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.