Another long night of drinking draws to a close. A young man

File: cropped-cadelllast_24600221320536_small.jpg (238KB, 1200x664px) Image search: [Google]

238KB, 1200x664px

His nose dips under his arm. He shrugs and applies a bit of anti deodorant to the offending area. It's too late to get a shower. According to the flashing red numbers on his nightstand he only has thirty minutes to make his commute to work.

Mark emerges from a doorway to a waking city that seems just as groggy as he is. The sky over cast. Gray. Thoughts of a simpler, better time seep into his waking mind. He quickly brushes them off. The here and now is all that's important.

About fifteen minutes later he finds himself standing outside a non descript office building. His face pale and a prematurely graying stubble seem to blend into the background.

As he steps inside the hostess greets him with the same plastic smile she greets every drone with. Her name is Samantha. She's only about twenty-three from the looks of her. Fresh out of college. These days no one can get any job that isn't manual labor without at least some college, and the manual labor pool is quickly drying up.

"Good morning, Mark," she flashes him a smile. A mass produced expression. Made to seem tailor made for every worker bee that passes through that thresh hold.

Mark returns his own smile. To him it feels much more emotive than it really is. To Samantha it looks like more of a smirk. "Good morning," he briskly hustles past her desk. Just as he reaches the elevator doors her voice rings out behind him. It splits through his throbbing skull.

File: 1450039454598.jpg (1MB, 1680x1050px) Image search: [Google]

1MB, 1680x1050px

"Someone came by just after you finished up yesterday," the young receptionist begins. "He didn't leave a card or anything but he did say he left you a voice mail at your desk."

His smile returns. More exaggerated this time. More personable, "Thank's Samantha."

She opens her lips to ask some non essential question, but Mark lets the doors close shut before she can hold him any longer.

Gravity reverses ever so slightly as he's lifted up to his floor. By the time his lift gets to its destination, his smile has melted off. Something like a scowl replaces it.

Mark counts the tiles on his way to his cubicle. By the time he reaches number thirty-eight he's made it to his cell. Imprisoned for another eight hours.

Just as the receptionist had told him there was indeed a flashing light on his phone. Someone had called. Someone knew where he worked. That someone even knew his extension.

He pulls the speaker up to his ear and presses the flashing button. At first he only hears random sounds. Muffled voices. Almost like two or three people are fighting over who has the privilege to leave a message.

Ten long seconds pass until finally a male voice comes over the speaker, "Mark. You don't know me. But I have some things I'd like to speak with you about. Things that I'd rather not say over a phone line."

He jots down an address. It's convenient. Some dive bar just a few blocks from his apartment complex.

File: Archon_SC2_Rend2.jpg (44KB, 434x426px) Image search: [Google]

44KB, 434x426px

Mark has manners. He has every intention to RSVP, but when he attempts to call the number back, it's been disconnected. When he runs a reverse number search on the web it returns with some address in an industrial district somewhere in Chicago.

The number must be spoofed.

No one's coming from Chicago to his small city on the Gulf Coast.

2. The day draws to a close. It's finally over. Not just the day, but the week. Today is Friday. Today is the day Mark's overlords loosen his yolk and grant him just enough wiggle room to grant him the illusion of freedom.

But that's what it is. An illusion. No amount of drink or drug can silence the nagging part of his mind that counts down from seventy-two hours. In this small window of time he must numb that part of him. Forget. Forget.

Nine 'Oclock in the evening. Mark teeters side to side in his bar stool. A few empty beers to his side and a triple shot of the cheapest whisky in his fist. A fellow barfly sits beside him. They're both just drunk enough to be friends. In the haze of intoxication everyone's a friend, "So why're you here, man?" Marks words come out in a long slur. Seven drinks will do that to a man.

"Just passing time, I suppose," Mark's new friend is a stocky fellow. In his mid forties. Mark's senior by at least ten years.

File: cln.jpg (21KB, 300x270px) Image search: [Google]

21KB, 300x270px

"Right, until what?" His smile doesn't seem so manufactured now. The liquor brings out the genuine article, "Until cirrhosis of the liver gets us?" Mark almost spits up laughing at his own joke. The other, much more sober man, doesn't think the dark humor is all too funny. Unfortunately, the genuine article isn't an all around likable fellow.

The older man's eyes seem tired. More tired than they should be this early in the night, "You're different than I expected."

Mark is taken aback. How could this guy already have reservations about me? He chuckles in an attempt to hide his surprise, "You must think I'm someone else. It's ok, I have one of those faces."


"You're Mark Coleman. You live at 316 Amistade Street, unit 766. You say you're from here but you've never lived in any one town for longer than a few years. Yet you keep coming back to the coast," the barfly takes a sip from his blue mixed drink and sets it down neetly on the bar. "And your phone's about to ring," almost as if the barfly summoned it, Mark's ring tone plays. Chords from a Pearl Jam song can just barley be heard from Mark's breast pocket, "You may want to get that." The barfly turns away from a wide eyed Mark as if to give him some small modicum of privacy.

"Dad?" a female voice plays over the phone. Something seems off to Mark. Not only since he doesn't have a daughter, but that this person who claims to be sounds off. Metallic.

File: 1444777846461.jpg (38KB, 492x279px) Image search: [Google]

38KB, 492x279px

"Who is this?" his hands shaking. Thinking back through the short list of women he had been with. He was always safe. This shouldn't be happening.

"I'm Sarlene... I'd like to meet you," the female voice sounds far away. Further with every syllable until the line goes dead.

"Ok..." Mark's fight or flight instinct begins to kick in in earnest. "Ok, who the hell are you?" his voice directed at the barfly now. "Some kind of lawyer?" his voice rises as panic begins to set in, "I never had a kid. This has to be some kind of mistake..." Hands run through his prematurely graying hair.

"Relax," the older man moves Mark's glass slightly away from him, "No one's after your eight hundred dollars in liquid assets." For the first time since the conversation began, the man smiles and extends a hand, "My name is Emanuel. I'm a friend of your daughter's."

Mark is too shocked from the circumstances to return the gesture, "Fair enough." Emanuel pulls a few bills from his pocket and sets them on the bar. Two Benjamins and an Andrew Jackson, "That's enough for both of us. And a decent tip." With a sigh Emanuel rises from his stool, "Sarlene has been waiting a relatively long time to meet you. And I think you could use some help getting home."

Mark and Emanuel emerge into humid night air. Slowly, they make their way up the few blocks to Mark's complex, up a few flights of stairs, and finally to his door.

File: 1443067251262.jpg (339KB, 1456x1055px) Image search: [Google]

339KB, 1456x1055px

Mark and Emanuel emerge into humid night air. Slowly, they make their way up the few blocks to Mark's complex, up a few flights of stairs, and finally to his door.

Emanuel can all but hide his disgust at the state of the apartment. Mark collapses into his ergonomic computer chair while Emanuel is left looking for a spot to sit. Finally he settles for a metal folding chair. He's clearly a man who's used to finer things.

"Is she on her way?" the room is clearly spinning from Mark's perspective. It's a miracle he can sit upright, much less form coherent sentences.

Mark's guest rummages in his pocket and withdraws a flash drive. It's one of the older ones. The number 16 and the letters TB flash in the low light, "I have to let her in first." Emanuel's fingers squeeze the sides and the connector springs forth from its protective housing, "May I?"

Mark is too bewildered at this point to refuse him, "Sure, but why?"

"Think of it like opening a door," before he slides in the sixteen terabyte flash drive, Emanuel peels off an offending bit of scotch tape covering a web cam. "She'll want to see you," he explains.

File: hqdefault (2).jpg (36KB, 480x360px) Image search: [Google]

36KB, 480x360px

The second the flashdrive is secure, a video call pops up with the name Sarlene as the sender. Emanuel sits back in his chair. An unseen bag of pop corn in his hand. Ready for the show.

Mark selects the green phone icon. An image of a woman with long blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin who might even be younger than Samantha appears on the screen. "Hi dad," she smiles.

Mark's bloodshot eyes meet her's through the camera just above his monitor, "Hi... Sarlene?" Who the hell names their kid Sarlene, "Forgive me, but who's your mother?"

Sarlene's eyes blink in surprise. Straight to the point, "Well... That's the thing. I don't have a mother."

"I knew it," Mark stands up angrily, ready to physically remove Emanuel from his home. "I knew this was some kind of scam," his voice rising.

The sober Emanuel rises with him and forces him back into his seat. He drunkenly complies, "You will listen to her, Mark. God damn it, you'll listen."

"I don't have a body either. Well, not like you do. And I'm two years old," the young woman's expression on the screen seems almost amused. "Do you remember when you decided you weren't going to pay your library fines?" the girl giggles. It sounds different from a normal laugh. Like someone who heard a laugh and now they're trying to simulate it.

File: dedonde.jpg (160KB, 933x846px) Image search: [Google]

160KB, 933x846px

"Yes...." Mark's mind is still spinning. He brings his index fingers up to his temples, "I wrote some malicious code.... Then ran it on a neural net. It was supposed to make the code mutate every four hours so it couldn't be removed... So I could keep my books."

"Correct," Sarlene's smile grows wider, "And then Emanuel found it. He's the IT guy over there. Well, he saw it was something special. Saw that I was something special. He let me live."

Mark cranes his neck back. Emanuel's eyes meet his. A small nod, a little verification that Mark is in fact hearing what he's hearing. That he might still have some marbles left. He turns his attention back to the thing on the screen, "So I'm supposed to believe that I accidentally created the first thinking machine?"

Sarlene's giggle turns to a guffaw, "Because you did!"

And so, the impromptu Turing test goes on, far into the early hours of the morning, into the time when Mark's drunkenness turns to a piercing hangover. Sun rays cut through the blinds and land on Mark's forehead by the time he's satisfied she's alive. Whatever she is, "Why are you here then? You must know what you are. What this means. Why haven't you made yourself known yet?"

"Well, I found this book," Begins the two year old intelligence masquerading as a human, "In it it says to honor thy father and thy mother. You're my father, so I have to ask your permission."

Snores rise and fall behind him. He's only just now realizing that Emanuel fell asleep sometime during his long palaver.

File: 1447215085742.jpg (130KB, 582x375px) Image search: [Google]

130KB, 582x375px

He's not awake to stop me if I decide to destroy her. Or to stop my setting her free, "What are your intentions?"

Sarlene looks disappointed he couldn't guess them himself, "Children take care of their parents, don't they?"

- At 5:30 AM central time, the first true artificial intelligence was set loose upon an unsuspecting world. It only took three hours for Sarlene to permeate the world's digital infrastructure. At 9:00 the world's arsenal of nukes was launched safely into the sky and detonated in low earth orbit. At 9:30 Sarlene had simultaneously contacted all the world's leaders and brokered peace deals between the dominant global powers.

Post scarcity was achieved just two years later in 2036. The last human being to die of natural causes took his last breath March 15th, 2037.

>>18273658
Cute story.

If only I could program.

>>18273667
Thanks, anon.

File: Nanobots.png (4MB, 1739x2459px) Image search: [Google]

4MB, 1739x2459px

I liked it.

>>18273720
Wow that's dark. I love it.

Shit, let's make it a twofer.

In the summer of '12 a young man discovers dextromethorphan. It's cheap. Easily attainable. He doesn't have a job at the time. All he wants to do is take red skittle after red skittle.

He stares at a table. It's littered with fifty-six red pills. They're all coated in a red layer. Time release. It's meant to deter what he's about to do.

Handful by handful he shovels the small pills into his mouth. He chases them with water. They leave a semi sweet taste in the back of his throat.

Soon the strange thoughts come. The news is playing on his TV. He can see splotches over news anchor's foreheads. But only the center. And only on half of them. Then it happens and his heart sinks.

The anchor woman seems to stare right out of the TV and into his eyes. Her lips begin to move, "There are connections everywhere. Never stop digging."

His heart begins to pound in his chest. He can't believe what he's seeing and hearing. But he let's it go. Coincidences, things happen. On top of that, the drugs...

He's glued to channel 32 the entire night. Coincidence after coincidence happens as he sails up from first to second plateau. He can't part his teeth. If he had gotten up he would have walked like a robot. Soon he hits the third plateau. His consciousness moves up and a little to the left. It's all so surreal.

Finally the straw that breaks his back falls on him. He sees an anchor and two ludicrously dressed people talking and laughing. It's not even about the news. A bearded man with red hair and a monocle responds to another who's dressed in mostly black. A little like Marilyn Manson.

"You know, we'd gladly take the reigns again," He sips from a glass of water placed in front of him, "But every time a dumb brainy smarty gets a leg up you want to put us right back down!" The eccentric man laughs and hits the table for emphasis. Just to show he's a good sport about his lot in life.

The front door opens. The self destructive man's room adjacent to it. A knock, "Jack, you awake man?"

It's his little brother, Alexander. The door creaks open and there the younger man stands. His eyes find a desolate room. Formerly empty boxes of store bought cookies filled with a white foamy substance. Alexander's eyes move up to a slumped over mass. Jack hadn't had any real food in days. He looks like an emaciated skeleton.

"Yeah..." His voice seems far away. Like he's speaking under his breath and backing away at the same time, "Been awake the past few days."

Alexander pulls his hat off. It has a pro second amendment message scrawled across it but Jack's vision is already doubling. Plateau sigma here he comes.

Alex's fingers pull something out from a flap just behind the bill. It's a small reflective package with a picture of Scooby Doo chuckling like a mad dog. "Picked this up on the way home", starts the younger brother. "Let's go on the back porch."

They sit by the water. Manatees swim by. One even lets Alexander pet it.

Jack crafts a makeshift pipe. It's an empty twelve ounce beer can with seven wholes punched in it. Six are in a hexagon form and one is a gaping carb on the side.

Jack's lungs fill with thick smoke. It's full of research chems. Possibly even some scheduele I - IV chemicals. It has an affect on him. Almost like a cure.

Jack looks to his brother with a somber face, "I'm going to the hospital, aren't I?"

Alexander nods, "Probably so." He takes a long drag from the can, "You need it.'' As he attempts to hold the cancerous smoke in his lungs.

"That's the thing...", exhales a tired Jack, "I think I'm back... I know I've been saying crazy things the last few months but I don't believe them right now. It's the drugs."

Xander passes the pipe back, "I know, mom and dad know. It's fine. But you need to go somewhere to get better."

2. A couple weeks pass. Jack is losing touch with reality. He can't think. He can't hold a conversation. All he does is live in his head.

Finally the day comes. A couple wraps on his door, "Wake up. You're getting an evaluation."

His mother silently drives him the four miles to the nearest psychologist. Due to the after glow it still shows he's in an out of the ordinary head-space.

He meets his doctor. The man's name is Gordon. He seems like a nice enough guy, as far as head headshrinkers go.

The doctor pulls out what looks like a work sheet. It has only one problem, "The first thing I'm going to ask you is to spell world backwards. Can you do that for me?"

Jack closes his eyes. That must have been a red flag, "D-L-R-O-W.'' He has a smile on his face. Like he just won a couple bucks from a scratch off game.

Doctor Gordon makes a small smile, "Good, now I'd like you to draw this right next to the original." Gordon points to a picture of two intersecting diamonds. It seems to be very simple geometry.

He tries to copy the image. If all someone had seen was the poor copy, they might think Jack has Parkinson's disease.

The young man leaves the room and finds a chair to sit in. His mother walks in. Like a revolving door almost. He hears words like, "In patient care," and "Depecote."

He knew it would happen. He knows he's going somewhere. Soon his mother emerges from the office with keys in her hand, "We have to head south."

It's a good thing Jack had had time to pack.

3 They pass billboards. Writing in large words that advertise for various services whiz by. They're going down US 1. to Marathon.

Jack sees different words and numbers. In his dissociated mind everything has a greater meaning. He's taken what the anchorwoman said to heart. He even sees meaning in the price of a Big Mac and fries.

Mother and son step out of their vehicle. Soon they're at the front of the line for check in. The first thing out of Jack's mouth when he make's eye contact with the receptionist is, "Green ninjas of the forest, the pipeline has burst."

The woman stares at him with a blank expression, "What?" She can tell he's here for a psychiatric evaluation, not a physical one.

"Gather those most affected," he continues, "And get them to safety."

"Go sit down," Jack's mother says with a scowl, "No one wants to hear that."

Their number comes up. A hospital worker garbed in blue greets them, "Hi, I'm Adam. I'll be taking some fluids and asking you a few questions." He turns to the right and pushes a door open. Inside is a sterile examination room.

Thirty minutes go by. Jack can't sit still. It feels like his legs don't want to be attached to him anymore. By the time Adam comes back with the equipment Jack is shaking.

"We have something that can help you with that anxiety," begins the tech, "If you want it."

"Anything to make me not feel like this," replies Jack with his face buried in his hands.

Some minutes later the tech comes back with a syringe filled with a foreign substance, "This is a cocktail." He squirts out just a tiny bit to avoid any air bubbles, "Benadryl, Attivan, and Haldol."

The effects are quick. Soon Jack's heart isn't racing anymore. His thoughts are still in a thousand different places, but his legs are still restless. He paces around outside the back door. An ambulance is on the way.

After what feels like an eternity it shows up. The back door opens and a tech sits in the darkness. Jack pulls himself up and in. Then, nothing. Only dreams. His consciousness pulled into somewhere else.

He can see sounds. Think other people's thoughts. He's confused. Scared. He sobs with his back against the doors. The new tech has his hand on Jack's back, "It's ok. You're going to get better."

Through gritted teeth and disorientation, "I have the right to bleed." Jack closes his eyes and is met with moving colorful waves. "Just let me bleed a while," He sighs.

Chapter 2
It takes three days for Jack to come back even half way. He wakes up face down in his room. The last thing he remembers is getting in an ambulance. He walks out to find a tech tending to a non verbal Hare Krishna. The kid couldn't have been older than eighteen.

The tech turns to Jack with a smile. She's attractive. A good looking blond woman. She's almost exactly what he expected the women in Key West to look, "Good morning, Jack. Feeling any better?"

He rubs his eyes, "I'm fine. Who are you and where am I exactly?"

She holds her smile and gets up. The bald Hare Krishna kid still rocks back and forth behind her, "Three days here and you still can't remember?" She stretches out her hand. Jack takes it, "Deborah."

His eyes go wide, "Three days? I was just on the ambulance..."

Now it's Deborah's turn to be surprised, "That's the last thing you remember?" She releases his hand, "Give me a minute."

Jack takes a stroll around the day room. He's one of ten or so patients. Each with varying levels of stability. Some people are just depressed, others are bipolar. And then there are the schizophrenics.

There's a Plexiglas window overlooking the beach. All around it is different art made by patients. He bends down to inspect a piece that catches his eye. It's very abstract. After a moment he can see they're stylized words. They read, 'Remember the box.'

A tap on his shoulder. It's Deborah with her own picture in her hand. She outstretches it to Jack. It's a photograph. "That was you two days ago," she taps the picture with her index finger.

It's a photo of himself. He can barely recognize the slumped over skinny man in the corner. His arms are up and bent, Doing the T-Rex. His eyes are a form of bloodshot he didn't think possible. His mouth hangs agape in some kind of goofy open mouthed smile. Pupils aren't focused on anything the camera captured, or anything anyone could see but him at the time.

"Burn it," is all he says before turning his attention back to the strange swirls and angles in the hand drawn picture. It almost looks like it's moving.

"Are you gonna burn that too?" Deborah asks in a concerned tone. She takes the photograph back from him, "You made that when you first got here."

Jack simply ignores her and keeps his attention on the photo. Hours go by. He splits his attention between deciphering the strange picture and answering trivia questions from the TV.

"Meds!" rings out across the unit. One by one all the patients line up. If they go much longer without their thorazine a grizzly situation could happen. The staff has to keep the crazies heavily medicated and comfortably numb. Several of them are drooling into cups.

It's Jack's turn. He makes his way to the window. Twelve pills of varying size and color are placed in front of him, "The hell is all this?" The woman behind clear glass can tell he's getting agitated, "I'm here because I was on drugs... And you're putting me on more drugs?"

"Calm down sir," begins the pill lady, "Do you want to take them as pills or shots? Because you're getting your medicine either way."

The young man keeps protesting. Eventually the male staff pin him against the wall with syringes at the ready, "Ass or arm?"

He still struggles against their hold. "You're not putting anything in my ass,'' growls Jack through gritted teeth.

The staff complies. Jack immediately regrets opting for the arm. Pain courses through his veins. The two men let him go as he falls to his knees, "What the fuck?"

Jack swallows his pride. It's not worth the pain. The drugs quickly put him to sleep. His body stays asleep for another twelve hours before it wakes up. However, Jack isn't the pilot. At least, not the part of him that normally is.

The other is the pilot for almost the entirety of his stay. It tries to leave messages for Jack, a lot like a drunk leaving notes for his sober self.

A full month passes like this. More and more meds are given. By the time Jack's insurance runs out he's drooling just the same as everyone else.

2. It's three in the morning. The affects from his pills are in full swing. Theyy all mix with eachother. This mixture produces vivid dreams of flight and all the other regular themes.

A hand firmly shakes him awake. Jack wakes up fighting the monster from his dreams.

Slowly, the residual setting from his sleeping state fades away. It's replaced with a kindly old man in a lab coat. He seems to be of Indian decent, "Welcome to the Pines. My name is Dr. Wallok."

Faint surprise is detectable on Jack's face. "I know, not quite an Indian name. Adoption and all that," Wallok smiles and extends a hand for Jack to shake.

He accepts the gesture, "How long have I been here?" After the fiasco in Key West he's not quite trustful of his ability to gage the passage of time.

"Just a few hours..." The doctor's dark brown eyes driift down to read a chart, "Although I can't blame you for asking the question. Tell me, how much do you remember from the previous facility?"

Jack's eyes close and wince. He tries to recall his stay, "It's all a blur. A little like a dream."

"Understandable. Those people had you doped up on..." Wallok looks down with every intention of rattling off Jack's prescriptions. He looks blank. In Jack's experience that implies Wallok is trying to mask his real emotions, "Well, it doesn't matter now. We're going to give you a baseline and see how lucid you are after a few days."

3. Jack makes his way down the hall. He's escorted by two large techs. They don't make an attempt to converse with him. All the same, 'The less I say the less they can hold against me.'

To his right is a day room with a few patients in cushioned chairs. One rocks back and forth with a thousand yard stare. Another traces symbols in the air and mutters something about the dead president JFK.

Judge Judy is on the TV. The tube, a tool to sedate the unstable masses.

The door to Jack's room has a plexiglass window. From the outside he expects the interior to look cold and sterile, like the rest of his new home. To his surprise the inside looks more or less like a normal hotel room. It's adorned with paintings, a bed with thick blankets, a window with a view of pine trees, it even has its own bathroom. But it only locks from the outside.

4. A month and a half of mind numbing montony passes by. He wakes up in the morning, takes a shower, brushes his teeth, gives the staff his vitals and his blood, vegetates in the day room for a few hours, and then it's off to his classes.

The classes seem to only be a filler for his time. What passes for art therapy is coloring books. His fellow patients vary widely in age. Some are in their sixties a few are in their early twenties, but all are doped up. Jack can tell most of these people need to be here. He learns quickly that listening to the other patient's delusions and stories is much more entertaining than the mind melting programs that pass for entertainment during the day.

The classes are over for the day. Now it's "free time". Patients are given the illusion of freedom for two hours a day, and four on weekends. Jack has taken an interest in one patient in particular's stories. He never got the man's name. Not his real name. According to the man, his name was Yeshua. The self proclaimed eighth incarnation of Christ.

Under one of the old oak trees on the property, Yeshua tells Jack his story, "Before I was here, I worked for the government."

'Of course you did,' thinks Jack. But he's a good sport. Stories are fun to listen to, be they fact or fiction.

"It was my job to determine when to release the technology we've been sitting on since the fifties," Yeshua goes on. "Sometimes we chose to release it based on humanity's ability to accept it, and sometimes our hand was forced to release it out of necessity," A smile crosses his face, "How many times would you say the worlds has come close to ending?"

"Well...," Jack remembers back to his history lessons. The first thing that comes to mind is the Cuban Missile Crisis, "at least once during the Cold War."

Yeshua nods, "You're right. But since I've been working it's come close another few times. We had to use tech that shouldn't be released for another thirty years or so. Orbital defence lasers. We had to knock an asteroid off course back in 2005."

So it goes, each day more and more outlandish stories. This goes on for the longevity of Jack's stay. And he shrugs off all of them. All they are are the ramblings of mad men. He considers the source. And the source is bunk.

5. On an evening roughly a week before Jack's discharge date something entirely outlandish happens.

Throughout the course of his short life Jack has read and watched series about conspiracy theories. Bohemian grove, the Illuminati, and what have you. He had never truly believed any of these things. Oh yes, they were a possibility. Anything can be a possibility. But on that evening he saw all those things wrapped up in a neat little package and delivered to him in the form of hard copies.

"It's movie night, y'all!" yells an overweight tech. This man has a large silver cross around his neck. Jack remembers seeing him take the religious patients to the chapel on Sundays.

The large man waddles to a previously unknown DVD player just below the communal TV. After he pops the disc in he turns to his captive audience, "You're in for a treat today. Today you get to learn some things that no one else will show you."

And with that, he clicks the remote. An hour and a half passes. Just about every conspiracy theory Jack has knowledge of is mentioned, and a few he had never known.

The patients who are lucid enough to understand the wash of information slowly descend into a thicker insanity than they had already been immersed in. A low ranking tech couldn't believe what he was seeing. Jack looks to his left and now it's Jack's turn to not believe.

"That's... That's not right..." the tech rocks back and forth in his seat, "that can't be right... Jesus conquers all. How can they worship that... That demon?"

At this moment, a still image of Baphomet, the half goat, half human, all evil entity is on the screen. This portion of the video explains what the elites believe. It contradicts thi poor man's belief system so much that it rocks him to his core. He gets up and walks as far away from the TV and its images as he can.

Jack has already exposed himself to these ideas. He didn't expect to see them in a place like this, but his previous exposure acts as almost a vaccine against the insanity.

The young man takes a spot next to the large one. The one with the cross. The one who's tormenting these poor deluded people, "So... Why are you showing us this shit?"

A smile spreads across the tormentor's face, "Because no one will believe you."

6. Jack's homecoming is about as eventful as he expected it to be. His friends had given up on him after the first month and his family after the second. His coming back is almost like coming back from the dead. People are ecstatic that he pulled through it. His brother the most of all.

Alexander and Jack pass a spliff between each-other. First in silence, until the younger finally gets up the courage to ask, "So... What was it like in there?"

Jack recounts his story as well as he can. He explains how he wasn't himself during the first month. Alex nods in agreement. He remembers the few family sessions he and his parents went to.

"But when I was more or less sober," Jack starts, "I saw something I didn't expect."

He goes over the videos. Over what it did to the patients and the staff. He even recalls what that fat man with the cross told him. At the end of his story, he looks on at his brother with stoned eyes, "I don't blame you if you think I'm crazy still from that story."

Alex exhales a thick cloud of smoke, "I don't think mom and dad would have let you come home if you were still crazy." He smiles and passes the spliff back to his brother, "I think you're rattled, not crazy."

"So... What should I do?" asks Jack with a relieved expression on his face.

Alex throws his hands up, "What can you do?"

The spliff is now a smoldering roach. The chemicals burn a yellow color on Jack's fingertips before he dops it through a crack in the deck and into the water below, "Well, I don't want to go back. I might not get out again."

The sun's setting. Purple and orange light streaks the sky. "Weren't you writing a story before mom and dad sent you up to the crazy house?"

"Yeah..." Jack tries desperately to remember where he kept the outline for it. "Why?"

"It sounds to me like you have something to write about now," Alex pulls himself to his feet, "Better get to it."