> Chance in Plureality 7

He came to in a field. The sounds of tires on asphalt floated by with the Doppler effect. He rubbed his eyes and crawled out of the tall grass. He felt like being drunk, from the glass of water's point of view. He was actually starting to get used to it now. Balance was always hard to maintain though and he fell into the orange doors of the storage lockers.

Find an identity... Pretend. The usual course. Weather the shift.

Reaching up he grabbed at the lock on the shutter door. Someone didn't fully close it... Either that or reality was throwing him a bone. Dropping the lock to the ground he reeled the door upwards.

Stumbling over some worn faux-leather recliners, he squeezed himself between a propped up mattress and reached for the brown boxes in the back. Boxes held parts of people's lives, he knew. Stored away the trinkets that held memories, these time capsules of sorts.

He dug through quickly. Not wanting to handle too much at once. He'd come to realize across shifts that during these "calibration" moments he could take on the memories stored in objects. He wasn't sure if this was some sort of fallout, or if this is what the Angel and Demon wanted him to be doing.

It was a blessing and a curse at the same time. He could hide from the sweeper teams, those seeking the reality deviants, this way. You blend in properly they look right past you. They scan your mind, and if you happen to be carrying enough hijacked memory from someone they might just overlook you.

It's hard taking on someone else's life though. You don't always have the understanding you need to fully adapt. You've got fractions of the whole... And if you're not careful... You impale yourself on the sharp end of the stick of their pain.

Rummaging through the boxes Keane picked up his new identity... A writer... Struggling apparently. Lost... Self-destructive... A small red box he lifted sent a jolt of loss. A woman with red hair. Brilliant smile... Miles away. He dropped it with a pained cry.

Sudden spurt of rage and the box shoots out into the night air, its contents scattering along the gravel. Opening the new box, digging frantically. A jacket, worn beaten leather. Shrugging the mantel on the memories dug in. Sore feet. Vacant highways. Wanderlust.

Then he saw the phone... These little computers held so much of a person these days. Calibration was nearing its end... He grabbed the phone. A different woman's face now. A hollow feeling now. But a goal... Hear her voice... Even though he's never heard it himself. The memories he'd stolen were there... But memory wouldn't do this time... It wasn't as simple as hiding from the sweepers this time... He had to find this woman... It was going to be dangerous, it wasn't going to make sense... These weren't his memories. This wasn't his life... But this one held a key, he knew it.

Keane crawled back out of the locker, over the pile of scattered contents, and headed for the highway, down a road he had never walked, but one his stolen memories knew.

> Chance in Plureality 6

January 12th, ????

I'm leaving this floating in the stream. I still don't understand it, but I've come to feel its pull from time to time. The Angel and the Demon tried their best to explain it, but it's never fully taken hold.

I've kept moving like they suggested, never stayed in one place too long, never made waves; just observed them.

I can't count the number of places I've been in, nor the number of 'instances' I've participated in... I usually know when a jump is coming though. It's like a tremor, you could be doing anything, then you notice it. Things just seem off, or far too clear. Police describe the adrenaline rush they get as heightening sounds or sensations, things are louder, clearer... More focused. It's a shame I've never been able to adapt to it and use it like I feel I should be able to. I just get lost in it, fall into the life I've taken on during that instance... Try to cling to it, like it'll make a difference this time around...

I've made my way by assuming lives. Easiest way to start, gather up some money... Starting from the bottom in some instances, beg, borrow, steal... Get some bankroll. After that, hit up a storage auction. You'd be surprised what kind of a start you can get from that... Little bits of a person or a family, all conveniently stowed awaiting retrieval. You can use that, set yourself up, assume a life. 

I know I'm supposed to observe, and wait... For what I still don't know, but I see them sometimes, during those tense moments. The kid and the girl with feathers in her hair. Often the man with the amusing or ironic t-shirts is there. Sometimes others... Recurring characters in a story I'm not allowed to know, but I play a part in apparently nonetheless.

I'm writing this now because I don't want to do this anymore.... I'm tired... I wish I'd never taken the time to listen to those two. Maybe I'd still be bouncing from cube to cube, making my ends meet, instead of digging through other peoples forgotten life fragments, trying to make some facsimile of a life. 

I want the meaning I was promised by those two that day over breakfast... I'll even take part of that meaning... Something will be better than nothing... And yet... I still gets that feeling... Like the other night in that noodle shop. 

There was a car accident outside, I'd swear that happened in slow motion... A white car narrowly avoided the wreck... It sped off into the night, leaving one of its passengers behind. I'd never met him, but he had that feeling about him, as I watched from the sidelines as I usually do. I knew this man somehow. He walked in the same stream as we do, and if you're reading this you know what stream I mean. 

While onlookers swarmed the car crash, the suited man from the car stood staring down the street, all but unnoticed by the onlookers. He had a worn out look to him... He looked like I feel. Tired... Worn out... Just done. 

Another man came out of the crowd then, also seemingly unnoticed by any of the onlookers. He walked with him and led him to a bench, where they sat down. It was then the scene enveloped me as they usually do... I could hear the sizzling of the kitchen behind me... The rustling of the man across from me as he turned to look at the chaos taking place in the streets, the overhead fans thrummed in tune to the footsteps of the people crowding the accident outside.

The two suited figures on the bench talked, the scruffy and worn man in his dirty suit and pristine crucifix; His head slowly leaning to one side. The old man in blue beside him, shaking his hands at him in an almost chiding manner, leaning on a cane, as if to reiterate a point already discussed. Still, no one but I seemed to notice them.

This carried on for some time, until the police showed up outside. A recurring character, the large detective among them this time for some reason. It was then the man in the blue suit took notice, of the detective I assume... When he placed his hand on his listeners shoulder and patted it. It felt like goodbye from where I was seeing it.

A man rose from the noodle counter inside with me and headed out to street. I'd seen him before... I'd recognize him every time, the angel mentioned him a lot, made a point of it even, he wore a black t-shirt this time with a large yellow infinity symbol on it. He rushed out to the nearby bench to the suited man's side, whom now alone raised his head to look at him with a smile. Then he closed his eyes and let his head sink into his chest. 

The normal merge feeling I get turned to nausea then, and I felt like I couldn't breath... I knocked over my noodles when I ran to the bathroom, and once I hit the door I shifted... I'm leaving this letter on the typewriter I found amongst the clutter in the old shop I ended up in...

If you're riding the same stream... Please... I'm done... I want to go back to how it was... Before the man on the bench... Before that morning in the diner... Hell. I'll take getting fired, I'll even take getting creamed by that white Buick that morning instead of missing it. Just let this all make some sense...

Signed... KEANE.

> Chance in Plureality 5

Keane sat in the booth on the quiet side of the diner. With this layout it was almost as if the other side didn't even exist, which suited him fine. He didn't really want to talk with anyone at the moment anyway. The day had gotten off to a rotten start. Slept in, burnt his breakfast (which is why he was finally getting around to it now at 2 in the afternoon), topping that off with nearly getting sideswiped going by the off-ramp on Clergy Street earlier. 

Of course that wasn't anywhere near the end of the day either. By 11am he had been called into the boss' office and had been fired. Big show of things, too - his boss must have also had a rough morning, the way he went at him. On the other hand he just might have been the kind of boss who enjoyed firing people. Didn't help that Parsons, the douche-bag from near the water cooler, had to feign concern while Keane was cleaning out his desk. That kind of rising bile feeling, makes you wish you had super powers enough to knock a person through a wall. 

It would all be alright though, he thought. Once breakfast finally came. Breakfast, especially a diner breakfast, always made him feel better. Besides, he always felt that he was meant for something more than cube work. The waitress arrived with his meal. The whole shebang! Pancakes, hash browns, toast, eggs, and a massive pile of meat. Toss in a nice cuppa java and a tall glass of OJ. This is what his day was missing from the get-go. This would make it all better, and THIS would allow the whole day to settle and make sense. 

About 3 or 4 sips into his coffee, and a bite or two into the hash browns, a lithe woman with what appeared to be feathers in her hair slid into the booth across from him. 

"Uh... Excuse me?" Keane looked up. "Can I help you?" She just smiled and pulled some of the brown curls back and tucked them behind her ear, the feathers brushing across the table. 

"There's not much you could do to help us at the moment actually..." said a young man in a long coat (who wears one of those in this weather?) as he slid in beside the woman with feathers in her hair. A silver cross jangled on a chain around his neck. "'I always liked diner breakfasts too. Guess we have that in common... But you want a really good brekky? You gotta hit those little mom and pops... Just saying," the scruffy cross-bearer said. 

"Do you guys mind? I'm trying to eat here, and I think you've got me confused with someone else," Keane pleaded. He only wanted his breakfast, even if it was 2pm. 

"Oh I wouldn't dream of stopping you from eating - in fact you're gonna need it," the man in the long coat informed. 

"It's going to be a looong day," the smiling feathered woman said.

"Look... What do you mea-" Keane started. 

"Have you ever felt like you were meant for something more?" the young man smirked. 

Keane felt something odd about that look, like these two knew more then they were saying. "Go on..." he said, slowly picking up another mouthful of hash browns with his fork.