Adam's entire body lit up like a Christmas Tree, burning and freezing at the same time. His vision swam until it went black. His heart kicked in his chest, returning to life as all of the nerves in his body came back online at the same time.

  He collapsed forward, smacking his face into the vending machine, and leaving a greasy print on the glass. The soda clunked into the tray above his head.

  Adam sat up, rubbing his cheek.

  “What in the actual…” he muttered, then glanced around. Still at work. He put his hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat. It was there, steadily thumping under his hand. If it weren't for the taste of that voice lingering in his mouth, he might have thought he had fallen asleep on his feet.

  He grabbed the snacks and walked back toward the cubicles.

  The noise hit him immediately, dozens of voices from half-whispers to shouts, all tangled together.

  “Did you feel that?”

  “I smelled it.”

  “How do you smell words?”

  “I don’t find this very funny. Whoever pulled that prank is going to have to speak with HR.”

  “How would anyone think that was a prank? I couldn’t move!”

  Adam walked into a scene of pure chaos. Everyone was standing, phones and computers forgotten, arguing over the message.

  “Stephen, did everyone hear that?” He felt stupid asking, but he wasn’t sure if everyone heard the same message, or if each person got their own personalized one. There were about eight billion people on earth, and the message claimed it had been translated over 300 billion times, so… aliens?

  Stephen held up a finger, talking into his cell. “Jessica, I need you to call me as soon as you get this. Okay? Please get back to me soon. I love you.”

  He ended the call and looked at Adam. “Yeah, I heard it. I fucking tasted it.”

  Adam swallowed hard, nodding. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Yeah, me too.” He paused. "Obviously."

  “So… do you think it was some sort of practical joke? A new technology to create mass psychosis? Hell, aliens?” Adam tried to sound hopeful, but it just came out as scared.

  “I don’t think so, man. Something like that would be way beyond even the super-fringe internet theories. Plus, look at this.” Stephen stuck his finger in his mouth, pulling his cheek back to reveal a perfect set of straight, white teeth.

  “Didn’t you have to have two teeth pulled a few weeks ago? You said you hadn’t even scheduled the bridge yet..." Adam trailed off as Stephen pinched the two formerly missing teeth and tugged. They didn’t move.

  Adam's stomach dropped. “Did your teeth grow back?”

  Stephen nodded. "Yeah. We were all frozen, and then when the message ended, they were just... back. Like fucking magic.”

  Adam winced on reflex, glancing around, but everyone was too wrapped up in their own conversations to care about Stephen's language.

  “Think about it," Stephen said. "Right now. Does anything hurt? Your back, your knees, your hands? Anything?” Stephen wiped his slobbery hand on his pants and stood.

  Adam paused again, mentally checking. Aside from the existential terror knocking at the edges of his mind he felt pretty good.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  "No," he said. "I actually feel great."

  “We’re in our thirties, dude. Something should hurt." Stephen bent his knees with a grin. "I haven’t felt this good since I was a kid.”

  “So... it was real?” Adam already knew the answer, but couldn’t quite bring himself to take the plunge.

  “At least partly. I mean, how else do you explain two teeth just popping up like goddamned mushrooms in my mouth?" Stephen gestured animatedly, talking with his hands the way he always did when he was frustrated or excited. "If they’d regrown naturally, they would have cut my gums. And even then it takes weeks. These were just there. No blood, no soreness. Just... bam.”

  Before Adam could respond, the office door at the end of the row opened. A short well-dressed man stepped out, both hands raised in a calming gesture. Mr. Dixon was the division manager and, by most accounts, a giant asshole.

  “Everyone, if I can have your attention,” he said firmly.

  The room ignored him.

  Adam knew Mr. Dixon had a temper, and he watched the color climb up his throat and into his cheeks, impressive given his spray-tan glow. The man wasn't used to being ignored, much less dismissed. After several more attempts, he finally stood on his toes and bellowed: "EVERYONE!"

  That got their attention.

  “In light of what we all just experienced, and the fact that none of you appear capable of doing any further work today..." Mr. Dixon's face already looked like a heavily bruised cherry tomato. He was clearly furious that whatever had happened would wreck this week's productivity numbers, and his end of quarter bonus. “We will be closing the floor early. No, before anyone asks, the rest of the day will not be paid. You may email HR to request vacation time for the missed hours.”

  A few groans followed, but most people looked relieved. Adam included himself amongst them.

  "I expect you all back tomorrow," Mr. Dixon added. "On time. And with the same level of professionalism you would normally show." He paused just long enough to glare directly at Stephen.

  It was no secret that Mr. Dixon hated Stephen. Two years earlier, Stephen had showed up fifteen minutes late after a tire blowout nearly sent him into oncoming traffic. Mr. Dixon had publicly dressed him down anyway, even after Stephen showed photos of the shredded tire. That was the day Stephen came up with the nickname "Dick-Son," emphasis on "Dick." It had stuck.

  “Please make sure your computers are locked and logged out," Mr. Dixon snapped, before making a beeline for the nearest exit. Adam wasn’t sure he had ever seen the man move that fast.

  The rest of the staff followed, most of their computers already timed out and locked. Adam noticed several members of the staff heading urgently to the side exit to avoid the main crowd.

  "Well, it's official," Stephen said, pulling on his jacket and thumbing off his monitor. "Hell has frozen over. We hear from God, and Dick-Son sends us home early."

  “It definitely seems like it. Did you see how red his face was?” Adam replied.

  “Yeah, maybe he’ll finally keel over and leave us the hell alone,” Stephen joked half heartedly. “In all reality though Adam, I have to get home to Jessica. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but she’s home alone and I can’t shake the feeling I should be there right now.” Adam noticed for the first time his friend was grinding his teeth, the muscles in his jaw tightening and releasing. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m going to hit the restroom before I drive home. All this,” he motioned vaguely at everything, “has my stomach in knots.” It wasn’t an exaggeration. He could feel a familiar gurgle in his stomach.

  “So, the second coffee is kicking in?” Stephen laughed, breaking the tension.

  “Yep," Adam confirmed.

  Grinning and clapping him on the shoulder, Stephen headed towards the door, before calling back, “Make sure to text me if you need anything. I have a feeling shit is going to get really weird.”

  “Try not to get any on you,” Adam said, grinning back.

  “Amen. You too,” Stephen replied before heading out.

  Adam made his own bee line for the restrooms.

  He took a few minutes to scroll through social media while doing his business. As Stephen had predicted, things were already getting weird. Multiple anti-government accounts were claiming the whole thing was some sort of mass mind control attempt. Others were calling it the end times, and a rash of sudden disappearances was The Rapture. Some were saying The Voice had been one of several gods returning to reclaim the Earth. One particularly infamous tech billionaire insisted it was proof that reality was a simulation, and The Voice had been the lead programmer finally cluing everyone in.

  Adam figured if that guy was starting to make sense, things really were really going off the deep end. He tried sending a few text messages to various friends and his parents, but found the messages were stuck on "sent," not "delivered." He wasn’t surprised. The networks were probably flooded with people doing the exact same thing.

  After a few more minutes scrolling past some obviously fake photos of the Rocky Mountains looking three times their normal height, and one particularly well-done image of a mile-high tree straddling the border between New York and Pennsylvania, he stood up. Washing his hands and grabbing his jacket, he headed for the parking ramp.