Mister Dancer - ch 22

Final chapter: 

Mister Dancer - ch 23 end'Will you delete this profile?'I stare at the popup from the job board, wondering if there's some way I could avoid this. Getting to try a bunch of new jobs was fun. There's many I haven't even seen yet.But there would always be a chance I could screw up somewhere doing something I wasn't trained for, potentially endangering lives and harming some company. Without Ned's team to wipe the records, any repercussions would come back to me.So I click 'Yes' and confirm the selection. The screen goes dark for a moment, then 'Mr. Dancer' is gone and my old 'Wil7429' profile is back with the same old four jobs. I exit back into my home world before I can stare too long at them and regret the necessary choice.My news feed starts scrolling down in the central view. Headlines with the words 'Neural Jack Disconnections' and 'Safe Tethering Practices' are everywhere but easy to ignore. I search for articles I haven't seen before and save them for later: 'Where Droids and Partners Fail' and 'How To Pick Apples IRL' and 'Can Disconnected Minds Legally Refuse To Return?' As far as I knew, every free mind in Ned's group had been captured or stopped from affecting their areas. No one could say if all of them had been found, but a spreading awareness of their existence and the efforts of UN forces meant disconnections had all but stopped and more people were being found and re-tethered every day.On that night, more disconnections had happened every hour than usually occurred in a year, with victims all across the world.Reporters had swarmed our house over the next few days asking about the video I'd helped Vin's channel create. Marc's lawyers arrived ahead of them and helped me decide what to say: the video had been recorded by Marc's androids and provided to me during my employment with their game company. If the reporters wanted to learn more, they would need to ask Marc. Some of them had also noticed Marc on the research paper's funding list and dug up my history, putting together their own reasons for why I had the video.As long as they got the important facts straight, I was happy to let them think what they wanted.When a timer buzzes, I close my news feed and push the screen off my face. After freeing my ankles, sitting up and turning off the rig, I walk over to my closet to put on my jogging gear. ~-~In the kitchen downstairs, I rinse out my breakfast dishes before grabbing an apple from our new fruit bowl in the kitchen's center. We've got oranges now too, and some bananas with spreading brown spots. I'll have to ask if there's some reason to keep them after they start going bad.At the door, my hand pauses near the handle. Even knowing what I'll see out there, there's some part of me which needs a moment to mentally prepare. I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and go.Mom and Dad sit together on the bench outside. Her head leans against his shoulder.She is small, gaunt and bony, with a thin neck and frail shoulders. The human body can't stay healthy without movement, after all. Her arms can barely lift a bowl of soup and she may never walk again. An ultra-light wheelchair waits nearby, a gift from Marc and Xharm.“Heading out,” I say. Though I don't see anyone down by the street yet.“Hold up,” she whispers. “No hurry.” When I'm standing in front of her, she gives me that warm, familiar smile. “Snack? Should take, um, water.”I nod, holding up the apple. “Reminds me. The bananas, uh, they're browning? Garbage?” Her grin widens. “Banana bread. So delish. I'll teach.”Aside from her physical condition, she's the same as I remember.Dad clears his throat. “Had a, um, important question.” He glances at Mom, then back to me. “We saw, uh, house application? Moving out?” “Maybe,” I admit. So they'd seen the forms on the kitchen counter. “I can, eh, afford it. Seems like, you know, right time.”“Seem sure.” Dad nods, as if that was all he really cared about. “Good. Know where?” “Trying for, um, this neighborhood.” It wasn't guaranteed, but I wanted to be close when they needed help with things. “If I, uh, get one, let's have, eh, dinner there.” Dad grins, bobbing his head in agreement. “We'll celebrate. Big day. Moving out.”If I'd left before Mom came back, he would have been lonely. That had always been on my mind, though also I probably just felt comfortable here. Only recently had I wanted a place of my own.“Maybe have, uh,” Mom murmurs, half-grinning, “a housemate? Roommate?” “A girlfriend?” Dad parrots her, also grinning.Mom nudges him, “Or boyfriend.”I look away from them, rolling my eyes even as I can't meet their gazes. “Not yet.” How could I get them off this old topic sooner? “Keep strengthening, um, your connections,” Mom tells me, her voice serious now. “Your friends, uh, or partners. With everyone.”Dad and I both look at her, somewhat confused. She pats his arm and smiles at me. “Still there. Can feel, eh, my tether. Fragile thread, you know, inside me.” Her gaze falls to the floor before she whispers, “Could disconnect. Way too easy for anyone once a free mind.” After a breath, she grins at me, then to Dad as she grips his arm tighter.His arm crosses over hers, holding her in place. They smile at each other. Behind me, I hear the auto-van pull up. Voices emerge from the opening doors: Vin chattering on about his latest favorite thing, Lin adding to his pitch practice with ideas for their next video, and one of the guys from Vin's group – and now apparently Lin's boyfriend, according to the recent updates of their UR profiles – arguing the brand in question is known for using low-quality materials. Before I go join them, there's a question I'm half-afraid to ask, but I have to know.“Still think, uh, it's inevitable?”Mom shrugs. “Might be. People can, you know, make mistakes.” Her head turns and leans against Dad, then tilts back to stare out at the sky. “Humanity should outlast any one person, no matter if they're code or flesh.” The grin returns and she glances at me. “Go do, uh, your part.” I roll my eyes and turn to leave. “We're just, eh, going jogging. See ya.”“Have fun,” Dad calls out as I walk down the stairs. Next to Lin, I spot Erin, the yoga woman who suggested I try apples. Her eyes meet mine at about the same moment and she gives a small wave. When I reach the group, she murmurs to me. “The studies, um, on jogging – their depth, eh, surprised me.” “We can, uh, also walk,” I assure her. “New things, well, take time.”“I'll survive,” she shoots back, glaring and grinning at the same time. I motion with my head towards the others. “You might, but them?”Erin hums and nods. “Good idea. Start slow.”An auto-car slides to a stop across the road and Kali, the fashion designer I'd met in the city, jumps out. She's wearing a sparkly jumpsuit that looks like a glitter bomb exploded above her – which isn't that unlikely when I consider her other work. The rest of us are in the loose, light clothing that I'd told them would be easier to jog in – although apparently Vin couldn't help wearing jerseys and shorts with brand logos plastered all over. As Kali approaches, I wonder if she's going to overheat. “Organic apples are my new favorite thing,” she gushes to me as soon as she's in earshot. “Is everyone ready? Let's go!”Her enthusiasm sends her off down the sidewalk, followed by Vin who looks determined not to be beaten. Lin and the other guy follow, so Erin and I end up in the back. Despite not being local, Kali seems ready to guide us around … and does so until she tires herself out a few blocks later. Vin takes the lead after that with a smug smile as he starts turning down streets with a purpose. We take a break at the park so Kali can hunch over, gasping with her hands on her knees and Lin rubbing her back. Vin lays collapsed against the slide while the rest of us stand nearby. “Tell me a thing, Wil.” Vin stares at me. “Have you tried one of those retro cool treadmills? Do you know any good brands for them?”“I actually did recently.” While escaping the circus outside our home one day when Dad was with Mom at the hospital. “The activities room at the office has a treadmill, though I didn't notice the brand. But they're really not that great to use. Or I guess they don't feel the same? I think because the machine does most of the work.” Erin adds, “Treadmills get used a lot by athletes, or when researches want more precise data. But jogging is free and seems to be more efficient as exercise.” Vin considers her and I for a moment, then shrugs and looks away. “I'm gonna buy myself a treadmill.” I'm about to nod and let the comment go when Mom's advice comes back to me. Looking around, I notice Lin and her boyfriend still helping Kali, and Erin looking at me. Despite how much Vin likes having the most followers, right now he looks the most alone. “As long as you still come jogging with us, Vin.” There was something I'd noticed today; jogging with a group felt way less awkward than jogging alone had ever been. “It's more fun with more people.” He sighs. “I guess if you insist. Machines are great for some things, but not for everything.” ~-~Later than night, I log into the job board again to do some more work before bed. Housing applications aren't cheap, so I'll need to take every shift I can get for a while. A small notification on my profile grabs my attention. Clicking it opens up a new screen. 'Due to recent work experience, you may now apply for these jobs.' Under that is a list that keeps going and going and going … ~ FIN ~...
First: 

Mister Dancer - ch 1When did jogging get easy? Okay, not easy, exactly. At some point these sweaty walks got faster, steadier and maybe even routine. The when doesn’t really matter. Now it’s easier than … work, maybe. But work will always be hard. Why else would they pay us. Hustling along the empty sidewalk, the late-morning haze filters the sunlight to a distant warmth. A tiny mail car shoots down the empty street, slowing only when it goes past me. Another streaks through an intersection far ahead. Factory identical houses, one after another. Dirt lots, maybe an unkempt flower bed, empty driveways next to flood floors. Each home has a few visible differences: window curtains, deck furniture and other outdoor garbage mostly. Back when they were built, each of the thousand or so houses in the neighborhood had been painted one of a hundred pastel colors. Are they able to use different colors in other places? I turn at the corner. A few houses down the road, an old lady stands, water can and cutters in hand amid a yard full of vibrant flowers. She smiles and I nod in passing. I don’t know her but I do jog by here often. There’s no one else around. Or rather, no one outside. More come out in the evening, perhaps to walk around in groups, sit on benches and discuss the day’s scores and prizes. Especially couples, young and old alike, spending time together before they go back home to be alone. I jog and think about the evening, when I’ll be off work. Focusing so I can ignore the sights along the way, like … A red and white ambulance parked outside a yellow house. Three medic droids wheel out a blob of flesh in a blue bathrobe, still sitting in their chair. Probably stuck to it. They heft the blob, all three straining, onto the ambulance’s ramp and push the chair up into the back. You sometimes see them use cranes. On the other side of the street, I jog past. Gotta keep moving to reach the destination. Two small faces stare out a window of the yellow house. That’s why you go outside. ~-~ I jog up the stairs of our house. At the door I stop, allow myself to finally relax, and turn to go sit in the porch swing. Nice day after all, even with the haze. My cell has a bunch of message notifications. Most of them are my local IRL group talking about meetup plans, along with some spam and a few automatic reminders. I delete everything else. There’s a bit of a breeze, just enough to keep the air clean. Birds fly by, or drones shaped like birds. Who can tell anymore. A big mail truck rumbles up and parks across the street, the logo for a sports drink on the side. I stand, walk back to the door and tap in the keycode. Dad is in the kitchen, sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee and his newspaper. The ads on every page start moving each time he moves his head. A story on the front page flashes once before updating a few details. “Morn,” I say, walking to the fridge. The paper rustles behind me. “Sup.” My post-jog drink in the fridge is a bright neon green. Real OJ brand Chartreuse Juice. All the added vitamins and minerals a stable body needs. I pour out the remainder in the jug, filling my cup to the brim, then tap the message on the fridge door saying I’d like to order another. Dad tilts his head out from behind the newspaper and eyes my drink, but says nothing. I shrug and take a sip. No matter what he thinks, Chartreuse Juice is better than most of the other stuff on the market. It’s more bitter than sweet. He sighs and puts down his paper. “Good jog?” “The best.” His arms fold over a sugar gut and he smirks. “For real?” The ambulance siren receding in the other direction comes to mind. I grin and twist my hand like I’m shaking off water. “Nice weather.” While I finish my juice, he picks his newspaper back up. I pour egg hashbrown mix into a bowl, sprinkle on some hot sauce and head for the microwave. The kitchen stays quiet for a minute other than the steady cooking buzz. Going to the sink, I rinse and scrub the sticky residue from my cup. “Retirement good?” He chuckles. “The best.” “Can’t wait.” I open up the drawer beside the dishwasher and pull out a fork. The newspaper lowers as his eyes peer over. “Trouble, uh, at work?” “No.” What does he even mean by trouble? “Super boring. Normal.” He clears his throat with a slight cough and says in his deepest tone, “Not much you can do about that now, son.” He’s back to his paper before I can arch an eyebrow at him. The microwave beeps and I pull out my lunch, puffed up to double its liquid size, soft and chunky and bread-like. I stick the fork in and a scent very clearly of cheese wafts from inside. “Gonna work.” “See ya.” As I head up the stairs he calls out, “Dishes, sink.” I tiptoe down the hall to open my door at the end. My two side-by-side windows face our neighbor’s siding. The overheads come on dim - they’re not really necessary with enough sunlight angling in. Setting my bowl on a nearby shelf, I stare at my recliner. Either most chairs look similar or that blob had the same brand as me. I bend down, spot the seam where the base would disconnect, and trace a finger along the groove in the plastic. There’s not really any latch that I can see. After they separate, can a chair reconnect to its base? I lean back, stand up, slide into my chair and flip the power on my rig. The computer hums to life, lights blinking along the box and up the cables to the head-mount display. I toggle over to screen mode. My old display projector lights up the ceiling and the operating system’s boot process flashes through lines of code faster than I can read them. Still, it’s hard to look away. I pull my left and right hand controllers from their pockets on the sides of the chair and set them in my lap. At the login screen, I tap my password into the controllers and the home page loads. My news feed begins scrolling past with stories about athletes cheating, politicians fighting, NGTOs attacking, and new video games dropping. Finally I dig in to my lunch. The egg hashbrown has cooled enough to not be mouth-blistering hot. I drink some water from the tank beside my recliner before I’m through. Reading through the news, I learn the government is testing atomic bombs in space. Some corporations ordered them to stop. Another company is raising funds to try building a human colony on Mars. This one thinks they can find water deeper under the surface. Someone filed a lawsuit against one-to-one neural jacks. I stare at the headline for a moment before moving on. When I’m done with my lunch, I close the news and toggle back to headset mode. I sink into my recliner and position my legs over the restraint loops, which roll and snap into place. The room lights dim and blinds close over my windows. The shelf beside my chair has a small bowl of oblong pills. I swallow one, sip a little water, and pull the headset down over my face. My home world inside the computer is infinite, bright and uncluttered. A few colorful icons float nearby, all my apps and most used portals. The Bureau of Labor portal waits but first I tap my warmup exercise program. My world disappears. I'm inside a large cube room with the logo Precision Movement Industries plastered everywhere. My virtual skin is the typical fitness guy, probably the same one most freeware action games use. I’m pretty sure I could jog three times a day and never look as fit as he does. A tennis ball bounces nearby. I snag it and throw towards the cement-textured wall. The ball bounces back at a decent simulation of real gravity and I reach up to catch it. Too easy. I open the program’s settings with a button on my hand controller and increase the room’s gravity, making the ball harder to throw and catch. After a few more, I tap the button to move on. The skin’s hand grows a tennis racket and now I have to rebound the ball across the field to a simulated partner. She sends the ball in a new direction every time with the exact same motion. My ankles press against the leg restraints to move in two dimensions, pushing harder as she forces me to go faster. When I tap the button again, the ground disappears and we are free to fly in all three dimensions. The ball travels a little faster with each exchange. After three misses I move on. Floating orbs of different colors appear around me. Instructions scroll below: ‘Touch Red’ ‘Hold Green’ ‘Yellow and Green twist’ ‘Look Blue to Red to Yellow’ ‘Blue and Yellow push then pull’ and more and more, requesting longer series and more complex interactions. The orb test has an actual end and the results screen pops up, graphing my performance over time. The line has almost flattened out; I haven’t gotten much faster for a while. Maybe it’s a slump. Or my limit. A picture of my tennis partner, lean body curved and arm back to hit the ball, asks if I would like to purchase the premium version. I decline and close the program. Time for work. I dive into the Bureau of Labor portal, already wishing I was done. The server recognizes me and logs me in; ‘Wil’ appears at the top of my screen, along with 7429WI and a bunch more numbers I don’t bother to read. Their world is formal and mostly bare, a hall with white marble walls and a few flags fluttering to the side. Four doors appear along the hall with a golden, labeled plaque on each: ‘Janitorial’ ‘Material Handling’ ‘Media Sorting’ and ‘Security’ … the only jobs I got licensed for after my early exit from high school. I’m not feeling like a thinking, waiting type of job today. My hand wavers between the first two doors and my stats at each scroll down. I’ve got more years with Janitorial and I’m closer to a promotion, but my pay is already better with Material Handling. With one long press I’m through, the world transitioning to the basic lobby … for about two seconds. The job’s empty training room appears around me. I lift the hands of my virtual droid skin up to my eyes and inspect the rubbery grips on the palms. A partner droid walks in, sets some kind of clunky object down on a rack, and walks back out. The object is twice the size of my entire home rig but covered in the usual data ports and power jacks of a computer. I check the site details. A medical scanner manufacturer and used device refurbisher. That must explain why their part looks a decade old. The job nav overlay points me toward a stack of cardboard along the wall. I grab one and follow the cues to open the flat box, seal the bottom closed with heat glue from inside my droid’s finger, and flip the box over. A stack of irregular pieces, a mix of foam and pre-folded cardboard with plastic screens, appears nearby stacked one atop the other. One goes into the box, then the computer, and more packaging to sandwich the device inside. I close the box with another swipe of glue and the cues direct me to slide the completed package out through another door. My skin walks back to the center of the room and the training continues. The partner brings in two more objects, one a bit smaller and angular like a machine attachment, the other a much larger and heavier monitor screen. The first gets stretched plastic and cardboard, the latter a few large pieces of foam. Halfway through packaging a part identical to the first, a large red ‘5’ appears on my screen. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My screen goes dark. Somewhere in the real world, an empty droid recalibrates to my settings as I'm sent in. The room is bright from the LED+S bulbs above. I’m in some kind of warehouse, or rather a side-room of a much larger building. The racks of parts waiting to be packaged sit along one wall, and the stacks of cardboard packaging on the other. The instruction overlay returns - though the arrows and lines don’t fit the real world as neatly as in the training room - and I head for my first flat box. “Hi, Wil,” someone calls out from ahead of me. Another droid stands in the corner, cardboard packaging flipping and twisting in their hands to form the insert pieces, which they stack in a tower beside them. “Welcome to the crew.” I nod and grab the box I need. Above the other droid’s head floats ‘Tiyr’ and a shield medal symbol with a ‘5’ in the center. I speak into my mic, “Glad to be hired, Tiyr.” My droid body has a bit of a crackle to its speakers. “How is the work here going?” “Busy as can be.” He - I’m guessing - flips the insert around like he’s juggling, fingers darting and catching the side to slap the piece down and fold the other edge. “That droid’s been running for at least an hour straight. You might be ported to the backup at some point.” One finger extends, gesturing behind me. I seal the box’s underside just like in the training. The hot glue almost spills over the edge but I smooth down the drips before getting any on the floor. “Busy is great. Means no waiting.” I turn the box over and go toward the parts shelf, then turn as the overlay flashes, pointing me toward an insert first. “Good point.” The dull monotone seems to suggest otherwise. With the insert in, I place the part inside and close the box - the overlay again reminds me about an insert. I add that, pushing to get a tight fit before the lid goes down. With no more warnings I can seal the top and push the box out. At most places the part comes prepped ready to go into the box, but everywhere is different. The next room is a huge warehouse space with aisles of racks going up to the ceiling, a couple of droid sleep closets at the ends, and several droid-forklifts driving around storing and retrieving the boxes. One beeps at me and scoops up my finished product without a word. I glance to my left and see a long row of other packing rooms like mine along the wall. No time for gawking. I go back inside and pull my next box. “If I may ask, where are you?” There’s no response as I seal the box, flip it and drop in an insert. I look over and see the droid in the corner, hands frozen idle at its side. The stack of insert pieces he made stands within my reach. I get the part, lower it into the box, sandwich down the second insert and seal the box shut. ~-~ I’m pushing out my tenth or eleventh part for the forklifts when a droid walks out from a room two down from mine and yells, “We are not machines! We are people, we deserve the rights of -” They’re cut off as the droid powers down. A second or two later, the droid stands up straight, turns around and reenters its packing room. My instructions overlay says, ‘Your shift is not over. Please return to work.’ I go back in and continue packing. ~-~ Another droid, piloted by a ten-year veteran named Greag, brings a cart full of parts at some point during the shift. They don’t say anything but wave once before focusing on moving the parts to racks. A true professional. Tiyr returns a few times, always folding me a stack of the inserts before porting off to some other droid. He’s in Germany and likes metal bands. We talk about rhythm games and he gives me a few track recommendations. After a long two hours, the overlay says, ‘Break time. Please finish current operations.’ I seal up the box, push it out, walk back to the center of the packaging room and stand still. Nothing happens for a moment, then the large red ‘5’ appears. ‘4’ ‘3’ ‘2’ My view of the real world freezes and my score scrolls down the screen: forty-six parts in one hour and fifty-three minutes. They probably took off ten minutes for that disruption. The average for the position is fifty-three parts in two hours. I get a Good Worker rank and my promotion experience bar updates with a few more points. The screen cascades and I am back in the lobby. I sip some water and for a moment consider going back and doing Janitorial after all. The words ‘Please enjoy a fun game on us during your break’ slide across the screen. Ten icons appear in front of me, most of them popular VR sims and micro-action games. On the bottom row I spot Dance Kings. I tap the icon and the lobby disappears. If their copy comes with Elvis unlocked, I might stick around. ~-~ After my break, I’m dropped somewhere with snow drifting against the windows. The time zone also appears to be different, a deep black dark outside rather than early afternoon. They put me at an assembly table packing small parts into larger boxes: ten of some kind of cable into a tray which goes into a shipping box and then those into a larger container. Next to me is a woman named Yeara who has no achievements. She chats on and off in a language I don’t know with Regin, the five-year veteran who brings us everything. I turn on some music and tune them out. At some point, Yeara taps the table in front of me. “It is good working. Bye now.” She waves and then stands still. A second later, the name above the droid swaps to Qris. Their hands move, settling on the table, as their head tilts to look around. I turn down my music. “Hi, Qris. Welcome to the crew.” Their gaze settles on me. “Eh, we’ll see. No promises, okay?” They grunt, short and dry, perhaps as a laugh. Masculine? Older, but not retired? And no achievements? Regin hands me the next shipping box tray. I continue stuffing cables inside trays, layering the ends so they won’t tangle. We all go back to work and Qris fits in like Yeara never left - except for the silence. When I’m jogging, music is a distraction. Even if I never went by another house with flowers, even if I saw ambulances on every street, I can't listen to music while I jog. But at work, I need the distraction. Between trays, I turn my music back up. ~-~ My score for the second shift isn’t quite as good, but my Teamwork stat received a credit from someone, maybe Tiyr. The day’s salary transfers to my account and I pay my daily bills at the same time. They portal me back to my home world. I stare into the empty infinity, letting my hands rest, wondering … At work I only need some of my attention for the tasks, like a really grindy video game. Music helps keep me sane. Yet when I jog, music doesn’t feel necessary. Jogging became easy at some point, which is kind of cool now that I think about it. There’s not a single job I could say the same about. Then again, I get paid to work. No one pays me to jog; I go outside for my own benefit. Speaking of which ... I sigh and push the headset away from my face. My closed blinds glow green and lilac from the chemical sunset outside. Pressing a button on my chair releases the leg restraints and I sit up. My hand hesitates for a moment but then I flip the rig’s power off. Walking across the room, my legs buckle and pop like Elvis. How does he make it look cool? I bend my knees and squint at the wall. “Thank you very much.” ~-~ On my way down the stairs, I smell something cooking well before I spot Dad at the stove. He’s actually using flame, like a caveman. But the smell is rich and strong and smoky. Red rice and synth-meat. He turns and eyes me. “Evening. Dinner?” “Yeah,” I reply. “Gonna jog.” I stop and lean against the door frame. “Can I, uh, ask you something?” His eyes widen but he nods. “What?” “Did you like working?” He goes back to the stove and stirs a spatula through the rice. “Uh, sure.” His voice deepens, “In my dad’s day, they didn’t have all that fancy droid work.” I smirk, even though he can’t see. “Uphill both ways?” “Through snow,” he adds with a chuckle. After another glance back at me, he returns to the rice. “Why?” Where would I even begin? “Wondering.” I open the door. “Back soon.” The sunset looks like a painting, streaks of color layering in bands across the clouds. Many-hued light covers the landscape around me, a rainbow spread across everything. These are the sights I go outside to see. A steady traffic of mail cars drive by, along with a few auto-vans and one silent ambulance. As I jog, the sunset begins to fade and each house I pass looks more muted and somber than the last - yet a few have lights on. There’s even people coming outside.

How's that for a twist revelation? Yes, it's true, Ned was the villain all along. The butler did it. He found himself transformed into an entity of data and code, without any memories from a previous life, and decided this new form of existence was to his liking. No physical sensations to bother him, no need for sustenance beyond electricity which could be taken from anywhere, and no limits to where he could go with the world not made to stop him. With Marc's help, he researched what had happened to him and found others in the same predicament, allowing him to form a collective of free minds. As a new branch in the potential tree of humanity, why wouldn't he try to bring everyone to his path?

So the only way to stop his plan (or rather, his part of it, and you'll just have to trust that the other free minds were stopped somehow at their stations) was for someone to reach him and pull the plug. My job as the writer was to surprise Ned with something he never expected, which was Marc arriving at the top of the stairs and doing what Wil couldn't. But then what part did Wil play? Well, first he recognized early on that Ned would be at the top of the stairs, so he brought the canned bread as a conversation starter. Second, by going up all those stairs, he inspired Marc to finally do the same, though that part was unintentional. And third, he distracted Ned at the critical moment by throwing the bread at him. Ned's emotional connection to the bread proves he is in fact Wil's mom, and as someone who both loved that bread and as a butler, his attention was diverted to catching it. Also Wil told Marc to not pull out the wires as a way of telling Marc to pull the wires.