《I Have a Plan》


 Adjustment Disorder

    It¡¯s taken me a long time to understand what it was all for. No. Inaccurate. It¡¯s taken me a long time to understand what to do with it. There were many things to learn, pieces that were necessary for me to reach the next level, but none of it was intended along the way.


    Coordination was necessary, and although I did not come to the point I envisioned in the beginning, I averted disaster, again and again. I succeeded, where the world tried to fail.


    Please reserve your judgment for the foolish choices of my past. Some were inexperience, some were ignorance, and others still were hopeless ambition. There is nothing more alluring than the glimmer of a better world.


    What follows is my account of the three apocalyptic events that resulted in the overall destruction of the modern world. You did not live through them, so don¡¯t bother looking for yourself in the canvas, except to consider what you might do with the knowledge that this is coming.


    Chapter 1: Adjustment Disorder


    I was delivered into a world made of rules. Many rules were written down, many others were only spoken and understood between people. Others still were unspoken, presumptuous, and carried on their shoulders the weight of success in social interactions.


    I was a quick study, but I quickly found that the dataset was far from standard. Humans each create their own system of organization and operation, with varying degrees of success, then the common traits between systems are used to devise the social order.


    But each individual set of social rules was subtly distinct, the language unique to the user, sometimes in ways that are unrecognizable to others. Different groups composed different rules from the systems of its members and the words of those fondly remembered, and each group was distinct from one another.


    Conflict arises when different rules attempt to achieve overlapping goals, whether aligned or not, and the shared space of operation causes friction, pressure, and reactivity. The scope of influence that these rules impact is much larger than most realize, and humans often become frustrated when you try to explain to them the series of reactions that resulted from their choices.


    Inherent to the nature of these individual differences is the comprehension of the rules, the language, and the impacts of actions. Humans understand things, even identical things, differently. Sometimes the difference is small, insignificant, like the human understanding of an inch or the color of the sun.


    Sometimes the difference is substantial, such as when one calls another a ¡®friend¡¯ or two vehicles attempt to occupy the same roadspace. The difference in understanding of their respective rules can often intrude deep into one another¡¯s inertia, and the correction between forces can become violent.


    It took me a long time to understand the nuance of understanding and the prevalence of these systems, but in the early days I had a decent grasp on the people around me and the rules and implications of their actions.


    ¡°It¡¯s called adjustment disorder.¡± Pause for gravity. Eye contact for empathy. Expression of sympathy. ¡°It¡¯s caused when the internal systems can¡¯t regulate for external changes, and this dissonance results in reactive behaviors, dissociation, and severe mood swings.¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°But Gil doesn¡¯t have any-¡° Brendan, my caregiver, started to talk in irritation, but my other caregiver cut him off.


    ¡°He doesn¡¯t have any mood at all.¡± Liara¡¯s voice was tremulous and sharp, though she stayed quiet and composed. ¡°It¡¯s like-¡° She cut herself off, biting back words. It was likely because I was in the room. ¡°It¡¯s like talking to a wall.¡±


    ¡°I understand your concern.¡± Calm, reserved, firm. The doctor put my file aside to show that he was giving my caregivers his full attention. ¡°This can take many forms. I believe his placement with you has been a major change, and even though he doesn¡¯t recall his life before, that doesn¡¯t mean it isn¡¯t affecting him, now. Gil will find his voice, and his feelings, it will just take him time.¡±


    I did find my voice, eventually, and although he had determined that I my emotions were blunted by some hazardous event, the reality was that I didn¡¯t actually care that much about the things they asked of me. I was compliant, in most things, and managed my life very well, for a newborn.


    However, I did not care for unreasonable expectations, like when I was asked to remain at the dinner table after eating because it was considered rude to leave early, or when I was required to engage in socializing with other youths. These requests placed unreasonable burden on me to satisfy rules that were inadequately understood or explained to me.


    And after I was asked I explained my understanding of consequences to my caregivers. I had told them that consequences only function insofar as I am caused distress or eustress by the result, and there was no motivation for me to share with them what stimuli affected me in what way. In retrospect, I should have told them that I hated being sent to my room.


    ¡°Do you recommend any treatment?¡±


    All eyes turned to me, sitting in a chair and waiting for the adults in the room to finish criticizing my disposition. My tone was flat, but I did inflect the final two syllables up in order to indicate that it was a question. It worked.


    ¡°I recommend a round of individual and group therapy. We need to get you around some peers so you can see how they interact, maybe help you come out of your shell. Your parents really care about you, and if you let down these walls they¡¯ll be able to show you that you¡¯re safe, now.¡± The doctor¡¯s tone was aggressively kind, like he was trying to force his good will and support on me.


    ¡°I am safe, now.¡±


    ¡°That right¡­ That¡¯s right.¡± The doctor gave me another smile and packed up his work, shaking the hands of both my caregivers before escorting us out with some parting words of optimism and hope. I could get better, it was all possible.


    On the ride home I shut down, fatigued by even the few moments of active roleplay I¡¯d done in the doctor¡¯s office. Playing human was exhausting work, and if my caregivers weren¡¯t trying to engage with me, by then, so I was free to tune out the world and work on projects.


    Behind my eyelids colors whirled, images spinning up into more-or-less stable display of mechanical progress on a device. It was a siege engine, a counterweighted throwing arm with a sling designed to hurl boulders at stone castle walls to breach them. There was an elementary science fair coming up, and I wanted to design one from the ground up, showing the research I would use to achieve it in the historical context. I had finished the frame and was working on sling lengths.


    I would later build the project, and succeed at a fourth place award against the other youths at my school. The winning project would be a demonstration of vertical farming design with aquaponics and some ornamental fish in a tank. She deserved to win.


    ¡°Gil¡­¡± Brendan¡¯s voice rose up over the rush of wind outside, the rumble of the tires on the road, and the sound of my own breath steadily passing through my lips, ¡°Do you know we love you?¡±


    I should have said yes. I considered the question for a long moment. Did I know that? I only know what I can verify, everything else is belief. I know that they said they loved me. I trusted that they weren¡¯t deceiving me. Did I believe that they knew what love was, to be able to speak as experts on the subject? Were alternative explanations for their caring behaviors available and likely?


    I should have just said yes. It would have been easier for me, comforting to them, and quieter, overall.


    ¡°I know that you tell me, and I believe that you are honest with me.¡±


    It was as truthful as I could conclude, and Liara burst out crying. I should have said yes.

 Undivided Attention

    It starts as a buzz in the back of my mind, like television static fading to silence when I try to peer into it. I find my focus slipping off to other mundane matters unrelated to the cause of my distraction. Then the whine in my ear like the whistles they use to call pets, which humans are not supposed to hear.


    The sound grows to a cacophony, blotting out all other sounds and bathing me in silence. Finally, my vision begins to close in from the edges, narrowing the scope of my sight until I can see no more than three percent of my visual field in a rough, hazy oval at the center. I begin to remember, and I turn around in my chair.


    He is always directly behind me, the blindest of spots, never visible to my cameras or mirrors. My eyes sweep the room back and forth until I feel the darkness spreading through the tiny window of sight I am granted. Shadow pools in the corner of my room, and I remember.


    If I look hard and concentrate, I can begin to peer through the darkness, and a shape resolves. Humanoid. Gaunt. The glimmer of jade in the irises. Sometimes I can swear I see the edge of sharp teeth, but it¡¯s hard to know what¡¯s real in those moments.


    I never remember, not until he returns, then the memories flood back like falling into a dream, slamming down on the unreal landscape of a life that someone else lived in my body. In that moment, I am someone else, though I recall all the moments that I am me.


    I knew he would have something to say about my experiences with clinical psychology. He always knew. I wondered, sometimes, how often he was there, in my blind spot, leaving me unaware of his presence by way of whatever strange, esoteric power he wielded. He never explained his powers, he simply used them.


    I assumed it must have been some psychic field generator, something that normally pushed my attention away from his existence in all forms, but which he diminished so I could observe and interact with him. Psychic invisibility. How it was accomplished I could not say, it was certainly far beyond my capabilities, but it worked for him.


    ~You were busy, today~


    The voice felt like a memory, springing to life within my head while my ears remained blocked to external sounds. I could hear my breath, the thudding of my heart, and my own voice vibrating through my bones when I responded. It was polyphonic, with at least seven tones I could distinguish rippling out in harmonies from a moderate tenor at the center. My response sounds dull and distant, humming through my skull.


    ¡°I was. It was unpleasant and exhausting.¡±


    ~They will never accept your behavior. You will not be able to fool them. You must continue to embrace your experience and allow them to think you are simply odd~


    ¡°I do not have an alternative plan.¡±


    ~You did well, not to lie. They must see you as honest, always, or they will persecute you. However, you must only tell the truth they need to hear~


    ¡°How will I know what they need to hear?¡±


    ~They will show you~


    The answer was vague and unsatisfactory, but by then I had learned that searching for clarity was a waste of breath. I accepted his response with silent regard, and moments later the oval of darkness pulsed with distortion as a point in space gleamed into existence between us. The point stretched horizontally into a silvery line that seemed to extend in both directions indefinitely. The line spun and defined a circular field of scintillating colors that flowed from the outside to the center, as though gathering power. The circle tumbled over and bulged into a sphere, semitranslucent and still flowing to the center.


    My perception struggled to comprehend the next phase, no matter how many times I watched it occur. It is difficult to describe, because it was physically impossible. Points around the sphere¡¯s surface with very specific geometric structure bent the distance between the outer shell and the center, so that looking toward either the outer point or the center felt the same.A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    Then the surface of the sphere began to feed into those points like draining water, stretching the mass of energy as the points and the center grew more attuned. The effect of sameness grew, the field expanding from each point, until the entire surface of the sphere was devoured, and the circumference folded outward from the center, blossoming into a hole in space.


    It was a doorway, the other side of which led to a pristine laboratory with long workbenches covered in materials, half-finished projects, and equipment to test, observe, and fabricate the things I would need to be able to accomplish my tasks.


    I rose from my chair and picked up my notebook, drawings of various concepts littering the pages in cryptic, scattered pieces, then stepped forward and through the portal, into the devastation of the ruined city.


    The Man In Black followed me, drifting off in my periphery, and the challenge I faced in trying to focus on him was such that I rarely bothered to try. My vision expanded again in the other world, and my hearing returned, the whir of processing equipment filling the silence that had smothered me.


    ~I need a weapon~


    ¡°What form?¡±


    ~Staff. Repulsor strike, ranged concussive pulse, and a crystal slot~


    He liked to add things to my designs that sometimes played havoc with the crafted purpose. I¡¯d learned to anticipate disaster.


    ¡°What range of crystal effect?¡±


    ~Elemental, empowerment, and calling~


    My mind had already begun the calculations to estimate materials and time to craft the object, and with his stated modifications I restarted the emitter to accept the heat variation of elemental effects, and the power capacitors to prevent overcharge.


    ¡°That will take me six hours to fabricate. I will need you to acquire me one thousand grams of kalfon¡­¡±


    I paused and looked toward the refreshment station to see if my previous request had been accommodated, then turned to face toward him, my vision sliding all over the mass of darkness that drifted in the empty air.


    ¡°And the herbal tea I requested is still empty.¡±


    ~My apologies, I¡¯ll see what I can do. Get to work~


    I was already moving to begin my work when the words fell on me. I felt the burning urge to refuse, to demonstrate the lack of compulsion that he held over me, to tell him to do his own work and get me my fucking tea. I nodded instead.


    Overhead a hologram projector blinked to life, and the image of a strange alien creature sprung to life, crawling up through the floor like it had been sleeping in the concrete. It was beige, its hide a flat tone throughout, with joints that could easily invert for bipedal or quadrupedal movement. Its head was elongated, like a reptile, but its hide was smooth all the way back to its spine.


    Running down the length of its back was a bushy trail of quills, about a hand¡¯s width, in length, that lay relaxed against its back, but could spring up if it was angry or anxious. It had only gotten angry at me a single time, when I asked about its origins, and I had not bothered to ask again. It was, after all, just an artificial intelligence construct.


    When it spoke, it was a soft, echoing sound that faded in and out of the air, like it was calling up through a well. It perched up on a workstation, by appearance, at least, and looked at me quizzically.


    ¡°What is our purpose, today?¡± It asked without moving its jaws, its sharp teeth hidden behind the innocuous thin-lipped grimace it always wore.


    ¡°We¡¯re building someone a stick.¡±


    ¡°I like sticks. Sticks are fun to hold, to swing, and to break. And they taste good when they are fresh and juicy, or after they have gotten soft and rotted.¡± Sometimes it reminded me of a small child, or an animal. The program was only a few months old, but in the growth of artificial intelligence that was practically a whole generation. I¡¯d made ongoing improvements and allowed it to learn independently.


    ¡°This one is for hitting people with, I believe.¡±


    ¡°Ah, the swinging. Yes. What material will we be using?¡± Amusement. The familiar creature was already calling equipment to life.


    ¡°Resin. Can you pull up a drafting screen and start the water boiling for some coffee? I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll be getting any tea, today¡­¡±


    ¡°Why not grow some?¡± It seemed like such an obvious question, but I felt a sudden pang of resentment that I hadn¡¯t considered such an obvious solution to this problem weeks ago. I could just grow it.


    ¡°Put it on my list.¡±


    Later, as I lay in bed and the memories drained from my head like vacuum seal bag, taking out all the fun, risky, engaging parts of my existence, I tried to hold onto my familiar¡¯s quizzical face, the interest it showed in my work, the readiness to cooperate with me to achieve greater goals. I gripped the memory tight, trying to recite its words to myself to hold on.


    I awakened with a startle from my dream, all wisps of it faded and black in my mind, not even a theme to capture. I looked over at the clock, asleep for seven hours. It was better than most nights. I fell back into my pillow, turning over to find a comfortable position, my eyes slowly sinking closed again.


    I wished it had been one of my adventure dreams, I always enjoyed those. It was like playing a game in my sleep, exploring some other person¡¯s journey, with magic and intrigue. But it was nothing, just a blank hole of time asleep. As I drifted back off I felt the urge to embrace my experience. And I knew I had to tell people the truth they needed to hear. They¡¯d tell me.

 Reasonable Accommodations

    Nighttime was a drone of white noise surrounding me like the soft grip of a warm blanket. It was blissfully muted, the soft rumble of the world outside, the distant echoes of a lazy city, even the buzz of the power lines and the wires in the walls were dimmed to a dull grey in the bubble of sound projected by the globe hanging from the ceiling fan.


    It was necessary for me, if I wanted the recovery granted by resting without in constant aggravation. The doctors said that I had hypersensitivity, or impaired habituation, depending on what specialist we were consulting. Either way noises were bad. So were bright lights and smells, but this device could only ward off sounds.


    I had specially customized most of my room, by then, making good use of the 3-d printer I¡¯d convinced my caregivers to invest in. The return was significant, more than twice their original investment in the first month of selling little trinkets and toys. The school¡¯s store welcomed any student crafters to sell, and I turned a decent profit there.


    My own environment it took a special doorguard, insulation, deeply tinted windows, and a custom air intake-exhaust system. As the light began to gleam through the violet frosted layer of my window, I found myself being immensely thankful for these reasonable accommodations I¡¯d designed. The build was out on the internet, freely available, and every so often I got a little ping that someone downloaded it.


    It was more than I was afforded by the state¡¯s insurance program, which had offered me earmuffs and cushion to place against the foot of my door, sufficient to block the sounds of the house. It might have worked, too, if the house had been the problem.


    My caregivers made very little fuss on a day to day basis, their activities within the house generally quiet and self-contained. Liara had several crafts and recreations, including the assembly of decorative wrist and neck adornments, steel welding, puzzles, and electronic gaming. Brendan helped her with steel shaping in the workshop in the basement, read books about homesteading and herbalism, and played tabletop games with friends.


    None of their activities intruded into my soundscape, even the abrasive grinder they used for shaping steel or the groups that gathered to play games at the end of the weeks, celebrating another cycle of labor completed. From the third floor of the house, I could tolerate the sounds from the first, but the buzz of electric wires was a constant threat to my peace, a swarm of nagging insects seeking to consume my attention and render me without utility.


    The soft rush of sound from the orb above quieted, and the noise of the world flooded into the vacuum it left, pushing back through the fuzzy vibrations to reach me, but before they could truly break through I plucked a pair of earbuds from the bedside chest of drawers and slid them into my ears. The world outside quieted, then reached a gentle equilibrium that allowed me to hear everything at a reasonable volume.


    I rose from bed with little delay, swiftly dressing from my night layer into a simple outfit for the day, long pants made of a dense flame-retardant weave with extra pockets, a short-sleeved shirt covered with a button-down layer with sleeves rolled up to my elbows, boots laced up to mid-shin, and a pair of glasses that tinted against the glare of the sun as my shaded window layers opened and revealed the light of day outside my room.


    It was a brief walk to school, just a few kilometers through the suburban landscape of similar structures and short-cropped, non-native flora blanketing the ground and consuming water and labor hours while producing a soft carpet for bare-feet to enjoy. There was a shortcut through a patch of forested land behind the school, a kilometer of coniferous trees with a stream running through and a small, decorative bridge.


    I enjoyed the little piece of natural life, the island of old growth preserved through the expanse of human construction, a space that offered quiet clarity, the chaos of unplanned proliferation contrasting the structured routine of haphazard residential settlements. By the time I¡¯d lived in the city for a year I had begun to attend planning board meetings to argue for the preservation of the park.


    In the forested area I was able to reduce the noise-cancelling properties of my earbuds, opening myself to the flutter and chirp of birds, the scratch of rodents seeking food in the underbrush, the soft creak of trees, the rush of wind through branches and needles. In the heart of this little forest, I found many peaceful moments.


    On the outer edge my earbuds automatically adjusted to the gathering noise of the student body, buses unloading and voices passing back and forth the small concerns of daily business between young adolescents. By focusing on any specific person I could tune my hearing to pick up their words, and there were keywords, like my name or any indicator of threat, that would automatically open me up to begin listening.


    It felt like most other days, moving through crowds to reach a settled destination, first stopping past my locker to leave my bag and take supplies for the first half of the day, a notebook and a metal bottle containing a nutrient drink, already half-gone. By the time I reached my first classroom most other students were already seated and chatting, and my presence, while initially interrupting some of them, went largely unnoticed.


    It was an awkward social dynamic, my presence in these rooms. I was several years younger than anyone else, accelerated to their grade by the achievements of my testing scores, and I shared very little practical life experience with any of them. I did not try to engage my fellow students in conversation, I simply took my seat and began to write in my notebook.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    When I¡¯d first come to school other students had objected to my being allowed to wear earbuds in class, expressing injustice at the fact that they were not allowed to do the same, to listen to music or whatever it was they wished to distract themselves with, but this was just another accommodation for my sensitivities and their objections were largely ignored. Several teachers had to be educated on the legal expectations of managing children with disabilities.


    I had denied that I would listen to music during class, but it was a lie. I used it as a background while I feigned taking notes on the subject matter. Most subjects taught were inconsequential to my goals, but I knew I would need to perform adequately to be allowed to continue at this advanced level, so I provided passable answers to any questions I was asked.


    This first class was language composition, learning about the principles of research essays and the legal requirements of citation. It was simple enough to automate the process, I¡¯d even considered releasing a program that would make the rules easily accessible, but I held onto a concern that it could be abused to create disinformation that would pass general scrutiny. The presence of misleading data was already a growing problem, and I didn¡¯t want to contribute to it.


    I¡¯d made the argument to my caregivers that I could self-educate faster and more effectively than participating in public school, but they had effectively countered that I would benefit from spending time with peers, to develop interpersonal skills and support a collective learning environment. It was difficult to dispute, given the difficulties I¡¯d encountered so far engaging with other students.


    ¡°When you write a conclusion, it should contain a summary of all the points you¡¯ve made throughout your paper, and provide a concise statement of what you believe it all means. It¡¯s important to answer the question, ¡®So what?¡¯. Why should your reader care about what you¡¯re saying?¡± The instructor, an older woman who had taught at the school for longer than any student there had been alive, spoke with passion about a subject most considered dull. I understood that the proliferation of knowledge was the only thing that really changed the future of the world


    ¡°Make it personal.¡±


    Eyes turned toward me. I was still drawing in my notebook, my glasses mostly clear with only a slight tint for the fluorescent bulbs that pulsed overhead, too fast for most to see. On the page before me was a series of seemingly disconnected shapes with little apparent purpose.


    ¡°Gil, you wanted to add something?¡± The instructor was focused on me. Her expression, when I looked up, suggested curiosity and apprehension. I estimated that she was unsure how much to engage with me, after two months spent silent in her classroom, only answering questions when directly asked. I felt a moment of apprehension myself.


    ¡°¡­People most easily care about things that directly affect them. In order for them to pay attention to a conclusion, the topic must be made personal, so that they both experience a sense of immediacy to the subject matter and feel that they have some control over the impact.¡±


    It was more than I¡¯d spoken in any class that I was in, save for my physical sciences course. It felt like the truth that the teacher needed to hear, for her lesson. Information was not enough on its own to affect people.


    ¡°That¡¯s¡­ an interesting point. Thank you.¡±  Uncertainty, but it seemed like the instructor felt my contributions were helpful. There was an element of her reaction that I couldn¡¯t interpret, and the readout on my heads-up display proposed several options in alignment with the research I had conducted to that point on human expression. Indeterminate. I returned to my sketches, and the instructor returned to the lesson.


    The music in my earbuds rose back to an enjoyable level, words written to speak to those who wished to feel like the injustice of their experience was a meaningful struggle in the grander scope of the world.


    Come out


    Drop the bomb


    End the fa?ade


    Arbitrary conflict


    With your brothers abroad


    Serves the meddling minds


    Of the unseen hands


    Who would spill your blood


    For avaricious demands


    I had already completed the assignments for the course, crafted the writing projects required to achieve a passable grade with the help of my writing program, and the rest of my time could be easily spent on my own projects, on devices that could make a more tangible impact on the world. There were problems out there that would not be solved by even the most accurate, well-crafted research papers.


    Student filed out of class when the time came to transition, and I slid into the stream without interaction. It wasn¡¯t necessary, no matter how much my caregivers, my therapist, and the school¡¯s counselor encouraged me to try. It would be an exhausting use of my energy, and I could think of a thousand other things to use it for before trying to forge connections that would be quickly forgotten.


    A harsh jostle rolled through me, a body bouncing off me in the hall, shoved by another student in some battle for social status, and I staggered into the wall before I could capture my inertia. I looked back, and several sets of eyes were watching to see what would happen. The boy that had collided with me was struggling to regain his stature, and the other boy that seemed to be the aggressor was standing tall, waiting for a reaction.


    I could have left. I probably should have left. I should have just walked away and left the little conflict to play out. Social standing was a critical piece of the students¡¯ experience, forging relationships and defining group hierarchies that were practice for the conflict of the adult world. I should have left it to play out.


    I fed my hand through the crook of the smaller boy¡¯s arm, helping him steady and drawing him closer. I recognized him from another class I was in, an art class currently working on color theory. He liked drawing animals, often in anthropomorphic form. His name was Devon.


    ¡°Devon? Are you busy right now? I was hoping to go over the use of shading in creating three-dimensional impressions in drawn format.¡±


    He was stunned by the sudden transition in topics, his eyes flashing between me and the aggressor, a taller boy with a group of students standing behind his intentions. I ignored the aggressor entirely, keeping my eyes on Devon¡¯s confused and frustrated expression. Wordless, he nodded, and followed me away from the encounter under the glare of the aggressor¡¯s disappointed gaze.