Author: Robin Cassini

“Please, have a seat.”

A bare lightbulb flickered overhead. I settled onto a folding char. The steel dug relentlessly into my spine. It was not meant to be comfortable.

With a creak, the officer positioned himself across the small table. He tapped his clipboard. “Pandora, is it?”

I nodded. Sure, my name was a little unusual, but he had seen some stranger things recently.

He rubbed his five-o-clock shadow, sighing. Half of his stubble was fluorescent green.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Why did you open the box?”

“I was curious.”

“Uh-huh.” In the dim light, I thought I caught him roll his eyes. “Who paid you? Was it some kind of sting? I just want to know who you work with, and then I can help you.”

I spoke slowly, as if to a child. “I was on my security shift. I saw the box. It was pretty. I opened it. Haven’t you ever gone window-shopping? It’s a natural impulse.”

“I have not.” He drawled, “I also haven’t window-shopped in the intergalactic embassy or sifted through a pile of confiscated wares from Epimethia. A pile that was very clearly marked CLASSIFIED.”

I shrugged. “I guess security isn’t a job for the curious.”

The light bulb began to sway back and forth. At first, like a pendulum, but then it began bobbing up and down like a fishing lure.

The officer grabbed the bulb and held it still. “Sure isn’t,” he spat.

He was clearly becoming very annoyed with me. I reached into the wall. It melted beneath my touch. After a moment of grasping blindly, I felt porcelain. I offered him the cup of stale brown liquid. “Coffee?”

He grimaced. “Do you have anything else to say?” The light was hopping furiously in his grip. At this point he was nearly on the table. Either he had forgotten to wear trousers, or polka-dot boxers were the new standard. Both were possible.

I leaned back in the chair and smiled a slow, easy smile. “I know a lot of things escaped when I opened it. But so far, no one’s asked if there was anything left at the bottom.”

The officer blurred, then split into three. Then seven. Then twenty-three. Soon a copious and indivisible number of men crowded the interrogation room. They glared at me and asked, “What was it?”

Something glittered between my fingers. It looked like a child’s marble, except it contained multitudes.
“Let’s call it hope.”

I rolled the marble in my palm, and I was gone.