90 Seconds on The Verge

And then there were three. The latest crime was accompanied by yet another note. "By now you may have surmised the predicament you find yourselves in," the butler read. "This evening did not happen by chance, and you are not the strangers you might think." I traded glances with the other guests. I knew what kind of people they were, but had I met them? Not that I could remember. "There is a connection amongst all of you," he said. "Discovering it is your only hope of escaping this house alive."

There was panic. But really, what would you expect when one of the guests was found murdered? The reaction was normal. The things we discovered soon after, however, were not. The fact that the doors were locked. That the cars had been sent away. That none of us remaining would be able to leave the residence for the evening. "It is raining quite hard outside," the butler said. That detail was of little significance, but the note in his hand was another matter. It was a new message from our mystery host.

We arrived at the house, the lot of us invited by a host that still hadn't seen fit to reveal his — or her — identity. A simple card, written in a careful hand, and delivered by personal messenger. That was the only communication any of us had received. As we milled in the hall, I looked at the other guests. Each of them striking in their own way, with easy smiles and guarded eyes. The eyes of people with secrets. This was going to be a most intriguing evening.

One, two, three, four, five, everybody in the car so come on let's ride...seriously, get in the car! They're coming!

90 Seconds on The Verge: Wednesday, June 20th, 2013

I used to go to The Cheesecake Factory with my grandparents on Christmas Eve. Good memories. Happy times.

"The only thing you can't have in this perfect world of total pleasure is your 30th birthday . . . Logan is 29. Welcome to the 23rd Century. Welcome to Rapture. We all make choices, but in the end our choices make us."

A face. A word. A message. A consequence. A fleeting glance before the storm. Then, an album.

"Hey, check that out. There's a bounty hunter behind you." "It's not a bounty hunter." "I'm serious! Look!" "That's a robotic assassin, dude. They're two totally different things."

"Hey, check that out. There's a bounty hunter behind you." "It's not a bounty hunter." "I'm serious! Look!" "That's a robotic assassin, dude. They're two totally different things."

"I am undoubtedly, you know, Steve of Internet, downtown, fashion, culture. Period." Ellipses. I am also the Bill of BBS, bayside, cartography, graphic design. Another ellipses. I am the Phil of FTP, the suburbs, ornithology, charcoal sketches. One more ellipses. I am the Craig of World Wide Web, Providence, Rhode Island, molecular biology, and stencil work. Period.

Check in every 17 hours. Flinch. Don't flinch. Sign on. Transfer ownership. Change permissions. Input data. Not that data. Swipe up. Swipe left. Push start. Save to Camera Roll. Reset password. Share with your friends. Dance.

It had been hours and... nothing. Quiet enough that it was starting to feel that this was going to be another mission that led nowhere. He'd had too many of those. Too many in a file that was slowly growing thick with assignments, but no successes. That's when the radio crackled next to him. Tape started to roll. Contact.

"What we have right here is the absolute latest in technological innovation! More power than you can handle! More speed than you'll ever need! This is the high-octane, 21st century future, and it can all be yours — for just $5,999!"

It began like any other weekend day. A comforting breakfast, a leisurely stroll, and a late lunch at that restaurant near Monroe Street. Little did we know that things were about to change. That evolution and science had teamed up for a twist that would change the fate of humanity as we knew it. Little did we know that this would be the day of the zombie pigeon invasion.