The Man in the Fedora

“Greetings,” said the man in the fedora as he approached the five survivors—those who had traversed the wasteland and arrived at the crumbling remains of Corporate California’s San Diego offices.

“Not what you expected?”

“Definitely not,” replied Ada, rummaging through her coat for a cigarette. She found one, but no lighter or matches. With a bitter sigh, she snapped it in half and tossed it aside.

The man picked up the torn cigarette, pressed its paper back together with impossible precision, then snapped his fingers. A flame sparked in the air, igniting the cigarette as he returned it to Ada. She stared, stunned.

“How?”

“I am the Demiurge. The Architect. The Great Designer. Call me what you will—I fashioned this segment of the known galaxy.”

He circled the group, who watched with a mix of dread and anticipation.

“I am not benevolent, as you’ve likely guessed. And I did not herald the end of the world two centuries ago. Humanity did. Surely you’ve realized that by now.”

Norman leaned forward, twitching, eyes flickering with static. His hands rubbed together as if generating friction to summon speech.

“I… I have a question,” he said, voice cracking. “Just one question.”

“You’ve always held the answers, Norman,” said the man. “There is nothing I can give that you do not already possess.”

Norman shut his eyes for a long, deliberate minute. Then he opened them and asked:

“Why?”

The simplicity of it disappointed the others but stirred something in the man with the fedora. He looked skyward, sighed.

“That is a complicated question. Do you know how long it would take to answer?”

“As long as needed,” Norman replied.

The man nodded.

“Millennia ago—maybe millions, who can say—I belonged to a race that no longer walks this Earth. Not here, not on this dimensional plane.”

He studied each of them as though scanning for code hidden beneath skin and expression.

“You’re an Atlantean,” whispered Norman.

The man raised his finger.

“A term I haven’t heard in many cycles, Norman. How do you know that name?”

His question wasn’t one of curiosity—it was amusement.

“Who told you?”

“Him. Her…” Norman hesitated, grappling with fragmented visions. The figure had spoken with a deep voice but bore feminine features. It had extended to him a sphere—deep blue, pulsing softly.

“It.”

“What you saw was a manifestation of an Ethereal—what we Atlanteans, and the Lemurians before us, called the formless. They lack body or concept. Gender, race, name—these are vanities they do not understand. When they present themselves, it is in shapes we can tolerate.”

Jens scoffed, removing his firefighter helmet and placing it on the ground.

“So what about God?”

“What about God?” the man echoed.

“Him,” said Jens.

The man chuckled.

“Him, her, it—these are irrelevant constructs. All manifestations perceived in this plane are projections, filtered through limited senses. You don’t see divinity—you sense interpretations.”

“Like Plato’s cave,” Rob muttered, eyes narrowed.

“So Norman saw the real world?”

“No,” said the man. “Norman saw truth filtered through desire, through meditative insight and astral travel. The allegory is flawed. As flawed as our words, our systems, our species.”

Ada exhaled. Her cigarette was nearly gone.

“Is there a point to all this?” she asked.

The man stopped.

“A point?”

“You were supposed to tell us something. That’s what the bike samurai said.”

“What bike samurai?”

“The one we met on the road. The one who nearly killed us.”

“You mean Alicia?”

The name silenced the group.

“It’s a she?”

“Biologically, yes. Two hundred years ago. But through cybernetic enhancement, Alicia transcended classification. She’s not he or she—Alicia simply is.”

“So Alicia’s a machine?”

“Alicia is what Alicia chooses to be. Machine, cyborg, human, male, female—all meaningless distinctions. It moved beyond those debates long ago.”

“And instead?”

The man pointed—first to the cracked building, then out the shattered window.

“That,” he said. “Did you know this was once the central hub of one of the largest corporations of the 20th century? Now forgotten. History erased. No food. No water. No memory.”

His voice rose.

“The world had to relearn how to farm. Herd. Craft. Build. Like medieval serfs cast backward in time—because they never learned to care for the planet or for finite resources.”

He walked fast among them now, gesturing wildly, face hot with fury.

“Was it that hard?”