Daydreams In The Land Of The Magic Pill - CHAPTER 3
My 2022 novella serialized in nine parts
CHAPTER 2 RECAP: In chapter two we learn about Beatty’s job at Humaneyes. We learn about Panacea, the fake remedies company Humaneyes contracts for. Beatty has an idea that he thinks will actually help people--a device to jam the Upthink implants that cause dreamlinking. He is going to pitch the remedy to Panacea, hoping they will take it on as a way to polish up their bad reputation. We meet his boss Rayford and find out that Beatty’s apartment is a perk of his job. We learn Beatty and Alora are getting a new roommate who will have to sleep in a storage area off their kitchen.
The apartment’s buzzer woke him around seven-thirty the next morning. They weren’t expecting anyone, so Beatty ignored it a few times thinking his downstairs neighbor had probably locked himself out again. Then a ping came through from Rayford.
Your new roommate is downstairs, dipshit. LET HIM IN.
Beatty groaned, rolling his limp body toward the edge of the mattress and grasping around blindly for something to put on. He had just slipped a sweaty t-shirt over his head when he heard one of his roommates open the door to the hallway, then the thump of footfall on the stairs. Moments later Alora’s voice radiated through the walls.
“Welcome home, I guess?” her muffled voice offered halfheartedly.
A slow, unfamiliar one replied, “Yeah. Thanks.”
Beatty emerged from his glorified closet, attempting to smooth back his hair as he entered the living room.
He wasn’t sure who he’d expected to see that morning, but it was not this guy.
Brick was clearly a stoner, with lank, white guy dreads, a dingy blue tee touting the local freegan collective, and NO SHOES on his feet. Beatty took a deep breath while reminding himself not to jump to conclusions.
This guy agreed to live in the room where you used to keep trash, he reasoned internally, fighting off all his past experiences and preconceived notions. Shut up and make the best of it.
“Hey, Brick. I’m Beatty,” he offered, giving his new roommate a tight wave then shoving the hand back in the pocket of his jeans.
Brick, who must have not noticed Beatty had entered the room, briefly startled before breaking into a nodding grin. “Beatty! Nice to meet you man. Your place is really docked.”
Docked was old-school slang for fancy, posh, lux. Beatty’s lip quirked at the irony, while his empathetic side twinged for anyone who would think this place was fancy.
“We try and make the best of it,” he reasoned. “You wanna see your space? It’s gonna be tight.”
During the brief walk back to the storage closet Beatty tried to turn off the twinges of shame teasing his neurons. It wasn’t like he had chosen to put Brick in there, although he wasn’t offering to compromise his own comfort for the guy’s sake either.
“I hope Rayford warned you. It’s really small,” Alora said from behind them, trying to preempt the shock.
“Yeah. It’s like a closet or something?”
The room was located off of a tight vestibule that led to the back door. Beatty reached around the door frame and flicked on the light, bathing the wood-clad unfinished space in the stark glow of a single bulb. Only the faintest smell of rotting food still lingered. Alora had worked her magic.
“Sweet,” Brick responded enthusiastically, with a satisfied bob of his head. “This is great! I can totally make this work.”
He slid past them into the cramped space, tilting his rail-thin body to one side to compensate for the pitch of the ceiling. It was true, what Ray said, Brick was on the small side. Both Alora and Beatty stood about six feet tall and Brick came up to maybe their noses? He crouched energetically and laid his body out on the floor. Only his feet stuck out through the doorway. He didn’t seem to think this was a problem.
“I sleep on my side anyway with my knees bent,” he reasoned. “This is really great! Thank you so much for this. I can do chores and stuff. Whatever you need.”
Beatty gave him a sleepy grin then exchanged a questioning glance with Alora, who looked mortified.
“Oh, don’t thank us. This is all Ray,” Alora responded, her tone dripping with innuendo.
“We can talk about chores some other time...once you’re settled,” Beatty added. “Right now we’ve got to get ready for work. Provox shots at nine. We’re probably going out after work tonight…if you want to come?”
“Oh...nah. I mean, some time soon for sure! Tonight I plan to get myself all set up in here so I’m ready for my first day tomorrow. Do either of you know anyone who does trades and might have something for me to sleep on?”
Depends on what kind of trades, Beatty thought to himself. Before he could open his mouth, Alora put a finger to his lips.
“I’ll set you up. I have a friend who’ll get you something to sleep on.”
Brick’s eyes grew wide with astonished relief. “Docked! Thanks, Alora. What do I owe you?”
Alora smirked and gave him a wink. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
* * *
“We’re you flirting with that guy?”
Beatty and Alora were on the short walk over to Humaneyes when he was finally able to unload the question that had been nagging him all morning.
Alora gave him a baffled look. “Wha? No! God, Beatty. What made you think that?”
He did his best to mimic her voice, playing up the wink. “I’m sure I’ll think of something…”
“Oh, jeezus christ,” she balked, stopping in her tracks to gesticulate a bit. “That’s just how I am, Beatty...I don’t know. I was half awake, ok?”
Beatty made a face letting her know he was skeptical of her take. “Well, you might want to let Brick know that.”
“Pfft,” she dissented with a roll of her head. Alora looked away pensively, her expression blank, then turned to him again. “Shit. You don’t really think he thought…”
Beatty shrugged. “You’re pretty hot, Alora. I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Eww...Beatty, no. I don’t like it when you say stuff like that,” she said, followed by a shudder.
Alora had made it clear from the beginning that she had no interest in Beatty other than friendship. He suffered about a day or two of mild disappointment, then got over it. Since then his feelings had grown strictly platonic; she had become like a sister to him.
“I’m just stating objective facts,” he argued before adding, “If it makes you feel any better I didn’t get any vibes that he took it that way. Just giving you a heads up.”
“Good. Last thing I need is my home life to get awkward.”
* * *
Their work day was uneventful, passing by in a blink. Beatty kept expecting Rayford to come over with word about what Panacea thought of his proposal. Instead he spent most of his day in the office, to the point Beatty thought he might be avoiding him. Finally, right as they were leaving, Rayford came over.
“No word yet kid,” he shrugged. “Maybe the higher ups decided to meet and discuss it before getting back to us. I’m sure they’ll be in touch tomorrow.”
Beatty gave him a thumbs up and headed home.
Alora was already there when he arrived at the apartment, standing awkwardly just inside the back door.
“You’ve got to see this,” she beckoned.
He took the few steps forward so he could see whatever Alora was staring at inside Brick’s room. The ceiling and the walls were now coated in reflective silver. A bare twin mattress with the last few inches cut off filled all but a tiny section of floor.
“Is that...foil?”
Alora finally turned to look at him. Her face wore a look that straddled a fine line between amusement and horror. “I think so.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“What the fuck?”
“He made himself a tinfoil hat to live in, Beatty,” she lilted brightly. “It’s probably nothing.”
She shot him a panicked look then spun on her heel and disappeared through the kitchen.
Later, oon the way to their favorite gathering spot, the two swapped theories.
“Maybe he’s one of those frequency freaks? Who think waves are passing through them and mutating their DNA?” Alora mused.
“Or it could be more of a self-obsession thing: he likes looking at himself all the time, but can’t afford mirrors?”
Alora guffawed then made a face like she smelled something rank. “God, that’s somehow worse. Like, serial killer shit. We have to live with this guy you know.”
“Don’t stress,” Beatty replied tauntingly. “He didn’t seem like a serial killer to me.”
“That’s what they all say, Beatty.”
The place they were going that night was on the far side of Civic Square. They took side roads most of the way, weaving through run-down residential neighborhoods heading in the direction of Market Ave. They passed a plague patrol van out working the late shift, removing a hazmat shrouded victim of Provox from their home on a stretcher and marking the front door with a spraypainted PX.
Provox was primarily transmitted by mosquitoes, but once someone was contagious they could spread the virus to others through surface contact. The trucks that came out and sprayed some kind of larvicide to kill the mosquitoes had made a big difference locally—along with the inoculations they were required to take every six months. But people still traveled; some of them also didn’t have jobs that offered the vacccines, or just refused to get them. A few pre-symptomatics inevitably slipped through the cracks when they were screened at the border. Marking the door boldly with paint was basically a “keep out” sign, letting others know the house was a potential biohazard. Eventually a clean up crew might come, if there was a landlord or homeowner still alive and willing to pay. Other properties, often ones where the owners died, stayed vacant for ages.
On one particularly dark street, far up ahead, Alora and Beatty watched as a second patrol van with two medical agents dressed in anti-contagion suits got out and crossed the sidewalk holding a stretcher. They headed up the front steps of an algae-coated brownstone and disappeared inside. The doors of their scuffed white van were left splayed open. As they got closer Beatty’s eyes locked on the colorful caps peeking out of a crate just inside the door.
Alora looked at Beatty and chuckled. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“They’ve got green...yellow. Shit.”
Alora rolled her eyes. “Can we just get where we are going without you unleashing the Guards on us?”
Beatty pouted. “Hey...have I ever been caught?”
Alora sighed. “They’ve been in the back of that thing with victims. What if the cans have the virus on them?”
“They won’t. The bags they seal the bodies in are made from anti-contagion material. The stretcher is coated with a embedded polymer that kills the virus on contact. The virus stays in the house.”
“Since when do you know all this?” she countered.
“You think I spend all day looking at feeds and don’t learn about this shit?”
“Feeds? That’s your source?”
Beatty scoffed. “Hey! There are plenty of legit people sharing real info. You just have to follow the right ones.”
Alora responded with a skeptical snort. “Ok, but I wouldn’t bet my life on it.”
They approached the van. Beatty was still deciding whether to go for it when one of agents stepped out onto the stoop and stood there watching as they passed.
“See?” Alora nagged once they were out of earshot. “You could’ve had us locked up over a couple cans of paint.”
Beatty cringed, not wanting to accept the fact that she was right. “Since when did you turn all law and order on me?”
“Beatty,” she grabbed his arm and made him stop and look her in the eyes. “You know the shit I’ve been through. I just need things to be normal for awhile, ok? And if whatever this is right now is the best the world can give me, I’ll take it. It’s a little messed up, but also beautiful. I don’t want to risk having it taken away.”
Her words hit him hard. He felt embarrassed, selfish. Losing both his parents had been bad, but she had been places he could never understand, places he never wanted either of them to have to go.
Distracted by their conversation, they hadn’t noticed the corner they had stopped on. The lights were suddenly brighter, noises louder, a commotion picked up in their peripherals. Their gazes remained locked on one another, a pause waiting to be filled with the missing words lingering on the tip of Beatty’s tongue. Then a third voice broke in—haggard and aggressive—from just beyond their emotional bubble.
“Chaoticism is the antithesis of Order!” it bellowed. “Take heed, Sinners, for there is no true master other than God and Capital!”
The two friends startled out of their trance, heads whipping in the direction of one of the zealots who had been showing up here lately. They had reached Civic Square.
Tonight there were a lot more of them than usual—preachers and evangelists from a religious sect called The True Order. They came into town on buses from one of the many fledgling colonies that had been popping up on the outskirts of the city. As Beatty scoped out the area, he noted them on almost every corner.
“You! Girl!” The man dropped the text-heavy sign he’d had hoisted above his head and pointed at Alora. He eyed her up and down, taking in her fitted black tank top and pants, finally settling on her face which was covered in dark, heavy makeup. Beatty’s hairs stood on end as the man’s expression turned. He began stomping toward them and Beatty shifted so he was standing just slightly in front of his friend. The guy was elderly and didn’t look to be armed, but experience had taught him that anyone could be dangerous.
“Street walker! Trash whore!” Beatty tried putting out an arm to stop him, but the man got so close Alora had to tilt her head back to escape his violent spittle. “Can’t you hear them? All the unborn souls you have denied life, calling out from your womb, asking you to fulfill your duty to God and Capital? Soon Chaoticism like yours will be a crime, punishable by death. Submit now to the Holy Dominion of Man, Reason, and Order, or prepare to burn for eternity!”
Beatty tried to read Alora’s expression, wondering if he should step in or not.
“Reason and order, huh?” she asked calmly. “Not to critique or anything...I don’t really know you at all...but you seem to be the one who’s out of order from where I’m standing. Very...chaotic.” She punctuated the last word with a flourish of hands.
The zealot clearly wasn’t used to this kind of response and his face turned red with rage. Beatty assumed most people would just tell him to go to hell or run away rather than bait the guy (that’s what he’d do, at least), but—as Alora had just reminded him—she had dealt with far worse and wasn’t about to run scared.
“People like you should be shot dead,” the man mumbled from between clenched teeth, looking from Beatty back to Alora, vein popping out of his forehead. “The virus of Chaoticism pulses in your veins. It is my duty to not let it spread.”
Something about the way the words were delivered made Beatty look down at the foot or so of space between them. He noticed a glint of metal protruding from the man’s left hand and before Beatty could think he kicked him hard in the shin then grabbed Alora’s arm and ran into traffic.
The man’s wail echoed loud against the brick buildings as the two dashed across Market Ave. A few more True Order evangelists were stationed along their path ahead. One was already preoccupied harassing another innocent passerby. The two others were women, covered head-to-toe in thick, long-sleeved, high-necked, grey shrouds that seemed completely inappropriate for the muggy warmth of late-March. They said nothing, just thrust pamphlets into the paths of people passing them by on the sidewalk. Beatty noticed one of the pamphlets had bold text that read Beasts Among Us above a kitchy, comic-like image of a panicked man looking down in shock at his arms that were now completely covered in black fur.
The image made Beatty chuckle and he was tempted to take it so they could laugh at it later. But, as soon as the woman noted his amusement, she pulled the offering out of his reach and scowled. He contemplated reaching in and grabbing it from her anyway, but then thought the better of it. Despite the garbage her people spewed, he couldn’t bring himself to harass her. He just felt bad for them; they looked so hot and unhappy. Maybe there would be another pamphlet someone dropped on the ground up ahead.
A loud clap of thunder came out of nowhere causing them both to startle. They immediately picked up their pace, hoping to outrun the deluge that was most like coming.
Dashing along under flickering streetlights then down a side street, the familiar alley they were headed toward finally materialized on their right. They ducked between the buildings, allowing themselves to be swallowed up by shadows, then stopped for a moment to catch their breath and regroup.
“You ok?” Beatty asked, placing a hand on his friend’s arm.
“Yeah. Did he have a gun or something?”
“A knife, I think. In his left hand. You probably couldn’t see from where you were.”
Alora gave him one of her seething looks as her breathing slowed. “Stupid ragers. What if that asshole had stabbed me, Beatty?!”
“Let’s just go. Forget him for now, or forever. Whatever you want,” he shrugged.
Alora tilted her head up from the ground, throwing him a half grin. “Forever, please. Let’s forget he exists.”
The glow of The Crawlspace’s red sign beckoned them from the far left corner of the alley. It was the kind of place you had to know about first in order to find it—a sort of underground mall with minimal signage and no advertisements, surviving solely by word of mouth divvied out to folks who had earned the collective trust of other low-tier Ranks like themselves.
When they reached the solid metal door Beatty knocked—tap tap, tatata, tap tap. A small camera high up on the wall revealed it’s presence by igniting a red LED. They both turned to face it and waved.
A moment later the door popped, allowing them passage into the stairwell beyond. Just inside, on part of the landing to the left of the door, sat a grey-haired woman known as Ag. She was half standing, half perched on a barstool with her elbows leaning on a tall cafe table. In front of her, on the table’s glossy black surface, she had laid out groupings of cards, while the rest of the deck remained grasped in her speckled right hand. The cards depicted stylized symbols for certain plants, animals, human body parts, and “energies”. It was a practice called Collation—a way some people called upon higher spirits to make sense of the world. According to Ag, the cards were “like a holy book in flux, ever-changing with the breath and patterns of the universe”. Beatty had no idea what that meant exactly, but Ag was sweet and harmless and “the cards” had always given him good advice.
“Hey, Ag,” Alora said, greeting her friend with a hug. Alora was fascinated by Collation and had spend hours sitting with Ag learning all about the practice. From what Beatty could tell Alora didn’t actually believe any of it, she just found people’s existential coping mechanisms fascinating. She was a bit of an academic that way, as much as a non-Elite who had spend most of her early years struggling to stay alive could be. Beatty always felt Alora could achieve something brilliant if someone would just give her a chance.
“Alora! I love the pink!” Ag commented, running one of Alora’s candy-tinted streaks through her fingers.
“Thank you. Anything happening in the cards tonight?”
Ag turned her gaze back toward the cards, screwing up her lips in concentration. “Well, we’ve got the hand crossed by lightning. Then over here on the second plane we’ve got the goat feeding on nightshades. Not too unusual. But then, when I dealt the flux plane, I got the heart with not one but two seed cards. Change is definitely coming, a pivot point—excitement, evil, rebirth. It’s an odd combo though; I’m still trying to sort it out.”
Beatty noted Alora’s look of stern concentration as she hovered over Ag and eyed the cards. Maybe she did take this more seriously than she let on.
“That is odd, Ag. I’m gonna head down with Beatty, but I’ll be back around in a bit to check in.”
Alora put a hand on the woman’s shoulder and Ag smiled up at her. “You kids just have a good time. No need to worry about this nonsense.”
This particular building had two levels of basements. The Crawlspace was at the very bottom. As they bounded down the two flights Beatty remembered something that had been nagging him.
“Hey. Have you seen Mar Vel at all lately?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly against the dark glossy walls.
“I think he’s got a new boyfriend,” Alora divulged. “He’s been staying over there a lot, I guess.”
“Ah, ok. I was starting to get worried.”
Alora turned her head and shot him a look.
“I suppose I could’ve just pinged to check on him, huh?”
“Yah,” she replied with a knowing glance. Beatty was horrible at keeping in touch with people. “There’s a chance he’ll be here tonight.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Beatty agreed. “I’ll ping him tomorrow if he’s not.”
Down at the bottom level the ceilings were low—maybe seven and a half feet, eight at the most—giving the place an almost bunker-like feel. The stairs opened directly into a lobby area whose three main walls were covered in a photorealistic painted mural of crawling insects and critters: spiders, centipedes, mice, worms. On the wall to the right of the stairwell was a noticeboard jammed with fliers, announcements, and other ephemera. A wide doorway on the wall straight ahead took you into a hallway with about a dozen rooms off of it. The bar they were going to was straight ahead at the end.
The whole venue was busy that night. Groups of friends were gathered about the lobby, their identities somewhat obscured by the dim, colorful lighting. Beatty looked closer for familiar faces, but didn’t see anyone he knew.
The hallway was tight with bodies. They had to turn sideways at times to fit by the clusters of people wrapped up in conversation. Some of the other businesses down here included a bookshop, a pay-what-you-can diner, a secondhand clothing store, a refurbished electronics seller and repair shop, a woman who sold scavenged goods of all kinds, a 3D printing studio, and a few other spaces that were only open during the day—offering services like health clinic referrals and basic veterinary checkups.
But more than all that, it was a gathering place, and underground town square for undesirables. It was somewhere to go where you didn’t have to worry about The Guard harassing you, where you could hang out with your friends and no one was going to pressure you to buy anything. Beatty and Alora rarely had extra credits to spend so it had become their usual weekend haunt. Two or three credits would get you enough alcohol and good conversation to smooth out the hard edges of a grueling week. It was a ritual they rarely skipped.
The bar didn’t really have it’s own name. Most people just invited you to meet them for a drink at The Crawlspace. The lighting inside was tinted in various shades of red, pink, orange, with a few spots of warm white scattered here and there. The walls were painted a deep blue and covered in local art. All of the seating was built out of old furniture, with hints of their former life found in the carved details, wood turnings, and mismatched finishes scattered throughout each booth and table.
As luck would have it their usual booth was open. It had bench seats that were high-backed and upholstered in pumpkin-colored vinyl. A minimal, slab-like table made from black laquered wood was sandwiched between them. Alora’s seat was fashioned out of a metal bed frame, with dark iron knobs and bars peeking out above the backrest. Beatty’s side was made from strips of mahogany and beech colored wood, topped with carved owl finials.
They made a quick stop at the bar. Aida was behind the counter tonight and was already pulling their bottles from the cooler when they walked up. They carried their cheap beer over to the booth, downing at least half of their beverages before finally starting a conversation.
“Hey, did Ray hear back about your pitch?” Alora wondered, before tilting her head back to take another sip.
Beatty shook his head. “He thinks maybe tomorrow. Whatever.”
Alora rested her chin in her hand and glanced around the room. “I’m sure they liked it. Maybe it was a busy day at ol’ Panacea HQ.”
“Yeah, maybe,” he replied skeptically.
Alora was silent a moment, eyes still scanning the room. Her stare had a vacancy to it, like she wasn’t really looking, but thinking. Beatty knew that look well.
“Do you ever think about the future, Beatty?”
His expression must have been something, because when she turned to look at him she snorted with laughter. “Sorry. That kinda came out of nowhere. I was just thinking about what I said earlier...about this being the best life has to offer me. I don’t really think that, you know.”
Beatty considered her words and shrugged. “I figured, but I also understood what you meant. You can dream as much as you want about the future, but you still have to cope with the here and now.”
Alora responded with a close-lipped smile. “See. This is why we’re friends, Beatty. You get it. But seriously though...do you think about it? Like, is there some secret thing you haven’t told me about that you daydream about? That gets you up in the morning? That makes it all worth it?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer because he didn’t really think about the future all that much. He wondered whether he should tell her about the memory with the field of flowers, how happy it made him feel, about wanting to find that place and whatever lay beyond it? That was kind of like a daydream, a goal: his own magic pill that would be the antidote to all his problems. He wasn’t sure that was the kind of thing she meant though.
“I mean...not really?” he replied. “Not like goals or anything...taking over Rayford’s job someday, or things like that. I guess I want to learn to paint better, get better at grafitti. Is that really a dream, though? A life goal?”
“Mmm, a little, I guess.”
“Ok. What about you?”
She startled a bit at the question. “Me?”
“You started it.”
She gave him a squinty-eyed glare then took another swig of her beer to buy herself time.
“Out with it,” he commanded.
“Stop. Give me a second to think,” she begged with a brief chuckle. After another moment she let out a long sigh and responded. “Of course I have dreams. You think I want to spend my life running some fake-ass Elite’s socials for a bunch of corporate creeps? Problem is, I have no idea how to get myself there. Without family or connections, the fact that I’m a woman…what’s the point, right? The things I really want definitely aren’t possible in the here and now...maybe ever.”
“What would you do though, if none of those things were obstacles?”
She looked down at the empty bottle between her hands and began picking at a corner of the label with her fingernail. “I’d write books.”
“Yeah?” She never mentioned it before, but he wasn’t entirely surprised. “What would you write about?”
“About people, subcultures. Not stories, but like, real life. I’d study people like Ag and the Collationists, write books about them and their practices.”
Beatty broke into a grin. “I can totally see that. You’d be really good at it. You have a way with people that makes them instantly like you and open up. Have you tried writing about her at all, just for fun?”
Alora lifted her gaze from the pile of shredded label that was forming in front of her and mumbled, “A little.”
Beatty’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Can I read it?”
She looked down again and sighed. “I knew you were going to ask that.”
“I won’t if you don’t want me to. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”
“It’s ok. It’s just...having someone read it makes the whole thing feel more real, you know? Let me…give me some time to read through it again, get it into shape, then maybe? It’s just a start, like ten pages or so.”
“Amped! Like I said, no pressure. I’m here and willing, if you want to share.”
Alora flashed him a smile and had just begun to open her mouth when a voice called out to them.
“Hello, strangers! You two are so predictable.”
Their heads whipped toward the crowd just as Mar Vel materialized from the throng of customers. Tonight he was going for a more controlled, masculine look, wearing a mashup of bland but well-fitting grey pants, a hot pink crocheted t-shirt, and a navy straw trilby on his close shaven head. The colors popped against his deep brown skin, making him look like he just stepped off a movie set. The woman who ran the used clothing shop (one of Mar’s close friends) always let him model her collection once he arrived, since dressing the way he likes above ground would get him picked up by the Guard. Last time Beatty had run into Mar here he had been wearing one of her shift dresses that reminded him of a sparkly trashbag.
“And here I was, thinking you were dead,” Beatty needled back, wearing a broad grin.
“What?” Mar Vel scoffed. “You can’t take two seconds out of your busy life to send me a ping? Glad to know you’ve got my back if someone does try to murder me.”
Beatty stood and gave his old friend a long hug. “Sorry, man. You know how I am.”
“Oh, I know,” he agreed, releasing Beatty and holding him at arms length, then attempting to embarrass him with a peck on the cheek. “Expected and forgiven. Like always.”
“Your Majesty’s benevolence is greatly appreciated,” he muttered, playing along by pretending to be annoyed.
Mar Vel slipped into the booth beside Alora and the two embraced in a side hug.
“We’ve missed you, girl,” Alora griped lovingly. “How’s the new man?”
Mar Vel rolled his eyes then rested his elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand. He looked back and forth between the two of them as they waited for him to divulge the details.
“Ugh. Ok, honestly? I’m kinda bored,” he said with a cringe. “Is that bad? Am I a bad person?”
“Oh no!” Alora exclaimed with a chuckle. “I thought for sure this was The One. Is he smitten?”
“I can’t tell. Maybe?” Mar Vel shifted, tugging his hands down his cheeks. “Ugh, I feel like shit. Why am I like this you guys?”
He folded his arms on the table and dropped his head down on them, rocking it back and forth. Beatty and Alora exchanged a weak smile as Beatty reached across the table and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“It’s ok, buddy. You can’t force yourself to be into him if you’re not. We’ll still love you no matter what.”
Alora chimed in and added, “Listen, if there is anything I know about you it is that you are picky and determined…a romantic. Don’t fight it. If you compromise to save hurt feelings I guarantee you both will be miserable.”
Mar Vel’s head was still resting on his arms, but his face was pointing in Alora’s direction. Beatty saw him crack an eye, just as the hint of a smile bloomed on his lips.
“You are like some kind of oracle, I swear.” He lifted his head while dragging his arms up, keeping his palms flat on the table, and drew a deep, dramatic breath. “You’re right. I have to end it. It’s what’s best for everyone.”
“Speaking of...Mar, do you have big dreams for the future?” Alora asked.
The shift in conversation was abrupt, something Mar’s puzzled expression clearly conveyed.
She smiled and tried to explain. “Right before you showed up Beatty and I were discussing whether or not we had dreams for our lives beyond working for Humaneyes.”
Mar Vel nodded in understanding, squinting his eyes and staring off into the distance thoughtfully. “I do...sometimes. I try not to get too deep though. Between plagues and these True Order ghouls and the fact that it is 85 degrees at night in late-March? I’m not ready to bank on tomorrow when I’m not sure I’ll even survive today. That’s the realm of fools and I am trying hard as hell not to be one.”
Beatty found himself a bit surprised by his normally optimistic friend’s sober take on reality. Although it didn’t take long for classic Mar Vel to break down the walls of reason and pragmatism and offer up a good time.
“Ok, so, that said…when I do get my fantasy on, I imagine myself living in the Gated Zone. I’m an Elite wearing a slick three piece suit, people left and right stopping in their tracks to stare as I step into my Mercedes electric and head off to my banking job in the Corporate District. I’d be sitting at my desk all day, laughing, while buying derelict walkups out from under rich Elite landlords and snubbing them at parties decked in crystal.”
Beatty, bug-eyed and unable to contain himself, burst into hysterical laughter. The spasms it caused had him holding his stomach and drooping sideways toward the floor. Mar Vel, always the performer, watched him with amused composure.
“You think this is funny, Mr. Slum Junkie? You’re telling me that you wouldn’t jump at the chance to join the Elites if it was offered to you?”
Despite Mar Vel’s unflappable visage, he couldn’t help but reveal himself with a slight upward quirk of his lip.
“Slum Junkie?” Beatty cackled. “It been fun Grandma, but I think it’s past your bedtime.”
With that, Mar Vel finally broke and joined the other two in laughter. “Not my best dig, huh? I tried. But see? Two weeks with Aaron was way too long. I’ve lost my touch.”
They took a moment to regain their composure, before Mar Vel circled back to his original question.
“Seriously, though. Would you?”
“Would I what?” Beatty asked, taking a sip of his beer.
“If someone offered you a chance to become an Elite, would you?”
Beatty furrowed his brow in concentration. “Does it even work like that? I thought you had to be born into it or some shit?”
Alora shook her head. “Not always. I think you can marry into it. Or be adopted.”
“So we’re speculating about finding some sad Elite granny who wants to adopt a grown man?” Beatty posited. “Would I have to live with her?”
Mar Vel rolled his eyes. “Can you just, like, pretend to have an imagination? For just a second?”
Beatty grinned wide. It was fun messing with him.
Mar Vel sighed before diving in. “Since we seem to need all the details first...fine. Let’s say some rich bitch needs someone to...I don’t know, what are you good at?...run her socials for her. She’s at a party and starts chatting with one of the big execs at Panacea who says, Hey, I know a guy, one of our contractors. He’d be perfect.”
Beatty opened his mouth to object to the viability of this scenario, but Mar Vel halted him with a stern finger. “Hey. Imagination, remember? Ok. Anyway, she’s thrilled. They give her your name. One thing leads to another—you have a meeting, she throws you an offer: six-figure credits and a signed petition for Elite status in exchange for leaving your old life behind and starting a new one on the other side of the gates.”
He didn’t have to think for a second. What Mar had just described was Beatty’s living nightmare. “Hell no.”
Mar’s torso jolted back in surprise. “Seriously? You wouldn’t be tempted?”
Beatty’s head twitched violently from side to side, his features scrunched up in disgust. “Why in the world would I want that? I mean, making those kind of credits would be amped, but what good would they do if I have to live like a zombie? Being forced to think and behave like everyone around me would be like dying. I’d be bored out of my mind.”
Mar still didn’t look convinced.
“It’s like when the preachers and zealots talk about heaven and how I’m not going there. Like, even if it existed, why the fuck would I want to go if they are all going to be there too? From how they tell it, heaven will be full of a bunch of beige normies, ragers, intolerant condescending assholes, and people who are content to spend a bland, numb eternity either ignoring or making excuses for all of them. No thanks. I’d rather just have the lights go out if it’s all the same to you, cuz all my choices sound like hell.”
Both Mar Vel and Alora were staring at him blankly. Maybe he’d gotten a little more worked up than he intended. After a few moments, Mar Vel snapped out of it and continued with the hard sell.
“Listen, I’m sure the Elites aren’t all beige. I bet some who are born into it hate it. You’d just have to play the game during the day, make your boss happy, then find your real people and let loose on the weekends.”
“Are you trying to convince me, or convince yourself?”
Mar Vel shrugged. “I’d consider it.”
“You’d lose your mind,” Beatty argued. “What were you just telling us five minutes ago? How bored you were after two weeks with this guy, what’s his name?”
“Aaron,” Mar clarified meekly.
“Listen,” Beatty continued. “I like it here, as flawed and messy and unfair as it is. I love The Crawlspace, this community of people who take care of one another, you two. Even the crew at Humaneyes, and that jerk Rayford, damn it.”
Mar Vel looked away with a subtle scowl on his face.
“Mar,” Beatty pleaded, moving to meet the line of his gaze. “Tell me we are not having a fight over some imaginary scenario about becoming Elites?”
It took him a minute, but finally Mar Vel relented and looked Beatty in the eye.
“No. I’m just pissed that you’re right,” he conceded, then added while pretending to be choked up. “You’ve stolen my dreams, Beatty.”
Beatty huffed in amusement then reached out to steal Mar’s hat and put it on his own head.
“Hey, the main reason I know you wouldn’t go is because they never let you through the gate with a scruffy weirdo attached to your leg,” he explained. “Plus, I’m heavy. It’d be impossible to walk.”
That finally got him a grin and Beatty knew the battle was over. He slid back in his seat and noticed Alora leaning on her fist watching the two of them with a look that hovered between amusement and boredom.
“Hi!” he said energetically. “Would you become an Elite if someone offered it?”
“You two are so adorable,” she noted, then answered. “I have no idea. Never say never, right? But probably not...for similar reasons.” She gathered up their empty bottles and started to stand. “More beer?”