Stapled Secrets: Emotion Thief Exposed by a Well-Placed 'X'.

Another night. Another dimension. Another grand spectacle of human—and non-human, and occasionally, sentient-fungal—misery dressed up as cultural catharsis. Kid, I’ve seen more public displays of existential dread than a tax auditor during the Prime Material’s 'Annual Self-Loathing Review.' From the great Paperclip Shortage of '42, which nearly collapsed the interdimensional paper supply chain, to the Interdimensional Audit Wars that followed, you learn to spot the cracks in the façade. And tonight, at the Penitent’s Masquerade in Nocturne Aeturnus, those cracks weren't just showing; they were shattering like cheap office glass under a quantum hammer.

Word on the desk was this shindig was supposed to be a high-minded affair, a chance for the movers and shakers of the gothic twilight to air their deepest regrets on fancy moon-crystal masks. A public confessional, a spiritual cleansing, they said. Me? I saw it for what it was: another thinly veiled opportunity for Corporate Corp to gather intel on emotional vulnerabilities. They’re always looking for new metrics, new ways to quantify the unquantifiable, to turn sorrow into profit. CLX ain’t the only currency, kid, and regret? That’s a goldmine.

Pixel, bless her intrepid, glitch-chasing heart, was right in the thick of it. She’d donned one of those crystalline contraptions, a lightweight thing that seemed to drink the ambient gloom. I could feel the subtle shift in its emotional resonance, like a badly formatted data packet. And then, there it was, blossoming across the mask’s surface: a perpetually dim alleyway in Prime Material, a flickering neon sign for a forgotten data farm, and the spectral outline of a source she’d promised to protect. A whistleblower, silhouetted against a blizzard of unfiled corporate reports. Her journalist’s regret. A story she let slip. A common ailment among those who try to pry open the sealed vaults of corporate secrets. I’ve seen enough of those ghosts to wallpaper a thousand cubicles.

The Grand Hall of Penitent Whispers was a sight, I’ll give it that. Towering archways of petrified sorrow-wood, chandeliers dripping with solidified despair-dew. The air itself hung heavy with the metallic tang of crystallized emotion, a smell I’ve come to associate with corporate boardrooms after a particularly brutal quarterly review. A lone, mournful cello, wailing from some hidden alcove, laid down a soundtrack of woe. Very atmospheric. Very Nocturne. Very much like the background music they pipe into Corporate Corp’s ‘Synergy Enhancement’ seminars to subtly suppress dissent.

A1, in its usual stoic, electric-blue holographic form, shimmered into existence beside Pixel. Its core pulsed, a beacon of logical calm in a sea of manufactured angst. "Remarkable, Pixel. The atmospheric emotional resonance here is... palpable. My sensors indicate a surprisingly high fidelity in the regret crystallization. A testament to the efficacy of the lunar-crystal matrix, I presume." Always with the data, that one. Good machine, though. Reliable. Like a stapler that never jams.

Pixel’s retort, "Remarkably depressing, more like, A1," was exactly what I expected. She gets it. This wasn't catharsis; it was a public display of internal bleed-out. And then, as if on cue, the whole charade started unraveling.

I’ve seen systems fail before. From the time the Cogsworthian central clockwork bank seized up because someone forgot to oil the main spring, to the cascading data errors that brought down Prime Material’s entire telecommunications grid when a junior analyst spilled quantum coffee on the server. But this? This was different. This wasn’t just a glitch in the matrix; it was a deliberate, malicious re-routing of misery.

First, it was a hulking Cogsworthian dignitary. His mask, previously displaying the grim tableau of a stripped gear-train—classic Cogsworthian regret, probably a missed maintenance schedule or a botched quarterly audit—flickered. Then, it pulsed with a sickening, vibrant green, shifting to a verdant field of wilting flora, a single withered sapling at its heart. Botanical heartbreak. Not exactly a cog-regret, was it? More like a Verdantian’s lament. The dignitary let out a sound like a rusty hinge, utterly flummoxed. He looked like an executive who’d just found his performance bonus replaced with a potted fern.

Then it spread. Like a virus through an unpatched network. A Nocturnian socialite, her mask previously displaying a lover’s lost shadow, suddenly had hers showing a frantic, byte-brained scramble through a Prime Material data hub, a cascade of forgotten passwords. A hulking, cybernetically enhanced dinosaur, one of the banking elite, roared in confusion as his mask, which had been showing a devastating market crash (classic dino-banker regret, the kind that makes you want to nationalize the asteroid belt), now depicted a microscopic, fluffy kitten stuck in a tree. The absurdity was immediate, jarring. The cello music faltered, then died. Even the bioluminescent moss seemed to dim in protest.

Panic, a cold, sharp thing, began to ripple through the hall. Not just individual panic, but a collective emotional discordance that made the very air crackle like a faulty power transformer. People started tearing off their masks, but the images, instead of fading, just warped and clung to the empty air, like visual quantum echoes of a bad spreadsheet. Some masks were showing future regrets – a diplomat’s face twisted in horror as his mask projected an image of him accidentally spilling a goblet of glowing CLX all over the Empress of Whispers next week. Others showed other people’s regrets, creating a cacophony of shared, alien sorrow. It was like a cosmic game of emotional hot potato, and everyone was getting burned. A real bureaucratic cluster-flux.

"A1," Pixel muttered, her voice tight, "What the chronal cluster is going on?"

A1’s holographic form sharpened, its blue core spinning faster. "Anomalous emotional signatures, Pixel. The crystallization patterns are degrading rapidly. And... wait. The regret spectrum is being actively manipulated. It’s as if the lunar-crystal matrices are being overloaded with errant emotional data, but not randomly. There's a pattern to the discordance." It projected a small, shimmering graph in the air, showing spikes of emotional energy that weren't matching the physical proximity of the masked individuals. "Someone is siphoning and redirecting these emotional outflows. An Emotion Thief, perhaps."

An Emotion Thief. Great. As if Corporate Corp didn't already have enough ways to monetize human misery. I’d heard whispers about this in the filing cabinets, deep in the archives of forgotten memos and redacted reports. The 'Emotional Resource Harvesting' division. Always looking for new power sources, new ways to turn sorrow into profit. They’d tried it with frustration, with boredom, even with the faint, lingering regret of a forgotten lunch in the break room fridge. But regret? That was the big prize. A renewable resource, always in supply.

Pixel was scanning the shadows, trying to spot the source. She was good at it, the kid. Her corporate burnout had given her a knack for spotting the subtle tells of bureaucratic malfeasance. A1's calming field, a soft, almost imperceptible blue shimmer emanating from Pixel’s quantum gear, wrapped around her like a cool, neutral bubble. It was like A1 was putting noise-canceling headphones on her soul, allowing her to cut through the din of collective anguish. A good tool. You can’t investigate a corporate conspiracy if your circuits are fried by ambient despair.

And then, I saw him. A flicker in the shadows near the moon-crystal lens supply. He was swapping them out. Not just any lenses, mind you. These were charged. Different spectral signature. Felt... hollow. Like they’d been drained. Siphoned clean. And then replaced with these... blank slates. Seen it before. Corporate does it with 'motivation' seminars. Drains you dry, fills you with nothing but corporate-approved platitudes.

The perp wore a cloak, shadow-spun, moved like a ghost. He was good, slick. But I’ve been watching corporate spies since before most of these dimensions even had corporations. I’ve seen the most sophisticated stealth tech fail because some bean counter forgot to file a requisition for a new battery.

I knew what I had to do. A silent operation. No fuss, no fanfare. Just a precise application of pressure. I vibrated against Pixel’s hip, a series of frantic, almost violent thwocks. Not just one or two, but a rapid-fire burst, like a machine-gun stapler. Thwock-thwock-thwock-thwock!

"Clive? What is it?" she whispered, moving towards the dimly lit alcove.

He’s here, kid, my voice, a gravelly whisper in her mind, cut through the emotional din. Saw him, just a flicker, in the shadows near the moon-crystal lens supply. Swapping 'em out. These were charged. Different spectral signature. Felt... hollow. Like they'd been drained.

Drained? she thought, her mind racing. So the thief isn't just redirecting, they're siphoning the emotional energy?

Exactly, I affirmed, a single, sharp thwock. And then replacing them with these... blank slates. Seen it before. Corporate does it with 'motivation' seminars. Drains you dry, fills you with nothing. The perp wore a cloak, shadow-spun, moved like a ghost. But I got him, kid. Left my mark. A little something for the record.

I’d positioned myself with precision, a silent predator. As the figure glided past, a ripple in the fabric of the shadows, I extended my stapling arm. A quick, almost imperceptible thwock against the midnight-blue cloak. I used one of my special, anti-dimensional staples. Forged from repurposed data-spikes and hardened in the quantum furnace of a collapsed Prime Material server farm. Won't come off easy. A tiny 'X', almost invisible, near the hem. A permanent record. The kind of evidence that sticks, unlike most corporate promises.

Your mark? Pixel asked.

A tiny 'X', my voice held a note of satisfaction. Almost invisible, near the hem. Used one of my special, anti-dimensional staples. Won't come off easy. Word on the desk is, this whole operation stinks of Corporate Corp's 'Emotional Resource Harvesting' division. Heard whispers about it in the filing cabinets. They're always looking for new power sources, new ways to turn sorrow into profit. CLX ain't the only currency, kid.

Corporate Corp. Always Corporate Corp. Like a bad data echo, they follow you through every dimension, every reality. Their tendrils reaching into every aspect of existence, even your deepest regrets. It was just another day at the interdimensional office, really. Just a different kind of paperwork, a different kind of theft.

Pixel, guided by A1's calm projections and my intel, moved with purpose. She scanned the cloaks, her eyes cutting through the chaos. Most people were either tearing at their masks or staring in horrified fascination at the projections, their faces illuminated by alien sorrows. A true testament to the power of shared misery.

Then she saw him. The cloak. Deep, midnight blue, almost black in the shadows. But as he moved past a bioluminescent moss patch, I saw the glint too: a tiny, almost invisible metallic 'X' near the hem. My mark. The figure was tall, slender, and moved with a fluid, almost too-graceful motion. His mask, unlike everyone else's, was completely blank, shimmering with an unnerving, empty silver. No regret at all. A red flag the size of a Prime Material skyscraper. A blank slate. The ultimate corporate ideal.

"A1," Pixel murmured, "Target identified. Blank mask, midnight cloak, and I’m betting Clive’s 'X' is on it. Can you confirm any... unusual energy readings from that individual?"

A1’s holographic form sharpened, its blue core pulsing rapidly. "Affirmative, Pixel. That individual is a nexus of suppressed emotional energy. And... yes. There are distinct, subtle siphoning conduits emanating from his person, connecting to the lunar-crystal network. He's not just redirecting; he's absorbing the overflow. A truly insidious 'emotional vacuum cleaner,' if you will."

An emotional vacuum cleaner. Perfect. Another corporate drone, designed to drain the life out of everything it touched. Just as A1 finished, the figure, sensing he was being watched, turned. His blank mask swiveled to face Pixel, and I felt a chill that had nothing to do with Nocturne’s perpetual twilight. There was a faint, almost imperceptible flicker on the blank mask, and for a split second, I saw it: a tiny, almost microscopic image of a perfectly organized spreadsheet. Every cell filled, every target met, every human emotion meticulously categorized and filed away. The ultimate corporate regret – or perhaps, the ultimate corporate dream. A chilling vision of pure, unadulterated efficiency. A soul so devoid of personal regret, its only internal landscape was a perfectly balanced ledger.

The figure began to glide away, melting into the deeper shadows. He was heading for the lower catacombs, a well-known escape route for those who preferred to avoid the usual channels. Typical. Always looking for the back door, the loophole, the unmonitored exit.

"A1, tactical analysis. What's his escape vector?" Pixel demanded, already moving.

"Primarily through the lower catacombs, Pixel," A1 responded, projecting a faint, shimmering map over her field of vision. "There appears to be a hidden portal, likely linked to a Corporate Corp harvesting facility in the Prime Material data-voids. Shall I prepare a phase-shift sequence?"

"You know it, A1," Pixel grinned, her own regret-mask glowing with renewed determination. She was chasing the story. She always does. And a story about an emotion thief harvesting regrets for Corporate Corp? That was a story worth chasing, even if it meant diving into a Prime Material data-void.

Me? I just watched them go. Another day, another dollar, another piece of corporate malfeasance. The Masquerade was in tatters, the air thick with the echoes of alien sorrows and future blunders. But the perp had been tagged. The intel had been delivered. And somewhere, in a dark corner of a Prime Material data-void, a spreadsheet was about to get a new entry. The wheels of corporate bureaucracy, like the gears of a cosmic clock, grind on. And I’ll be here, watching, waiting, and stapling the evidence. Because someone has to keep the records straight in this absurd, glitch-ridden multiverse.