manically.

“Hya, heh, heh, heh. The only way this could be any more absurd, hehe, is if I turned into giant insect.” Suman mumbled, loudly, while still giggling.

Omar thought, “Yup! The letter opener won't cut it,” without even laughing at his own unintentional pun. He started to get up to head to the kitchen, or to the window in his bedroom, when Suman said something, though not so much with words. Suman suddenly went completely silent, and nary a giggle left his mouth. He looked at Omar, who then thought he understood the spoken message and sat back down.

Whereas most would interpret Suman's silent stare as, “SIT DOWN!” Omar's mind couldn't.

Omar could, of course, obey commands in a life or death situation. After all, he wasn't a robot that was only capable of following inverted commands. However, in the off chance that he might respond poorly in this sort of situation, instincts inherited from billions of years of survival-of-the-fittest evolution kicked in. The effect changed Omar's interpretation of the non-verbal command from “SIT DOWN!” to something that was akin to, “I like it when they run.”

Had Suman actually said that, then Omar, if he was trying to be extra respectful, would have said, “how kind of you to share that.”

With a puff of breath, Suman started laughing again. In order to go completely silent like that, without any sort of giggling or chuckling, he had to hold his breath.

Suddenly, he stood up and started dusting himself off. He'd risen, casually, but in a way that seemed slightly faster than ought to be possible. In response, Omar flinched back but Suman merely shook his head.

Amongst players or non-player chrononauts, people did not joke about another's mental health. Still, Suman said, “I know you're not crazy—” with humor, but Omar quickly cut him off with, “Of course not.”

As a Rank-C player, the tall man had seen madness and knew that Omar wasn't crazy. In spite of the common expression, the only method behind madness that he knew of, was one that mixed obsession and paranoia with delusion. This wasn't Omar, but he was damned if he knew what this was.

Omar sat bolt upright again, and his gaze seemed to be involuntarily drifting towards the front door.

With a sigh, Suman shook his head and deliberately took a big step away from the door. As a result, Omar started wobbling in his seat, his gaze no long precise because he was making himself dizzy looking between the door and Suman. With a laugh, he said, “How about a hundred bucks?”

Immediately, Omar said, “One-fifty,” and was no longer looking at the door. This amused Suman until he saw Omar actually licked his lips.

Deciding that that part never happened, Suman let out another chuckle while reaching too far into his pocket. The pocket itself had a slight bulge, but a bare moment before Suman removed his hand, it went away with a snap. He took a few steps forward but then stopped short. Rather than handing Omar the three $50 bills, Suman haphazardly tossed them in the air. Suman watched as Omar leapt forward as if he was attacking the tall man, but Suman stilled his reflexes and carefully watched the actions of one of the strangest men he'd ever met.

The bills had fluttered rather inconveniently apart, and yet Omar, working both his hands, grabbed a bill in each. Even as he pulled back, presumably to return to his seat, he grabbed the third bill, efficiently, and without any wasted motion. There was a small gust of air, which Omar created with his swift movement, but by the time Suman felt that, Omar had already reached the couch. At this point, Omar was content enough to simply fall on the couch, and so, compared to everything else, his gravity-assisted leisurely fall seemed to take forever.

Even though Suman had been watching the entire time, the bills had somehow disappeared without him noticing.

“Dammmnnn!” he said, drawing out the word enough to clearly illustrate how impressed he was. “Those are some amazing reflexes.”

“Video games,” Omar's said curtly in response.

“Yeah—and no. That's not the sort of skill someone picks up from playing World of Warcraft.”

After his compliment, Omar decided to ignore Suman's insult. “As if I'd ever play that,” he thought.

“Are you ambidextrous or something.”

Omar shrugged noncommittally. This was something he wasn't entirely sure of.

Naturally, he had been left-handed, but due to his extreme laziness and exceptional stubbornness, he'd inadvertently trained himself to be ambidextrous. Being right-handed was just so much more convenient, and this was something he simply could not deny. Yet, he also couldn't allow himself to mindlessly conform to the norms and expectations of society.

Then, randomly, it would just happen. That pen or cup or whatever it is, would be closer to one hand or the other. The “wrong hand” or the “right hand” would be in the wrong place, or the right place, and that may or may not be the “right” hand. It was annoying. Worse than that, if the “wrong hand” was closer, or in a more convenient position, then that meant he had to reach over with further hand, which seemed like an obvious waste of effort for him. He was shackled by either his own preference, or the preference of society.

The demands on his attention were too burdensome, and felt like there was just too much for him to keep track of. It confused him whenever he forgot which hand was supposed to be the preferred hand, and so he stopped trying guess which was which. In any case, he guessed incorrectly so often that it didn't matter how much he got it right. Eventually, laziness became the simpler answer, and so he stopped caring about such conventions.

Ultimately, the reason Omar didn't know that he was effectively ambidextrous, was because he simply didn't care.

⁂

Suman returned to his seat as if he'd just aged ten years since he last sat there. “Oof—Okay, I give up,” Suman said.

The tall man's admission was like music to Omar's ears. His giant smile, which had simply been creepy since he returned to the couch, now seemed slightly smug. He visibly relaxed, and Suman ignored all of this.

“What the hell was your question again?”

“Are you saying that you—”

“No, before that.” He said, cutting Omar off. When Omar's eyes began shifting from side-to-side, he said, “Without the theatrics.”

Having no idea what Suman was talking about, Omar simply whispered, exactly as he did before, “Are ‘They’ forcing you to do this? Like, with mind control or something?” and then Suman closed his eyes so he wouldn't see Omar winking at him. Of course, he winked again when Suman opened eyes, but the tall man simply shook his head in response.

“Oh, yeah. That,” he said, as though the last word had an unpleasant aftertaste. “Okay, I'll admit that it was a reasonable question,” he said, but then added, “the question about ‘them,’ that is. Not the part about being helpful. Let's just pretend that part never happened.”

“I can do that!” Omar said with a nod, and without traveling through time.

After mumbling something about a rabbit hole, Suman said, “Yeah, sure,” uncomfortably, like he was humoring a child. “Let's forget about that too,” he thought to himself. “But yeah, like I was saying. That's a reasonable last question,” he said again, but with the subtlety of a building demolition.

In case that was still too subtle, he waited for Omar's nod of acknowledgement before he actually answered the question.

“I had a chain quest. You know what I mean, right?”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was obvious. “It's a quest that the game devs trick you into accepting by making it seem short and simple at first, but then, when you complete the quest, they add more parts to it in order to make it longer and more annoying.”

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

“Hya, hah, hah!” Suman laughed loudly. “That's not wrong. I'll give you that much.”

At that, the room's mood suddenly felt lighter. Everything seemed to return normal, or whatever it was that passed for normal in Omar's apartment.

“We're both gamers, of a sort,” he thought to himself. “Perhaps I should start acting like one. Yeah, this is my life and my job—that's true—but it's also a game.”

Out loud, Suman said, “I honestly should've known better. It was actually labeled as a ‘chain quest’ in the first place,” and then shook his head.

“Originally the quest title was, ‘Explain the Situation’, and the objective wa—” Suman began, but then Omar suddenly said, “I knew there was something fishy about that phrase,” as if he'd just caught Suman red-handed.

Consciously, Omar did pick up on the word “situation,” but he had no idea of the word's significance beyond a hunch that suggested he was not in any trouble.

This comment from the odd man left Suman thoroughly confused who went, “Huh?” before asking, “What, you mean the quest title? I don't think I ever menti—”

“No—I mean, yea.” Omar began saying. “I mean, the phrase, ‘explain the situation,’—you said it before I let you in.”

“I did?” Suman said uncertainly, as much as asked. He tried to recall his exact words at the time, however, all he could remember was how the shirtless Omar looked paradoxically overweight and skinny. “Um, … I don't quite remember that bit … ,” he said wistfully, but with an undertone that wordlessly expressed, “I wish I could forget the part that I did remember.”

Entirely oblivious to this tone, as well as the way Suman appeared to be lost in an unpleasant memory, Omar says, “Yeah. You said something—um, I think it was,” and then adds, in a poor imitation of Suman's voice, ‘… I am not a deliveryman. However, if you would allow me, I could explain the situation to you.’ ”

Then, after nodding once, Omar casually said, “Yeah. I think it was something like that.”

No, it was exactly like that, word for word. On top of that, Omar recalled this with barely any conscious effort or thought. In fact, ignoring his poor imitation of Suman, which made him sound like some monstrous giant, Omar perfectly recalled the exact inflection Suman had used, even going so far as to mimic how he breathed while he spoke.

This was one of Omar's creepier abilities, which most people find eerily unsettling or unnerving. However, rather than arising as a consequence of one of his rules, this was just a habit—or more correctly, this was the habit that replaced his tendency to correct others.

Though not unsettled, Suman immediately recognized Omar's words as being eerily accurate, despite his mocking imitation. It was strange enough for Suman that he didn't notice Omar's use of the phrase, “I am not a deliveryman,” even though it was clearly an unnecessary addition in this context.

Suman said, “Uh, yeah,” as he had no idea how else to respond to Omar's latest oddity. Shaking it off, he repeated what he had said before continuing. “So, like I was saying, the quest objective was originally, ‘Deliver a ticket to the passive, Omar Raji, (don't worry this isn't a delivery quest) and observe his reaction.’ Then eventually, it became, ‘Provide Omar with enough background information so that he can make an informed decision to either accept, reject, or leave the offer for later consideration. Bonus rewards will be given if he remains passive, but only up to 90% of his projected threshold.’ ” He deliberately omitting any mention of the minimum chronoactivity requirements.

Based on the confused look Omar gave him when he mentioned that last part, Suman realized that he should have omitted that as well. “Oh—um, that last bit basically means that there's a bonus if I complete the quest without making you permanently chronoactive.”

Having noticed Suman's unfocused gaze, Omar thought, “That is sort of what I'd expect it to like if he was reading that off of his cybernetic interface. Would creating an interface like that be complicated for the makers of the cellphone pocket space and the metal ticket?”

“So you could've made me chronoactive, and still completed the quest?” Omar asked while struggling to suppress a smile. This act of self-control proved pointless as he smugly leaned back and crossed his arms as if to say, “checkmate.”

Suman smiled and shook his head. “You're such a weird asshole.”

The unexpected comment caught Omar off guard. However, because he saw it as an obvious compliment, he said, “Thanks!”

“Hehehe. Yeah, like I said before, I think that's irresponsible. It robs someone of their chance to restart their life if everything goes wrong in a hundred years from now.” Suman's mirth was slightly at odds with the levity of his statement, but that was exactly the sort of thing Omar could relate to.

Nodding sincerely, Omar said, “That's the sort of thing that a lot of people would like to have, and that's without all this business,” then he made a vague all-encompassing gesture, but obviously gave up halfway through the motion.

Despite how it sounded, this wasn't Omar expressing his empathic understanding of his fellow human beings. In Omar's mind, he was referring to the way he could do something hilariously stupid in a video game, die as a result of this, and then come back to life as if nothing happened.

Suman had no idea what Omar actually meant by that deceptively human statement, but he nodded just the same and in agreement.

“Yeah. Exactly. Also, I know you asked that simply because you wanted me to answer another question after I insinuated that I would not.”

“Hah hahaha” Omar laugh loudly and openly.

“Omar,” Suman began to say, with an amused smile. “Do you know that you're one of the odd—” but he never finished the sentence. Then, in angry disbelief, he said, “Now you update the quest? What the hell did any of that have to do with … ,” but then he went quiet and began to silently mouth profanities while glaring angrily at the wall.

This was Omar's time, who at the moment, was reminiscing nostalgically. It was just like the one-sided conversations his parents would have on the phone, back in elementary school, whenever his teachers would call. He could almost predict what would happen next.

Suman mumbled, “… what? That doesn't make any sense.”

Omar nodded sagely at that. He knew, full well, that the only part that really mattered, was the act of contrition at the end. He sat quietly and waited, looking suitably innocent, just like he used to do. When Suman finally spoke, Omar nodded with sage-like innocence.

“Fine,” Suman said to no one in particular, “I was going to do that anyway, so yeah—tag it—I accept.”

Omar asked, knowingly, “Update to the chain quest?” with eyes that were full of understanding.

Suman looked at Omar in stunned silence, even though the question itself wasn't at all surprising. “Most idiots at this point,” Suman thought, “could figure it out.”

“Damn,” he finally said, “that's creepy.”

“Yes, I know,” Omar said with a nod. His was an enlightened expression that was free of judgment. “Go ahead. Just tell me about it.”

“Oookay, then,” Suman began saying, with obvious discomfort. To himself, he thought, “either that moment of bonding ended, or it went somewhere very dark.”

It was the latter.

“Yeah … ,” he said, “they want me to explain the registration process to you, and then, if necessary, I'll tell you about the tutorial.”

⁂

The two men had bonded, in a sense. At this point, they were more than mere acquaintances, but weren't, as yet, coworkers or friends. Their tenuous bond was akin to Stockholm syndrome, or something like the relationship between a torturer and his victim, except that both are locked in the same room, and neither is entirely sure of their respective roles.

Because of this bond, Omar actually hesitated to ask about the one thing, other than being a deliveryman, that he knew would, without a doubt, be certain to piss off Suman. “On the other hand,” Omar thought, “he did just answer a question about ‘them,’ so who's to say that he's even done with that question.”

That would be Suman; as in, “he's to say.”

“Then he keeps saying ‘they!’ So, it's his own damn fault!”

For some reason, Omar's own argument wasn't enough to persuade him to do what he would ultimately do, in any case. At least, not easily. As a result, what came out was a strained, “Tt—th—thheyyy … ,” that he said while slowly twisting his body as though he was in physical pain.

Thankfully, Suman intervened, yelling “Stop,” before Omar could cause himself any permanent damage. Despite having no idea why Omar looked like he was willing himself to have a epileptic seizure, Suman at least knew what he wanted to ask.

With a huff, Suman began to speak very quickly. “‘They’, as in the AMIs, which is the same AMI inc. that I said I worked for, because I am an instructor in addition to being a player.” Suman went into some sort of high-speed lecture mode where he used his instructor-voice while speaking very quickly, as if he was in a rush.

“They call themselves the ‘AMIs’ for some reason, as in ‘Artificial Machine Intelligence’—don't ask me why—I don't know. They're alien AIs that arrived on Earth in the distant future to study why humanity went extinct. However, they're not thinking computers, they're thinking machines—and they're somewhat particular about that distinction,” the latter part had a friendly tone of warning or advice.

* Suman took a deep breath before continuing at the same speed.

“They don't rule the world, but they are embedded throughout our technological infrastructure, including all our electronics, and beyond. Also, yes, they are in the low-tech past, and if you want to know how, ask the Gliesians,” he said that part with a knowing smile. “They listen to everything and everyone, and have been doing so since before anatomically modern humans first evolved. This doesn't mean they're always paying attention, or that they are at all interested in responding directly.

Sometimes, however, they'll make an appearance during these sorts of talks,” and when he finished, he looked towards the television leaning against the wall. The TV turned on quickly, and without the usual delay, and the image of a humanoid android flashed on the screen.

Waving energetically, the humanoid android said, “Hello!” in a young, cheery voice that had a slight electronic trill to it. This lasted less than a second before the TV immediately shut itself off again.

Omar barely had enough time to see the image, but he was certain of what he saw, despite his many questions. Of everything that Suman had said and done since his arrival, Omar thought that that had been the most unbelievable. And yet it happened. His mouth was agape, when he said in a loud wispy voice, “That's not plugged in … and it's broken.”

Suman laughed, “Haha, yeah. That's probably why the video was so brief.”

Omar practically jumped up from his seat to investigate the broken TV set. While he spoke, he played with the buttons on the device and stared at the screen, searching for the barest flicker. If he had a screwdriver handy, he'd have already begun dismantling the TV again. Instead of that, he held the still unplugged power cable and said, “I know electronics,” his voice returning to normal, “and that's not possible.” Each word was punctuated by Omar, who adamantly jabbed the end of the power cable towards the TV like he was using it, instead of his finger, to point with. While he did that, he managed to only accidentally hit the TV with it once, but, if asked, he'd say that didn't count.

His standards for hitting and damaging electronic devices stems from the many years he'd spent “accidentally” smashing his gaming equipment, or old cell phones he'd find, in a fit of rage. He also smashes the latter just for fun.

“Where did the power come from, and how did it turn on so quickly—and I think that was in HD—so where did they get the bandwidth from—”

“Ssstop, stop! Just stop” Suman said, cutting Omar off with a dismissive wave while shaking his head. “There are plenty of ways they could've done that.” Then, counting off each point on his hand, he said, “For one, they were already embedded in the industrial equipment used in all our factories before that TV was ever patented; they know the exact limits of what human scientists and engineers can empirically observe; and they have access to time-travel, so they could've rigged this specific TV ahead of time—”

One of the bricks holding his TV in place, fell to the floor. By the looks of it, based on where it hit the floor, this wasn't the first time that had happened. Suman mused to himself that Omar probably was not getting his security deposit back.

In this, he was wrong. Omar's security deposit had already been returned to him, twice, for his current apartment. The situation surrounding his “rent” and various “arrangements” is a long and sordid tale. Unfortunately, from Omar's perspective, the current iteration of the timeline won't last long enough for that to matter.

“And yeah,” he added, “they do little pranks like that, and that sort of stuff, for fun.” While Omar continued to fiddle with the TV and its bricks, Suman waited and used the time to both, catch his breath, and to prepare his interface for his upcoming vacation. Distracted as he was, Suman wasn't paying any attention to what Omar was doing.

Similarly, Omar also wasn't paying attention to what he was doing, at least not consciously. Instead, he went over the “little prank,” and the more he thought about it, the more layers of meaning he saw. First, there was the voice itself, which sounded like a human was playing with a cheap synthesizer that barely had any effect at all. That wouldn't have been unusual if the voice was originally human. The implications flew through Omar's mind.

“That means the machines went through all that trouble to create a human voice that merely pretended to be machine. Then the voice was almost childlike in its enthusiasm, which was reinforced with the happy waving.” Minus the voice, Omar sometimes used similar behavior for his own means. “That was—weird. Why would they choose an avatar like that?”

Despite such lapses of self-awareness, Omar is in fact a sapient life form.

“And wait a second. That costume—I mean—that looked like a human in a realistic android costume. I should've realized that. The way it limply waved its hand, like it was loose and flexible, rather than stiff and mechanical.”

The brief video was a strange mix of childishness with exacting detail, and for some reason, that seemed very familiar to Omar. While both men were distracted, Omar meaninglessly fiddled with the TV, dusted off the bricks, adjusted the viewing angle of the broken device, and repeatedly pressed buttons. He had been glancing, repeatedly, at his ticket on the couch, as if it would disappear while he was distracted, metaphorically.

His subconscious mind receded back to the depths, were such belonged, and Omar realized he either cleaning part of the credenza with his hand, or petting it. Even though he does clean on occasion, he still thought that him petting the credenza was least odd of the two.

After dusting off his hands, he returned to his seat. Then, perchance, he looked down and saw the ticket with its cartoonish animation of the words “Reality Break.”

Seeing him return to his seat, Suman said, “Okay,” then asked, “Are you done?”

Instead of responding, Omar began to mumble, “… and so with the ticket they're saying, ‘at its most fundamental level, we control metal itself’ … ,” and as quiet as it was, the statement shocked Suman.

“Actually … ,” Suman said, while nodding approvingly in response, “I think you're right about that. I just sort of always assumed that in the low-tech past, the AMIs probably used cybernetic implants, like the one they implant into us, but in wildlife and the local population. I figured that this was the reason that the Gliesians were more active in those eras.”

There had been a shift in Suman's perception of Omar. Between the AMIs' short visit and Omar's reaction, Suman had already begun to see him as another player. Or, at the very least, a soon-to-be player.

“There's no way that those implants would be enough to host the entirety of their consciousness. They're probably in—” Suman said, but he cut himself off when he realized that Omar wouldn't understand any of that yet. “Sorry about that. I didn't mean to … yeah. Your're not even listening, are you, Omar?”

Ironically, Suman was so preoccupied with what he was saying that he did notice that Omar was still mumbling. Now that he stopped talking, he could hear Omar mutter, “Reality Break? … Is that meant to be reality check, or more literally, breaking reality? … Or is it like taking a break—”

For fun, Suman snapped his fingers once, and a startled Omar immediately looked up at him. “Heh, do I have your attention now?” he said smugly, and with a mischievous smirk.

Omar nodded and then asked, “So you're not a dumb-ass crazy person, after all?”

“Dumb … ass? … What the hell!?” Suman asked in surprise and confusion.

“This guy … ,” he thought to himself while shaking his head. Suman felt like taking back every compliment he ever gave Omar, having still not realized that most of those compliments were either unintentional or actually insults. Instead, he decided to just act like an adult, because someone had to. However, what really happened is that he sat there and silently glare at Omar. Had Suman realized this, then he might have considered trying harder.

Eventually, Omar decided that this was Suman silently asking him to elaborate.

“The broom,” Omar said curtly, by way of explanation.

“Forget about the broom,” Suman said, just as quickly, but with a neutral tone. Then he added, out of curiosity, “Wait. What about the towel”?

“No. That makes sense,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Let me guess; you're assuming that a towel is as useful for time-travel as it is for interstellar hitchhiking?” Suman replied, referencing Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

Omar nodded while Suman simply shook his head and smiled.

Putting that aside, he clapped his hands once, for effect, and then said loudly, “Let me tell you about that registration process!”