Chapter 1

I awoke, still a little tired from all the hours I had been putting in recently at my main job. The project I had been working on had a ‘revision’ ordered by the customer, outside of the initial contract’s parameters (well outside!). Management accepted the huge bonus for the revision, forgetting to change the due date when accepting that revision. (Call me Dave strikes again!).

I recalled that Tuesday, seven weeks ago, in disgust.

With a promised bonus, my team of three reluctantly agreed to a month and a half of seventy-hour weeks. Susan, the team lead and a massive bitch, couldn’t handle the extra workload and crumpled three weeks into the month. Her explosive tirade when Mrs. Rowe, our company president, stopped by to personally check up on our progress, silenced the cube farm.

I just knew that every single cube’s prairie dogs (workers that looked up and over their cubicle walls en masse to see what was going on), suddenly ducked down, seeking the safety of anonymity.

Calling the President, who was the other half owner of the company that you work for an ‘Incompetent cunt who only cares about how far she can shove her three-foot iron dildo can up her ass... ‘, wasn’t the best move.

If her meltdown hadn’t fucked me over, I would have laughed.

Paula, the third of my team, fell out of her chair behind me. I wasn’t sure if she was laughing or crying in fear.

I knew I was screwed.

There was no way in hell we would make our deadline now. With Susan’s imminent firing, the two of us would never make the already absurd deadline. Adding a new person to our team was unfeasible at this late stage, even before Susan’s suicidal stupidity. It would take our new member months to catch up to speed, and cost us (me) even more time guiding the newbie to what they would have to cover and why.

With Susan, we were on schedule to be two weeks overdue on delivery. Without her, two months.

Mrs. Rowe’s response was stellar. “Miss Hope, if you felt you were overworked you could have said so, but I do accept your resignation. I wish you luck on your next endeavor.”

My ultimate boss’s braids and brocade turned and walked away from the overwrought woman and headed toward our, my, cubicle. I could always tell when someone approached from the sounds in the incorrectly maintained floor in our section. The hollow creaking was a dead giveaway. The high heels which Mrs. Rowe always wore could not have been a stronger indicator of who was headed in my direction. No one else in the company would wear heels over two inches on a Tuesday. For us programmers, comfort beat fashion.

Pretending to not hear a thing, Paula scrambled to her chair. I knew her face was a study in misery at the company head’s approach. My teammate was shy to the extreme; I believed that was why she entered programming to begin with. This new added attention couldn’t be good for her heart.

“Mr. Blakely, how will losing your team leader affect the time table of the Truth Project?”

I swiveled to face our Unrealistic Programs company President, “we will need five or six weeks more. At 60 hours per week average.”

“I thought we agreed on 70-hour weeks?” she replied crisply.

“There is no way that Paula, nor I, can keep this pace for two more months without burning out.” I shrugged, “we will end up making mistakes. I’d rather take a day off now and then, than churn out sloppy code.”

While we were speaking, Max, our sole security guard, helped Susan pack up her desk and silently escorted the fuming woman out. No one else in the cube farm spoke loudly enough to carry beyond their four-foot-tall walls.

“Friday, I will require a status update.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Lowering her voice and turning to my teammate behind me, “Miss Lovington, keep up the good work. If you need anything, even an extra day off, please let Mr. Blakely know.”

We both heard the murmured ‘yes, Ma’am.’ from the ever-quiet dishwater blonde behind me. I knew Paula’s face was devoid of blood and rigidly locked on to her monitor.

Nodding to herself, Mrs. Rowe’s beaded braids flew around her head, as she did an about face and exited my little corner of her kingdom.

The cube farm remained quiet, long after both the President’s and Susan’s departures.

“We’re fucked.” Popped up on my screen in the intercompany messenger. The company’s IM was guaranteed to be personal and without company oversight. We had been assured that no one else besides the intended would ever read them. No outside texting or messaging programs were allowed, but we knew we could use the company IM without worry. While Mrs. R. was strict, her policies typically were not overly draconian.

I replied ‘Lunch at Chang’s. No nos.’ she hated lunch in public, but at Chang’s, I could reserve a corner booth if I called now, which I did.

Thankfully, that was all in the past. Project Truth or Dare passed the preliminary tests with flying colors. I didn’t have to go into work until 11:00 today. Lying in bed with my eyes closed after 9:00 AM, for the first time in a year, was heavenly. Mrs. R. was bringing me along with the sales team, in case there was a customer question that she didn’t want them to answer, in hopes that my overly technical response would prohibit the customer from asking a follow through. Or something stupid like that. Our sales team, like the rest, were useless beyond golfing and smooching the customer’s asses.

Rumor was that Mrs. R. herself, was the actual closer of this job, not ‘Call me Dave’.

Hydraulic pressure made me open my blurry eyes, seeing a black and red Axe hovering inches above me, I panicked and swung my arm to bat it aside.

Upon contact, it vanished and my bad knee screamed at me. Viscously!

Curling up, I brought my left knee to my chest and held it in place with my arms wrapped around my calves. My knee hadn’t hurt that much since I tore my ACL, in my freshman year at Northwestern.

Puffing out to control my breathing, the pain soon diminished to merely excruciating. Laying back down, I slowly bent and stretched my leg. Ever since the surgery, I had lost 20% range of motion and 30% strength. Both losses were decent considering the severity of the injury after being speared by that OSU fuckhead, on a pick of all things.

Thankfully, I was at Northwestern on an academic scholarship, instead of a football one. I didn’t have to worry about losing my scholarship to an injury, not that my alma mater would mistreat me, yet the worry was there for most. I ended up only missing a few classes and postponed surgery until Christmas break. Thankfully, all of my professors were cool about my absences. Since I was in my first semester of my freshman year, none of my classes at that time were over the top, plus I didn’t have any labs.

Swearing at myself and at fictional floating axes, I hobbled to the shower, dressed, and sought out my old cane, before heading to the green-line a few blocks away. Praising the god of old football injuries that the pain was nowhere near of that when I woke, I found a seat and headed to work. Living at the end of the green line was a definite plus in times like today.

My late arrival and cane, brought curious glances and a few jokes from my coworkers, all in poor taste.

Mrs. Rowe drove me to the customer where we met up with ‘Call me Dave’.

“Yo! Jason Dude, were you attacked by a floating weapon too?”

I doubted that C.M. Dave would ever shed the drunken frat mentality stereotype. It had to be intentional.

I noticed him cradling his left arm in a sling, but didn’t respond. Mrs. Rowe didn’t give either of us any room for further conversation, leading us inside the customer’s office.

All went well with the handoff; I was given a week vacation, yet kept on standby for questions. Paid. Paula left for Florida to see her father for two weeks, abandoning me to take care of any customer issues.

News around the world quickly circulated. Millions of people worldwide awoke with a weapon floating above them, which somehow attacked them. Anyone with an old injury seemed to reaggravate it. As with all things net, more disinformation circulated than actual facts.

I followed my old trainer’s guide, rehabbing my knee for the next few days. The customer only called a half dozen times for nonsensical shit. ‘Will you hold my hand? I’m afraid of the dark and forgot where the light switch is.’ And my favorite: ‘where is the documentation for this?’ type questions.

After five days, there were no more calls. All good for my bonus.

The sixth day all hell broke loose. All across the world, Violet-colored energy-sparking spheres appeared, floating inches above sidewalks, streets, stores and even inside of houses. Anywhere that cement was poured, these new violet spheres could be found. Most were scattered around the major cities.

What worried pretty much everyone the most was that Big Ben began ticking backward. At 11:59 the previous night.