De-light no more, take flight!

So does the entire glass-cage.

You sit in darkness, your entire body a tightened spring, ready to release at even the slightest noise. Time passes, the amount doesn't matter, any would have been too long in this **** blindness.

Rolph - wait, no. A man that looks like Rolph - walks onto the screen, again, this time only visible from the waist up.

His voice is much smoother than Rolph's and carries a sort of up-beat tone to it. The sort that you'd interpret as 'Nice to see you' and a friendly hug or 'Nice to see you!' followed by an immediate throat slashing, depending on what you'd done for him today.

This has to be Jonathan. You don't know how you know, but you do. The sight of him makes you shake all over. Not out of fear or excitement. Looking at him, you feel the way you do about yourself most of the time. You can best describe it as a sort of intense, directed sadness. The sort which can only be relieved by punching yourself in the face over and over till your muscles ache.

His intonation is soft, endearing, but deadly serious. "Now, we've got to address the elephant in the room. I know you're all pissing your pants after Belarus. Ha, you people shat in terror after Michigan and that was nothing in comparison!" Jonathan pulls something from his dress pocket. A tiny rectangular device. From a spot on top of it, several infinitely small beams shoot out and form into an image of a graph.

"I won't deny it. You've seen our stats. Hell, your money pays the guy who crunches the numbers for us. We're knee-deep in stockholder squeezed, rancid shit."

Jonathan is pacing back and forth on the screen. The projected image remains static despite his movement. Viewing his profile you notice several grey hairs revealing themselves like dirty secrets underneath his black hair. "You're probably thinking, 'Hey, this seems like a good time to form a rapport with Gutenberg and get in on his crap.' And you'd be right! You'd also regret it."

New projections appear from his device. "When we launch the virtual community simulator, things are going to get wild. We've done the projection. The market analysis. The quantitative studies. All of it. This is what people want. His shit is just off-putting as fuck. People don't want those things in their house. They want something unrelatable, something cold and easy to throw out when the new model comes."

With a deft motion, Jonathan sweeps the static image away and turns to face those this recording was meant for.

Jonathan pulls out a piece of paper and begins to recite. As he does, his face grows larger and larger on the screen. His downcast eyes always remaining in focus as he half-whispers,

Summer turns to winter, turns to spring,
In new light, so resplendent, we view old things.

Still, every year creeps in dread,
A month wherein we celebrate ****.
Within me it lingers, rustling, festering, wet.

__Underneath those autumns leaves,
Underneath their rot and mould,
I still hear that rustling of a secret,
I promised you
to hold...

Only his eyes, still looking down, remains on the television. Slowly the rest of his face appears on the glass-wall behind him, his shoulders barely sticking up from the bottom, his eyes framed inside the square.

Neither you or Emalie is breathing, you realise. The silence is overpowering. Suddenly, Jonathan looks up. You get no sensation, no vibe, no nothing from his expression. It's cold. So cold in here.

"I know what you're all thinking. Is wonder-boy Jonathan losing it. Does he not see the "Summer" problem. Does he not fear the "Summer" problem. Friends - for that is what I consider you to be, money or not - I know intimately of the... Summer. Problem."

You can feel Jonathan's eyes studying you. The cold, calculating stare of a man who has been dead for centuries. It's in your head - you know this - but you can feel his eyes on you... Underneath his unnatural stare, he knows, you are nothing but flesh. It's almost unnoticeable, the way his eyes wavers slightly, peeling off layers of cloth, skin, sinew, and bone. Undressing you, Jonathan peers into the essence of who you are, much in the same manner a fox studies a chicken coop. What you see in his eyes is disappointment and pain. Jonathan knows. Knows that you're not like him. Not worthy of even being considered a human, like him. He has seen inside of you and he knows that there's nothing.

You have to kill him. If you want to live you have to kill him. Kill him.

"She or It, or whatever it wants to be called, is happy. There is no case, no matter how hard those idiots try to create one. Nonetheless, we've taken precautions. We've implemented a simple way to figure out if you're in a simulation or not. It might feel silly, yes, but you can even try it out right now... Simply say these words: 'Lorem Ip--"

In the blink of an eye, you're back in the glass-cage. A, comparatively, grey sea of Squaribles surrounding you.

Whatever came over you leaves your body like a rat, seeping back under the carpet, ready to gnaw its way back out at any time.

Rolph pops back on the screen. "I am so sorry to interrupt, but it seems like we have run out of time. Real quick, I want you girls to know that I appreciate how you re-directed power to this room. I also need you to know, that you should evacuate post haste, as my prison is about to explode."

Emalie jumps out of her chair and both of you stare in horror at the jar. Boiling. The water is boiling and cooking the brain inside. With the pressure it's going to explode any moment now.

"Run!" You scream. She doesn't even hesitate for a moment before scrambling away. Seconds later you're both through the door. Stumbling, Emalie slams the door closed and, using all her strength, pushes herself against it with her back.

"Fuck you, Jonathan! Go plow yourself reeeeeal hard, you narcissistic asshole!" From inside, Rolph is laughing hysterically, whooping and shouting, "Woooh! Since didn't even have the decency to fire me, consider this my resig--"

An explosion of glass shattering, followed by a tremendous wet splosh and the ear-piercing sound of glass shanking glass, cuts off whatever Rolph had to say. Pieces of mushy-goop splat against the glass-cage, leaving a trail behind as they squeak to the ground. Some bits got caught on shards from the jar that got lodged into the glass wall. Some splattered so completely that blots of brain matter almost colours the glass around it.

Breathing loudly, Emalie looks at you and says, "You can go check on the others, I... I need a moment." Legs shaking, she slides down the glass door and sits on the floor.

Part confused, part shocked, you oblige her and walk back to base camp on shaky legs.