M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.

M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.

"HOLOCENE, what's 'inter-matter phasing'?

"Exactly what it implies. Solid matter moving through other solid matter by phasing with it on a meta-dimensional plane."

"For example, as it pertains to the M.I.H.O. ZERO-HOLD report you've just discovered, the psychogenic passing of human body through cement wall."

No way he phased through a wall...

The file is dense, tens of pages long. There must have been an occurrence of some kind to warrant such a file.

Open it.

"CASCADE." Your former double's voice freezes your hand. "I asked you to clean up, not compromise the agency."

"How is this 'compromising the agency'?

"That is live ammunition for metaphysical warfare. You have been cautioned."

"If I join M.I.H.O. full-time, can I look at this?"

"Entirely dependent on your career progression. But after five years or so of service, I think things would look promising."

"What can I say, CASCADE? I'm a stickler for the need-to-know."

"I bet you didn't do it."

"Gambling is real-time hallucination. I do not partake."

"Just tell me if you did it, man."

"Unfortunately, CASCADE... I don't recall." He smiles.

Read the room.

This is not about cleaning. It is not even about this room.

It's about HOLOCENE, isn't it?

Of course. There is a room behind this one, locked within your former double's head.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

How do I get in?

You'll need a key.

He wants you to find something he cannot give you. It is disguised, but not hidden. So probably something like...

... That piece of paper right there.

That? He could've just pointed it out.

Maybe he can't. Or believes he can't.

The remote viewers! Spoon-bending vöyeurs!

This is not about cleaning. It is not even about this room. It is about that single slip of paper, and whatever is written upon it.

A spontaneous inter-matter manifestation. (Squint.)

Maybe. Or maybe you just missed it.

Did he drop that when I wasn't looking?

Your former double has busied himself with a loose piece of thread on his dressing gown sleeve.

If he did, he moved fast.

That's a big room.

But it will only take a small key to open it.

He's lonely in there, I know it.

That's why you're pacing around in the dark outside, trying to get in.

No one knows you're down here. Let's dwell on that for a moment.

"I'm never going to leave this place, am I?"

"Get a grip, CASCADE. You sound hysterical."

The room is one of those massive, boring books you know you'll never finish. You haven't even made it past the first page.

"Do I have to read the whole room?" (Swing your arms limply and stamp your foot.)

"I don't know what you're on about, CASCADE, I just asked you to clean up. In fact, don't just clean -- be a vigilant operant and sweep."

This is the mould's room now. Eviction notice incoming, effective immediately.

"You know you have a significant mould problem developing back there?"

"Very surface level reading, CASCADE. I'm embarrassed for you."

Cosy little number he's got here, all things considered. Spacious, sparse -- quiet, too.

"So you're working from home now?"

"Diligently. I've been silo sufficient five years and counting."

You're in the basement's basement. One quick glance tells you all you need to know:

"This is a virgin's subterranean beat suite."

"'Beat suite'?"

"Yeah. The suite where you beat."

"Look harder, CASCADE. There is no pornographic material to be found in this room. Not an 'adult magazine' or 'explicit video disc' in sight."

"No 'secret stash'?"

"You sound disappointed. M.I.H.O. certainly is."

"Ah. That's what the remote viewing is for."

"CASCADE. We both know 'workplace harassment' is a bourgeois construct. All the same... please stop."

"But a man with near perfect memory wouldn't need material, would he?"

Adjust the folder. [Leave.]

You feel HOLOCENE's eyes on your back as you take your time straightening the document.

A file stamped with 'M.I.H.O. INTERNAL REPORT' lies on the desk.

Below the stamp, a heading: 'PROJECT ESCHATON: Inter-matter Phasing Conclusions'. The rest of the cover is obliterated by warning labels.

'Eschaton': the day after the end of time -- a final turning of divine machinery.

'Eschaton': you have no idea what the word means, but it lands with a pleasant heaviness.