Peter never guessed he would be suspended. He assumed that nobody would pay enough attention to him. Peter’s dad left work to take him home.

  Judging from the shadows under his eyes, and the manic smile below his 5 o’clock shadow, it was the first time he left his desk in days.

  “We’re going to the office. I don’t want to miss anything. We can talk after I’m done working. There's probably ten feet of spreadsheets waiting for me already.”

  Peter hated the office. His dad worked at the Bureau of Prophecy. The air was always stale, and the vending machines never worked there.

  Flint Lumpowski loved his job. He read prophecy, marking commas that could change meaning. Then it was passed off to a superior. Flint did so happily - they were better equipped.

  Despite the constant overtime, he felt his workload made sense. He was a man that always needed to feel occupied. That made him useful. It made him excited.

  Just one more year and that promotion was his. He knew it just like he knew it last year, and the year before.

  The possibility was enough.

  Three days later, wandering through the maze of cubicles, Peter was getting bored with his suspension.

  His father hadn’t taken him home yet. Instead, abandoning him to an isolated cubical.

  The Bureau was on the other side of the Nimbus. Whereas Oracle Institute and Angel Avenues Residential felt polished, this section of the airship felt starkly industrial.

  Peter thought both areas were uncomfortable. Neither felt real enough.

  The Bureau of Prophecy spanned tens of city blocks. Peter had learned in class it had a dedicated engine.

  A few windows spotted the cube, but mostly it was a monolith of concrete.

  Every room had the same faces and spreadsheets. Few of the workers acknowledged him; They were too absorbed in their work.

  Eventually, his boredom surpassed his obedience.

  His wandering had taken him to the far reaches of the building. Past the Syntax and the Implied Consequences Wing. Exploring around the Offices of Monkey Paw Interior.

  Too many names to remember.

  The mechanical began to mix with the workspaces. Spreadsheets thicker than he was spooled out like stock read outs. Mechanical arms carried broken office supplies, manilla folders, and small offices.

  This far in he was surprised to see employees. He saw Bureaucrats, busy with their briefings. Pawing their cheap ties as they studied formations for combat.

  Peter couldn’t see any that looked like they had prophecies. Their guns looked dangerous enough. And you couldn’t always tell.

  He was worried they would try and stop him. He felt like he was seeing something he shouldn’t. Something confidential and private.

  The ones that noticed him didn’t seem to care. But Peter wanted to avoid punishment.

  A conveyer belt of broken file cabinets was inching along the wall. It led to a tunnel, covered by rubber flaps.

  He didn’t know where it was going. He didn’t care.

  He turned into a pineapple and slid inside.

  On the other side of the tunnel, He was pitched out with the rest of the trash. Abandoned erasers crumbled into a steep hill.

  Unable to stop, Peter rolled for some time.

  He came to rest against a filing cabinet and shifted back into a person. There was a sound he had missed in fruit form.

  It was a soft wailing, muffled by all the clutter.

  Peter was sure nobody else would be around this far out. If there had been a collapse, he would be the only one who could help.

  He had gotten suspended, but he had also scored a hit on Rush. If someone was trapped, why couldn’t he be the one to help.

  He was already planning. He could worm his way in, and begin using his power in a cycle. If he timed it right, it would lift the debris off them.

  Or he could roll of some debris. Pick up enough speed and blow it off them. It would hurt.

  Peter silently promised to design a costume to fix that later.

  He climbed towards the wail heading further into the clutter. Navigating the terrain of paper and cabinets was difficult and he went further than intended.

  His hurt fingers ached, but silently he had to admit, he was excited for the opportunity to play the hero.

  He let his plans become fantasy.

  He imagined himself dropping from above as a pineapple, then grabbing the hand of a tragic heroine to drag her out of a pile of collapsing debris.

  He reached the summit. What he saw rejected anything he had imagined.

  From his ledge on a Jenga tower of office supplies, Peter saw two different rooms below him.

  They were entirely made of glass. It was unnerving how clean it was. Peter couldn’t spot a blemish on either of them.

  The translucent cubes sat side by side. It reminded him of the dorms on Angel Avenue. Little squares with thin alleys between them.

  Inside they were dull, furnished cheaply, with stock photos of pleasant things on the walls.

  Cats clinging to a precipice told you to “hang in there”. On the other wall pictures of farmland tried to garner interest.

  In the left-side room, a slender woman with long black hair wailed into her arms. She flopped on the desk awkwardly. Her limbs hung off the hardwood.

  In the other, Peter saw Rush arguing with a member of the Bureau. He was a short man with more sweat than hair. His name card, pinned haplessly to his soaked lapel read:

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Stewart Stockton

  Office of Administrative Endings.

  Care Administrator

  “Can’t you get her to shut up?” Rush asked through gritted teeth.

  Stockton took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his shiny head. “That doesn’t matter right now. What you did is serious and we need to talk about it.”

  Rush ignored him, placing her ear against the glass. She didn’t seem to see out the way Peter could see in.

  “Well, can we just move then? It’s too loud.”

  Stockton shook his head. Sweat was dripping off him in sheets. “The choice wasn’t made lightly. The Bureau is taking massive risks using the spare containment center. Regardless, we don’t have anywhere else to keep a Prophesized with your abilities.”

  Rush looked at him, surprised. “Why would they worry about that?”

  He muttered something under his breath, but Peter couldn’t catch it.

  “You beat up the principal, Rush. You think it’s just a fight, but these things have consequences. His prophecy wasn’t administrative fluff. It said he’d certify the next hero. So, you made him give you a diploma.”

  Rush interjected, “But his powers are gone, he’s not in my head anymore. I was right- “

  “He’s too beat up to tell! You sent him to the healing ward. We don’t know if the prophecy was fulfilled because he’s still unconscious.”

  The handkerchief returned to his forehead. “My prophecy isn’t special either. You could beat me up too. How would I stop you?”

  Rush started to protest but gave up when she saw Stockton’s expression. Stockton took the rare silence as an indication to continue.

  “You’re carrying a lot with your prophecy and the time you have. It can’t be easy to live knowing how it ends.”

  Another pause to soak up the sweat before he sputtered.

  “But, I’m running out of ways to convince the bureau you’re not a liability. Don’t forget it’s your prophecy they care about.”

  Stockton tried to make himself sound stern. He only succeeded in sounding tired.

  “And for the record, after the Bureau is finished with your punishment you're going back to Oracle.”

  Rush pawed at the desk with her fingernail, scratching nervously.

  “I know, I know. But I can’t stop fighting. And I know you’re working hard for me. With those pit stains, I bet you haven’t slept since I screwed up.”

  Stockton wrung out his handkerchief. The power to sweat instead of sleep when his ward needed help was useful, but sticky.

  If he could turn it off and nap he would. The fact he couldn’t meant Rush was in real trouble.

  He retrieved a plastic bottle of sports drink and downed it in a single gulp while Rush went on.

  “But I’m going to be ready, whatever it takes. Even if it means living faster now. You’ll find a way to make em listen, you always do. Besides you have to, it’s your prophecy.”

  Stockton flared his nostrils. “You could take it easy on me. Not all of us get heroic prophecies. Mine says I help you — caring about you is overtime. You should thank me.”

  He stepped out. The door sealed behind him with a hiss.

  Rush slapped the glass and shouted after him. It was so loud Peter wondered if his dad could hear it from countless office blocks away.

  “Yeah? Well, I don’t remember asking you!”

  At this outburst, Peter saw the woman in the left cage become triggered.

  She faced the desk and began thrashing herself against it. Slamming her arms and legs against the hardwood.

  The noise silenced Rush’s protests. Peter imagined he could hear the bruises forming.

  “If she keeps it up, she’s going to hurt herself. Or worse.” Peter thought.

  He wanted to talk to Rush. Until he was sure the woman was safe; this was more important.

  He leaped off his perch, aiming for a soft pile of papers near the floor that could catch him. At the last moment, he turned into a pineapple and bounced.

  He rolled forward bumping into the glass and leaving a solitary mark with his spike.

  It was slight. Thinner than a spider’s thread, shorter than an eyelash. The kind of scratch that marks our screens. The kind we make every day and ignore.

  The woman brought her head back as far as her body would let her. Suddenly she saw a pineapple fall from the sky and turn into a boy.

  She paused, stopping her forehead moments before it smashed into the glass. The thin line carved into the glass nearly kissed her nose.

  It had been so long since she had seen another person, longer since she had seen a pineapple.

  “How nostalgic” she mouthed.

  Her voice was strained from screaming for so long. She managed to speak in a polite whisper.

  “How’s the weather today?”

  Crack.

  Peter ignored the question.

  “Are you ok?” he asked, doing his best to drop his voice an octave.

  He had expected to be faced with something wild. A moment ago, she was unhinged. Talking to her now, she seemed pleasant.

  He remembered reading that shock victims often acted strangely.

  She raised an eyebrow at him and tittered. “This isn’t the end. With my prophecy I can tell.”

  She drew a disapproving breath in and asked again. “How is the weather?"

  Peter answered, surprised he was motivated by her disappointment.

  “Well with the recent update, the regulators have been warmer than usual, but it’s the same as it always is on the Nimbus. What do you mean about your prophecy?”

  She smiled. It was matronly and sick. Like she had learned something shameful about him and took pleasure in it.

  “Yes, the Nimbus.” She whispered to herself.

  “My prophecy is nothing complex, I will be recorded in the record for the final sacrifice.”

  She paused and surveyed the piles of papers and leftover office supplies.

  “We’re on the Nimbus then. Impressive, but nothing is built flawlessly.”

  Crack. The faint line on the glass crept away from its harbor.

  Peter felt his stomach drop. If she hadn’t known where she was; if she was locked away like this, she was dangerous.

  “Did you know, when it was constructed. Fourteen workers died installing the flexible panel system. It still requires regular maintenance; in a way the Bureau still gives lives to it.”

  She shook her head. Her long hair hardly moved it was so heavy.

  “The cost is more than you know.”

  He looked around, careful not to get caught in his surroundings while she continued to speak.

  “I suppose I should have known. It’s a nice enough place to live - only fitting.”

  She smoothed her canvas outfit. It had no marking and seemed utilitarian.

  Like prison wear designed by Karl Marx.

  Despite covering down to her ankles, in Peter’s opinion, it looked immodest on her. As though the clothing was ignoring her grace – adding to her weariness.

  She pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, this should be a conversation, not an old lady talking to herself.”

  Peter doubted she was old. Certainly, no older than her mid-forties. She went on.

  “Please, tell me about yourself, it’s been ages since I had a proper conversation.”

  She laughed. It was casual and warm.

  “Besides you’re Prophesized, so I know you have a story.”

  She leaned forward, her slender eyes open. Like a tiger waiting in a city alley, where you would least expect it.

  Peter felt the hair on the back of his hands stick up. He backed up and waved away her words.

  “No, no. I’m just lost.” He faked a laugh cursing his poor acting skills. He meant to say he was looking for the bathroom, but his nerves fed him lines from the wrong script.

  He only managed to sputter.

  “Toilet.”

  He looked around hopeful for a way out or passing employee. Instead, he saw a small note card, held up by scotch tape on the outside of her cage.

  Too small to see until you were close enough to see the old-fashioned type. It read:

  Subject 35813: Fibonacci

  Prophecy: You Will Change The World For The One You Love.

  Power: Flaw-Intensification, touch. Classification: Alter.

  Inevitability: Unknown.

  The rest of the card was illegible, worn away from age. But Peter could see the words, containment, termination, and danger.

  Why would she lie about her prophecy? It didn’t matter, he decided. It was time to go.

  Behind the note card, she smiled knowingly.

  “Toilet? Why not. Nobody ever comes down here. Attend to yourself so we can talk.”

  Fibonacci smiled pleasantly as if she was asking him something ordinary. The trill never left her voice.

  “Or if you’d rather, we can start now?”

  Crack. The seam had gone from line to lattice.

  Peter noticed it with horror. The instinct to run was beginning to overpower him.

  Only fear kept him from turning his back to her.

  “Ok you got me, I’m leaving. The Bureau has a squad of ‘Crats on their way.”

  He was bluffing. Coincidentally, he was right.

  She shook her head and giggled.

  “I’m sure they are, the silent alarm must have gone off when you touched my cage.”

  Her lips pursed. Peter saw how sallow her cheeks were. The shadows under her eyes were stained purple.

  “It won’t matter.”

  Peter finally gave in to his urge to run. Instead of going back, his instincts led him to the right.

  The other cell was only steps away, a few feet across the alleyway. He knew Rush was there.

  Rush. She would know what to do.

  Rush was invincible. Rush never turned her back on a threat.

  If he could get to her quickly enough, she would stop the woman. He wouldn’t have to feel guilty if there was no catastrophe.

  Fibonacci went on.

  “I owe you the truth, you helped me. Besides, I love pineapple”

  Peter wanted her to stop talking.

  Why did her words make him proud? Like he mattered in the worst way.

  “Let me help.” She said flatly.

  He was almost there. Just a few more steps and the strongest power would be at his side to protect him.

  She pressed her palm against the pane. Cracks appeared like snow.