The insanity clause is moot

Luke sat in the Bliss den, surfing the Freed, waiting.

Then, in an instant so brief it could have been said not to happen at all, Luke in the Real awoke and drug himself from bed to car to road to work, like a miniature entity with bills to pay operating a flesh-mecha weighed down by the lingering effects of alcohol and the damages of a lifelong shitty sleep schedule. Sometime later, the sun rose, lunch was had, stupidity witnessed, frustration balled into fists and released as swears and focused into floor tiles, then just when the body and soul had hit a groove, resigned to their fate, it was time to leave.

Then, of course, a sweaty car ride, a quick shower, a ride to the gym spent trying to locate and rehydrate the anger from earlier in the day, which had now seemingly slipped into a cranial seat cushion or something, and a back and shoulder assault powered by spite against his own exhaustion as much as the pre-workout. Then, home, beer, texts, swipes, girls, porn, and finally, games and the headphone-stereoed voices of friends.

Sometime around one, some part of Luke slipped from the grip of the Real world, just for an instant, or maybe even less than that…

The extractor breezed over the next half day in the Other, Luke's trip to Dr.X and subsequent run at the glowing hole in his Spirit’s life, and stopped at the point where Luke, good and sick of it all, was floating in the craft ring around Concordia, hoping someone would take pity and spot him some Bliss, but forbidden to ask for any lest he get kicked out for good this time.

“God damn, they haven’t demolished this place yet?” A mildly distorted voice prodded him from above and slightly behind. He craned his neck to look.

A guy in biker get-up and a mask crafted from fully fractured tinted windshield glass with blood in the crevices reflecting unseen headlights floated above him. Luke noticed a few shell casings wedged in the tread at the bottom of his black leather boots.

“You uh—”

The guy flicked a card at him before he could finish. Luke caught it as it sailed through the black and looked it over.

“Car-Crash”

Team Lead

Ace Tactical

A Constellation Franchisee

There was a little logo of an A over a diamond, bordered by two knives and two fifty-cal rounds.

“You guys still use business cards?” was all Luke could think of to say.

“Barely three-dimensional object, easily recalled by the minds eye, and easily filed away as the mind can conceptualize a thin stack of cards containing an infinite number.”

After this much more salient explanation than Luke had been expecting, Car-Crash waved his hand toward the black van floating next to him.

“Get the fuck in. Got some paperwork with your name on it back at the shop, then its D-Day for your ass.”

Luke filed the card away in his pocket and jumped in the van. Gravity quickly reasserted itself and he spent the brief trip bouncing around on the top of the wheel well. When the doors slid open again, Car-Crash and Shell casing mask from his first visit were standing inside a garage.

“Sup bro. I’m Sammy Stovepipe,” Sammy Stovepipe said.

“Guess this means I got the job,” Luke said as he stepped out.

Sammy scoffed in the back of his throat.

“This is gonna be more like a temp with a chance at permanent hire situation. Sit down.”

He pulled a beat-up office chair away from an old pressed-wood desk facing the wall and rotated it towards Luke. It was covered in a thin layer of dust and bounced with a squeak as Luke sat in it.

Sammy took out a glass ball that looked like it had trapped a miniature dust storm inside and squeezed it between his thumb and forefinger. It flashed like bottled lightning and he pressed it into the shell casings on his forehead, which shifted with tiny clinks.

“Look here.” Sammy tapped it and the flashes coalesced into a point of light as Luke stared.

“State your full name, please.”

“Uh, Luke Robert Fischer”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“What was the date when you last woke in the Real?”

“Uh, Wednesday.”

“The full, date.” Sammy stopped himself from swearing.

“August, uh, seventeenth? 2017.”

The light brightened, and there was only darkness around it. Sammy’s voice continued, now from all around.

“Please recall a moment from today in the Real in which the date was proved in some way. Please note that any memory will be kept in the archive, and may be seen by the public."

Luke had to smile. Every memory of him jacking off was up for sale down at Dr. X's. He raked over his day and found a moment, a little before 3, when he checked his phone to see if his couple thousand-dollar portfolio had done anything.

The light prodded him, and he went over it again, the memory this time blazing out in every minute detail. He even felt the Texas sun kicking up sweat on his neck and the subtle, rising, is that chicken sandwich really gonna kill me sensation in his stomach.

Then the garage came back, and Sammy nodded at him, making the little dim light in his forehead bob up and down.

“All right. Now I’ve got some questions. Answer truthfully. Your responses will not affect your employment status in any way.”

Luke got that feeling again, that something beyond his understanding or knowledge was moving unseen deep within the world, and that Sammy’s corporate reading was some latent side effect of machinations he could never imagine.

“Do you feel that you have had ample time to consider your decision?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Please be advised if you need more time to consider, additional time will be granted. This will not affect your employment. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you need additional—”

“No.”

“Please let me finish!” Something like human emotion jumped into Sammy’s voice.

“Do you need additional time to consider your decision to seek employment as a Hardworlder?”

“No.”

“Please state what materials or services aided you in your decision. A, company-provided training materials, B, third-party information such as the Feed, C, counseling from an approved Union liaison, or D, other sources, please specify.”

“A. and B. I mean.. can I—”

“Multiple answers are allowed. Next question. Do you feel that you have a good understanding of the job of a Hardworlder? Please note additional orientation is available upon request.”

“Yeah, I think I got it. Go down there and kill people right?”

There was a pause, and Sammy made motions with his hand like he was swiping through pages Luke couldn’t see.

“Tasks required of you in the Hardworlds may include, but are not limited to, engaging, incapacitating, or eliminating the target or designated individuals, observation, surveillance, theft, breaking and entering, and operating a wide variety of vehicles.”

“Cool.” Luke said. Car-Crash lit a thin plastic-tipped cigar and watched Luke like he was agreeing to jump in a furnace. Whatever. Nothing in there could be worse than what had found him here.

Sammy continued.

“Do you understand that your time in the Hardworlds will be spent in a real body? Please note that the term Real here does not imply preference of any particular belief system.

“Uh, yeah.”

“Keeping in mind that you will be occupying a real body, do you understand that while in the Hardworlds you may be subject to real pain?”

“Yes.”

“Do you understand that this pain can be up to and exceeding the limits of human sensation?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Do you understand that there is a risk your Spirit may become trapped in the Hardworld indefinitely?”

“Yesssss...” He lingered on that last consonant until Car-Crash cocked his head. Better not to know anyway, most likely.

“Do you understand that your work in the Hardworlds may incur emotional and mental harm, including but not limited to Spiritual depression and disassociation?”

“Yes!” This time he said it with a big, closed-mouth smile that made Car-Crash bend over in stifled laughter.

“And finally,” Sammy sighed, wearily. “In accordance with Hardworlding Union guidelines, Ace Tactical is required to provide you with a summarized mem of your work time. Keep in mind that it will be of limited detail to preserve objectivity, and will also be heavily redacted, within industry standards and Constellation guidelines. Do you accept?”

This time, he couldn’t help himself.

“What?”

Before Sammy could explain, which judging by how much his shoulders rose and fell with the preparatory breath beforehand, was going to be a mammoth task for him, Car-Crash piped up.

“It means you get a nice little photo reel of what you do on the job, but the names and faces and all those sticky feelings and particulars will be plucked out before it’s handed over to you. We have to give you evidence of your work hours, but it won’t be breaking records as a drama sim any time soon.”

Sammy sighed again.

“It says I gotta read the god damned script if he says anything but yes, so hold on while—”

“Just fucking ask him the first part again so we—”

“You know I can’t do that god dammit! I gotta read the script!”

“Jesus fucking!” Car-Crash stood up and shook his mask at the far wall while Sammy exhaled sharply and then continued.

“We will be providing you with a mem recording of your time spent in the Hardworlds on company business, but—”

It took him about two minutes of corporatese to say what Car-Crash already had and Luke tried not to laugh the whole time.

“Yes, I accept.”

“Good!” Sammy stood up sharply and stuck his hand out.

“Then as of this moment, by the authority of Ace Tactical, its employees, and stakeholders, and under the observation of a licensed witness of Constellation Enterprises, I am pleased to offer you the position of Hardworld Operator, effective immediately. Do you accept?”

“Yes.” Luke shook his hand.

“Congratulations and welcome aboard we look forward to working with you. Car Crash here will be your direct superior until you are assigned to your team but please come to me with anything my door is always open.” Sammy was halfway across the garage and fully out of breath by the time he finished this particular formality.

Car-Crash smacked Luke on the back and beckoned him to follow.

“Oh!” Sammy stopped and turned around. “Shit! Give him a copy of the mem!”

“I got it,” Car-Crash said. “Here.” He picked up the orb, which Luke hadn’t even seen Sammy toss on the desk, and clicked it. Something like a ball bearing popped out and Car-Crash pressed it onto another business card. Luke took it and the liquid blob of metal formed into the team logo.

“Now don’t go trying to sell this one kid,” Car-Crash chuckled. “It ain't worth much.”

Luke would have been offended, but he realized he had never possessed a single bit of memory that hadn’t ended up property of Dr. X

Far and away, another Luke realized, with an acid bitterness, that he still never had.