Orange Juice

Rojif turned the handle slowly. It squeaked. Expecting the door to open itself, he held his hand there . . . but nothing happened. He pushed, and the door swung open with a grating creak. This door was different—heavier, more . . . genuine.

Before Rojif could even take in the room, the rich scent of citrus and aged wood flooded his senses—it was sweet yet grounding. The room exuded pure elegance; he could feel it. Its dim orange light casted a warm glow over polished wooden floors. One wall was dominated by a towering bookcase, its shelves crammed with paper and books. At the center lay a plush navy-blue rug, and atop it rested a vast, empty glass table that caught the soft illumination. In front of the table was a small metal stool. A floor-to-ceiling window stretched across the entire back wall. Something moved outside—a dark, rippling mass of blue and indigo, like ink in water, writhing and folding over itself, constantly in motion.

Behind the glass table sat a figure in a dark brown, ornate chair. Rojif closed the door behind him and stepped closer. The figure bore a vague resemblance to the employees, yet was much shorter—almost Rojif’s own height. His face was entirely pitch black, devoid of features except for a thin line across the middle, with white glasses perched near the top. Blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and he wore a sleek black suit trimmed with gold at the edges. He hunched over the table, elbows planted, hands clasped tightly. The aura of authority projecting from him was immense. This entire room, this figure—it was unlike anything he’d encountered in the office, which had been his entire life . . . apart from the one he couldn’t remember.

He arrived in front of the figure, who waved a hand toward the metal stool. Rojif sat down, bringing his hands together. He wiped sweat from his brow, despite the chilly air drifting across the room. Still, the man remained motionless.

Finally, a sound emerged from the line in his face—it opened and moved. He had a mouth. It reminded him of the first intercom announcement he’d heard, without the crackly filter. The voice wavered in pitch, fluctuating from high to low, briefly stuttering into static before settling into a deep, even tone.

“. . . Hu-Human . . . are—you’re understanding . . .” He coughed lightly. “Ah, sorry ‘bout that, mate. Was just talking to one of your associates. Takes a moment to tune back.”

Rojif couldn’t take his eyes off the mouth on the figure’s face. His attitude was unexpected, and the accent . . . thick, but somehow familiar. But finally, someone he could understand. Relief surged through him.

“Oh—oh, man! Please, you’ve got to help me—I don’t know where I am and—”

The figure raised a hand, cutting him off.

“Hold on, hold on, mate,” he said with a chuckle. “We don’t start like that. Tell me your name first, then we can get to the hassle.”

Rojif swallowed hard. “Well, my . . . my name is Rojif.”

“Rojif, is it?”

“Yes . . . well, not really, but—”

“Well, Mr. Rojif,” the figure replied, “you can call me Mr. Jan, alright?”

“Jan . . . for January?”

Mr. Jan laughed. “Oh no, no—it’s for . . . Janitor.”

“Huh?”

Another booming laugh. “Not much of the bright type, eh? Don’t worry, I’m not January myself . . . more like the receptionist, if you will.”

He reached behind the table and pulled out a glass, half-filled with a bright orange liquid. Rojif stared at it for a moment before it registered: Juice? Orange juice?

“Drink that—should clear the fog in your head. Then we can talk business,” Mr. Jan said, holding it out.

Rojif grabbed it and gulped it down. Oh . . . oh. Not jelly, proper liquid. Sweet, tangy, cold—washing down his throat. The feeling was incredible. He held the glass up to catch any drops.

“Like that, do ya?” Mr. Jan asked with a wide grin, the curve of his mouth nearly stretching to the sides of his face.

“Yeah . . . it’s good. Got any more?”

“Real orange juice? Nah, not really—bit tricky to concentrate. But anyway . . .” He placed his hands flat on the table. “Let’s figure out where you’ll be heading next, shall we?” Mr. Jan smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, now it’s your call if you fancy going there,” Mr. Jan said, gesturing toward the glass window behind him. “—or you can stick around here in January.”

“I-I don’t . . . get what you mean.”

Mr. Jan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “You lot . . . are proper lucky I’m the one giving you the grand tour of our marvellous world.” He rose from his chair and strolled over to the window, placing a hand flat on the glass. He glanced back at Rojif with a slight grin.

“You, lad, you’re an innocent sort—brought to us by the mercy of your own world . . . and we’re right grateful for what comes our way,” he said, his smile widening.

“You probably don’t remember much, but you’re one of the few . . . a very, very small number who actually make it here.”

“I’m . . . special?”

“Yes, lad. Special, and you ought to hold your head high about it.” Mr. Jan sauntered back to his chair and sat down.

“Now, I can show you what you’ve forgotten, let you remember all you’ve missed,” he said, leaning forward slightly, elbows on the table. “You’ve felt it, haven’t you? The way everything here . . . it’s different, hazy, like the edges of things aren’t quite right.”

“Yes . . . I mean—no offence, but everything here is a bit strange,” Rojif said sheepishly.

Mr. Jan chuckled, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. “Of course it is, lad. That’s the way it’s always been for everyone who’s arrived here before you.”

“Before me?”

“Eh, yes. You’re not the first, not even close. The first human was ages ago . . . well, for your kind of time, anyway,” he said, leaning back, grinning.

Rojif’s head was spinning with questions; he still had no clue what was going on, or what Mr. Jan was going on about.

“Listen . . . uh . . . Mr. Jan, sir—”

“Ah, come off it, lad. No need to be so formal,” he waved off the sentiment with a grin.

“Uhm . . . well, I don’t really understand what you mean. I’m one of a few who’ve been brought from . . . where we belong, to here?”

“Yep, that’s the gist of it, spot on,” Mr. Jan replied, his smile still wide.

“Right . . . okay. And how do I get back?” Rojif asked.

Mr. Jan’s grin faltered slightly. He got up and walked over to him, placing a firm hand on Rojif’s shoulder. “Well . . . how do I put this, lad? Unfortunately, you don’t have a ticket home.”

Rojif tried to speak, but nothing came out. No way back?

“Wha—mister, surely there’s a way? I mean . . . like . . .” His voice trailed off. He felt foolish—what did he really know about this place? He didn’t know anything.

Mr. Jan returned to his chair, sitting heavily, elbows resting on the cushioned armrests. “Mr. Rojif, I understand how you’re feeling. I’ve done this many times before. This adjustment takes time, some more than others. But I can offer you a choice, that’s all I can do.”

“What choice?”

Mr. Jan’s grin broadened, the widest Rojif had seen so far. “Well, I can give you the next best thing to being back home: your memories from there.” He pointed toward Rojif. “All I need from you is my share of them.”

He wanted a share? From his memories?

“You want a share of my memories . . . wha—what do you mean? How does that even work?”

“Simple, lad. Very simple and efficient—that’s what we do here in January.” He pulled a piece of paper from beneath the table and laid it in front of Rojif. “I’ll take your little noggin,” he gestured toward his head, “sort it all out proper, and so January can have it.”

“January?”

“Indeed. And you, on the other hand, will be promoted. Stay here with us for good and proper.” Mr. Jan waved his hand across the room, sweeping it grandly. “You’ll become an official, numbered employee—with a cubicle and all. Beats being a ‘File Monkey’, eh?”

Cubicle? Numbered employee?

“Wait . . . so those workers back there, they were people like me, who chose to work here?”

“Right, Mr. Rojif. Looks like that orange juice did the trick, eh?” Mr. Jan grinned and nodded toward the door. “All of them back there—smart choices, every one of them. And you can be with them too, don’t worry about that!”

White Collar . . . Pinky . . . Red, Blue, Purple One . . . they used to be people like him?

“If they're like me, why do they look like that? And why are they acting so . . . strangely?” Rojif asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“Well, naturally, we can’t keep you like that forever, can we?” Mr. Jan gestured toward him. “Maintaining this office alone takes quite a toll on January, it’s no small task mate. Anyway, after a while, you won’t even notice it much. You’ve met them all already, haven’t you? All of them are calm and gentle, aren’t they?”

Calm? Pink One was practically about to strangle him not long ago. Gentle?

“I—I mean . . . one of your employees nearly killed me at one point,” Rojif said, letting out a nervous chuckle.

“Well, lad, if you’re going to break the rules here, you can expect that. Employee number 1 was just doing his duty. That’s another task we ask of those who join. Just like back home, isn’t it? Break the rules—face the consequences. Fair enough?” Mr. Jan leaned back, still smiling, utterly unshaken.

Rojif stared at his smiling face, brow furrowed . . . rules? Rules?

“You were going to kill me over a few broken rules?” His voice trembled with barely restrained fury. He pushed himself off the stool. “What the hell is wrong with you—a-and then you expect me to stay here and work for you?”

Mr. Jan didn’t move. He simply smiled, studying Rojif’s outburst as though he had expected it all along.

“Well, that’s just the way our curious little world seems to work,” Mr. Jan said with a casual shrug. “Now, you wouldn’t know this, but your world . . . the one you come from . . . it isn’t exactly a paradise, I’ll tell you that.”

“Why would I believe you?” Rojif snapped. “You’re just trying to take . . . my—my memories or something. You want something from me.” He felt the pieces clicking together—the orange juice, the friendliness—it had all been a lure.

“I know,” Mr. Jan replied, nodding. “I know, because we’ve collected our share from many of your kind who’ve passed through January.” He tapped the side of his head. “Many dreadful, despicable things, things that would make you recoil” He gestured back toward the glass. “Whether it’s here, or in any of the other spaces, we play fair—follow the rules, and you get safe passage. Like it enough, some of us even offer the chance to stay.”

Rojif blinked. Dreadful things? His world . . . despicable? The words made no sense, yet the pitch-black, mirrorless void of his face held a disquieting truth. Being mad would get him nowhere anyway. He needed answers first.

“So . . . you want my mind,” he said slowly, “and—what? Share it? You want me to give you my memories?”

“Exactly,” Mr. Jan replied. He ran a hand through his golden hair, smoothing it back with a delicate gesture. Man, he had nice hair. “We take them neat and tidy, then send them back to you lot to see for yourselves.”

“You mean the files?”

“Bingo,” Mr. Jan said, making a quick firing gesture with his hands. “Now, this extraction process does take something from you. Your pretty little head won’t quite be the same, but that’s why we make sure all the information you want gets to you—straight to your desk, day in, day out.”

Rojif realized then what the workers had been doing all along. Their lives—their very memories—were being typed into those computers. They were trying to preserve themselves, piece by piece.

“Speaking of workers . . . what about those other ones—Sarah, Omar, Asuka, and rest? Who were those people?” Rojif asked, leaning forward slightly.

“Ah yes . . . well, it was their birthdays.” Mr. Jan replied bluntly, his tone casual.

“Yeah, but who are they? Why were we getting them gifts if we didn’t even know them? Where are they?” For some reason, Rojif was particularly keen to get an answer for this.

“They . . . are workers in this office . . . and it was their birthday,” He said again, smiling.

Rojif’s patience was wearing thin. “I know that! I want to know who—”

Mr. Jan waved his hand, brushing it away. “It’s just protocol, lad. It was optional really—just had to step away from the slot”

Optional? Didn’t feel very optional with the rest of the workers hovering over him.

Rojif remembered something else he’d been meaning to ask. He dug into his pocket and pulled out the green book. “So . . . you’re the one who wrote these rules and gave them to me?”

Mr. Jan tilted his head to the side and made a dismissive motion, like spitting something away. “That, Mr. Rojif . . . is the work of a devil.” His smile vanished, and a cold seriousness replaced his casual demeanor.

“You didn’t write this? Then who did?” Rojif asked, unease creeping into his chest. The man before him was no longer the easygoing figure he’d seemed.

“I don’t know who wrote that . . . but I imagine whoever did passed through January at some point,” Mr Jan said, voice trailing off as he lifted his gaze toward the ceiling. “Whoever this person is, what they’re doing is unnatural—against the way our world works.” His eyes met Rojif’s. “I wouldn’t trust this book, or whoever’s behind it, Mr. Rojif.”

That was not the reply he was expecting. After meeting Mr. Jan, he had been certain the man before him was the author of the rule book.

“So . . . how was I supposed to know the rules of this place without this book’s instructions? It would’ve been impossible,” Rojif said.

“It’s all in the order of things, Mr. Rojif,” Mr. Jan replied quietly. “Many have passed through before you . . . long before this book came into play. Yes, more have gone further since its arrival . . . but going against established principles never benefited anyone.”

Rojif tucked the book back into his pocket. Mr. Jan didn’t seem to be lying, but if the person who wrote this book truly wanted to help him, Rojif would listen to their side.

“So . . . am I supposed to, like, sign this sheet or something?” Rojif asked, gesturing toward the paper on the glass table.

Mr. Jan’s expression shifted suddenly. He cracked a wide smile and nodded. “Yes, Mr. Rojif. If you agree to our terms and conditions, all it takes is a simple signature here. We won’t coerce you in any way, of course.”

“And if I refuse?”

Mr. Jan pointed at the glass window behind him. “Well . . . you’ll be sent off to February in about—” he glanced at his empty wrist—“not long now. But once you leave, you won’t have the chance to return to January.”

“I can’t ever come back?”

“No, Mr. Rojif. The spaces move linearly. February follows January—never the other way around.”

“And what’s February like?” Rojif pressed. He needed to know what awaited him, or he couldn’t make a proper decision.

“That’s the thing,” Mr. Jan said, raising his hands with an innocent shrug. “I have no knowledge of what it’s like over there. That’s the honest truth. Could be better, could be worse. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

Rojif couldn’t deny the sincerity in his tone. Everything added up. He now had to decide: leave this place . . . or strike a deal with this odd sounding fellow. Please reach December—he wasn’t sure anymore. He’d nearly died twice in January—and if things got worse . . .

“One more thing,” Rojif asked, his voice tight. “Do you know anything about December? Is that the end? Has anyone ever reached it?”

“December . . .” Mr. Jan paused, considering. “I don’t know much, but what I do know is someone had to have reached it some time ago—” he pointed at Rojif’s pockets “—for that to have happened.”

The book. Someone really had reached December. And now it seemed they were trying to guide others to do the same.

Rojif sank back onto the stool and stared at the floor. On one side, he had the guarantee he could live here—with some sort of access to his own memories. If he decided not to, he’d be at the mercy of whatever awaited in the next spaces. Please reach December. The thought refused to fade, echoing relentlessly through his mind. Please. He couldn’t understand why—he didn’t even know who this person was—yet someone, from somewhere far away, someone who needed him, depended on him . . . The feeling was unfamiliar to Rojif—and that is why he decided to seek it.

He stood up from the stool and reached his hand toward Mr. Jan, who looked up at him.

“Well, Mr. Rojif . . .” Mr. Jan rose from his chair and shook his hand firmly. “I guess this is where we say farewell.”

“How . . . did you know?”

Mr. Jan smiled his hallmark smile. “You’re not the first one, Mr. Rojif. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve done this with many others before you—I can tell from the way you just stood up.”

He nodded toward the glass window behind him. A rectangular outline appeared in the middle, before it filled with a pulsing white light—a doorway. Above it was a glowing red sign: WAITING ROOM.

“Does that lead to February?” Rojif asked.

“Oh no, not February,” Mr. Jan chuckled. “Could you imagine? No no, That’s just a space we made to help with the transition. It’s good to clear your mind before you make the transfer.”

“Alright but . . . uh, could I have some more food from the vending machine before I go? I wanna be prepared, you know”. Rojif decided it was better than just going empty handed. “I have like, two tokens left so—”

Mr. Jan bellowed with laughter, “Lad, you can’t take anything between spaces. Even if you’re holding it in your hands, it’ll just disappear in a wink.”

Damn. So every time he passed a month, he would enter a new one empty handed?

“Ok, but can I at least eat and drink here to get ready?”

“Sorry lad, same thing applies. Once you reach there you’ll be in the exact same state you were in when you first came to our world, but with the memories you’ve made so far.”

Well that sucks

“—Oh, but there is one thing I need to give you.”

Mr. Jan reached beneath the glass table and pulled out a thin yellow file, handing it to Rojif. On the front, in bold print, it read: “Minister of Office Deliverables.”

“How’d you like it, Mr. Rojif? Has a nice ring to it doesn't it? I had you promoted before preparing your transfer documents.”

Rojif took the file and leafed through it. Every weekly performance was listed, along with some other information about him. What was he supposed to do with this?

“I thought you said I couldn’t take items between spaces?”

Mr. Jan shook his head, grinning. “Just protocol, lad.”

Strange guy.

Rojif began walking toward the white door, then remembered something. He spun around. “Oh wait—I wanted to ask you where White Collar is. I didn’t get to see him after the . . . incident.”

“White Collar? Employee Number 500? Yeah, mate. Me and her had a quick chat before you—she’s back at her post now.”

Did Rojif just mishear?

“She?. . . White Collar’s a girl?”

“Indeed. Biologically female . . . in accordance with human parameters at the time of her arrival in January.”

Rojif was stunned from hearing this. White Collar . . . a girl? He couldn’t blame himself; all the workers appeared male. Still, it was strange after thinking of her as a man all this time.

“What . . . what was she like when you met her?” Rojif needed to know this.

“Employee Number 500,” Mr. Jan said, rubbing his chinless chin, “She was a small thing—thin arms and brown, unruly hair, would’ve just about reached your shoulders.” He pointed at Rojif. “In your terms, she was . . . ah yes, she was twelve years old.”

Twelve years old? Children were being sent to this world . . . this chaotic, disturbing world. He still couldn’t believe it . . . White Collar was a twelve-year-old girl?

“Can I see him—sorry—her real quick? I just want to, you know . . . see her one more time before I go.”

Mr. Jan glanced at his wrist again. Rojif still didn’t see any kind of watch. Was he messing with him?

“Well . . . you don’t actually have to go to the waiting room. You can meet her and try to make it back here in time—whatever you want.” He beckoned toward the entrance of his office.

Rojif walked over and pulled the door open, but just as he was about to leave, Mr. Jan called out:

“Remember, Mr. Rojif—the ways of this world are older than you know. Walk with them, and stray not after those who would undo them.”

Rojif hesitated for a moment, then stepped through, closing the door slowly behind him. The last thing he saw was Mr. Jan, standing there with that wide smile.