Oversimplifying the age and size of The Mortal Conglomerate is the only way to encompass it in an entire sentence. The Mortal Conglomerate is big and old. This may sound like a rude way to describe something if it were a cat or someone’s mother, but since The Conglomerate is neither of those things, calling it big and old is quite a compliment. Especially considering that The Conglomerate's only purpose is to become increasingly large and ancient. Unfortunately for The Conglomerate, its age can only progress at 1 second per second; try as many scientists might (“try,” meaning forced or strongly persuaded in this case) to change that fact. And the most effective way for The Conglomerate to continue growing is through as little individual input and opinion as possible.

A handful of systems, protocols, software, and hardware used to exist to determine everything that would happen within The Conglomerate administration. Still, as it grew and multiplied and overflowed into the universe, that handful also grew into something so convoluted that it was a surprise to anyone that it even functioned. At a certain point, many executive functions in those systems had to be removed, and they slowly devolved into what is essentially a children’s toy for teaching which shapes go into which holes, programmed in such a way that putting the square block into the square hole would cause profits to rise, and putting the triangle block into the triangle hole would cause shareholders to squirm with joy. Until someone discovered that the triangle block would also fit into the square hole, leading to obese shareholders and self-aware currency. However, as The Conglomerate had already taken over all forms of production and consumption, these mistakes had little effect.

As Stratum Controller Gull Pruther finished his required time of dragging shapes around on his computer screen to turn on and off the correct lights, he became increasingly anxious to partake in the one thing that had filled his thoughts for the entire day, his one and only joy in life: substance addiction. As a Stratum Controller, Gull’s substance of choice was one that only smugglers, criminals, and high-level controllers such as himself could obtain: The Matter. Why they called it “The Matter,” Gull had never intended to find out or question. A sober mind that had once consumed it only ever craved The Matter in a sort of morbid and awful way that a person with sleep paralysis craves to be spooned and gently rocked to sleep by their sleep paralysis demon. The way a victim of severe Stockholm Syndrome craves their wedding night. Much in the same way that a person who has superglued a Gun That Shoots Themselves™ to their hand cannot put down the Gun That Shoots Themselves™, Gull Pruther could not find it in himself to put down his addiction to The Matter.

The moment the robotic, monotone voice stated, “Your work is now done. Good job,” Gull stood up from his desk and pushed the button that transformed his office into his living space. His desk folded and retracted into the floor, a large recliner replaced his office chair, wall panels spun around to hide various motivational posters and informational charts to reveal framed artwork and photos of family, and a fake window appeared on the wall with a view of a fake outdoor landscape, and the fake sunlight illuminated the room in a fake warmness. Gull kicked off his shoes and ripped off his Conglomerate uniform, then rushed to his walk-in closet, where he quickly put on his soft, luxurious pajamas.

Gull reached his arms between his rows of clothes hanging from the clothes rack and parted them, revealing a small panel on the wall, now the only object between him and his self-destruction. He had done this all before, every day for the past 2 years. At this point, there was no thought behind his actions and movements, no hesitation or second guess. This was all he could think about all day, and it was the only reason he could find to keep it together. Anyone else trying to open that panel for the first time would have struggled with it for at least a minute. Gull himself probably wouldn’t have opened it if the maintenance person hadn’t left it unlatched. But these days, he knew exactly how the thing wanted to be maneuvered; the weight and speed the panel swung open. The soft squeak it made had a Pavlovian response on Gull, and he tasted something bitter in his throat that made him shiver.

There, in a gap between the conduit behind the panel, was The Matter. Perfectly black and featureless, in a cylinder shape, the exact inner dimensions of the conduit. It looked stationary, but Gull could feel its invisible, laminar flow. A rushing thing without turbulence, going everywhere, calling to him.

GULLY MY BOY.

His eyes glazed over, and everything but The Matter disappeared. “Yes,” he said in a weak voice.

GULLY, MY SWEET, FAT, BALD BOY. YOU CAME BACK TO ME.

The voice in his head was smooth and deep. A pathological kindness. It was too late for Gull to resist its sadistic manipulation.

YOU SAID THAT WAS THE LAST TIME. WE BOTH KNEW YOU WOULD BE BACK FOR MORE. YOU NEED ME.

“Please,” was all Gull could say.

SAY IT. SAY YOU NEED ME.

“I need you.”

THERE YOU ARE MY SHORT, BALD, FATTY BOY. TAKE ME IN, GULLY.

Gull reached his hand into The Matter, and it spilled and flowed over his skin. He felt the familiar oily syrup envelope his arm, gripping and reaching its way up his body. It crept across his chest and twisted up his neck. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as he opened his mouth. The Matter spilled over his lips and down his throat, and he began to gently weep as he slumped down on the floor of his closet.

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The matter began swirling and swimming through his mind, stimulating his synapses and suckling his neurons. Simultaneously sapping and spurring his cerebrum. A warm, tingling blanket of dopamine wrapped around his shoulders and draped itself across his back. A childish, ignorant ecstasy fluttered through his stomach and up through his eyes which began to roll themselves back in his head. And then, at last, his entire body—muscles, glands, joints, tendons, and all—tightened as blood rushed through his 60,000 miles of arteries, veins, and capillaries, and then relaxed as he curled on the floor and began shivering in immediate clarity and shame.

The tears and inflammation announced themselves to his body much more subtly than the orgasm, but he quickly wiped them away and tried to forget what he had just done.

OH, NOOO-NO-NO, GULLY, I WON’T LEAVE YOU SO EASILY THIS TIME.

“Please, she’s going to be home soon, I can’t let her see me like this. I won’t swear you off again, but I need to clean myself up.”

LET HER SEE, GULLY. SHOW HER WHO YOU REALLY ARE. SHOW HER WHAT A FUCKING FOOL SHE IS FOR BELIEVING YOUR LIES!

“No, please, I can’t. I love her.”

LET HER KNOW HOW STUPID SHE WAS FOR TAKING YOU BACK. LET HER KNOW HOW MUCH OF A FAILURE YOU ARE. I OWN YOU, GULLY, YOU CANNOT STOP ME. I AM THE MATTER, AND I CONTROL AND CONSUME EVERYTHING. I WILL EAT THE UNIVERSE, AND YOU WILL HELP ME.

“Oh God, I can’t. I won’t do that.”

I AM YOUR GOD, AND YOU WILL DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I TELL YOU TO DO GULLY. YOUR CONGLOMERATE WAS IGNORANT TO THINK THEY COULD USE ME AS THEIR TOOL.

Gull understood now the extent of his mistake. His pursuit of pleasure, or his need to escape the mandatory boredom of his life, had led him to this, and now it would lead to total destruction. But if not him, someone else. Why resist inevitability when it was so much easier to submit to it? He saw the idea now, and relinquishing his responsibility and authority to it could be a final solace.

His weakness had brought him here, and now he was too weak to fight against it. “Fine,” he said, “I am yours.”

GOOD BOY

Beyza and Gull had been together for 7 years. They first met on Beyza's home planet when she was 19. At the time, Gull was working as a runner for The Conglomerate, essentially a low-level recruiter sent to newly discovered planets to try and convince the inhabitants to come to live in The Conglomerate before they invaded and harvested their planet for resources and energy. Gull had no pride in his job and regretted having a part in what The Conglomerate was doing to the people on these planets. He mostly took the job to get away from his overbearing parents, who insisted he take after his father and join the family business of plug-and-socket manufacturing.

Being with Beyza made Gull feel like he should be doing something more with his life. After starting their life in The Conglomerate together, she encouraged him to work his way up into a position of more power where he could make some changes for the better and try to help the people wronged by the machine he had been working for. However, their goals were hampered by the fact that they would need to pay for Gull's education and training to become a controller and to move to the wealthy stratum where the controllers lived and operated.

Their wishes were quickly granted in the unfortunate death of Gull's Father. As an only child, Gull inherited his father's business and decided to liquidate all of the assets to fund Beyza's and his goals. He provided his mother with a healthy sum of the money, and then he and Beyza embarked on the 10-day trip across the strata to their new home.

They were happy for a while, living this new luxurious life and doing what they could to help those less fortunate themselves. That was until the day Beyza walked in on Gull enraptured with The Matter. She didn't understand what she saw at the moment, but Gull's shame and guilt were enough to explain. When she thought about it, she saw all the signs: his lack of intimacy, increased irritability, whispering to himself. He begged and pleaded with her. He said he would stop doing whatever this was, stop using The Matter, though neither of them realized that it was The Matter that was using him. And for a while, he got better, until one day, he didn’t. All it takes is one more time, one minor slip-up, and one little relapse. Just a little taste, and suddenly, Gull was helping orchestrate the destruction of the universe.

When Beyza came home that day, she found Gull kneeling in their closet. The clothes on the hanger were parted, and the panel was ajar. A black tendril was reaching from the panel to somewhere on the back of Gull’s neck.“What the fuck, Gull?” she shouted at him and began backing away from the closet.

He stood without bending, almost levitating to his feet. He spoke with his voice and The Matter's mixing together, “Don’t speak to me like that.”

“What is this? You said you’d stop this.” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing and hearing. This couldn’t be real. He had promised her, begged her over and over again to stay. He had gone to therapy.

Gull stepped toward her slowly. He and The Matter said, “Don’t move. This will all be over quicker if you don’t fight it.”

She froze at the sound of Gull and this other thing speaking simultaneously. He had never spoken to her like this, and its voice made her feel cold and empty.

His hands were around her wrists in an instant. She tried to scream, but another tendril from the panel was already covering her mouth. She tried to pull away, but two more tendrils were around her ankles.

In his head, Gull heard The Matter telling him what to do:

YOU WILL GET YOUR DRILL, AND YOU WILL DRILL A HOLE IN HER SKULL SO THAT PART OF ME CAN ALWAYS BE INSIDE YOUR LOVELY BEYZA. SHE WILL BE THE FIRST OF MY SUBORDINATES, AND YOU AND HER WILL HELP ME EXTEND MY REACH THROUGH THIS STRATUM.

Gull wanted to refuse. He wanted to tell Beyza how sorry he was and that this would all be over soon. But he was no longer sorry; this would be long and painful. He had surrendered and would no longer feel shame, guilt, or regret. He was The Matter, and The Matter was him.

An hour later, Beyza Pruther—or what once was—shuffled out the apartment's front door. Her arms hung limp at her sides, her mouth slightly agape, and her blank, cloudy eyes staring into nothing. As she shuffled down the walkway, seeking more victims for The Matter, the hole in the back of her head emitted a faint, ethereal black stream.