Just like her finals cram sessions during college when the journalist would have TV shows playing in the background for the ambient noise, and when, after playing Season 4 of Arrested Development ten, eleven, twelve times in a row, the season finally clicked and revealed to her its true genius, it took her reading the newspaper and website articles ten, eleven, twelve times before the full picture hidden within the scattered puzzle pieces appeared in her mind’s eye.

She hopped to her feet and ran to the AstroP side of the office. Just as she suspected: the eerie green light was bathing the room.

“Glorbobingo!” she said under her breath with a pop of her lips.

The journalist didn’t know exactly what that green glow was. But she did know that whoever had been writing and rewriting the newspaper and online articles had made too many references to this subtle green glow for it to be a coincidence. That green glow had popped up in reference to three of perhaps the most conspicuously momentous disruptors this year so far: AstroP, Balarabe Zulkazan (and his unconditional election), and Mrs. Embers.

There was also the Postulations book that Mrs. Embers gave to Zweibel to read. To the best of the journalist’s knowledge and research, the appearance of the word “Jubileeists” in the Postulations excerpt from Zweibel’s review was the first mention of that particular historically forgotten group in recent recorded history. It must have been the inspiration for Zulkazan’s movement. Curiouser still, Zweibel often-handedly used the phrase “green-glowing baked rabid haze” in a Banger (although she had to admit that Zweibel only used the phrase while describing an improbable hypothetical situation… but even still…).

She wondered if the green glow had anything to do with this Scrivener that Max had been obsessing about lately, but she couldn’t find any connections between them. Yet, she couldn’t deny that whoever was responsible for writing and rewriting the news and online articles seemed to really have it out for Max. Now that she’d familiarized herself with the caricature of him portrayed in the newspaper as some kind of butt-obsessed dandy, she also understood why he’d been so obsessed with finding this so-called Scrivener. It still didn’t excuse him for being such a rude and dismissive dick lately.

Either way, her journalistic gut-hunch told her there was something there. Nothing had been normal in Orange Forest this year, and it just so happened to coincide with the arrival of this light green glow, and all at the same time that the newspaper went haywire and the City started tearing itself apart at the seams. We were more divided than we’ve ever been. Literal factions were clashing every other day. A semi-autonomous zone was carved out of the city. Then there were the normal, everyday people on the street, with everybody on edge and ready to blow at the slightest perceived insult or most innocuous annoyance. There was palpable friction and factionalization and fragmentation in the air.

R.O.U.S.ing Around Without Arousing Suspicion

The professional journalist noticed a missing head amongst the others in the rows of computers. It gave her an idea. Since the typescriptionists were almost literally glued to their screens and wholly nonresponsive to external stimuli, the reporter made her move. Like a Rodent Of Unusual Size from one of her favorite books, she scurried across the stained carpet and up into the empty chair at the open terminal. The computer was still on and accessible.

The person sitting here previously had been in the middle of typing, leaving their 528-page document open. She immediately noticed that there was nothing green on the screen that was contributing to the room’s green glow. The reporter clicked around, searching for any databases, files, or other information about this green glow. Or anything else she could discover, while she was at it. A minute into her search, a pop-up appeared on the screen that nearly knocked her out of the chair. But it was just a Superfun! bitly, kind of like Clippy. It had a word bubble that read, “Howdy-do! I am Ambe and would love to chat with you!” The reporter had no time for spam and x’ed out of the pop-up.

As she dug through the AstroP system, shadowy movement along the back wall caught her eye. For a second, she considered maybe Max was right, and there was some sort of “Scrivener” at large in the office. Until the shadowy movement resolved into two blurry figures who stood in the back of the room. A moment later, a third shadowy figure approached them. Even without light’s assistance, the journalist’s keen eyes recognized the unmistakable mannerisms of Sandy Zstai, now the executive assistant typescriptionist director. There was a bright flash of light that resolved itself into a tiny flame, illuminating the three faces. Sure enough, one was Sandy. She recognized one of the shadowy figures as the Privocular agent, Chazz Ouiringo. But she didn’t recognize the other shadowy figure, who used the flame to light a cigarette and then extinguished it, plunging the office back into the green glow.

From their movements, the reporter could see, but not hear, that the three of them were having a conversation, with Sandy’s gestures growing more expressive with every exchange. It looked to the journalist like Sandy was begging with the shadowy figures, pleading with them for something in words unheard — but words that the journalist knew she just had to hear. 

She didn’t need her reporter radar to know something had happened. Or something was happening. Or something was about to happen. There were too many peculiar things happening. Or about to happen. She could barely soak up all these things that had happened. Or were happening. Or were about to happen.

After a quick calculation weighing the payoff probabilities between low-level typescriptionist network access and the juicy exchange with the two shadows and Sandy, the reporter determined that the latter offered much better odds.

Once again, she dropped to the floor and animorph’ed into R.O.U.S.-mode, scooching her way through the rows of desks as low and quickly as she could while trying to stay as quiet as possible. Thankfully, the nonstop keyboard clacking of the monitor-enchanted typescriptionists helped cover her R.O.U.S.-y scurry.

Scooching in as close as she could get while remaining hidden, the reporter was just able to make out the conversation. She pulled out her phone and started recording.

“-ther choice in the matter,” said Chazz.

“We always have choices,” Sandy replied. “Always. Nothing is set in stone. Nothing is predetermined.”

“You might believe it so, mamacita,” it was the guy smoking, “but you ain’t the one rolling the dice. Now, let me be clear: we don’t have a repeat button. So be a doll, and unlock the server room for us.”

“You don’t understand all the hard work and dedication the typescriptionists have dedicated to AstroP,” Sandy said as she sniffled back tears. “You can’t just destroy all this hard work! We’re right on the cusp of a major breakthrough!”

“This is getting done one way or the other,” said the smoker. “This is a domino that needs to fall so that other dominoes can fall in NoZa tomorrow. And if this domino don’t fall tonight, the other dominoes can’t fall tomorrow. Then you know who’s mad? The big dogs. The ones who sign the checks for the people who sign the checks for the people who sign the checks for the person who signs your check and all the checks in this room.”

“I can’t! I just can’t! I’ve found my true love on AstroP. You can’t kill Wynkyn! I love him!” Sandy couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. “I won’t do it. You’ll have to go through me.” 

“That’s enough of that, sweetheart,” said the smoker. “You’re done here.”

The cherry on his cigarette burned brightly and sizzled. Then he exhaled long and deep, the smoke pouring from his mouth. Even though the light was faint, the reporter knew she saw what she saw happen next: the smoky tendril wrapped around Sandy’s neck and began to strangle her. She choked and gripped at the smoke. Chazz and the smoker stood there, watching silently as the oxygen and life faded out of Sandy, and she collapsed to the floor.

The reporter was frozen in shock and had no clue what to do next. It wasn’t until what felt like a lifetime later, when Chazz and the smoker walked away and into another room, that she was able to breathe again. Within seconds, there was a crunching crash, followed by bangs and bashes and grunts and booms and slams and every other sort of destructive noise possible. 

And the green glow flickered, flackered, and fluckered out, leaving the office bathed in the white light of computer monitors all open to word processing documents. 

The reporter took the opportunity to sprint back to the safety of her desk. She took a moment to gather her thoughts and process everything that had happened. One thing was clear: a domino was going to fall in NoZa the next day.

The reporter consulted a map of Orange Forest she’d pinned to her cubicle wall. When she had asked Max which City map was the best, he’d recommended this version, claiming, “This map is so precise, it would make Heironymous Cock stiffen with pride.”

She’d use colored magic markers to highlight who controlled the neighborhoods, blocks, and buildings/services to the best of her knowledge.

Green for the Orforcorpatists, including Camelcase, GAFFE, and BIDET-in-exile. The Worldheadquarters on Quincy Forbin Jambres Junior Boulevard, three Logistics Hub Complexes, its facilities, factories, warehouses, and Industrial Salvation Park. And a few scattered storefront buildings for GAFFE and BIDET-in-Exile.

Orange for the City (natch), including the municipal buildings like City Grande Hall, Orange Forest Law Enforcement Corps (OFLEC) HQ and its scattered stations, Orange Forest Fire Department (OFFD), and the City of Orange Forest Streets, Sanitation, and Sewers (COFSSS) department, and the City-owned parks and cemeteries.

Red for COPUSAFAFO, and its SMAW of Jubileeists and Vexers, which controlled NoZa, OF TOK, and a few schools and churches that had joined the movement.

Purple for the HayJays, who, to the best of her knowledge, were holed up in Hilbert’s Motel. The journalist only knew this because HayJay 5 would not stop emailing her, with his nonstop requests for her to interview with him. 

The rest was all Green for all the people who lived in Derry Fore, Derry Rear, Bardsley, Cantfall, BizTrict, Slagland, and all the other neighborhoods full of people who just wanted to live their lives and spend time with loved ones and enjoy what little time they have on this blue marble.

She didn’t know what it was exactly, but she knew what she had could be the bombshell she’d been dreaming of dropping since she watched Erin Brockovich a million times in her early teens. Her only problem was that, despite working as a journalist employed at a news organization, she had no outlet for her scoop. She didn’t even know where to go with this information. She no longer trusted Max. Or the Observer. Betsy was too close to the story — potentially even mixed up in it all. She considered Zweibel, but immediately reconsidered on account of his utter aloofness, not to mention the high probability that he’d lose the info like he lost Betsy’s copy of de Zoit’s Postulations. Ike seemed a little too stuck in his own little world. That lunk, Traktor, had poofed off to Whoknowswhere, but no way she trusted him in the first place.

Then there was Guy. She’d never really interacted with him before. He came off as totally unapproachable, despite his entire schtick relying on approaching strangers on the street. But he seemed to have a source with COPUSAFAFO and SMAW holed up in NoZa. Perhaps he could get word to them, maybe even an audience with the Macro Excellerator Balarabe Zulkazan, one of the few people who might be able to do something with this damning information. 

Rock, Paper, Sit Down with Guy

The reporter met up with her colleague, Guy Zetta, around 2am outside a gas station in Slagland.

“Thank you soooo soooo much for meeting this late,” the reporter said.

Guy waved off her apology. “If this scoop is as big as you claim it is, it should be worth it.”

“Oh, it is, so don’t scully my muldering,” she said as she shoved an overstuffed accordion file into Guy Zetta’s belly, who tilted his head and stared back at her like a puppy that just heard a new sound.

“What? You okay?”

Her face flushed red faster than a chemical reaction. “It’s nothing. I thought it sounded cool.”

Guy eyed her curiously and nodded slowly.

Eager to change the subject, the reporter said, “What’s going on with all the SMAW? Any idea what this domino might be?”

“Well,” Guy said, inhaling as he looked skyward, gathering his thoughts before he exhaled and answered. “Zulkazan’s successes in his Feigned Flag to take Four Chan and the play dead scam to take NoZa have greatly enhanced his legitimacy. And. It’s not only amongst his followers. Judging from all the folks I’ve spoken to on the streets, seems like most of the everyday Orangeforesters overall approve of him and have a positive view about him and COPUSAFAFO and SMAW. Even a couple of BOObers are buying into him. They’d never admit to that on the record, though. Hell. Zulkazan sure took this Guy by surprise. But the results have been undeniable. There’ve been claims that the Jubileeists, Vexers, and stragglers are no longer distinct groups, and that there exists only a single, unified SMAW with its subwoko subsquads executing the USD and the publicopus, all under the supreme command of the COPUSAFAFO. A true Sobornost. Of sorts.”

The journalist nodded, but she didn’t buy into it. “So everything’s been hunky-dory, peachy-keen?”

“I never said that,” Guy said with a finger wag. “There have been reports of discontent simmering under the surface. Some claims suggest that the militant Locowobo subwokos allegedly subsumed Rock Club and that now the Rock Clubbers are even more fervent and radical after the BOObers banned stone throwing, rock tossing, or other type of hand-launched mineral projectiles. And some claims saying that there’s been head-butting with them and some of the other non-aggressive subwokos, like the Dumdummos and Vexers and Jubileeists — though apparently those are just subwokos now. It’s getting confusing. Even for someone like me who researches and reports on this stuff for a living. But the Dumdummos just wanna hammer all day and get hammered all night. The Jubileeists are still dead-eyed focused on the document trail of the Binding Resolution and exploring legal avenues to justify their debt-cancellation policies. Meanwhile, the pacifist Allenwing Wing within the Vexers is more focused on using a peaceful resolution to all the turbopolitical turbulence in the City. So far, their one idea amounts to another enseatment.

“Essentially. I’m gathering that NoZa has turned into a Rock, Paper, Sit Down triangular firing squad stand off. But. Again. That’s only what I’ve been hearing through the grapevine about what ‘they’ve’ been claiming. We all know how unreliable facts’ve gotten lately.

“As to what the domino might be? Dunno. The current situation is so fraught with so many fragile variables, any one of them could be the one that topples everything. Hell. Could be a domino I’m totally oblivious about. So many crazy things happening right now in this city, you’d think it was built on an ancient Indian burial ground.”

“Well, I mean…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Well. It’s late, kid. Thanks for sharing this. I’ll do what I can to get word inside of NoZa as fast as I can. But I can’t make any promises. The neighborhood is closed off tightly. There’s no communication in or out of it. But I’m gonna give it the ol’ O’ Fo’ try.”

The journalist thanked her colleague and headed home to crash. On her walk, her mind raced with idea after idea about how to conclude this story, but none seemed to work. Back home, going through her getting-ready-for-bed routine, she stared at her exhausted reflection in her bathroom mirror while she brushed her teeth and her brain kept cycling through a way to really hammer that final nail into the finished story. She plopped into her unmade bed and picked up her journal, ready to at least jot down as many words as possible until she crashed out… but the journalist flung her journal across the bedroom, flicked off the lamp on the sidetable, and then spent the next few precious hours meant for sleeping obsessing about every last detail she’d soaked up that day. And the next thing she knew, it was morning. September 1, 2025. Bonus Day.