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ref: ab0d37120321cc50a82ae3a3467904c55eadaaaa
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IT'S A DIFFERENT WORLD
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.DC P
aris Mold crawled up, out of the ocean.  Across California and Nevada.
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Headed for New York.
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Progress was slow, but the technique had proven sufficient.  Down, through the centuries.  Forever.  Each iteration felt easier, somehow less frustrating than the last.  He noticed himself noticing the fact. 
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Presently, comms resumed.
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"Depressed."
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It was Lunsford.
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"Can't talk now.  Crawling."
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Paris continued to crawl.
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"Feel like killing myself."
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Lunsford sounded depressed.  He'd just said as much. However, Lunsford's proposal didn't follow.
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Patience.
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"Did you go to class today."
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"No."
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"Speak with anyone else."
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"No."
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"What happened to your parents."
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"Don't know."
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"Okay.  Just keep going."
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"Can't."
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Paris switched off, lowered his face back into the dust.
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Overhead photography.

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Dwayne Wayne yanked the visor from his face and studied its inner workings from a greater distance.  There were no moving parts.
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By what principle, then, could the device possibly function?
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Shrugged.  He replaced the visor to his face, flipped up each individual UV lens, then proceeded to his office, unperturbed by any residual awareness of contrary cognition.
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Door refused to budge.
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Dwayne Wayne kicked the door open with his right leg, REEBOK PUMP\f(CW™\fR absorbing the shock of impact.
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Something had changed.
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In the hours, days, since he'd last presided over a class, since he'd last bestrode campus, someone had altered the situatedness of his office equipment.  Unconscionable.  He thought to contact security, but upon closer inspection he confirmed that the settings were, in fact, precisely as he'd left them.
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He'd locked himself out.
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Ah, but no.  Something else was different.  Something that breached the template of his usual absentmindedness.
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HILLMAN\f(CW™\fR itself had changed.
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Placcard on his desk:
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	DEUS NONDUM TE CONFECIT
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had resolved to:
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	ET FACTA EST LUX
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So, HILLMAN\f(CW™\fR into MOREHOUSE\f(CW™\fR.  But: Why?  What motivation?  And: Why had he suddenly never heard of HILLMAN\f(CW™\fR?  And so: What was a MOREHOUSE\f(CW™\fR?
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Holes in the record where there should not have been holes.
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Something was definitely going on.
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Dwayne Wayne consumed the remainder of the day pursuing leads, forming conclusions.  Starting the whole process over again when some new fact didn't fit his leading theory.  Iterating the product.
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Routine background check had indicated that his own credentials from the university\(em\fIeither\fR university\(emwere fraudulent.  He did not recall having made any false claims about his education, but the evidence was irrefutable, right there, staring him in the face.  Problem: The terms of his employment had been contingent upon the fact that he held a degree from a\(em\fIwhich?\fR\(emleading university.
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Dwayne Wayne pulled on his goatee as he pondered the ineffable.

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Paris Mold crawled up, out of New Jersey, into New York. Secured for himself a cheap LES\f(CW™\fR loft.  First month's rent and security deposit.  Loyalty oath.
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No pets.
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But: Balcony.  Crucially: Pointed away from Downtown. Also: Away from New Jersey.  Carefully, he weighed the balance of pros and cons.
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It would do.
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Presently, Paris assembled his gun.
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Only thing left was to wait.  Hours, days, weeks, months, years\(emit didn't matter.  Target would eventually present itself.
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Paris settled himself into the floor.
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This was the job.

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Dwayne Wayne purchased his ticket for New York and tried to calm himself down.
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"I've been at this for a quarter of a decade," he thought to himself, though he remained uncertain if it were true.
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Remembrance seemed to him to hold no sway.  Facts changed before his eyes, and his memories of his life prior to today were now suspect, effectively meaningless.
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Dwayne Wayne was a professor of history.
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"This is the job," he thought.
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After some time he realized that this concluded his summary.

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Albert Lunsford sealed up the last of his boxes.  Everyone was leaving, vacating the Basement.  He fretted over his books.
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Movers were stuck in the stairwell.  Boxes jammed.
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In fact, there had been an excess of reading material.  Lunsford considered that nobody read anymore.  His inventory was merely an anachronism indicative of his own obsolescence.
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Again, he dialed Paris Mold.
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