Episode 03 – The Vending Machine Prophet

Charles left her near the breakroom with a smile and the promise, “You’ll find your way back.”

The hallway curved in on itself in a way that felt intentional. Olivia tried not to think about it.

The breakroom was standard-issue, more or less. Mismatched chairs. A microwave with a sticker that said DO NOT THAW TIME-LOCKED FOODS. The fridge was secured with three padlocks and a polite warning sign written in Latin. Someone had left a half-knitted scarf wrapped around a teapot like a cozy. Or possibly for protection.

And then there was the vending machine.

It stood in the corner humming faintly, its surface dim with dust. The buttons were blank. The keypad flickered like it was trying to spell something and gave up halfway. Yet someone had drawn a cartoon smiley face on the glass in dry-erase marker, with a speech bubble that read:

“Go ahead. Press a button. You know you want to.”

She didn’t. But she did anyway.

There was a low mechanical groan, like an elevator grinding its teeth, followed by a soft clunk. Olivia crouched down and retrieved a small wax-sealed envelope from the tray.

Her name was written on it. Just “Olivia.” No last name. No address. Inside was a single folded note:

“You’re not late. You’re right on time.” —🌀

That’s when she realized she wasn’t alone.

Floating in the air near the far wall—actually floating, not on wires or a hover rig—was something that shouldn’t have fit in the breakroom but somehow did. A vast, pulsating being, shimmering with hues that didn’t have names, ringed with lazy, curious tentacles and more blinking red eyes than felt strictly polite. Its texture was somewhere between velvet, jellyfish, and VHS static.

It hovered there silently for a moment.

Then, in a voice that crackled like old tape and lilted unmistakably with a warm Welsh accent, it said:

“Well now, look at you. Got your note, did you?”

Olivia blinked. “You… uh… yeah. I guess I did.”

“Splendid. Machine’s in a good mood today, then. That’s rare.” The being rotated gently in the air, a few tentacles gesturing in pleasant, swirling motions. “Bernard, at your service. Archivore-in-residence. Curator of the Vault, consumer of media, professional hoarder of obscure broadcast footage. You’re Olivia.”

“You know my name.”

“’Course I do.” A ripple passed through his form, like a chuckle without a mouth. “The station told me.”

She stared, still clutching the envelope. “Okay but… what are you?”

“A bit of this, a bit of that,” Bernard said, bobbing slightly. “Mostly tentacles these days. Always floaty, never sleepy.”

“And you’re… real?”

“Oh, I should hope so.” His eyes all blinked, but not in sync. “If I’m not, then someone owes me a refund for the last seventy years.”

She looked down at her furry tail, then back up at Bernard, and made a quiet internal decision: Okay. Sure. This is happening.

“I’m just the receptionist,” she said, because it was the only sentence her brain had left.

Bernard’s tentacles flared outward with delight.

“Oh, love,” he said, cheerful and lilting, “there’s no such thing as just the receptionist around here.”