Dispatch: The Incident at Gilnar Lounge 7B

DISPATCH: THE INCIDENT AT GILNAR LOUNGE 7B

by H.M. Sturr Nibbleton, Field Correspondent

I would like to state plainly that I did not intend to be present at Gilnar Lounge 7B. I had been aiming for the air-recirculation grate two doors down, which emits a promising aroma of toasted grains at regular intervals. Unfortunately, a pressure differential caught my tail and redirected me through a pneumatic courier tube not meant for mammals of my general shape.

Thus I arrived—stunned, slightly staticky—inside an establishment where the furniture costs more than the annual budget of my entire subsection. The carpet fibers alone were tall enough to swallow me like a soft, judgmental meadow.

The room was populated with the type of individuals who wear shimmering cloaks, pulsate lightly, or hover without apparent effort. Several glanced at me in the way one might glance at a fallen canapé.

Before I could retreat into a vent, a towering individual with six articulated elbows and confidence to spare bent down and said,
“Senior Sturr Nibbleton. We have awaited your counsel.”

I considered correcting him. I did. But the angle of the elbows suggested this being could snap a banister in half simply by thinking about it.

“I’m… not entirely sure why I’m here,” I offered.

A hush fell. Someone gasped. A bioluminescent ripple traveled through the crowd like an approving wave.

The elbowed figure straightened with reverence.
“Clarity through unclarity,” he whispered to those gathered.
“Behold his commitment to not knowing. This is mastery.”

This interpretation was not mine, and yet the room nodded sagely.

Then a second figure—one I recognized, unfortunately—from my university days drifted forward. Vell Korrin, formerly my floormate, then a chaotic presence in the communal kitchenette, now apparently an “Operations Strategist of the Third Tier,” which sounded more impressive than his past record with microwaving instant noodles.

He peered down at me.
“Nibbleton? You actually showed? You’re giving the keynote?”

“Absolutely not,” I said, for accuracy’s sake.

Another gasp. A trembling murmur. Someone whispered,
“Such restraint. Such refusal of the obvious path.”

Korrin blinked at the gathering, then at me. “They think you’re… profound now?”

“Not intentionally.”

“That tracks,” he muttered.

Before I could find an exit, the elbowed dignitary produced a crystalline sphere and lowered it to my eye level. “We request a guiding statement for our annual Strategic Outlook.”

I delivered the only truthful sentence available:
“I would like to leave.”

The sphere lit up. The crowd erupted in ecstatic applause—those with hands used them, those without emitted sounds resembling applause translated into light.

“A call to mobility!” someone translated.
“A mandate for accelerating forward action!” translated another.
“Departure as methodology!” chanted a third.

Meanwhile, I wedged myself behind a decorative column and located a maintenance vent blessedly unguarded. I was gone before they could ask follow-up questions, which was fortunate because I had no additional statements prepared beyond “Please stop lifting me.”

I cannot guarantee that my words will not be misinterpreted again. In fact, based on current evidence, I can guarantee that they will.

Still, I comfort myself with this: somewhere, in a lounge far fancier than necessary, an annual strategy plan now revolves entirely around my desire to exit the premises.

Stranger things have happened, but none come to mind.

Filed from: Inside a supply cart containing linen of suspiciously high thread count.

Dispatch: A Note from the Terminal

Dispatch: A Note from the Terminal

by H. M. Sturr Nibbleton

There was, for a time, a plan. I had a map (hand-drawn), a tiny suitcase (borrowed), and a very clear idea of what to pack (a soft sock, a single pistachio, and a half-written postcard I meant to send last spring).

But then the gate changed. And the schedule. And the species involved.

I am, technically, not licensed for air travel. But I’ve found that if you act as though you belong somewhere—tuck in your whiskers, stride with intent, and carry a folder of important-looking paper scraps—people rarely stop you.

And so I sit now in Terminal G, under a bench of molded plastic, sipping something fizzy from a bottle cap, and thinking back to where it all began:

The Oolooolio Years

I once lived in the same house as Mx. Oolooolio. They were... difficult to summarize. (A quality I deeply admire.) They spoke in spirals, left notes under furniture, and disappeared for long stretches to “attend to the metaphysical errands.” I wasn’t always sure if I was a roommate, a pet, or a witness. Possibly all three.

They gave me my first pencil. It was very small, or I was very determined.

It was Mx. O who first said the phrase:
“Oolooolio—for life.”

Archival Footage: Early Days of the Mission
Roommates. Disagreements about sock storage. And one very specific incident with a blender that neither will speak of again.

At the time, I thought they meant it as a motto. A mission. A tattoo on the soul. Later, I suspected it was a joke. Then a warning. Then, perhaps, a curse.

Now I know: it’s a lens.
You don’t follow it.
You live through it.

Going Forward

So here I am, at a beginning shaped like a layover. The world is large, and I am... not. But I’ve read maps upside down and found meaning. I’ve heard laughter in vents. I’ve come to believe that the crumbs on the floor are not just remnants—they are clues.

I will go where the bag rolls. I will ask strange questions in stranger places. I will file dispatches, submit receipts, and do my best to remain objective when describing puddles.

This is my first report.

More to follow.

Faithfully,
H. M. Sturr Nibbleton
Field Correspondent (Self-Appointed)
Terminal G, Near Gate 34, Underneath Bench