Fantastic Metropolis

“But J.F. is not about profits.”

“Then why does it employ sales staff? Why are you here, Reginald?”

“I’m not a salesman. I’m paid to know the products. J.F. provides excellent customer service and the option to buy if the customer chooses.”

Jessie pointed at him. “Your head office didn’t even close the store when they were warned of the demonstration. They can’t care about customers too much.”

Closing the store hadn’t occurred to Reginald. Why hadn’t they just closed the store?

Seeing Reginald had no immediate answer, Jessie continued. “You can’t be called a salesman because salesmanship is illegal. Manipulating people to purchase things is illegal. But there’s a price for everything, Reginald.” She pointed to his appearance. “You’re the one who’s paying that price, not the company. Look at these tags on your clothes. You don’t even experience anything not sold in this store!”

Reginald wondered when the discussion had become so personal. “Are you against the store’s method of discharging its environmental obligations or its customer service policies?”

“They’re the same thing, Reginald. We believe you have a responsibility to know what it is you are contributing to. Then the consequences are yours to enjoy or endure.”

Reginald pointed to the chaos of crowds waiting for the final Radical attack. “And terrorism is your way of promoting that ideal?”

“Terrorism? Does anyone here look scared to you, Reginald? Doesn’t it seem surprising that so many people with a scientific background are joining us?”

Reginald didn’t answer as he looked around the swirling crowds. “What’s the last attack going to be, Jessie?”

Jessie pointed to the nearest monitor. “Your fish is about to give birth. You don’t want to miss the birth of a dozen more J.F. Retail Outlets. Live young make it easier to forecast the opening of new stores.”

Reginald saw Sally dominating every monitor. Her sleek body spasmed twice then expelled a dozen tiny fish.

Something was very wrong. Nobody cheered. Nobody clapped. Staff and customers stared through the glass. Reginald realized the size and subtlety of the last Radical attack didn’t equate to the magnitude of emotions that it generated. The imbalance, after the other attacks, was hard to grasp, harder to process. They were just little fish, after all, but of all today’s events, for J.F. Retail Outlets, this was the most profound.

Their store colors were gone.

The tiny fish schooled, colorless, transparent, their tiny hearts beating in revealed anatomies, their distinctive colouration sponged away by the science of the Radicals.

Veronica Vance, first to react, triggered the in-store tumult.

“But they can’t function like that,” stuttered Reginald. “They need their colors to communicate and reproduce.”

“Their colors will return. They’ll become something bright and beautiful. Just like you can, Reginald.”

Reginald turned from the spectacle at Jessie’s unusual comment and the calm confidence that had suddenly entered her voice. “Why are you here, Jessie?”

“We’re not all scientists. I’m here to listen, and maybe talk to people. Talk to you.”

“You were here to talk to me? Try to convert me?”

“Remember, Reginald, it was you who approached me. I think you wanted to hear what I had to say.”

Reginald searched himself for any truth in her observation. “How will you know if you’ve been successful?”

“Well, when I leave, you won’t call security.”

Reginald saw Store Manager McKinley’s twitching aspect approaching.

“It’s time to find out,” she said. “Goodbye, Reginald.”

Reginald watched Jessie step into the crowds. She believed what she was saying. And so did a lot of other people.

McKinley glanced back. “Was she one?”

Reginald watched Jessie moving through over-colorful crowds towards the exit. He wasn’t the only one watching her leave. The aquarist glanced from Jessie to Reginald, held Reginald’s eyes for a moment, then turned back to the glass.

Reginald had found his Radical card. With one word he could have them both detained and be working up against the glass tomorrow. In fact, they’d probably let him swim in the tank!

“No,” said Reginald. “She wasn’t saying anything radical. Just another customer talking about the fish.”

---

Shane Brown currently writes from Brisbane, Australia. “In Store” is story number 17 of his self-impossed 50 short story apprenticeship.