Tomorrow's Not What It Used To Be
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There is a nothing between somethings.

It is not a yawning chasm, nor is it a black void. The insufficiency of metaphor to describe metaphor is infinite. This insufficiency iterates to infinity, to oblivion, until all that remains is nothing. Just a chain of untruths.

Within the Outside, there was a bubble of nonsense, a crystallization of possibility, an amalgam of thought and desire, interlinked in synapses of cause and effect.

This entity knew its name, and it was Oneiroi.

Tendrils of bulbous, searching thought propagated through the nothing, skirting the boundaries of the great universe and all its thinnest branches, propelled by why and how.

One such tendril was anchored, intersecting the curious city-state of Three Portlands.

This entity had a face, and it was Oneiroi Incorporated ("Why dream of tomorrow when you can live it today?").

In the Three Portlands headquarters of Oneiroi Inc., past the memory retrieval lounge and the social re-education spa, there was a great vault. Sealed with the greatest care, devoid of air and contaminants and prying eyes, is a segment the great endless brain that is Oneiroi, currently experiencing a sensation analogous to worry.

The stilted symphony of Three Portlands had come to a crashing halt. In a sense there was a death in the family, and when you're a hyperdimensional quasiconstruct that transcends the boundaries of is and is not, death is worrying news.

So the Oneiroi divided itself, and then there were two beings in the vault: the Oneiroi and the probe.

The probe was designed with a single overriding tendency: discover the source of the emanations of discord within the city, and assess the threat posed to the life, totality, and market share of Oneiroi Incorporated ("Truth is stranger than fiction, but not as affordable.")