RESET 0

The screen was cracked.

It wasn't very noticeable, nor would it hamper with the operation of the monitor, but the man was rather irritable and just knew the minuscule detail would pester him to no end.

On the other hand, what was there for him to do about it? Sure, he could simply exchange it with one of the other seven screens in the room, but that required a sort of physical prowess of which he, unfortunately, lacked. Alternatively (just maybe), he could phone over a maintenance crew to complete the task in his stead. It was his story; there must have been some way for him to do it.

…

Scratch that. It was improbable for them to arrive on time, if at all. Besides, he was not the type who enjoyed to be kept waiting. No, no. That meant the only viable solution for him left was simply to deal with it, no matter the frustration it caused. His index finger convulsed, scratching at the lining of his expensive coat. A nervous tick who presented itself as a zombie: You'd think it is finally dead, but alas, it springs up right as a hero is about to be murdered in front of their friends. Tragic, really.

With a sigh of reluctance, the thirty-something year old man slipped his weary hands into his pockets of a pristine beige trench coat and shifted his gaze down to the myriad of buttons on the desk below.

There looked to be near a surplus of a hundred, all sorts of colors, shapes, and sizes. Some were flashing at different intervals, others glowed a bright color from the LED rainbow, and a rebel group existed that chose not to illuminate at all. He tried out a large selection, later concluding that most were for decoration rather than function, as a panel full of useless trinkets always envelops viewers more than having none at all.

Yet, four of these useless objects presented themselves to be not so useless. One could almost say that they were nearly, but not fully useful. That description was going much too far.

These objects entailed a computer mouse, a keyboard of similar fashion, a microphone looking as if it painfully clawed and dragged itself straight from the fifties era, and a cumbersome red button between them all, simply labeled RESET. He had no clue what it could mean, although the nigh-infinite possibilities were intriguing.

It became apparent to him that in the current moment, the function of the button could have meant nearly anything, and still be of little account. As long as his story went as planned, the microphone and monitors would be all he needed.

Aside from that rather infuriating crack, all was done. The last thing to do was only to sit down, and start reading off of the script. It was simple.

Yet, the man found himself glued to the spot. It couldn't have been fear or nerves preventing him from taking that final step. No, it must have been over a hundred times he has read through this before, practiced until his very voice pleaded for rest, just a moment's rest. He knew he could do this, and do it well. With a breath of determination, he lifted his leg and took a firm step

- in the opposite direction.

What if he couldn't do it? Sure, days and nights full of rehearsing refuted the doubt, but this was different. He wasn't just reading words off of a paper now. He was doing it for real this time. There was a main character, and a story, and a complete setting meticulously planned down to the shape of the fern, and oh god he couldn't do this.

The man kept stumbling back until he felt his coat hit against the opposing wall. His right hand crawled out of his pocket and straight to his heart. Breathing in and out and in and out , a futile attempt to steady his thoughts.

This shouldn't have been happening. "It was just a simple stage fright, nothing to worry about" rational thoughts cried out to him. "No, it wasn't, everything needs to be worried about" cried the irrationals, as they punched their counters in the jaw. They were known to be quite violent.

It seemed to be ages before the two abstract thoughts stopped arguing with each other and finally let the man think for himself. He released the hand that was fervently clutching at the spot where his heart lay, then dropped it back inside his pocket. It was alright. All he needed was a few breaths, and everything would be-

Hmm? What was this?

The man reopened his eyes and shifted them down towards the pocket his hand was in. There was something in there. His fingers slid around the item, discovering the texture to be… paper.

Paper? He certainly didn't have this in his pocket before. Figuring that it might have left it in there and forgotten about, he fished it out, smoothed the crunched page out on the floor, then gasped.

This was the original notebook scrap he had jotted down the idea for, the man noted, grinning and drawing the page closer. Sure, the story itself evolved enough to the point where this was as useful to him as the majority of the buttons on the desk, but the nostalgia still held well enough for him for an ounce of peace.

The paper was soon folded neatly back into its miniscule form and safely tucked away down an inner coat pocket. As he worked his way back up, monitors around him sprung to life, one showing a boss's office, another a yellow line just desperate to leave its confinement, a third displaying a simple broom closet unlikely to be used within any shape or form, and finally one hovering right over the dashboard with an office worker blankly staring at his computer screen.

It was time.

Taking one final heave, a calm before the storm, the man lowered down into his chair, leaned forward, and spoke the words he knew by heart.

"This is the story of a man named Stanley."