Memoirs of the Lost Loser

Fruit

You slammed your head in your pillows, the adrenaline still pumping through your veins, the recent chapter really blew your head. The light headedness took its course as a thought lit up like a bulb: you agree with the thought of multiverse... so why not make one to travel?

Are you insane? Probably. You wouldn't be called a genius with 200 IQ points and be called a normie.

Then 1:30 AM decided to remind you of your poor life choices. What could've happened if you pushed through engineering or robotics? Maybe you wouldn't feel this empty and lost. You neither like writing nor do you care for it, and you just went along with what your parents decided for you.

They always do because that's how it had always been.

Now you face the consequences of your laxity.

If you were given another life to live, or a chance of do-overs, you swear to make choices for yourself. Maybe at the end of the day, you wouldn't be graduating with a PhD in Literature and is not expected to sign on smut books and light novels in book fairs. You'd be cooped up in a garage, always busy blowing things up or in a lab, maybe, under a machine and all greased up.

Then at night you'd be making drafts and blueprints, with a dog so you don't feel so alone.

And yet, here you are. Probably at a point of no return.

You tapped your phone, sent a text and hopefully receive a positive reply before your morning coffee.

***

Sure, why not? Come meet me @ lab 9 pm. Bring ID. Protocol is a bitch.

Arianne greeted you in the gates that morning. The security's tight for people who have no business in the lab, but you are a part-timer by payroll and a regular employee by workload who, got in because you once helped them spot an error on a formula. Then Arianne told you that the management wanted to hire you. Since you didn't have the educational attainment or experience, they hired you as a part-timer.

But Arianne? Arianne is the real deal. She's amazing when sober, a genius when tipsy and god-like when hammered.

Years of working drunk got her her own lab in one of the biggest multigovernment-owned facility in the world.

And she's just 27.

"We still working on a triple sandwich this time?" You asked, laying down your stuff. You've always hated how your low-key Dora bag doesn't match with the white and steel gray aesthetic of her lab.

"Yeah, months since you came, but thanks about that triple sandwich." She smirked as she lifted her arms to press a button. "Here's to show my appreciation."

And then the iron walls split wide and loud.

Far away was this wide, almost infinite space. Its depth and length is an illusion to the senses. There was darkness and shimmers of blue engulfing the two of you, like it has a dimension of its own. You stood in this steel walkway, leading to the center where a circular podium was.

And beneath you was this otherworldly glow of light in its liquid state.

Your eyes could only glimmer for such achievement in science, technology and humanity. Your toes curled inside your shoes, you skin crawled with excitement, your blood pumped faster than your heart can keep up. This is it. This is the fruit of all the assistance you gave Arianne in proving your theory of multiverse.

"Does it work?" You mumbled, eyes still fixed on the swirls of light.

"Yup," She answered, slapping your arm to keep your consciousness on the ground. "It's working but not for far distances. We tried sending AIs."