The office is a snapshot of the process of aging. Yellowed wallpaper, peeled-off in places. Dirt on the windows and the bare neon tubes. A scratched, stained desk with an off-beige CRT monitor and a grimy keyboard on it. Papers lay around haphazard, but the data within is sorted and organized to the last digit. It's been matched, fitted, all outliers excised, turned this way and that, but there's not enough. Not nearly enough data to support a hypothesis so outlandish that even the most eccentric patron wouldn't fund it.
The year is 2014, and the study has been on its last leg for months, dying for lack of subjects. Then, the phone rings.
Despite his already worried expression, the scientist manages to frown harder. The call is a surprise, and it's been a long, long time since the last welcome surprise. The string of unwelcome ones has left him wary of his inbox, his doorbell, but his phone in particular. As always, he considers letting it ring through. As always, he picks it up.
"There's a new one, doc." The caller speaks with hurried excitement that the scientist instantly reciprocates.
"A new subject? How far along?"
"Still fresh. Only the first incident, yet."
"Describe it." There's a desperate hunger in the scientist's voice. He needs this data; he needs it to validate his hypothesis, but more than that, he needs it to validate the choices which led him here, into this dead-end crackpot study.
"College student by the name of K, also an amateur writer. Works as an intern at B Corp; as part of that, he got to know quite a number of people. Among them is an Ilmar — unusual name, that one, and it's not only the name that rings a bell for K. Quite a few other details fall into place as well: his profession, his hobby of brewing hard liquor. Even his age and his general appearance fit, though K had imagined someone more prosperous and a bit more well-groomed."
"An enormous coincidence," the scientist says gleefully.
"That's what K is likely thinking right now. Sources report him chuckling as he realized how everything fit together. He has no idea yet what has actually happened to him."
"Of course not. No one realizes it in the first incident. After all, it's quite a leap of logic. Keep your eyes on him."
"I will."
2018. The office hasn't changed, though the scientist has. He's leaner, more tired, but his ever-present worry cuts less deep. There's been an influx of data recently, at least compared to his less-than-inspiring average. The hypothesis holds. There's more hope in the scientist's eyes, but also more fear of disappointment.
The phone rings, and he picks it up decisively.
"News on subject K, doc."
"Already? Did he have his second incident?"
"Yep. He didn't just meet the second incident, he talked to him quite extensively. Character going by the online handle of sein, no real name known. A bit of a smartass online, quite the knowledge of technology, and a striking disregard for the privacy of others. They got along, of course."
"Did he notice any differences?"
"Always. Nationality, gender identity, a number of other details. That being said, the similarities are more striking."
The scientist smiles in anticipation of a valuable data point. "Does K suspect?"
"He's a realist type. Convinced that there's an objective truth to the universe, believes in science as a tool to find it. Course, that's only what he tells himself, but who doesn't do that? That said, he's a romantic. Prone to flights of fancy."
"He suspects, then, and likely masks it in jest."
"Aye. That's just how he copes, I suppose, when his worldview crumbles around him. Next thing he'll do is write even more metafiction as an outlet for his paranoia."
"One of those types, then? That's fine. It's always more interesting when they suspect the third incident. There tend to be more subversions and less linearly progressive patterns. What does he expect?"
The shrug is audible over the phone. "Ain't sure yet, and he'll probably change his mind quite a few times until it rolls around. Four years, eh?"
The scientist checks his files. "2014, then 2018. 2022 seems like a reasonable guess, unless he expects the date, in which case it will likely get subverted." There's a wistful smile on the scientist's face. "Too bad it's a no-contact field study. What I'd give for a piece of K's mind right now."
Unlikely? Oh, of course. Ludicrous, almost impossible. There's no conspiracy watching me, and if there were, Occam's razor would suggest that they had doctored the incidents, not just recorded them. Still, the scenario is just one of many which could explain this jarring coincidence.
I've met two characters from two of my books — one released, one not quite yet. Of course, they were their own people, and to suggest that they're my creations would be demeaning, and also quite insane.
Still.
It's like a plot I'd write. The line of reality and fiction gets blurred slowly, over years. No lasting consequences at first, but the oddities pile up, and soon enough, there are clear signs that "reality" might not have such an unshakable foundation after all. And if I had written this, it would work through a rule of three. First one to establish, second to confirm, and the third to subvert.
What's coming next, I wonder? Which book? Might it be one I haven't written yet?
And in the idle hours of the night, when the questions cease, my author brain kicks in. If this truly were a story, I would want the main character to notice everything strange, walk open-eyed into the adventure before him, and optimize.
In the light of day, I know all that to be lunacy. Yet it's always in the back of my head. When I design a character, I ask myself: would it be dangerous to meet them in real life? Is the risk too great?
I think in tropes, and act to exploit dramatic irony, rules of three, and foreshadowing. When I cross the street, I avoid trucks in particular.
All those little superstitions, born from a single seed of insanity.
Metafiction. Never even once.