Four

He could punch a wall right now. Send his arm straight through it, and splatter plaster everywhere. Rip out the wood, tear at the wires, and gnaw the steel supports away. He’d take every last bit of the dirty tan walls and mash them into dust, then sweep that dust into a deep hole, and cover it up. Maybe he’d throw the horrid green tile floor down there with it. In fact, throw the whole deal down there: the lumpy cot, the smelly green sofa, and especially the television that was ten years out of date. He’d take all of it, and toss it out the tiny window. He’d find a way to make it fit, even if he had to tear it apart. See what this boredom was making him do? It was making him sit here, thinking of ways he could take the room apart and throw it out the window, into the sea below. It’s not like there was much to remove, anyways.

The boredom was unlike anything he had ever felt before. Stare at a flickering computer screen for twelve hours a day, watch the tiny number in the corner of the screen go down in value and then back up, but make sure it doesn’t go too far in either amount too fast. That was his day.

No, that was his life.

The griffon wanted to feel useful, to feel that his parents were of proud him, despite the many failures he’d churned out.  He wanted them to feel pride and joy when they beheld the pudgy griffon in their eyes, to have them be able to say “Our boy helps keep this place running.”

But he expected to be able to do that in a way that wasn’t boring. The griffon would sign up for anything, no matter how dangerous, no matter how long it would take. While they sure got the long part right, they forgot the excitement and thrill.

The bird pony sighed and hopped down from his makeshift seat on the windowsill, the loud hum of the fan on the computer demanding he end his staring at the rough ocean and return to his duty. Regrettably, he forced his unwilling body to move back to a place it could be “productive,” two stubby, ill-kept talons scratching and scuffing the hideous bile-coloured tile with each step. He was headed back to that awful computer to monitor trillions of numbers changing slightly every second. Grabbing onto the backing of the grimy swivel chair he had to reside in most of the day, he gave it a quick spin and hopped in as it slowed down, perfectly timed so that when the chair came to a halt, he’d be facing the screen. When you spend five weeks doing work like this, you pick up little tricks.

A few sharp, overgrown talons clutched onto a green aluminum can resting on the tiny wooden desk and sat back, paying attention only to the two things that actually mattered: the total number, and the number of items that’s changed since last the system checked the list. Just make sure nothing funny happens with those two numbers, and he was fine. “So easy that a mentally handicapped, cross-eyed cavemare could do it!” his supervisors told him. Boy, were they right.

Luckily, he only had fifteen more minutes of this, as 12:00 AM was very near. After that, he could lie back in his stiff cot and “enjoy” a good night’s sleep. Sleep’s sweet embrace would have to be set aside, however, as he had work to do, and that work required fuel. Putting his hind paws up against the side of the desk, he pushed away and whistled while his chair wheeled into the kitchen. This wasn’t exactly a difficult feat, even with his stubby, weak legs, as the kitchen was only ten steps away.

When the wheels of the chair turned no more, the lazy griffon found himself among a stove, a refrigerator, and a sink full of dirty dishes. Wasn’t much, but hey, the appliances didn’t explode when he used them, so he didn’t have the right to complain. That didn’t stop him from doing it often.

The fridge was dirty and ugly, also quite out of date. A keypad on the front controlled the lock as well as provided a means for the supplier to check how much credit he has. The idea irritated him, they already stuck him in this room for days on end, and now they’re making him pay for food? The griffon muttered in discontent as he punched his number into the old, clicky panel, a few beeps and it opened. A can of soda, a bowl of lettuce, and a burger plopped down the chute, fresh from the restaurant. It wasn’t gourmet, but it’s what his salary dictated he could afford daily. The wrapping on the food crinkled under his talons and a swift kick sealed the stupid door shut.

Tossing his head back, the bird pony enjoyed his swig of the syrupy liquid, it was practically the only thing that kept him going throughout all this same-old same-old at this point. He flipped his powerful tail, sending the office chair rolling into the beaten up desk, and took his time in reaching the computer. The numbers would still be there in a few seconds. They’d still be there for a few minutes.

He daydreamed as he walked back to the computer chair, reminiscing about his first day on the job. Heck, he didn’t have much else to do. The first thought that came to mind was a lab colt yelling at him for spilling cola on a control panel.

“Mel!” The unicorn’s face was contorted into a mask of pure hatred for the griffon’s bumbling ways. “This is the fifth time you’ve done this! Not this year, month, not even this week! The fifth time today! Today!” The rest was just a mishmash of other ponies yelling at him and ordering him to do grunt work around the office. Oh, how he envied them right now, stuck in their comfy little rooms while he was back in this place. It was like a prison.

When he emerged from his dream world, he found himself staring at an empty list. Well, he’d better get to monitoring. Monitor Boy, they called him. He mockingly giggled at the nickname, before something hit him like a lead brick to the groin. The list was empty.

Searching frantically up and down the list, Mel couldn’t find a single number. It shouldn’t be empty. If the list was empty, that meant bad things. Very, very bad things, things that were irreversible.

He took a few deep breaths, trying to recall the troubleshooting procedure, but every corner of his mind was screaming “It’s all over!” Mel held his head in his hooves, trying his hardest to silence the alarms and screaming, just so he could remember what he was supposed to do. He could recall bits and pieces, the unicorn’s words to him on his first day. Closing his eyes and repeating these words to himself aloud, he followed the directions he gave himself, albeit with shaky claws.

“Refresh the list by hitting the blue circle icon. Sometimes the list—“ he paused to tap a claw to his chin, digging through piles of old memories jammed into his cluttered head. “Something something out of date.”

He grasped the mouse and maneuvered the cursor to the blue circle in the top right, placing all his hopes in the click of the mouse. The whir of a hard drive filled the room, and Mel shut his eyes. This should work, he didn’t know what it did, but it should work. It had to work.

He could just imagine the unicorn walking in and standing over his shoulder, tearing into him with insults and lectures that he wouldn’t remember until it’s too late. The lecturing turned into yelling, and it seemed like there were four of them, all cooperating with the intent of making Mel feel like as much of a failure as he could. He held his head, slamming it against the table, wanting it all to stop. He wasn’t a failure, he’d fix this!

And as suddenly as the whirring stopped, so did the voices. Everything was calm. Lifting his head up just enough to see the screen, his heart sank again. There were only four numbers, and the circle icon was gone, meaning this list was the most current. Normally, that blue circle would be flickering on and off with the sheer speed of the list updating and going out of date, but it was greyed out, nothing was changing, thus no need to fetch a new list.

The room began to spin again, the weight of the situation landing on him like a tanker truck on a watermelon.

“You’re a failure!”

His employer’s words rang in his head as the world turned black.