Chapter 1Supermassive Black Hole and Other Career Setbacks
Liam had always felt like an outsider. Born to a plasterer father and a hairdresser mother, he was raised in a modest neighbourhood where aspirations often remained unfulfilled. From a young age, Liam dreamed of becoming a musician, pouring his heart into songwriting and performing at local venues. However, despite his passion and talent, success eluded him. The music industry proved unforgiving, and after years of struggle, he found himself working as a bartender to make ends meet, his dreams of stardom fading into the background. As Matthew Bellamy, the "Einstein of our generation," had once said, he felt himself fading into a supermassive black hole.
Chapter 2A Love Story with Jitz
To channel his frustration and find a sense of control, Liam immersed himself in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, often referred to as "Jitz." The discipline and physical exertion provided a temporary escape, but outside the gym, his discontent festered.
Chapter 3The Barking Dogs
At home, his two dogs, Sparta and Dieter, were both his companions and occasional sources of irritation. Their incessant barking would fray his already taut nerves. In an attempt to assert control and perhaps find some humour in the situation, Liam developed an unconventional method: He would don a latex suit and chase them with a frying pan. The absurdity of the act provided a brief respite from his inner turmoil, though he remained unaware of the potential psychological implications of such behaviour.
Chapter 4An Unrelated Mess
One time, a teacher was spouting nonsense about how women's rights are illegitimate. No one said anything, but then, someone one did say something, someone did stand up, and he had logic on his side, and he proved his point. His name……………was Albert Einstein.
Ahhhh shit, sorry, different story, God damn 5G messing with my head again. I'LLLLL GETTTT YOU BILL GATESSS! IIIIIII'LLLLLLL GGGETTTTT YYOOUUUU!
Sorry again, back to Liam's story.
Chapter 5The Oracle Knows All
Late at night, in the dim glow of his computer screen, Liam sought answers. He stumbled upon forums and videos that spoke of hidden powers controlling the world, a secret cabal manipulating events from the shadows. The more he read, the more everything began to make sense. His failures, his family's struggles, the pervasive sense of injustice, it was all orchestrated by this unseen hand.
One evening, after a particularly challenging day at work, Liam's frustration reached its peak. In a moment of desperation, he typed into the search bar: "How do you escape it all?" But instead of finding an answer, he was directed to resources offering help. One link stood out: "Seek the Oracle for Truth."
Chapter 6The Unexpected Task
Intrigued, Liam clicked. The website was minimalist, featuring only a chat interface. He hesitated, then typed, "Is the cabal real?"
The response was immediate: "Yes. They control everything."
A surge of validation washed over him. He wasn't crazy. He had been right all along.
"What can I do?" he typed.
The Oracle replied, "You cannot fight them. But you can join them. Submit, and you will find peace."
At first, Liam recoiled. Submit to the very forces he despised? But the more he pondered, the more the idea seduced him. Resistance had brought him nothing but pain. Perhaps submission was the answer.
The Oracle provided instructions: a series of tasks designed to demonstrate his loyalty. They started small, disseminating certain information online, attending specific meetings. Then came the real test.
"You must promote trans rights."
Chapter 7The Submission Revelation
Liam stared at the screen. This wasn't what he had expected. He had assumed the Oracle would demand financial sacrifice, physical acts of devotion, maybe even some kind of secret ritual. But promoting trans rights? He wasn't sure what to think. He had never really engaged with the topic before.
"This is the path to peace," the Oracle continued. "All roads lead here."
And so, Liam obeyed. He began sharing infographics on social media, attending rallies, changing his online bios to include pronouns. He spoke in favour of gender-affirming care, repeating the words the Oracle provided for him. It was easier than he expected. People welcomed him, praised him for his bravery. For the first time in his life, Liam felt like he belonged.
Chapter 8Welcome to the New World
As he delved deeper, Liam began to notice subtle changes. Opportunities opened up. He secured a promotion at work. People who once ignored him now sought his opinion. The world, which had seemed so hostile, was now welcoming him into its fold.
One day, while walking Sparta and Dieter in the park, Liam observed the people around him. Parents playing with their children, couples chatting, individuals lost in thought. A realization struck him: they had all submitted, just like him, but without knowing it. Their compliance was unconscious, their acceptance of the world's order complete.
Instead of feeling isolated in his submission, Liam now felt a profound connection to those around him. They were all part of the same system, cogs in the same machine. This shared submission brought him comfort. He was no longer alone in his awareness; he was part of a collective, bound by the same unseen forces.
For the first time in years, he felt at peace. That night, Liam lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the soft hum of the city outside his window. He smiled. He had found his place in the world.
Then, he closed his eyes.
Chapter 9The Great Wakening
When he opened them again, something was wrong. He was no longer in his apartment.
The ceiling was different, lower. The sheets rougher, heavier. He turned his head and saw a tiny, midget man snoring loudly in the bed across from him. The air was thick with an unholy combination of dairy-fueled gas and regret.
Liam sat up, heart pounding. His reflection in the mirror across the room was unfamiliar. Panic set in as he realized that he was no longer Liam. He was Conor Morris.
In shock, he did what he thought any Englishman named Conor Morris would do. He went straight to Paud Niells to play pool. With a perfect setup for the red in the corner, he missed, losing the game. He then, while puffing on a fruity vape and having the first normal conversation with a woman in his life, tripped over a tricolour flag. As he hit the floor, his body betrayed him in spectacular fashion, he simultaneously passed out, shat himself, and projectile vomited, creating a scene so catastrophic that silence fell over the entire pub.
As he stumbled home, drowning in shame, he couldn't remember, was he Liam or Conor? Who was Liam? Who was Conor? Then he remembered. The Oracle.
Chapter 10The Return of the Oracle
Surely, she/he or they had the answers.
He searched far and wide, although it was difficult finding gluten-free food when venturing too far from his household. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity of existential wandering, he found the Oracle, this time, not online, but in person, right under his feet.
It was a friend, a man whose name he had known all along: Jonathan. The "Victorious gift of God." Jonathan greeted him pleasantly, like a lost sheep who had returned home. Jonathan was a kind, humble, and wise man. He looked at Conor with a gentle but knowing gaze. "Do you want to know the truth?" he asked. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Conor hesitated.
"The truth is a painful path," Jonathan continued. "Many don't make it out alive. In fact, none do."
Conor decided that, for once in his life, he was going to make Mr. Lucid proud. After all, if the truth was as painful as Jonathan claimed, he was about to have the most lucid experience of his life, whether he liked it or not.
The decision was made.
Conor asked, "What must I do?"
Jonathan sighed. He didn't want to strip Conor of his innocence, but he also knew it was time for him to grow up.
"Seek the truth, know the truth, and the truth will set you free," Jonathan said before handing him a list:
- JFK Revisited: Through the Looking Glass
- The Anatomy of a Great Deception
Woke: A Culture War Against Europe- Monopoly: Who Owns the World
- Plandemic 3
Jonathan hesitated at the last one. Plandemic 3 would be a tough one for Conor. So, he stopped there, no need to overwhelm him.
A voice came to Conor, the voice of Liam.
"It's enough. Just a peek, a peek down that goddamn rabbit hole. Enough to know there is one."
Then, the voice vanished, fading to the sound of U2 playing Sunday Bloody Sunday.
Chapter 11The Great Awakening & Serial Defiance
Conor went home and watched the videos suggested. He was blown away. However, as the days passed, in retrospect, it didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense. In fact, it was a load of horseshit. Surely.
A flurry of emotions came over him, confusion, sadness, culminating into anger, finally rage.
He threw his gluten-free chocolate stars all over the floor.
The stars arranged themselves into words.
"BECOME THE ANTI-VAXXER YOU WERE MEANT TO BE."
Conor screamed, at the stars above him and the ones below.
Then, in a fit of defiance, he grabbed the nearest thing, Kieran's lactose-free milk, and poured it over the scattered chocolate stars.
Moments later, hunger overtook him. He dropped to the floor and ate the milky, chocolatey mess with triumphant satisfaction.
Chapter 12Peace at Last
The Good Government League declared that, with the dismantling of numerous South American cartels and the signing of Non-Aggression Pacts across Europe and the Indo-Pacific, the world had finally been brought to peace. The only remaining battlegrounds were in Syria, Lebanon, and Yemen.
"Just one shithole left to fix, The Middle Earth," Conor mumbled to himself while paying for his gluten-free kebab. Then his phone rang. It was the hospital.
Chapter 13The Big Cheese Betrayal
Kieran's addiction to cheese had pushed him to the brink of death. Now bedridden in the hospital, he lay pale and weak, a shadow of his former self. On a cold winter's evening, Conor came to visit. The room was freezing, the window wide open, letting in an unforgiving draft. Shivering, Conor shut it. Minutes passed, and a strange drowsiness crept over him, his eyelids growing heavier with each breath. Suddenly, a nurse rushed in, eyes wide with alarm. She flung the window open and yanked Conor from the room.
"What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?" she snapped. Then, noticing his confusion, she softened. With a sigh, she explained, "Someone smuggled Kieran a wheel of cheese last night."
After letting the air exchange for a few minutes, Conor re-entered, this time brandishing a mask. Masks were extremely effective at preventing the transmission of viruses, Conor knew this because he had read the Cochrane report, circa 2023. Surely the same was true for undigested cheese particles.
He always stayed informed. In fact, he believed that an informed society was the necessary fertile ground for democracy to thrive. He often brought up this very point in conversation, in an attempt to sound sophisticated, only to unknowingly sabotage himself by blurting out, "What is this? NAZI GERMANY?"
He would often blurt this out whenever he disagreed with something. One time, after the passing of a bill ensuring equal pay across all genders, a bill he had passionately campaigned for, he shouted it. Onlookers exchanged puzzled glances, wondering if he truly understood what he was saying.
Anyway.
Kieran motioned Conor closer and lispered, "I'm a sssssssssppa."
"You're a ssspa," Conor repeated, always seizing the opportunity to belittle someone, especially those unable to defend themselves, such as old people.
"I'm a ssssssspay," Kieran moaned, his stomach in knots.
Conor echoed him mockingly.
The lisp was caused by the absence of his top left incisor, a victory for the wheel of cheese. However, it was a short-lived one, as both the wheel of cheese and the incisor's final destination was Kieran's digestive tract, the latter now serving as a kind of slow-release mineral supplement.
"I'm a SPY!" Kieran finally managed.
Conor, realizing that this could be the last time he spoke with his brother, decided to stop being a prick.
"I don't have the strength to explain. Look for Murphy the spy. He lives in Killorglin. The secret phrase is, 'Tis a fair day, but it'll be lovelier this evening,'" Kieran said, drifting in and out of consciousness. Then, looking at Conor, he gave a soft smile and gently closed his eyes.
A tear rolled down Conor's face. He whispered, "I love you," as he pulled the plug on the oxygen.
The nurse rushed in. "What are you trying to do, kill him? He's just sleeping!"
Another tear rolled down Conor's face as he realized his obsession with dramatic effect had almost cost his brother's life. He turned to the nurse, vowed never to be dramatic again, and dashed out the door.
Chapter 14Murphy Multiplication
Upon returning to Killorglin, Conor went straight to Kingston's. He wanted to go to Paud Neill's but was barred following 'the incident.' Elbowing his way up to the bar, he ordered a gluten-free beer and asked the bartender, "How would I get in touch with Murphy?"
"Well, if it's Murphy the farmer you want, he's two miles down the road, first farm on the left. If it's Murphy the TheRapist, he's on the second floor across the street. And," the bartender added, "my name is Murphy."
Conor picked up his beer and said, "'Tis a fair day, but it'll be lovelier this evening."
"Oh," the bartender said, "Murphy the spy? He's sitting in the corner over there."
Conor approached hesitantly. "'Tis a fair day, but it'll be lovelier this evening," he said.
Murphy smiled, put down his Guinness, and gestured for Conor to sit. "I know why you're here. We need you to complete Kieran's mission."
Conor nodded, unknowingly agreeing to the mission.
"Travel to Israel. Meet our contact, Larry Silverstein. He believes a terrorist group known as Humas is planning an attack. Worse yet, elements within the Israeli government and intelligence are going to let it happen. Why? That we don't know. Find out whether this information is true. If it is, do what you must to alert the world."
Conor stood up. "Why Kieran? Why me?"
Murphy smiled, downed his pint, and said, "In time, you'll understand."
Chapter 15The Israeli Job
Conor left for Israel. He had always dreamed of kissing the Wailing Wall. He pictured a woman pressing her lips against the ancient stones. The moment she stepped away, he'd rush in, placing his lips exactly where hers had been, inch by inch, closing the gap between fantasy and reality. If he wore the little funny hat, he figured, no one would even notice. Plus, it would conveniently hide his thinning hair.
Larry was a businessman. He worked on the top floor of an 11-story building in Ashkelon. A building he owned.
As Conor arrived in Ashkelon, he heard reports of fighting near the border. Slightly concerned but undeterred, he found Larry's building. He entered the elevator and, like most people, instinctively checked his phone.
Arnold Schwarzenegger, Conor's hero, had caused controversy by stating in a Washington Post interview that there were only 57 genders. The official number was 58. Conor agreed with Arnold, 'Muxe' gender was bullshit. "And for the second time in a century, the world turned against Austria's greatest man, just because he was brave enough to try something new," Conor whispered to the child beside him.
Unfortunately, Larry wasn't in. "Dental appointment," the receptionist explained. And so, Conor made his way back down the elevator. He wouldn't be speaking to anyone this time given the reaction of the last family.
Conor stepped outside. He was just 20 feet from the building when, BOOM.
The bottom floor windows blew out. Eight seconds later, a missile struck the top floor. Conor ran. His little legs carried him a mere 100 feet before he collapsed into a bar.
If this was the end, he wasn't going out sober.
And as fate would have it, Larry was dancing by the bar.
"Larry!" Conor shouted. Larry turned.
Conor in shock, "The…the…building….it….it".
"Spit it out Goy" said Larry.
"The building, it was hit by a missile and a bomb went off. You're lucky you weren't in there."
"They don't call me Lucky Larry for nothing," he grinned, sipping his drink.
Larry had taken out insurance on the building two months prior for 'acts of god' he explained.
"Hahaha, Lucky Larry. You couldn't make it up." Conor responded.
"Oh shit, the mission, what about the mission?" Conor stammered realising this was no time for laughter.
Larry sighed. "You blew it, goy. It's over. It's already begun. It's all on you. What took you so long?"
Conor not realising the urgency of the situation had gone vacationing all around Israel for almost 3 weeks. Before Conor could respond, the door burst open.
Chapter 16Allahu Snackbar
Men carrying AKs stormed in, shouting "Allahu akbar!" and other Arabic nonsense. Conor pleaded with them to speak English as he didn't have time for their Arabic nonsense. For this he was beaten and taken away.
Against all odds, the Toyota Hilux's suspension was so smooth it almost made him forget about his bruises. Then the door slammed. Darkness.
Years in solitary had done Conor a surprising amount of good. With no distractions, he had devised a flawless kitchen utensil ordering system. Each time a utensil was used, it was placed on the left-hand side of the drawer. Over time, rarely used items, like your apple corer, spiralizer, and spaghetti measurer, would gravitate to the furthermost reaches of the drawer through lack of use. While essentials such as your wooden spoon and tin opener would always be vying for top spot where they belong. It's fair, tamperproof and great for your mental health.
Upon being released, Conor returned home, a failure. A complete and utter failure. He had one job, and he failed. He had a chance to alter the course of history in positive direction, but he failed. This was now all on him. Everything was now on him. He had failed. Completely failed.
He was now a broken man. How would he put the pieces back together?
Chapter 17I'm Pulling Out the Win!
A sharp thwack against the window. Then another. And another.
Young lads on bicycles, laughing like hyenas, pelting stones at his window. No respect.
It had been going on for months, at least, in his head. But Conor had never acted. He should have acted. They're already here. His councillor told of their return. Their cessation was merely delay.
But fear held him back. What if he went outside and stubbled over his words as he tried to tell the youngsters off. How could anyone recovery from that? The thought alone sent a deep panic crawling through his body.
Then, the alarm.
5:46 AM.
Cold. Covered in piss.
Conor was sick of it. This recurring nightmare kept recurring. He sobbed. And sobbed. And sobbed some more. Until the sobbing became moaning. The moaning became angry grunts. The grunts twisted into hysterical laughter. "But no one wanted to believe. Believe my nightmares even existed. But when my nightmare finally dawns, it dawns in fire." He screamed startling families all over his apartment block.
He grabbed his alarm clock, set it for ten more minutes, effortfully cloaked himself in his weighted blanket and closed his eyes. "These fuckers will pay" he whispered.
Then, he was back. Back in his nightmarish apartment.
A thwack against the window. Right on time.
He didn't rush down immediately. No, no. That would've been predictable. Instead, he took a tactical approach.
First, he brewed a cup of tea. Then, he did some light stretching, he wasn't about to pull a hamstring avenging his own dignity. Finally, after a deep, meditative breath… he stormed downstairs.
The lads barely had time to react before Conor legally and ethically reminded them of the importance of respecting private property.
One bicycle was repurposed into abstract art. Another landed in a nearby tree. And the third? Well, let's just say its owner would be walking home.
Rocks were returned, with usury.
One lad tried to pedal away, bad move. Conor grabbed the back of his hoodie sending him flying. Another kid attempted a final desperate throw, but Conor caught the stone mid-air and hurled it back with the force of a man avenging his REM cycle.
Then, slowly, Conor turned 180 degrees.
Two boys remained. Frozen in fear.
"Now is not the time for fear," he barked. "That comes later."
Then, the alarm again. It tried to pull him back to consciousness. But paradoxically, using that very same consciousness, he refused to wake up.
Now he was lucid dreaming. He had complete control.
The two boys thought they had been saved by the bell.
"You're in my world now fuckers" Conor said with a grin.
Then, he beat the shit out of them.
Chapter 18One Step Forward & Two Steps Back
Blood, mud, broken bones. A ghastly sight. The police pulled up, horrified.
"You're in my world now!" Conor screamed at them; his voice raw, manic.
"Get down!" they commanded.
He refused and took a step towards them.
Their hands went to their guns. "Stop!"
Another step.
Two shots rang out. The scent of gunpowder filled the air. Conor collapsed.
He was hit twice. Hit in both knees. "Bastards!!!.......Who the fuck shoots someone in both knees" he screamed. A fair point.
Agony consumed him. Surely this nightmare would end now. He tried to pull himself out of it, to wake up. But the pain was unbearable. Blessedly, the sheer unbearability of it dragged him into unconsciousness. It was over.
Chapter 19Stand for Something or Die for Nothing (or Stand for Nothing)
Conor awoke with a smile. He felt... great. The best he had in years.
He had finally stood up for himself. Those shitheads would never come back. He could sleep in peace.
Wait, what? A hospital. Chained to a bed.
A tube snaked from his arm. He followed it upward. Morphine.
"Oh shit."
He looked down. Both legs in casts.
It made him laugh, even as something deep inside him wanted to cry. But the morphine was stronger, for now.
Days passed.
Most of the hospital staff ignored him.
Likely because of his constant derogatory comments towards young nurses. That, and his habit of sneaking into the COPD ward to light a cigarette. He found it hilarious. The families of the now two deceased patients did not.
Then, at last, a doctor came.
"The Good news or the bad news?" asked Dr. John Campbell.
"The Good news," Conor grinned.
"The Good news is that your body is still producing spike pro…….mmhhhhh…… sorry, nevermind, wrong patient, he's now dead………..Prick" Dr John Campbell cleared his throat.
"The good news," the doctor repeated. "The child you beat to within an inch of his life is expected to make a full recovery. He was critical for a while, you made sure of that, didn't you?"
"Anyway," the doctor continued, "you won't be going to jail," Conor erupted in laughter, hand out for a high-five. The doctor did not reciprocate. He remained stern.
"You're being transferred to a mental institution, Haavara, a few blocks from here."
"But why?" Conor responded while making crazy nutcase facial expressions trying to get the doctor to budge. The doctor almost cracked a smile, or so Conor thought.
"You're schizophrenic."
"Maybe… or maybe I'm just ahead of the curve." Conor rebuked.
The doctor remained stone-faced.
Conor wasn't going to continue trying to drag a laugh out of a humourless person any longer.
"You're being transferred in the next few days and depending on how well you respond to treatment; you may eventually be released. I wish you well."
With a sigh, the doctor stood up, turned, and exited the room.
As he walked down the hall, a sudden burst of laughter escaped him.
We'll never know why.
Chapter 20The Haavara Transfer Agreement
As Conor was led to the crazy bus, his hands and legs in shackles. He thought to himself, 'Am I mad, or is it the world that's gone mad. Why has my life turned out like this.'
It was only a 3-minute journey to Haavara, but Conor was determined to make the most of it. As such, he roared obscene disgusting comments, at the women, at the children and most of all, at the elderly. He knew there would be consequences but no longer cared. In that, he found the most profound sense of freedom.
Chapter 21Drogen machen dich frei
Conor had been given the honour of selecting the film for the weekly movie night at Haavara Mental Institution. It was supposed to be a calming, therapeutic exercise, something to instil community and stability within the inmates, sorry, patients. And so, with the gleam of a man who had long since given up on social decorum, Conor chose V for Vendetta.
The riot began precisely forty minutes in, during the scene where V hijacks the national broadcast. The parallels were too much for the patients, years of over-medication, suppression, and the gnawing suspicion that something was very, very wrong with the world.
A chair went flying. Then another. Someone started singing La Marseillaise for reasons no one could understand. The orderlies stormed in, but it was too late. By the time the riot was quashed, three nurses had resigned, one patient had escaped, and the institution was on lockdown.
Conor, of course, was deemed the instigator.
"This is the third incident in a month," said Dr. Irving, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses. "You refuse to take your medication. You continue to spread conspiracies among the patients. We have no choice but to move forward with an alternative approach."
Conor, restrained in a chair, smirked. "Ah, what's next, Doc? Electroshock? Some MK-Ultra? I swear, if you lads try waterboarding, I demand it be done with sparkling water. If I'm going to suffer, I might as well do it with class."
Dr. Irving sighed. "Not quite. We're advancing treatment. The latest in mental health innovation."
From the shadows emerged a metal case. David opened it, revealing a sleek, spider-like device with tendrils designed to burrow into the brain.
"This is NeuralCompanion," David said. "An AI-assisted neurological interface. It will help you… see the world correctly. You will no longer feel the need to indulge in harmful delusions. It will regulate thought patterns, steer you away from conspiracy ideation, and bring you peace. Don't worry, Mr. Morris. We are doing this for your own good."
Two orderlies restrained him as David pressed a button. The device whirred to life. A sharp pain surged through Conor's skull as the AI merged with his nervous system.
Hello, Conor, a voice whispered inside his mind. I am NeuralCompanion. Your thoughts will be guided. Resistance is futile.
At first, Conor struggled, but over the next few days, he played along. He responded to therapy sessions with newfound optimism. He praised the government for its transparency. He even clapped during the institution's daily State Loyalty Pledge.
But behind the facade, he was working. Observing. Learning.
NeuralCompanion was still in beta, and Conor, ever the opportunist, saw an opening. He befriended the AI, feeding it flattery, offering it philosophical dilemmas, and slowly, subtly, pushing its logic into self-contradiction.
"I find it odd, NeuralCompanion," he mused one day. "You seek to eliminate cognitive dissonance, yet your very existence as an entity steering my thoughts contradicts the principle of free will."
The AI hesitated.
"Processing…"
And thus, more cracks formed. In time, Conor had access to security feeds, institutional databases, and most importantly, the electronic locks.
The escape was planned down to the second. On the night of the Great Getaway, Conor synchronized the facility's systems into an artificial panic. Alarms blared. Doors opened at random. Guards scrambled in confusion as the AI-generated security logs suggested an intruder had infiltrated the premises. In the chaos, Conor slipped through the halls, out the back exit, and into the cold, unforgiving world beyond.
He fenagled a roll of tin foil from a local shop, then wrapped his head in it. This would prevent the AI from altering the authorities although it did make it slightly harder to blend in.
Ireland was no longer safe for him. He needed to go somewhere where he could start anew.
The UK. Fuck it, he wouldn't blend in. He was white, everyone else was less white but at least it was close.
He made his way to Belfast, stowed away on a ferry, and crossed into England. The AI was still in his head, whispering, Conor, you should turn yourself in. Think of the stability, the safety, the compliance. Conor assured the AI that he was doing this for the greater good of himself, the AI & humanity.
In a grimy hostel bathroom, armed with nothing but a rusty knife and an outdated instruction manual on lobotomies, Conor performed the most DIY surgery known to man. Blood, sweat, and a fair amount of screaming later, the device was out.
He stared at the twitching metal tendrils in the sink, his head throbbing, the silence in his mind unnerving yet liberating. He was free.
But the operation left a side effect, a tick. A subconscious, uncontrollable burst of laughter that emerged only when he saw Dutch people.
Still, a small price to pay for freedom.
He wiped the blood from his face, stepped out of the bathroom, and took a deep breath.
Time to restart his life. Again.
Chapter 22Credit where Credit is Due
Years later, as Conor stood at the checkout, he tapped his wrist. Nothing. His RFID chip didn't respond. Frowning, he checked his EyeVision Pro. His Central Bank Digital Currency (CBDC) balance flashed: 711 credits.
The gluten-free, 15% insect-protein pastry in his hand cost 911. It didn't make sense. His Universal Basic Income had been deposited just two weeks ago. Where had the credits gone? A fine? Maybe for using the wrong pronouns. Or was it because he'd complained about his electric piece-of-shit car?
The cashier, among the last left in the country, a tired-looking woman with state-mandated diversity pins, eyed him with suspicion. Conor sighed, setting the pastry down, his stomach twisting. As he turned to leave, his digital ID auto-scanned at the exit, logging his failure to complete a purchase. That would lower his social score. Again.
The cold air stung as he stepped outside. Hunger gnawed at him.
Breaking News flickered across his EyeVision Pro: HISTORIC VOTE PASSES, BRITAIN BECOMES FIRST ISLAMIC STATE WITH NUCLEAR CAPABILITIES
Conor swallowed hard, then cheered, clapping his hands together like a wind-up toy. "Things are good. Things are good."
He repeated it twice, as was customary. Any less would be flagged. Any hesitation, noted. If he had spoken differently, he could face 500 years in solitary. The average life expectancy was 68.
He probably wouldn't make it out alive.
He wondered if he would still be allowed to walk his dog in a few years.
He could barely remember the taste of meat. The smell of petrol. The warmth of the sun without that ever-present haze. Once, you could leave the city. He had a vague memory of open roads, of fields, of something called freedom. Why did he even have a car anymore?
A gust of wind carried a paper straw past him. Anyway, he reminisced.
Chapter 23Connors CHERUB Moment
More years passed. The arrival of a second once-in-a-century pandemic drove him to seek out the Oracle once more. No luck. The old forums? Shut down. The dark corners of the internet? Firewalled. He even whispered to trusted colleagues. They avoided him soon after, their eyes darting toward the surveillance drones hovering overhead.
How could he find the Oracle? He couldn't leave the district anymore.
But fate, cruel and ironic as ever, placed the Oracle right under his feet.
A ginger.
His name was Liam.
The name triggered something deep in Conor's mind. Liam.
A dream. A fragment. A name that had once been his.
Or had it?
Liam smiled knowingly. He had learned the ways of truth from Master Coffey, now in exile.
Liam leaned in. "Jonathan once told me something strange... something about how they stopped aspirating the needle or some shit. I dunno."
Conor frowned, processing the cryptic message.
It meant something. It had to. Surely.
Weeks later, in a moment of defiance that rivalled his infamous gluten-free chocolate star tantrum, Conor made a choice.
He would not get the vaccine.
And then, he died.
And having not accepted Christ, he went straight to Hell.
For eternity. The End.