You’re snacking on In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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Mr. Grey, the old address in hand, returned to his department. Which is to say, Mr. Grey returned to the outer border of his department’s Cubicle Hedge.
In the preceding chapter, Mr. Grey exited the Hedge with little ado. The return to his cubicle, through the maze of other cubicles, requires some exposition. Firstly, because King’s Law in Starharbor mandates all narrative storytelling devote several sentences to any undertaking of significant difficulty. Secondly, because this maze was easier to get out of than to get into. This made it unlike certain mazes of other narratives, and quite contrary to difficult undertakings in general. So, adhering to local custom, and doing justice to Mr. Grey, here follows his return to the cubicle.
Mr. Grey stepped to an opening in the wall of cubicles before him. Suddenly he leapt forward. Behind, a cubicle dropped into the place he’d been standing, landing with the hollow sound of vibrating corkboard. Mr. Grey had narrowly avoided a crushing. The newly-placed cubicle cut off any escape; no concern of Mr. Grey, as he meant to press forward regardless. Through the rectangular doorway of the newly placed cube, Mr. Grey saw a pencil pusher scribbling at a form, unperturbed by the jarring workplace relocation.
The cubicles of the Cubicle Hedge moved constantly. Mr. Grey’s swift dodge fell within day-to-day business proceedings. Above the puzzle of rectangular blocks, dozens of great cranes swooped. They plucked cubicles in their claws from one place and dropped them into another. Sometimes the blocks formed square units of nine, with the central cubicle surrounded by eight others, and the central worker unable to escape or consult with clients. Sometimes the cubicles landed on other cubicles. The corkboard walls were not quite as tall as the average seated head. The lower occupant hunched quickly, or else bruised their slow skull. The Hedge shuffled constantly, and seemingly without motive. The designers had built the cranes to find the perfectly efficient layout of pencil-pushers, but the cranes reorganized cubicles with no algorithm, as though trying to solve a million-piece jigsaw by hoping each random permutation of parts would complete the picture.
Mr. Grey turned his senses to finding his own cubicle in the labyrinth. He relied on grey ears more than grey eyes. The packed corkboard-sheet walls and cardboard-box crenelations excluded light from the dingy workplace. But the clickety-clackety-word-machines produced a constant hum of pops and ticks and dings. Mr. Grey could listen to those instruments’ familiar rhythm. If he heard them behind a wall, he knew some coworker occupied the cube; if he didn’t, he’d turn to his eyes for a visual check.
A low, dangerous, commanding roar, coming from deeper in the Hedge, compelled Mr. Grey to action. He set a gliding stride, passing quickly beneath the swooping shadows of cranes and suspended cubicles.
Mr. Grey failed to notice a separate shadow detaching itself from the wall. It began trailing him through the Hedge.
The grey man slid along bleak cubicle corridors; grey ears keyed to the underlying hum behind the walls; grey eyes flicking to any alcove his ears said was empty. He put no stock in past maze layouts, nor in memory of the paths he had already trod. The cranes ‘optimized’ the layout with blurring changes. One moment he’d step down a long corridor, and round a corner to see a cul-de-sac. Doubling back, he’d find the return path blocked by a brand-new paneled partition; never his own unfortunately. With no recourse but to turn around, Mr. Grey would pace the corridor once more, only to find the way suddenly opened, the blind alley carried off in the talons of a crane.
Other times, Mr. Grey came to forks in the hedge, and would spend brief tocks listening and watching for a sign of the truest direction. He tried picking prongs with a lower hum, or ones with an immediately vacant cubicle along the corridor (still not his own, but a lucky start to any fork). Sometimes he simply strode the pleasantest prong, usually the one which took him further from the roaring beast, or had many empty cubes.
Still, Mr. Grey’s comfortable space eluded him. Sometimes he chose his direction poorly. Every space would be occupied with another pencil pusher, who sometimes said hello and forced Mr. Grey to nod back. Then he would scrunch more tightly into himself. These latter kinds of route were harder for the grey man to travel. He considered every fork he came upon with care. Not too much care though; the roar sounded always close behind.
In this seeking and skulking and turning about, Mr. Grey never saw his second shadow. It trailed him all the way. Whenever Mr. Grey swiveled 180-degrees and walked the way he had come, the shadow would dive into an empty cube. It waited for him to pass, then reattached itself when he’d moved by.
Mr. Grey’s distraction came largely from the intrusive, commanding roar. It cut through the word machines’ din, barking mad orders and demands. Whichever direction he heard this noise, he did his utmost to travel the opposite way. Yet, no matter his choice, the roar came closer with each bend of the Hedge.
More road blocks. More empty cubicles. No luck. Mr. Grey passed by many a motivational picture. Perhaps they gave him courage, though it never showed in his face. Sometimes he saw coworkers he knew, adding their own clicks or clacks to the word-machine din. Sometimes he escaped without eye contact. Always at his back was that other shadow. Always before him was the roar, coming closer and closer. Every twist in the maze and click in the air brought that beast nearer. Before long, Mr. Grey heard sloshing; the sound of tea in a metal shaker; the beast’s breath on his neck.
Just when the beast’s fangs seemed to pull at the stiff, grey neck-hairs, and the sloshing breathing drowned out the word-machines’ hum; just when the placid grey glide began showing a falter in the sure step; just when every shadow of every uplifted cubicle seemed to dunk him into gothic midnight; he finally saw it. His cubicle! With a quick - but upright – speed-walk, Mr. Grey cleared the remaining distance to his personal space. He passed through the rectangle threshold and slid into his metal chair. He twitched his eyes back the way he’d come. He saw no Hedge beast. After a moment, Mr. Grey heard its roar off in a farther quarter of the Hedge. He gave himself a deep breath, through the nostrils.
Mr. Grey had made it back to his cubicle, and escaped the monster of the Hedge.
He never saw the creep of the second shadow. It had stopped when he entered his comfortable box. His eyes missed its pause, a few paces away. Mr. Grey didn’t notice as it came on once more, creeping toward him in his cubicle.
This has been In Different Color, a fairy tale.
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