Daydreams In The Land of The Magic Pill - CHAPTER 1
My 2022 novella serialized in nine parts /// publishing Mondays and Thursdays starting August 1st 2024
STORY SYNOPSIS:
Beatty lives his life in the moment. After losing his only family to the Provox epidemic as a young teenager, he has been forced to navigate the past decade on his own. The major city in which he lives has become increasingly overtaken by a political/religious group called the Traditionalists and their megacorp PrivaTec. They have built a divided class system of haves and havenots; Beatty’s class, the Ranks, are treated as expendable.
Luckily, thanks to his cunning friend Mar Vel, Beatty snags a coveted job at Humaneyes in his late teens. Humaneyes is a contractor who specializes in farming product ideas for a quack remedies producer. He likes his coworkers and sees his grumpy boss as a surrogate father figure. He never thinks too hard about the trickery that provides his paycheck. He is good at what he does and it provides him food and a place to live.
Then, after a few years on the job, he stumbles on an idea that will help people overcome flaws in a new type of brain device that is ruining people’s lives. Hoping to do something good for once and make his life matter, he pitches his idea to Panacea, the corporation his company contracts for.
Panacea is immediately onboard, but there are caveats. Beatty will be forced to make choices he never asked for, and potentially become the next victim of what he’s been complicit in all these years.
CHAPTER 1
The side streets of the Warehouse District were mostly vacant at this time of night. From his perch on the catwalk of a ratty old billboard, Beatty looked down on a generator attached to the back of a dingy PrivaTec shipping hub. Despite being almost invisible beneath two enormous overgrown weeds, it filled the air with a convenient, noise canceling hum, masking the clang of his feet on the metal grate. A breeze picked up, easing the sweat that had begun to form on his brow. All signs were pointing to success; the stars were aligning. He brushed a few damp locks of dark brown hair away from his eyes and scanned the sidewalk one more time before turning to the vast canvas in front of him.
He let go of the padded strap of his threadbare backpack, allowing the pile of pilfered cans inside to clank against one another as it slumped against his foot. Crouching in the dim light of the nearby streetlamp, he unzipped his bag and splayed it wide, righting the cans so their colorful caps faced up for easy access.
The paint was mostly crap—the cheap stuff. This time he’d tested their nozzles before heading out to make sure they weren’t clogged. He brought his own stash of blue and yellow, along with the two different shades of orange, fluorescent pink, and two cans of black he’d managed to snag off the back of a plague patrol truck while they were doing their rounds. The stuff they used was the worst, but free was free. No use spending all his spare credits on the good kind when he hadn’t totally figured his shit out yet.
Beatty took a deep breath and started outlining the area he planned to use in white. This throwback billboard was one of the last of it’s kind—tucked away off the main drag—a rust-laden orphan left to decay in a derelict lot while it’s animated, high-def offspring droned on in more high-dollar locations. Remnants of it’s glory days still clung to the surface: an image of a man with light brown skin and thick black hair wearing a white lab coat. His right half was torn and missing with a few fragments left dangling, trapped by the billboard’s metal border.
Worried about Provox? Panacea has you covered! exclaimed the barely legible text placed inside a blue swoosh to the man’s right. Beatty cut right through the words with a final, wide arc then began the arduous task of blanking out the center.
Twenty minutes later he was staring at a cloud-like blob. The pressure was on. Perfectionism was a menace, and Beatty was it’s frequent victim. He stood there frozen, trying to pre-draw the letters with his eyes.
Just do it, he goaded himself, then lunged for the orange before he could overthink it.
He’d do rough outlines first, then color, then go over the outlines with black again after. He gave the can a good shake while scanning the mostly industrial area for any new signs of life. All looked clear, so he took a deep breath and dove in.
It was two a.m. by the time he was finished. It would be hard to tell how torqued it looked until he was down on the ground. As he leaned over to drop the last of the cans back in his bag, the sharp glint of headlights appeared off in the distance. Someone was heading his way.
His mind began to race. Did he have enough time to climb down? There was a dead tree about a foot or two out, but it wouldn’t provide much cover. He could try and lay flat against the grate, but he’d be taking a chance. He glanced up at the headlights again, heart pounding, like a sitting duck.
He ran to the ladder in a panic, eyes darting for anything to save him. The vehicle was silent, but moving fast, about two blocks away now.
A few bars stuck out on the backside of the billboard. If he could just climb around and hang on, that should shield him. He snaked a leg around, sliding it down an angled cross support, stretching his limbs to the limit until finally touching down on a thick, solid rail that ran horizontally along the back of the sign. The rest of him followed easily until he was fully concealed.
The sound of the generator cut out suddenly allowing the soft electric flutter of the car’s engine to enter the soundscape. Beatty cursed his weak upper body strength as his forearms began to sting and shake. He clenched his eyes shut, trying desperately to control the urge to crack one open and take stock of the twenty or so feet between him and the weedy ground below.
Why are they driving so goddamn slow? he griped to himself. It had to be the Guard. Elites never came to this part of town, especially at two a.m.. Even if they did, they wouldn't be slinking along like this loser, scoping for trouble.
The tires crunched to a stop somewhere just beyond Beatty's cover. They must have noticed his latest work. The click and thunk of car doors signaled his torture would continue. He shifted slightly, wrapping a forearm over and sandwiching it between the back of the billboard surface and the steel cable that ran diagonally across the section in front of him. It still hurt slightly, but in a different way—a relief for the time being.
Footsteps approached, crunching along the mix of sand and crumbling asphalt chunks. Their irregular cadence told Beatty there were at least two of them. The sound came to a halt, then silence, followed by a heavy sigh.
"This fresh?" one asked in a low, slightly nasal voice.
"Yep. You can't smell that?" the other replied gruffly, referring to the sharp, chemical stench still lingering in the air. "DPU's been reporting having their paint stolen in this neighborhood lately. Looks like we've got a lead on our culprit now."
Fuck. Do they really have nothing better to do? Beatty griped internally. The pigs loved to get all hung up the petty stuff, pretending they’re doing their job by harassing someone putting free art on a piece of garbage real estate. They’d do anything to avoid dealing with some rager holding a gun. Cowards. They weren’t protecting anyone. It was a power trip, no matter what kind of spin they tried to pull. The Guard's only job was to keep the Ranks in line—pairs of ego-driven hands to do the bidding of Observer, their AI overlord.
"You seen this LUCID anywhere before?"
"No. But I know a few desperates 'round here we can throw something at and get a name."
Heh, not likely, Beatty thought. He hadn't shared his tag with anyone besides his friends Alora and Mar Vel, and they weren't exactly the type to trade drugs for tips.
Beatty was pretty sure his arm had gone numb. That might get awkward later when trying to disentangle himself without plummeting to his death. The Guard were suspiciously silent, no footsteps to signal movement one way of another. It was frustrating not being able to see. Finally, after a painfully long silence, one spoke.
"Should we take this one?"
Beatty panicked. Could they see him? Did he not realize and there were actually feet visible on the other side?
"Kinda far from here," the other replied. "Guess it's dead, though. Some action would be nice."
There were footsteps again, heading away from him.
They must be linked up, he thought. They had been listening to a call from headquarters fed directly into their brains through an implant. Beatty would never get used to that vacant stare when someone with an implant was tuned in. Gave him the creeps. There was this new kind, something called Upthink, that was causing people to get lost in a dreamworld while they were awake. He met some folks who claimed they stole shit off Upthink users who'd completely space out to the point you could strip them clean.
A rush of relief hit as the Guard rolled away. Beatty braced himself with his good arm and lifted his phantom limb up and out of it's deadly confinement.
Moving was going to be impossible until his arm had feeling again. He dangled by one hand a few moments longer as his limb went through all the awkwardly painful phases of reawakening, then leaned over and swung himself around and back onto the catwalk, making quick work of the ladder until his feet were on solid ground again.
Still anxious from the close call, he scanned multiple times in both directions before venturing out into the road to get a full view of his efforts. The DIA still hadn't been along this stretch to repair the vandalized cameras, so Observer was completely offline up through Market Ave; another reason why, besides proximity to his apartment, this spot was ideal.
On the other side of the road he spun around, looking across at the low-slung rectangle that he'd claimed as his own. The lettering was fairly consistent this time, a little wonky on the C and D, but not bad overall. The colors were meh, although it's not like he'd had a whole lot of options. He was getting better, that was the best he could ask for.
He spun his pack so it was cradled on his chest and unzipped the front pocket, letting it slide to the ground as he removed his tab. Beatty always took a few pictures right after he finished to document his work, since he never knew if it would still be there in a few days.
Once he was satisfied that he’d gotten a few decent shots, he shuffled back across the street in the direction of his apartment. It was going on 3 a.m. by then and he needed to sleep a bit so he wouldn’t end up drooling all over his keyboard at work.
The building where Beatty lived was only a few blocks from the billboard. It was four stories, with one apartment on each floor—a nondescript, bare-bones situation, clad in sickly-green asbestos siding with tiny windows scattered haphazardly along it’s surface. From the outside, the place blended in amongst the ancient industrial buildings that surrounded it. But, once you made it inside, you could tell it had been built for cheap living, a place to house the workers who used to populate the adjacent businesses.
Beatty liked to avoid using the front door, mainly so he could bypass his frequently drugged-out downstairs neighbor who’s roommates often locked out him out in the hall. Slipping down the alley instead, he wove through a maze of reeking garbage cans that occupied more than half of the narrow space between the building and the moldy wooden fence to it’s right. Around back, he mounted the fire escape, circling up and up and up—climbing over bulging black trash bags, two bicycles, a broken plastic chair—until he reached the back door of his flat.
Inside, the smell of grease still lingered in the stagnant air. Alora had made them all grilled cheesefood for dinner again, coating the pan with canola oil rather than butter since there’d been a dairy shortage going on for months. The cast iron pan still sat on the drainboard, waiting for one of them to take initiative and clean it. Beatty walked right past it into the cramped living room, slipping his pack off his shoulder and dropping it into an armchair. He reached over to flick the light on.
As soon as he could see, he noticed there was someone beneath the blanket. A tuft of Alora’s pink-streaked chestnut hair stuck out from the far end. Her phone was laying face down on the carpet, right next to her dangling hand.
She must be having insomnia again, Beatty surmised. She always came out and slept on the sofa when her rogue brain kept her up. He worried about her sometimes, despite how tough she made herself seem. She had been through a lot in twenty years—abused, orphaned, work camp, living on the street—enough trauma to haunt her for a lifetime.
While reaching over quickly to flick the light off and head for bed, Alora began to stir. She flipped on her back, emitting a soft groan, then lifted her forearm to shield her eyes from the blaze of the lamp.
“Beatty?” she mumbled.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”
“Did you just get home?” she asked dreamily.
“I was out painting,” he explained.
“Oh yeah,” she said, then smacked her lips. “Did it come out OK?”
“It’s not bad,” he admitted. “Do you need water?”
“Nah, I’m good,” she insisted while twisting sideways and burrowing her head in her pillow. She waved him off with a limp arm. “Go get some sleep. We’re supposed to be in at ten.”
The door to Beatty’s room was only a few steps away from the sofa. It was more of a closet, really, just wide enough for a full size mattress on the floor and a tall dresser to hold his clothes. He stripped down to his boxers, leaving the sweaty garments in a heap on the floor, and slid under his rumpled sheet. A breeze blew in through the screened window, cutting through the thick layer of humidity that had plagued them most of the day.
It was always difficult getting his brain to settle after he’d been out. Remnants of adrenaline were still circulating in his veins. He flipped flat on his back and closed his eyes, trying to focus on his heart pulsing, feel the blood in his veins, tuning in to the mysterious life force that propelled him through the world. The attention made his whole body tingle until he was convinced he was actually floating up above himself.
He lay like that for a while, blissed out on the verge of sleep, and just as he felt himself finally being pulled under, he was startled back to full consciousness by a high-pitched howling filled his room by way of the open window. The lone portal looked out over the back yard—a jungle-like tangle of vegetation swagged with power lines that ran behind the string of three-story row houses. The howls that he’d heard quickly turned into a violent, snarling tussle. It was definitely an animal; raccoons, to be precise. Their population had been climbing over the last few years and these battles had become a pretty common occurrence in Spring. His other roommate, Mar Vel, was convinced they were fucking in the trees.
Beatty tried to ignore them, but it was getting out of hand. One screech sounded an awful lot like a cat, making him worry his favorite feral friend, Alley, was getting eviscerated by a beast twice his size.
“Ugh,” he bellowed, jumping up and lurching toward the window. He felt around for his high-powered flashlight knowing he probably wouldn’t be able to see shit, then flung the screen up and aimed the blinding beam at the ground.
Finding nothing, he scanned the trees until he finally hit the reflective glow of eight eyeballs through a break in the canopy.
No wonder, he thought. He had only been picturing two of them. They were too far away to throw anything at, but the light was enough to stop them in their tracks. After a long pause in the spotlight one started climbing lazily away, followed by another. Beatty hoped that would be the end of it.
Flopping back in bed, the mood was definitely broken. He checked his phone. It was already 3:45.
“Ugh,” he muttered into his pillow. He was going to be thrashed at work tomorrow. Just when he had a proposal due too.
Don’t think about that now, he warned himself, grasping for anything to fill his mind with that wouldn’t keep him awake.
As if responding to his need, the wind picked up outside. Desiccated leaves of a nearby oak began to rattle. The sound of a coming storm was one he always welcomed—the whoosh and tremble of twisting trees like an elixir to his addled state. It triggered a memory—one that had come to him only recently—of standing in a field. He is small, only a child, surrounded by a sea of yellow flowers with black centers that tower above him. Their leggy stalks are being whipped about by the wind. Their color is brighter than he thought possible. It hurts his eyes to look so he squints, turning them into hyperactive blobs bouncing on a dark green sea. The ground beneath his feet is bare dirt with a bit of crunch to it. He is on a path that stretches far beyond where he can see. There is something good there, at the end of it, beyond the flowers; somehow he knows this instinctively. He has tried to remember what it is exactly, but that part of the memory has been overwritten. There is no one left to ask who might know the answer. Still, he would like to find this place, wonders if places like it even exist anymore. It’s not really the type of thing you can just look up online. He’s never been much of a nature guy either. He felt safe there though, happy—that much he is sure of. He’d like to feel that way again.
The wind outside let loose with another huge gust, rattling the window in it’s frame. A more responsible person would have gotten up and closed it before the floor got wet, but Beatty didn’t really care.
Maybe something good will come from all this, he thought as his consciousness began to waver. Every once in awhile he allowed himself to hope for more.