I went to see the chief editor just before noon. Robert Busey, or Buzzy, as Eli called him, though I wouldn't dare. He seemed like a severe man, one who loathed such a silly nickname, so I stuck to calling him Mr. Busey. Usually, the morning after a submission, he'd let me know it was received, but today he had his intern send me a message. He wanted to meet in person. That was a good sign. My writing had been somewhat successful, judging by their willingness to accept my submissions. I figured it was about time I was brought on as a full-time staffer, or at least part-time.

One step through the door and I was pleasantly surprised. The woman at the front desk, busily scanning loose papers in a filing folder, met my eyes and greeted me with a toothy smile. I thought the pretty girl was oddly ecstatic over my entrance until I recognized her familiar features through a thick layer of makeup.

"Rodney!" Caroline exclaimed. "Rodney Spencer, I knew it was you!"

"It's been awhile, Caroline. Not used to seeing friendly faces in a place like this. Everyone's always looking so grim. When did you start here?"

"A few months ago. I don't normally work today, so it's no wonder we didn't run into each other. Well, I guess it's technically not working. I'm interning for Mr. Busey."

"How is it?"

"Great," she said. There may have been a drop of sarcasm. "He's waiting for you. Be careful. I've never seen him in such a bad mood."

"Why?"

"You," she said quietly, then cleared her throat and added: "I don't know a kind way to put it. He's furious with you. Just be ready for it."

"Okay," I said. Caroline returned to her work, and I made my way toward the door. With a deep breath, I turned the knob and went inside.

"Spencer?" said a graveled voice. I shut the door behind me and opened my mouth to speak. "Sit down."

"Hello," I said, moving to the chair in front of his desk. He reciprocated my smile with a stony gaze.

"I'm going to make this quick," he said, folding his fat hands and placing them against his sweaty forehead. Since my entrance, it had grown increasingly pink. "I'm going to ask you a question. Give me a yes or no answer. Did your fucking robot write this article?"

"No," I replied. He stared at me for quite some time. "I used it for research. That's all."

"I don't think you can begin to comprehend your stupidity. Makes me sick that I even have to explain."

"I'm sorry-"

"Shut up!" he shouted so loud I nearly tumbled out of my seat. He didn't flinch at the pathetic sight, which was a decent gauge for his anger. "Even if I were to look past your trust in that damn thing, the lack of source checking is unforgivable. I've been doing this for almost twenty years, and this is by far the biggest disgrace I've come across. I almost wish I had been struck dead yesterday so I wouldn't have had the misfortune of reading such a disaster."

"Okay, now that you've got that off your chest, mind explaining the problem? I read it over a dozen times and saw no problem."

"We'll go over it step by step," he said, tossing a folder toward me. My article was on top with a few other pages behind it. "When we're finished, I'd bet my career that yours is over before it started."

"What's this?" I asked, looking at the second page. It was marked ARG. Something about those letters made me sweat bullets. "The Homunculus Project? This has got to be a joke."

"I thought the same thing. Only you weren't joking. Before you say another word, read it."

"The Homunculus Project Alternate Reality Game (ARG) started on fringe corner of the Internet known as the Amalgam as an elaborate hoax by a user named Jin, a self-proclaimed hacker extraordinaire and former high-ranking employee of Roth Industries. After six months of exhaustive searching for a file marked as the Homunculus Project, supposedly a research effort involved in startling breakthroughs in the manufacturing of organic materials to house highly advanced Artificial Intelligence, it was revealed to be a marketing campaign for the Maya application. Despite the public revelation by a Roth Industry representative, the search continues for evidence of this mysterious file. Whether the users of Amalgam are aware of the manufactured conspiracy seems irrelevant to their tireless efforts to expose even a trace of its existence."

"Good," Busey said, sliding the next paper across the desk. "With all that in mind, go on."

I recognized some of the text on the second page through Maya's dictation, phrases she had referred to as quotes. Most of it regarded the missing people, their last whereabouts and potential links. Many of these were highlighted in bright yellow. He really went out of his way to embarrass me. I carefully looked for a trace of smugness, the faintest bit of a smile, and found his face a darker shade of red.

"Perhaps the most elaborate hoax of all concerns the 'missing persons,' a volume of fabricated records to create six identities, a colossal undertaking that required hacking into numerous classified databases. The creation of these records is impressive enough in its sheer scope, but the necessary knowledge to use the proper channels implies assistance from a high-ranking government official or an expert hacker. Such a risk over a frivolous 'game' makes both seem questionable, especially for the ease in which it was exposed. People recorded in contact with these missing persons simply didn't recognize them! Outside of the fabrications, there is no proof of their existence. The ARG clearly means to dredge up the long-debunked Capricorn Conspiracy, another hoax created by the Amalgam user Jin, in which tens of millions of votes from the last presidential election were allegedly falsified. Read our article, written by Josh Holstein, for a more thorough expose on Jin's outrageous claims."

"My intern found all of this, and she's a worthless airhead," Busey said. "What's that make you?"

"Can I go now?"

"There are mistakes, and then there's this. Hang your head in shame and walk the fuck out of my office. Never come back," he said. I shrugged and made for the door. He bellowed: "Hang your fucking head in my office! Eyes on the floor!"

I slammed the door behind me, resisting the urge to put my fist through it, even if I deserved all that berating. One day I'd laugh it off. The whole incident seemed like a convoluted conspiracy thrown quickly together to prevent me from collecting another paycheck. Only a guy nicknamed Buzzy could have that warped sense of humor. He'd come bursting through his office when I'd reach the door, too choked by laughter to say: "Wasn't that clever? Not as clever as your article, but pretty dang close!"

Caroline feigned interest in her papers, her cheeks rosy in embarrassment. No doubt secondhand, along with a few flashbacks. I walked by the desk and stopped, opened my mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.

"My lunch break is in five minutes," she said, her eyes still focused on the papers spread messily across the desk. "Want to get coffee? I'll buy."

"Sure."