Otto

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Part of the Blackwater Files, a collaborative writing project started byThe ChroniclerEach story follows various characters participating in an experimental project by the enigmatic Elysium, a company searching for immortality in the deepest of places—your mind.

Read part one of the story, Ricki, here

Something smells off in the penthouse. Like death and BrineSol™. The perfume of decay reminds you of that creep in the lobby.

There's a folded note with your name on it lying under the corner of a cork coaster at the miniature tiki bar that overlooks the rooftop garden. In a compressed cursive, like static on an oscilloscope:

Dear Ricki,

I hope this message finds you well. I am writing to you regarding our latest endeavour - the Blackwater Project. As you might already know, you are not alone in this particular realm and some explanation is in order.

We hope that you share in our ambition. Our mission is monumental: the pursuit of a cure for mortality. It's a path fraught with challenges and the hard work will not stop, because here at Elysium, "We Never Sleep."

We are thrilled to have you join us. Your expertise in underground Deep C excursions are invaluable. Furthermore, your ability to navigate the complexities of such a mission, without hesitation, sets you apart. We also appreciate your particular tendencies and proclivities and assure you of our discretion.

However, there's a pressing issue that requires your immediate attention. We have reason to believe that an undercover agent, working for a rather unscrupulous government agency, has infiltrated our patient group. Their aim is clear: to hinder our progress and extinguish the flame of our pursuit— immortality. This is where your unique skills come into play.

Your task, Ricki, to delve into the Blackwater, where you can identify and locate this agent. The stakes are high, as actions in this realm can have real-world consequences. This mission is not just about protecting Elysium's interests; it's about safeguarding the future of humanity's greatest aspiration.

I’d like to emphasize the value we place on your involvement. For this assignment, we are offering compensation five times greater than what you would typically receive as a patient. This reflects not only the significance of the task at hand but also our confidence in your unique capabilities and resolve.

While I trust in these capabilities, I must caution you about the Blackwater. It's more than just a multi-user technological dream state; it's a realm with its own mysteries and dangers. I won't delve into details now, but be vigilant.

I look forward to your successful involvement in this project. Your participation is not just appreciated – it is essential.

Stay sharp, Ricky. We will be in touch.

Warm regards,

Dr. Robert Karasevdas

and the Elysium Team

Isn't that nice, a letter from Doctor Bobby himself. How much did they know? Tendencies and proclivities sound uncomfortably specific. And accurate. You feel violated without the satisfaction of facing your interrogator. You don't like it. Need to take back control.

The way you see it—if psychopaths have to kill a little to keep a day job, might as well satisfy those cravings in the innocuous realms of a subconscious. Dreams, as they say, are free. But this didn't feel like dreaming anymore. This was different. These weren't just figments, they were the real thing. Meat dolls and blood bags. You lick your thumb and rub out a cuff stain. Things were going to get messy. It's your party Bobby K. If that's the way it was going to be, then let the games begin. 

The rooftop garden, replete with tropical flora, has a pool populated by iridescent koi fish, blinking alternating shades of orange and purple. Behind the warm frequencies of a vintage samba, you hear the suck and hum of a city below and walk closer to the edge. But as you approach these sounds are replaced with the roar of surf and all you can see beyond the perimeter is the starless slate of night. Inexplicably, you hear water on rock, feel the salt spray in your face, and curiously smell the sharp stink of tobacco. Behind you!

Houndstooth, with a short smoke hanging from his bottom lip, holds his hands out defensively as you swivel, draw and point your raygun at his beltline, ready to loose the white heat from a glowing cylinder of gold. But not before he answers a few questions.

He beats you to it, "Don't you recognize me Ricki?" he says, but your gut says he's just messing with you. He's trying to divert and deflect, but you let him continue, "It's Otto, you know, from the block? You're my replacement, I've been soaking for too long they say, besides, I'm more of a mole guy, but you—you're the real deal, the big guns, they mean business with you. Fine with me, I'm just happy they're pulling me out. Doc doesn’t want me to tell you but——"

The man phase-shifts before he can finish, his form flipping like a dirty projector—rabbit, tuxedo, Peter, lamprey, lighthouse, nurse, jukebox, then a high lonesome whistle as his eyes bulge and his neck strains. He gurgles comedically and then bursts like a water balloon and drains into the fish canal. "Guess they had other plans," you say to the koi making kissy faces at the surface.

You turn back to the phantom sea and climb the battlement striking a fearless pose, droplets run down the pearl seams of your body armor. Scratch your ass and bathe in the recognition for a moment. Some thing slinks just below the waterline, a black mass shadow ripples at the edges of the scene and calls you low, " r  i  c  k  i  i  i  " It's wildly beautiful.

But mysteries are dumb. Who's got the time? You leap away and cop slide across the furnishings, back to the elevator. You'll go back to reception and squeeze it out of "Dale". He'll tell you who they're looking for.

Inside elevator two the numbers only go up from the penthouse floor. Which makes sense.

It doesn't make sense, so you get out and wait for elevator one. These doors open sideways but you get in anyway being more than somewhat of a risk-taker.

This car is conveniently on a monorail taking you somewhere else. A good thing. "No sleep over going deep," someone probably famously said. And you think there's probably not any better way to do it.

The train is bending through granite rock cuts and under pedestrian passes. It slows down through a mossy urban grotto where you wave to some fans. A couple of glandpunk cat masks are holding a heart and crossbones flag, Your name on their lips. 

You think about it for a second. Who'd know?

The next stop is Sandy Gardens Theatre-Main Stage. The doors open and you disembark to rapturous applause. It's a distraction. There's a sniper in the mezzanine.

—to be continued