She said it, not me. You heard it folks, straight from the horse’s mouth. I’m the realest. A ‘real one’ you could say. I mean, I’ve always kept it real, so the writing was on the wall. To have the agent of some multi-dimensional talent agency tell me straight to my face though, it just feels different.

  I wonder if I can add something to my business card now. . .Theodore “The Realest” Bloom? Theodore “Absolute” Bloom? Theodore “The Truth” Bloom? “He Who Exists Above All”? . . . I’ll workshop it.

  What does me being “the closest thing to real” even mean? No clue, and, to clarify, it’s been about 20 minutes since Chloe made that completely bonkers statement. Either because of my confused expression or because it was never her intent to immediately explain herself, she just sort of relaxed in her chair and went back to sorting her stacks of papers after giving me this cheshire-like smile.

  Since then, a few things have happened while I’ve just sat here, lost in the confused recesses of my thoughts. The first being these two dudes, dressed just as casually as Chloe, that have come and gone a few different times: rolling in a transparent marker board, bringing in more coffee, cleaning up my mess of cups, and, lastly, placing a square, hard shell case on the table in front of Chloe’s chair. The case is all matt black with several chrome clasps keeping it shut. It’s really cool and mysterious looking. Honestly, it’s the most secret organization looking thing I’ve experienced outside the actual kidnapping.

  Probably a mini-printer or something.

  I mean, judging by the absolute boat load of papers that Chloe has pulled from her bag of unending bureaucracy and organized into neat stacks, you’d think she was writing a novel. Seriously, have these people never heard of PowerPoint? Think of the trees, damn it!

  In any case, while I’ve sat here and drowned my unorganized thoughts in copious amounts of trash coffee, Chloe has been taking her neat stacks of papers and sticking them up on the transparent board. At this point, it’s more paper than board, but you can still see the connections between whatever it is she’s trying to illustrate due to dozens of colored dots and arrows. Of course, I’ve got no idea what that is exactly: the papers are all blank! Maybe it’s invisible ink?

  I’ve also got a song stuck in my head that I’ve been actively resisting the urge to hum or sing. It’s been bubbling up under the surface for the past few minutes, and I think I’m about to lose the battle against my sub-conscious. No! Resist, Theo!. . .

  ‘What if I wanted to break? Laugh it all off in your face? What would you do? Ohhhhh’

  Although the lyrics surge through my mind regardless of my conscious desire, I refuse to sing. Instead, I begin to casually tap the beat on the table using a couple of pens that had fallen onto the table from Chloe’s bag. Nothing loud, just enough to scratch the itch to get all angsty and belt out the chorus.

  It can’t be helped. This is the result of running a coffee shop that has a designated 'classic music' day. I am a monster of my own creation. A noise that sounds frighteningly close to humming reaches my ears and my drumming skips a beat as I freeze in horror.

  Did I lose? How?! My strategy was sound! No no no noo- Wait. Why do I still hear humming. I’m not. . .

  A thought hits me.

  No way.

  I continue drumming to maintain my cover as I lift my head up towards the paper covered board where Chloe is still putting up the last of her papers. Her back is to me and her shoulder length brown hair is obscuring the sides of her face, but, no, is her head bobbing subtly to my pen drums? I almost don’t believe it but I can’t deny the evidence of my eyes and ears when the humming starts back up again at the chorus. A fan of the oldies, eh?

  I’m so confused about what I should do in this situation but screw it. I’ll just sing a few lyrics to let the earworm loose. No harm, no foul at this point.

  “. . .Cooooome break me doown. Bury me, bury me. I am finished with youuuuu. . .”

  Chloe, who seems to have finished setting up her presentation, freezes for a moment. I don’t know if she just now realized that she was bopping along or not but, what I do know is that, I am one hundred and ten percent not prepared for her to turn around with a wad of rolled up paper in her hand, eyes closed tight in mock angst, palm up in a half-closed grasping motion as she matches my half whispered tone.

  “. . .Looook inn myyyy eyyyes. You’re killing me, killing me. Allll I waaaanted was youuuuuuuuuuuuu. . . ”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Guys, I have no idea what the hell is going on, but I’m suddenly here for it! If I had to describe my current feelings, it kind of feels like a tide of euphoria is rolling around the room and the song is somehow the carrier? It doesn’t make any sense but I’m just going to roll with it. This feels vaguely familiar.

  Chloe opens her eyes with a wild grin and the unspoken agreement that occurs as we make eye contact is immediate. As if we’d practiced it dozens of times, we drop the hammer on the bridge.

  “I triiiied to be sooomeoooone eeeelse, but nothing seemed to change. I knooow now, this is who I really am inside. Finally found myyyyseeelf, fighting for a chance. I know now. . .”

  Pausing for barely a breath, we both close our eyes and scream, “THIIIS IS WHO I REEEALLY AAAAAAAM!” I remember to hit the drums for the “Ohhhh-oohhh, oohhh-oohhh, oohhh-ohhhhh” and we both laugh out loud at our absurdity even without either of us fully grasping how we got to this point.

  Is this what they call ‘vibing’?

  I mean to compliment her on her singing, but, the moment I open my mouth, a forgotten static crackles through the atmosphere that instantly sobers us both up.

  “Ms. Marks. If you would.”

  Chloe’s face becomes a deep shade of crimson as it seems that she’s only now remembering that we have observers. She straightens her clothes and a hand comes up to push back some loose hair behind her ear. It seems that she’s as flustered about what just happened as I am. Unfortunately, all I can do to help her at the moment is to avoid eye contact and look anywhere but her general direction as she scrambles to bring back her professional air. Fortunately, there’s this big board full of, supposedly, world-shattering information right in front of my face for me to stare at like a wall of drying paint. It’s entirely blank after all. Ugh.

  That was weird. Right? Are all super-secret kidnappings this lighthearted? Have I just been brainwashed by movies and shows into expecting scarred and broken characters playing good cop/bad cop with a little light water torture to maintain the mood? I don’t think there’s supposed to be karaoke. I shake my head at a loss. Focus, Theo. Address the weirdness after you’re not being held in a secret room by people who claim to be some kind of multiversal shadow organization.

  Clearing my throat awkwardly, I flick my chin up towards the white paper covered board as I sit up straighter in my chair, “None of this is going to be on a test later, is it?”

  Chloe barely looks up from her remaining stacks of papers, “No.” Ah, tough crowd.

  I wince slightly at the obvious shutdown but otherwise keep it to myself. There’s a time and a place, Theo.

  Chloe suddenly reaches for the black box in front of her and moves to undo the clasps. Finally! Some development!

  As she does so, Mr. Crackles comes back with an intensity that stands in stark contrast to his normally bored tone, “Hey! What are you doing? We have protocols for a reason!”

  Giving the one-way glass a stone-cold look, Chloe, who doesn’t so much as pause in her movements, snaps back with a surprising amount of vitriol, “Aaron, I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at but I’m done messing around in here. Even without any equipment on hand, with your expertise, I know you know that the UE levels in this room just spiked to a level that overwhelmed even my mind and, if that’s possible, not only am I in danger but so is this entire facility. I’m screening him. Now.”

  Chloe doesn’t hesitate to finish unclasping the latches and pulls the lid off the mystery box. She sits the lid off to the side and I lean closer to get a better look at what looks to be a. . . coconut sized orange sphere? Huh. That doesn’t look like a mini printer. More like something you’d see in an antique shop.

  I reach out to touch it but get my hand slapped hard by a very angry-looking Chloe. I jerk my hand back and stare at her with the irritation of a scolded puppy. All of my repressed resentment about the situation finally reaches its breaking point. Again.

  Hit ME?! You’re going to hit *me*?? Oh hellll naw!

  “Gah! That hurt, asshole!", I look at Chloe with an expression of abject betrayal, "So much for the witty rapport we had going on. Guess the pretend gloves are off, Ms. Big Bad Secret Agent? Time to ‘screen me’, you said?”

  I get up out of my chair for the first time in a while and walk over to the paper board, more so to distance myself from her and that orb than anything else, “What has this all been? Some kind of mental test? Butter up the captive with his vice of choice, cover a board in blank paper and then sit back to see how long it takes for the coffee guy to crack and start seeing made up messages on the wall? Huh?! And that?,” I wave my hand at the orange paper weight, “What is that? Some kind of invasive mind probe? Electro shock? A way to melt my fingerprints off? You going to bash me in the head with it like a caveman?—err, woman.”

  I pause to look around the room as if hidden gas is seeping out of the vents, “Am I forgetting anything? Oh, yeah, what the heck is UE?! Did you guys starting slipping something in here while we just sat around? Was it in that garbage ass coffee you kept bringing in? Have I been dosed? Is that why I suddenly felt like we were the leads of a crappy teen musical? Is that why I'm losing my shit right now?? You know what? I don't even care!”

  A huge part of me knows that I’m overreacting to a literal slap on the wrist, but, like I just finished hysterically shouting, I don’t really care anymore. If I were in a more rational state of mind, I'd definitely want to question the sudden extremity of my emotions. I'm not. I think I’m starting to hyperventilate. I need some fresh air.

  No! I need to get out of here! What have I been thinking?! These guys literally kidnapped me! Why have I been so willing to sit around and listen to them?!

  My eyes dart across the room again, no longer wildly searching for invisible gas but instead landing on something very specific: the door. Chloe's eyes widen for the briefest moment, but it's already too late to change my mind. She doesn't have a weapon other than that wanna be snow globe sitting on the table and I outweigh her by a good sixty or seventy pounds. It registers that those other two guys are probably out there somewhere and there's also Mr. Crackles to consider. I don't care!

  Bring it on! I'm getting the hell out of here!