Thread decorated the room in a style best described as an indoor samba parade with floats simultaneously appearing at the same spot. From end to end, and corner to corner, there were thread as thin as spider webs, and thread as thick as power cables, and there were thread of all colours, some in a range beyond what our eyes could see. It looked as though the room itself was held up by the riotous skeins.

Three men in suits of a forgettable grey-brown entered the room and were instantly discomfited by what they found. Aside from the colourful chaos of the thread, which can be uncomfortable in its own right to dull men like them, there was a buzzing sound, an electrifying feeling in the room. Not surprising, considering each thread was buzzing with a life of its own, literally speaking.

The men scanned the room quickly for what they came for. The buzzing made them irritable and they wanted to move on to the next notification as soon as they can. The tallest, who was also the leader, decided to move to a likely corner, but as he stepped gingerly around a knot of tread, he tripped over a thick braided cable hiding in the shadows, and broke it in two.

Instantly, the humming grew louder, followed by a hair-raising, fingernail-on-blackboard screech. A woman dropped in front of them, dangling upside-down from a white rope. It was difficult to tell what she looked like or how old she was exactly with the anger rippling on her face, but the men knew this: she was a hag.

"You idiots," she screeched. "You just killed an entire town with Ebola, every man, woman and child. Do you know how long I've been cultivating them for immunity over the disease? Do you?”

Still upside down, she picked up the frayed ends of the cable, picking through them to look for survivors. "All gone," she croaked "Clotho, Lachesis, did you see what he did? They’re all gone."

She turned back to the man and screeched again, "You could at least have left me some survivors! Now I'll have to start all over again."

"No Atropos," the crone said in a voice suddenly as clear as a virgin spring, "you can use the beta site."

"But the beta site is a control," the crone croaked whiningly.

"Split the colony into two," the crone said to herself again, crystal clear.

She clapped her hands and croaked, "Great thought, Clotho! That's what I like about you; you're so fresh with ideas."

Then, the hag started, as though she just remembered herself. She turned to the men and screeched again, "Youuuuuuu," she said ominously, "what do you want?"

The two junior men backed out slowly, leaving their leader behind. The hag turned to look at them and did a neat back flip over some thread lines, twisted herself impossibly leftwards in midair, and landed at the entry way to the hall, effectively blocking their retreat.

The men reached for their weapons, pulling them out and pointing it at the woman. They balked. Instead of a crone, it was a handsome woman, with thick, smooth auburn hair and a face somewhere between middle-aged and ageless. They lowered their weapons.

"Gentlemen, forgive Atropos, she can get... cranky at times," the new face said in measured tones. Her voice was deep and smooth, like dark chocolate. "You can't really blame her. Running along the ropes tends to make her arthritis act up."

She took a step forward and asked solicitously, "How may we help you?"

The leader of the grey men pushed his way forward, miraculously avoiding more thread breakage. "Moira," he clipped out, sounding so much like a staple gun.

"We are listening," the visage of Lachesis said, on guard.

"There is nothing to say," the man clipped out again. He handed Lachesis a slip of paper, and stormed towards the door, shoes clicking determinedly. His two assistants followed.

The Moira, Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos, stared uneasily at the folded paper. It was pink and faintly perfumed. On one side it said, "From the Desk of Aphrodite: While you were out." There was a typewritten message on the other side of the paper.

Dear Moira, the letter began. Unlike the rest of the letter, this part was written in spidery handwriting. It looked like an effort at personalization, which made the rest of the letter a little bit harder to swallow:

As you (three) know, this dire economic times calls for severe measures. Demand for true religion has fallen drastically, and its trade in the commodities market while high, has been shown to be paid for in credits that has notably less value than a Grecian Urn's shadow. Consequently, we have NO profit margin whatsoever. So unfortunately, our organization has been forced to downsize.

Here, there was a notation in a different hand than the one before. It said:

Tell them about the stimulus package that we got and lost because SOMEBODY had to go give himself a big fat bonus payout. Zeus, you're an ass. - Love Hera

The typewritten letter continued:

Now, I know that the Fates are a vital part of how things are run. If not for you (three) spinning, and measuring and cutting a person's life thread, the world would be a chaotic place. That was why, in the last cost-cutting exercise, instead of dropping two of your team, I allowed your proposed merger. It was a brilliant idea, Clotho, but sadly, we cannot maintain even one Fate in this organization.

I wish that you (three) could be around (especially you, Clotho), for the next exciting stage in our organization - machine autonomy! We have acquired, quite cheaply, some machinery that was part of the assembly line in a GM plant that was shut down. With some tinkering by Vulcan, and the addition of several young children from Asia, we will be using this new machine - I call it, The Fate Machine - to replace you (three).

Have hope. You're not alone. We've also axed Demeter and Aphrodite, as well as Hera (I've been trying to get rid of her forever). They're really unnecessary in this workforce, particularly Aphrodite. The only good thing that came from her are these pieces of paper that we took from her office right before we booted her out on her pert pink-laced bottom.

There was another handwritten note at this point:

Don't bother coming home tonight, Zeus! - Love, Hera

The letter continues:

You (three) on the other hand, I'll be sorry to let go, because 3-in-1's are such an interesting labour saving concept. This has nothing to do with your productivity, and everything to do with you being redundant in the face of technology and dire economic times.

We've got a nice severance package for you. YOU'RE FIRED!

The letter was signed, in gold, wispy script, "You Know Who".

"Well dang," said the Moira. "I guess that was inevitable." She looked around the room filled with thread before turning and shutting the door.

A few months later, a gorgeous young blonde beauty was lying on a sunny Greek beach, wearing practically nothing but a string bikini. She was talking to herself.

"Boy, that was a really nice severance package they left us," she said in a croaky voice.

"That severance package was your idea, Atropos, and a good one at that," she said, in a crystal clear voice like freshly washed April sky. "After all, we need to be comfortable in our retirement."

"Clotho, tuck in your belly and arch your back a little, there's a good girl. He's looking at us," she said, in the smooth voice reminiscent of chocolate. There was a pause while the Moira made eyes in the direction of a tall, dark handsome man.

"You know, Clotho, you may look and act like a bimbo, but you do get the best ideas, I've always said," the croaky voice said again.

"After all, when we got tired of the job and wanted out, it was you who suggested we give our career a thread of its own, so that we could cut it, kill it, and get it out of the way. Brilliant!"

"Ditto," said the chocolate voice.

The Moira's laugh tinkled, crystal clear. She (they) raised the fruit cocktail at the direction of the gorgeous young Adonis heading their way. "Cheers," she said.