Stories
2084 felt like a half-remembered dream: chrome spires crowned by perpetual dusk, hovercars humming lullabies through neon gutters. In the backroom of an antique arcade, a painting pulsed under ultraviolet lamps. Its center bore a patchwork skull with misaligned eyes; two surreal figures flanking it stretched their tongues toward the chattering bone. Above, letters danced in riotous hues: DILLIGAF.
Juno Remy, a decommissioned neural-surveyor turned relic hunter, first saw it at a black-market auction. He’d been tracking memories stolen from dissidents—fragments trapped in retro signage—and something about that skull felt like a stolen thought begging rescue. He bid against a swarm of data-monks and won.
Back at his loft, Juno unpacked the canvas with reverent caution. The walls, littered with holographic schematics, flickered as if sighing. He laid a neural probe against the frame. Immediately, his vision fractured into thousands of glowing shards: memories not his own—riots led by mime-philosophers, an AI preaching absurdist poetry, a carnival where laughter dissolved into screams.
Juno staggered back as the painting’s colors shifted to form words: “They gave up. DILLIGAF.” He rang his friend Tanvi Shah, a cybernetic dramaturge who authored virtual tragedies in her sleep. Over crackling comms she said, “Sounds like a manifesto. Could be code for a lost experiment—something they swore never to revive.”
They recruited Ari Cavanaugh, a glitch poet whose skin occasionally pixelated, and Dr. Selene Ortiz, a biohacker sculpting living fungus into wearable art. Ari admired the painting’s warped humor; Selene saw in it a pathogen for human perception.
Together, they traced DILLIGAF’s origins to Cassandra Labs, a defunct think-tank that once merged psychoactive drugs and quantum computing to erase regret. The project collapsed when test subjects vanished into their own mindscapes. Before closure, an insider smuggled out the final prototype: the painting, encoded with the core algorithm.
Intrigue deepened when Tanvi discovered a missing-person report for Cassandra’s lead scientist, Magnus Rhee. He’d disappeared the night the lab shut down. Rumor claimed Rhee uploaded his consciousness into art, fleeing physical form. The group theorized the painting was his vessel.
Ari insisted on a live test. Against better judgment, Selene injected Juno with a nanofluid designed to attune his neurons to the canvas. He stared into the skull’s hollow gaze and felt his sense of self unravel, spilling into the neon void behind his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes, the loft was empty. The painting floated mid-air, its tongues flicking like tongues of flame. A voice, muffled and urgent, pressed against Juno’s mind: “Find me before they find you.”
He found Tanvi in a subterranean theater where shadow-actors recited Kafka on acid. She whispered that Cassandra Labs left clues in their abandoned data-vaults hidden in derelict satellites. Selene hacked into orbital logs while Ari performed a chant that bent reality’s seams.
At the vault’s coordinates, a silent satellite orbited low. Inside, they uncovered a crystalline chamber housing Rhee’s preserved cortex. The scientist’s final message glowed across holo-panels: “DILLIGAF—an acronym for the ultimate relinquishment: Do I Look Like I Give A Fuck.”
He believed the painting could fracture mortality, scattering consciousness across timelines. But a rival sect, the NullJudgers, wanted to weaponize that freedom, erasing foes by dissolving their identities.
A firefight erupted under flickering fluorescent tubes. Selene lobbed a bio-grenade that sprouted sentient vines, tangling NullJudgers in bioluminescent roots. Ari’s voice warped sound waves, disorienting attackers with infectious giggles. Tanvi projected holographic doubles to confuse their sensors.
Juno reached the crystal cocoon and pressed the painting’s canvas to the chamber. The skull’s teeth clicked open like a mechanical maw. Light exploded. He felt every lost memory he’d ever patched into his mind surge through him. For a moment, he was infinite fragments of self.
When the glow subsided, the chamber lay empty. Rhee’s cortex, the sect’s soldiers, even the painting had vanished. Only Juno and his companions remained, breath ragged, hearts pounding in unison.
They returned to Earth orbit to find the sky unblemished by satellites. Neo-sunlight warmed their faces as if granting reprieve. But Juno’s wrist buzzed: a holo-message with no sender. A single word shimmered in shifting colors:
DILLIGAF.
He closed his eyes, sensing the strands of reality still whispering his name. Some experiments never end.
A violet dusk draped over Black Haven before Dr. Evelyn Hart and Jasper Reed arrived by rail. The township huddled behind wrought‐iron gates and thick hedges, a clutch of turrets and chimneys half‐hidden in ivy. Word was the villagers tolerated few strangers—and fewer smiles from them—but Evelyn’s ledger claimed they could quantify every flicker of suspicion.
They were greeted at the dilapidated station by Tomas Becker, son of the local stonemason, his trousers smeared with lime. He glanced at Evelyn’s notebook, then offered a cautious nod. “Council meets tonight. They’ll decide if you linger.”
Inside the Great Hall, elders sat in a circle on wooden benches. Reverend Crowe, his voice half‐whisper, explained: “We hear tales of your experiment, Doctor. We guard our peace.” Evelyn, steadying her pen, proposed a communal gathering—an “emotional census” under the old chapel’s mosaic, titled A Second Peace.
They trudged through narrow lanes to the chapel ruins. Moonlight filtered through shattered stained glass, illuminating a circular tableau on the floor. Hundreds of faces, eyes wide or narrowed, formed a kaleidoscope around a coiled serpent and a soaring swallow. Colors shimmered despite decades of dust—ochre, emerald, magenta.
Tomas swallowed. “They say if you stare too long, you see your own guilt.”
Evelyn smiled. “Good. Guilt is data.”
That evening, the council led them back to the mosaic. A ragtag dozen assembled:
• Eliza Page, banker’s orphan turned seamstress, her laughter sudden as a bell.
• Samuel Crane, a carpenter’s assistant whose satirical sketches mocked propriety.
• Marguerite “Maggie” Laurent, midwife’s heir, whose ribald jokes left men blushing.
• Alejandra Ortiz, cook from across the sea, her spicy stews furrowing brows then cracking smiles.
• Henry Caldwell, heir to a distant steel fortune, polished and out of place.
Jasper recorded every tremor, every sideways glance. Evelyn guided them through “fear thresholds,” measuring heart rates with brass instruments. At first, the circle dissolved laughter like yeast: Maggie recounted trapping rats in the belfry (“They squealed better than Gray’s sermons”), Alejandra teased Henry on his waistcoat (“Did your tailor charge extra for deeds of steel?”). Even the reverend cracked a grin.
In the hour before midnight, they reached the “Revelation Phase.” Evelyn asked them to step onto the mosaic, one by one, naming the face they most resembled. Tomas hesitated at a pale-eyed youth clutching a hammer—too close to his father’s memory. Eliza chose a laughing maiden with cracked lips. Samuel pointed at a grinning skull half-hidden behind fluttering chicken feathers. Maggie embraced a snarling toad. Henry froze before a pair of wide, watchful eyes. And Alejandra paused at a bird in flight, beak clenched around a shining key.
As each spoke, their voices echoed, then warped, like laughter drawn through a cathedral pipe. Strange colors pulsed beneath their feet; the serpent and swallow seemed to stir.
When Evelyn beckoned Jasper forward, he stepped into the center. He whispered, “I see you,” gazing at one of the serpent’s coils where two eyes glowed red. The tile cracked. A dull rumble rolled through the chapel. Reverend Crowe raised his lantern—and the swirl of color had bled into the floor, blotches of magenta and jade creeping across stone.
Panic rippled. Henry yanked Alejandra’s arm. Maggie scooped up her bottled laughter—she’d captured crowds’ hilarity to sell in town—and hurled it at the swirl. The glass shattered, releasing a jagged cry that reverberated against the walls. Samuel grabbed a plank, brandishing it like a lance. Tomas squared his shoulders, ready to charge. Eliza pressed her palm to her chest, whispering comfort to herself.
Evelyn scribbled furiously, eyes alight. “Perfect. Emotional contagion at sixty‐five percent.”
But as she spoke, a new figure emerged from darkness—a girl fourteen years old, pale as bone, clutching a tarnished brass mirror. No one had noticed her slip in. She raised the mirror at the mosaic; reflected light traced a new pattern among the faces. A swaying silhouette materialized: a woman in tattered shawl, her eyes pockets of sorrow. The girl’s lips quivered. “Mother?”
The specter’s mouth opened in a voiceless scream. Suddenly the mosaic’s serpent animated, slithering across the chapel floor in ruby tiles. The group scattered, furniture toppling. The swallow in flight flapped mosaic wings, beak seeking the girl in the mirror. Tentatively, Alina—daughter of Madam Sinclair the herbalist—took a step forward.
In the turmoil, relationships shifted. Henry, once aloof, knelt to calm the girl, offering his handkerchief. Alejandra delivered a ladle of stew, pushing it across broken pews, murmuring spices might soothe fear. Tomas lifted a beam to shield Alina. Samuel sketched furiously in charcoal, capturing the apparition’s sorrow in broad strokes. Maggie uncorked another bottle—this one full of lullabies—and let the song drift, quelling the shriek without reason.
Evelyn, panting, measured their heartbeats as the serpent froze mid‐slide and the ghostly woman dissolved to motes. Jasper held his notebook aloft, but his fountain pen had run dry—ink mixed with crimson dust. Council members peered through splintered doors, faces pale as ghosts.
By dawn, Evelyn convened the group in the inn’s parlor. She announced preliminary findings: “When confronted by ancestral grief, trust collapses. Yet empathy surged when the youngest showed courage.” Tomas scowled. “You experiment on our dead?”
Evelyn leaned forward. “Your communal trauma—quantifiable. We can…cure these fractures.”
At that moment the chiming clock lost a tooth in its face. The inn quivered. From upstairs, children’s laughter—unseen but clear—drifted down corridors. Madam Sinclair dashed in, her apron stained with poppies. She gasped, “The bedrooms…empty!”
A frantic search unearthed no one. Guests and servants were gone—leaving beds undisturbed. Outside, the mist had turned to motes of light, orbiting the chapel ruins like birds drawn to final rest. The mosaic’s colors bled through cracks into the earth.
Henry gathered the remaining villagers. “We can’t stay.”
Alejandra shook her head. “We need answers.” She glared at Evelyn. “You brought this.”
Evelyn’s lips pressed thin. “I only drew it out.”
Marguerite raised her bottled lullabies. “Then I’ll offer the antidote.” She swung the jar and shattered it on the hearth. A gentle trill rose, weaving through the crowd. For a moment, hearts synchronized—hammering, then slowing—breaths aligning to one fragile rhythm.
In the hush, Jasper spoke: “Someone needs to record what happened.”
But no pen would write. Eliza pressed her palm to the table; ink welled from cracks. She dipped her finger and traced an ouroboros around the chipped paint. The lines glowed, then faded, leaving a single phrase:
“Second peace costs more than first.”
They fled before sunlight could burn away the mist. Evelyn snatched her notebook, its pages splattered with dust and tears. Jasper carried his camera—though every photo returned empty, frames of gray silence. Tomas wrapped Alina in his coat. Alejandra herded stray chickens into a cart. Samuel let go his charcoal, then scooped it back into his satchel, convinced the sketches might speak one day. Maggie tucked the last of her bottled lullabies into her pocket.
They never saw Black Haven again. Stories persist—of a chapel where a mosaic pulses beneath grass roots, summoning faces of strangers and kin. Some say the serpent still coils, the swallow still soars, weaving communities from shards of fear and hope. And on chill nights, when the wind sighs through half‐closed gates, you might catch a fragment of sung laughter—one voice, trembling, seeking a peace that can never be second best.
Alex Harper’s studio smelled of turpentine and old books. His latest outsider canvas—titled Lucky Strike—dominated one wall: a cobalt‐skinned figure in a scarlet shirt, lightning forks tearing open indigo clouds, a lone bird wheeling above grassy mounds. Beneath the paint, Alex had hidden a sequence of cryptic symbols borrowed from Cold War mind-control files. He never meant anyone to notice.
But this month, screenwriters across L.A. were as blocked as crumpled paper. Alex’s closest friends—Cora Nguyen, Devon Blake, Malik Ruiz, and Iris Chen—each wrestled with blank screens and dwindling deadlines. Their collective frustration was an industry joke… until an unexpected invitation arrived.
Senator Victor Hardwick, a polished war-hero turned presidential hopeful, announced a “Creative Visioning Retreat” at his Malibu villa. He needed fresh scripts to humanize his campaign. The quartet exchanged glances over cold brew. Malik, who lived for conspiracy podcasts, grinned: “We’ll snag our fees and spend a week in beach chairs.” Cora, allergic to politics, sighed but packed her laptop. Alex tagged along—both as friend and amateur detective, itching to decode the secrets beneath Lucky Strike.
I. The Villa of Veils
Hardwick’s estate sat behind wrought-iron gates sculpted like fists. Inside, glass corridors overlooked landscaped groves. Devon, ever the iconoclast, noted the silence: no staff in sight. They checked in at a concierge desk and were led to a sun-soaked writing lounge. The senator emerged—tall, alabaster-complexioned, eyes the color of spent thunderclouds. He smiled with practiced warmth.
Over cocktails, he explained the exercise: “Tell my story. Show the people I’m one of them.” He glanced at Cora’s trembling fingers and clapped her arm. “Nerves are good. Keeps you sharp.” Malik whispered, “Candidate or cat burglar?” Iris laughed, though her fingers stuttered on her keyboard.
By midnight, no one wrote a word. Broken melodies of surf and cicadas drifted through open doors. Alex slipped into the villa’s archives—rows of tablets keyed to the senator’s speeches. He downloaded encrypted files labeled Project Lucky Strike. One snippet played: a soft male voice murmuring, “Control the mind, control the vote.”
II. Ghosts in the Machine
The next morning, Hardwick’s chief of staff, Lena Park, arrived breathless. “Security breach,” she hissed. “Someone’s been in the vault.” Devon quipped, “Politicians always spill their guts when nobody’s watching.” Malik rolled his eyes. But Alex frowned: “They’re hiding something bigger.”
At breakfast, Iris mentioned a strange glitch in her draft—sentences rearranged themselves overnight. Cora’s blood ran cold: “My research notes were replaced with nursery rhymes.” Across the room, Hardwick’s campaign managers muttered about “electro-cerebral anomalies” sabotaging their data. Alex recognized the pattern: miniature implants that could rewrite memory—an echo of Manchurian Candidate legends.
That afternoon, Alex invited the group to his studio. He unveiled Lucky Strike, pointing out the hidden glyphs. “These codes map neural pathways,” he said. “Someone’s using art to bootstrap subliminal messaging.” Devon scoffed until he saw the matches between Alex’s symbols and the senator’s speech tapes.
III. Conspirators and Confessions
Malik dug through leaked emails and discovered Lena Park’s alias: “Nightshade.” She’d once led clandestine experiments on political prisoners. Iris confronted her: “You injected truth serum…into journalists?” Lena’s smile was colder than a morgue. “I injected compliance.” Silence fell like a guillotine.
Cora, fighting tears, confessed her secret: she’d ghostwritten propaganda films for Hardwick in exchange for college tuition. “I thought I was capturing heroism,” she whispered. “I was scripting obedience.”
Hardwick strode in, palms raised. “I know what you found.” His voice turned gravelly. “Join me, or your careers die here.” Devon rose, fist trembling: “You built a machine to strip us of choice?” Hardwick’s lips twitched. “Choice is an illusion.”
IV. The Unlikely Rebellion
At dusk, Alex lured Hardwick outside under the pretense of a final visioning session. The senator circled the canvas, its painted lightning flickering in the gathering gloom. Alex pressed a remote. Hidden LEDs behind the frame pulsed, and Lucky Strike projected a montage onto the villa’s pool surface: victims of mind-control, grainy footage of Hardwick’s staged heroics, and news clips of disappearing protesters.
Hardwick staggered back. “You rebel against your savior?” His voice cracked. Behind him, the screenwriters emerged, solidarity writ plain on their faces.
Suddenly, black-clad agents flooded the terrace. Lena Park stepped forward, gun drawn. “No one leaves,” she announced. Iris lunged, throwing a vial at the agents’ feet. It shattered, releasing a cloud of laughing gas—Mad Maggie’s old remedy for stale gatherings. Agents convulsed in helpless guffaws.
V. Striking Twice
Amid the chaos, Alex dashed into the villa’s control room with Cora and Malik. He uploaded a virus—crafted from his art’s hidden cipher—into the campaign’s AI core. The monitors flickered, then displayed a single message on loop: ELECTIONS ARE FREEDOM. CHOOSE YOUR OWN LUCK.
Outside, Hardwick’s rally drones soared overhead. Their speakers voiced the same loop. Crowds rioted—half in relief, half in rage. Reporters streamed live, cameras trained on the senator, now cornered in his own stage.
Alex emerged, paint-stained and triumphant. He faced Hardwick, hands in his pockets. “Art doesn’t obey orders,” he said. The senator’s eyes, once hued like storm clouds, were empty as desert bones.
VI. No Full Resolution
Authorities arrived at dawn. Hardwick vanished—no body, no confession. Lena was detained but refused to testify. The AI core defaulted to silence, and the villa was sealed as a crime scene.
In the aftermath, the screenwriters found their block lifted. Cora’s scripts brimmed with nuance; Devon’s satire burned brighter than ever; Malik penned a best-selling exposé; Iris sold a miniseries to Netflix. Alex painted again, each stroke a defiance of control.
Yet at night, Lucky Strike stood under UV lamps, its lightning softly pulsing. Alex often stared at the cobalt figure, wondering which mind had truly chosen freedom—and whether his own memories had ever been entirely his. Because some strikes leave scars too deep to heal, and some freedoms taste bitter under a fractured sky.