At lunchtime, Cooper joined his colleagues in the cafeteria too late to mention the music. Speaking was only recommended before the dining commenced. Due to the risks of choking, aspirating, deficient chewing, swallowing air, and involuntary biting, speaking was inadvisable when eating, rude and vile in unison.
“Too late!” Cooper muttered under his breath, more frustrated than disappointed.
Almost everyone had started feeding. He wavered over the busy tables, searching for a potential broadcast receiver. In the far corner sat a cubemate who had ordered but not yet obtained any food. Measuring their separation by eye, Cooper skittered right over.
“Hey, Reed!” he whispered as loud as he could from afar.
Reed ignored Cooper. He focused on the tabletop instead. In a jiffy, an order glided along the air tracks in expedient, efficient service. With precision, the meal stopped in front of its owner, who opted out of receptive range. Cafeteria regulations specified that not only should everyone shut up while eating, but also when everyone else ate, in case of interference.
By the time he straggled to a setting, Cooper had lost his slot to speak. His colleagues ate in oblivion to the surround sound, as he concentrated on keeping it around them all. His noble effort took a heavy toll on him. His head hurt. His vision tilted. Someone saw him swaying in his chair, and elbowed him to stop it.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
At work, Cooper was popular, because he lost a lot. When he lost, he felt as fine as he could, but when he won so much so fast, as he just had, he felt totally lost. He blamed the outcome on the chant. What could he do but fight for the thing that had given him the guts to do so?
Cooper endured a resultant spell of nauseating vertigo, as he ordered his meal. The waitress exhibited an assortment on her screen roll. He rolled it out further in the overhand orientation. He had seen several colleagues roll it underhand. Each segment of the scroll flashed a holo of a meal on a plate. Rolled underhand, the plates flickered by flipped.
The food steamed as palatable as ever, but the reversals infuriated Cooper. They confounded his conception of the sides on the right side.
Today, he ordered white noodles in black sauce, with boiled meat, raw vegetables, and slurried dessert. While waiting, he sipped caffeinated beverage, the battery of the brain. The lack of individuation, or even identification, left Cooper completely undisturbed. Lunch at the office was free for losers in financial straits. Literal losers couldn’t be picky.
At home, he could have sipped X flair of coffee, with N flips of cream, but he owned neither coffee nor cream. With his losing record, he won enough per week to scrape by and hoard milk and cereal in the fridge.
