**Ian--early morning**

While waiting for his work computer to load, Ian pulled a small piece of paper off his monitor and added a tally mark. Only four more weeks. With views of the Pacific Ocean; Astoria and Cannon Beach would be the perfect destinations to kick back with his laptop and fine tune the code for a couple startup projects he'd been tinkering with at home. He couldn't wait.

This Oregon trip had been programmed into Ian ever since he was a young boy attending elementary school in Buffalo, New York. It was there, in his fourth-grade classroom, where Ian was first introduced to computers and the Oregon Trail Game. Played on an old Apple II with a green screen monitor, the Oregon Trail Game opened up new worlds of possibilities and understanding for the future engineer. Ian hoped a visit to the physical place where the virtual game was won would help revive his passion for computers with child-like enthusiasm.

After email messages were checked, Ian glanced over his shoulder at his coworkers' empty desks. A few quiet moments still remained before the troops rolled in. Double clicking the web browser on his computer, he loaded up his Wattpad account.

Just making sure the bug's fixed, he thought to himself as he searched for Amanda's Wattpad username--@YoDaBestR2D2.

Clicking on her profile, Ian glanced at her snake and caterpillar story to make sure everything was operational. While verifying the mature button functioned properly, Ian's focus became tangled in the story's description. It read, in part; If life hasn't turned out the way you wished it would, but you still have hope in your heart--this story is for you. Curiosity and promises of a feel-good story pulled Ian's cursor to an orange button labeled: Read.

Click

Maintaining an extra cautious and steady hand to avoid an accidental click inside a star that would submit a vote for the chapter, Ian cast an eye over Amanda's short story written with song-like rhythm. Upon reaching the story's end, he pressed a fist against his lips to hide a smirk.

I wasn't expecting it to be so--. He paused, tempted to leave his virtual signature by voting for the last page of her story. The cursor arrow hovered over the star which--if clicked--would notify Amanda of his admiration for her writing.

She's cute and nerdy, Ian thought, pulling the cursor away from the vote button without clicking it. Vulgar, yet deeply thoughtful. Simple, but brilliant. All simultaneously! How is that even--?

Amanda's Wattpad 'about' page filled Ian's monitor. He quickly scanned the books in her reading lists, then skimmed her bio. "What's Wattdrunk Fridays?" he whispered, referencing a hashtag in her description before clicking a link redirecting him to: Amanda's All About Nonsense Blog.

The appearance of Amanda's blog was both girly and cringeworthy--as if a candy-coated unicorn sharted pink and purple Skittles all over the screen. Merging the comical feel of the website with memories of a woman who spoke fluent Cyborgian in Swedish, Ian couldn't help but chuckle.

"Can't. Look. Away," he whispered.

He skimmed Amanda's latest blog entry until he got to the point where he stumbled over the DTF acronym. "What--?" Googling the three letters, he received an explanation he wasn't quite expecting. A prolonged and disgusted sigh escaped his lips. Sometimes I'm embarrassed to be associated with certain members my gender.

Shaking his head, Ian continued reading. When he got to the part in the blog where Amanda ranted about people not having to leave their houses anymore, he stopped. "That reminds me--."

Opening another window in his browser, he checked the status of his Amazon.com order. Oh good! Toothpaste and deodorant come today. Geez--be more proactive next time, eh? Maybe you should create a spreadsheet to track household items. He scrolled through the order status page on his screen a bit further. Oreos come on Wednesday!

Flipping back to Amanda's blog, Ian continued reading until Mouth's voice made him nearly leap out of his chair. "What is that monstrosity on your monitor?"

Scrambling to line up his cursor over the X to close the window, Ian exited the blog. "I was checking something."

"Membership fees for Barbie's Fan Club?" Mouth chuckled at his joke as he placed a messenger-style bag on his desk. He watched as Ian reposted the tally sheet to his monitor with tape. "Have you made an itinerary for Oregon yet?"

"Yeah. A couple museums. Some hiking. Coding a few side projects."

With his lips pressed in a straight line, Mouth raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes. His expression was one of sarcasm. "Sounds exciting."

"There's also a big ping pong scene I'm going to check out in Portland."

"Stop," Mouth said, plopping in his desk chair. "Or I'll be too jealous to concentrate on work today." After turning on his computer, he added, "You're still gonna see the Goondocks, I hope."

"I'm planning on it."

"As long as the Sacajawea Museum isn't off the hook, I presume?"

Before Ian could respond, Sloth strolled into the room wearing an untucked, printed t-shirt that read: I speak three languages. English. Profanity. Sarcasm. With puffy eyes and hair sticking out in every direction, it appeared as though the potty mouth of Team Goonies had rolled out of bed and came directly to work.

"Did you even shower this morning?" Ian asked, observing Sloth's untamed beard and dirty jeans.

"Late night," Sloth explained. "No way in hell I was gonna let SoccerMom48 out deathmatch me before I went to bed."

Mouth snickered. "Sounds like an ad for Viagra." In a dramatic commercial voice, he said, "When even SoccerMom scores more than you do!" Sloth glared at Mouth.

Ian waited for the last arrival to get situated at his computer, then asked, "Hopefully you didn't forget we're meeting with Aleem today?"

Eyes fixed on the surface of his desk, Sloth released a long, drawn out reply. "Fuuuuuuuuuck." He sat for a moment in silence with his eyes closed. "Tell me we're meeting this afternoon."

"Before lunch," Ian replied. "10."

"Fuuuuuuuuuck," Sloth drawled again, hitting his forehead on the keyboard a couple times. "Someone go get me Tim Hortons before I do something that puts Wattpad on the front page of tomorrow's newspaper."

"You got your ass handed to you by someone named Soccer Mom," Mouth said. "You think a doughnut will help? They're doughnuts not grownuts."

Sloth wadded up a piece of paper and threw it at Mouth, then turned his attention towards Ian. "Why is Aleem meeting with us again?"

"Aleem's asking each department to brainstorm ideas to further Wattpad's mission to make a difference in the world with words and stories."

"She thinks we know?"

"He," Mouth injected.

"Data--can you fix him?" Sloth asked, throwing another paper wad at Mouth.

"Aleem feels collecting perspectives from every angle of the company--technical angle, research angle, user angle--will open up a better understanding of how to move forward."

"Well," Sloth began, "I've already said what I think about this stuff. They can hump the blowup humanitarian doll all they want, but in the end--it's the man behind the technology pulling the strings. And the one pulling the strings controls the value of words and ideas."

"Wouldn't it be the person holding the cash who pulls the strings?" Mouth questioned.

"Oh--," Sloth hollered. "Money can definitely buy a rich guy a puppet show. But at the end of the day--if Daddy Warbucks doesn't understand how the technology works--it's not his money scented fingers touching the strings."

"I don't know why," Mouth began, "but I'm suddenly turned on by marionettes."

"Wrong," Sloth corrected. "You create the technology. It's the marionettes who are turned on by you."

Mouth gave a squeal similar in tone to Pixar's Olaf. "I like this story!"

Sloth wasn't entirely wrong. He had a valid point. If the greatest story ever written was never read, it would have little value. Words unable to pass through the conscious mind of a reader can't change anything about the world--except in the life of the person who wrote them.

"People may have the free will to choose what words and ideas they fill their heads with," Ian said, thinking out loud. "But if someone behind the scenes is deciding what choices are available--then we aren't as free willed as we think we are."

"Data's becoming such a big boy," Sloth teased. "Awakening to the harsh realities of the world."

"I shall now call anyone who's technologically illiterate a--marionette," Mouth announced.

"If it's true," Ian countered. "And it's a big IF. What responsibilities or roles do those that control the technology have in all this?"

Sloth grinned, seemingly entertained by Ian's desperate search to find the moral and ethical high ground in the discussion. "I'm pretty sure it means future bad boy books are going to be flooded with computer programmers in the lead roles. Bro, if you take hot bodies out of the equation--we're the definition of bad boys! We can control a person's choices and his or her power to succeed."

"The shiz. We control the shiz!" Ian and Sloth turned towards Mouth with eyes squinted in confusion. "The shiz? You know--she, he, him, her, his? We control the shiz!"

"Shiz is slag for shit, you idiot."

Mouth grinned. "We control ALL the shit--even pronouns."

There was a slight nod of unforeseen agreement from Sloth before he returned his attention back to Ian. "As I was saying, we're the bad boys now. We control the code so we control people's choices. We control their power to succeed. We can manipulate the virtual world in a way where people will change who they are to get noticed. We decide if a person's words and ideas matter--or not."

Mouth held his hands in front of himself as though reaching out to touch a beautiful goddess. "I can see it now. The Bad Boy Computer Programmers of Wattpad--And Their Swooning Marionettes. Coming to a theater near you."

In an effort to put an abrupt end to the conversation, Ian looked at Sloth and said, "Well--Aleem will be here in less than an hour. You should've worn something besides your pajamas today."

Lowering his forehead to his keyboard, Sloth drawled another, "Fuuuuuuuuck!"