Chapter 2: Learning Control
The warehouse air hung thick with the sickly-sweet stench of chlorine and sweat as Chance pushed Jen’s slack, naked body off him, her skin unnervingly cool where it had been a furnace moments before. He scrambled awkwardly off the rough shipping pallet, wincing as the raw scratches on his chest caught on his torn shirt, his jeans damp and clinging. He focused, the device humming a low, insistent command against his throbbing wristbone. "Jen," he rasped, his voice raw, "Get dressed. Forget everything that happened in this warehouse since I walked in. Go back to the front desk, finish your day. Completely normal." Instantly, the vacant glaze vanished from her eyes, replaced by a bright, professional alertness; she rose smoothly, gathering her discarded Atlas polo shirt and jeans with brisk efficiency, pulling them on as if nothing had ever happened, her movements perfectly ordinary as she brushed dust from her sleeve. "Of course! See you up front if you need anything else," she chirped, her tone light and utterly devoid of memory, before turning and walking purposefully towards the heavy warehouse door, leaving Chance alone amidst the silent fiberglass giants, the device pulsing like a satisfied heartbeat against his skin.
He stared down at the crimson streaks marring his chest, the torn fabric of his shirt sticking uncomfortably to the drying sweat and stinging scratches Jen's nails had left. The warehouse suddenly felt suffocating, the smell of chlorine and sex thick in his throat. He needed air, space, maybe something stronger than the fading adrenaline buzzing in his veins. Pushing roughly through the heavy warehouse door, the late afternoon Georgia sun slammed into him like a hammer, baking the cracked asphalt as he stalked towards his truck.
The truck door groaned open, he slid onto the hot vinyl seat, keyed the ignition, and drove straight to Murphy’s Tavern, the dive bar where the neon flickered and the AC was always set to 'meat locker'. He walked in and settled onto his usual worn barstool, the scratches on his chest stinging beneath his torn shirt, just as the TV above the bottles switched to a close-up of a pitcher winding up in a tense baseball game. Cassie, wiping down a table nearby with brisk efficiency, spotted him immediately; a warm, familiar smile broke across her face as she tossed the rag aside and headed over. "Chance! Haven't seen you burn a stool in days," she greeted, her voice friendly and genuinely pleased as she leaned against the bar in front of him. "Usual poison, or you lookin' rough enough to need somethin' stronger?"
She slid a cold bottle of cheap lager across the polished wood towards him without waiting for an answer.
Cassie tilted her head, her warm smile fading slightly as she studied his face. "Damn, Chance, you look like you wrestled a bear and lost," she said, her voice softening with genuine concern as her gaze flickered over the fresh scratches visible through his torn shirt. He grunted, barely lifting his eyes from the condensation forming on his beer bottle, the word "Rough" escaping him like a sigh, heavy with unspoken horrors Jen’s frantic, programmed ferocity had carved into him. A flicker of worry crossed Cassie’s face, her usual easygoing demeanor tightening almost imperceptibly; she sensed the jagged edge beneath his exhaustion but couldn't grasp its source. "Well," she said brightly, forcing cheer as she gestured sharply towards the TV screen where the pitcher wound up, "maybe the Braves can pull off a miracle tonight – bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs!"
Chance grunted, his eyes finally lifting to the flickering TV screen just as the pitcher unleashed a fastball, high and outside. "Ball four!" the announcer's tinny voice declared through the bar's speakers as the batter tossed his bat aside and trotted towards first, forcing the runner home. The score graphic flashed: 6-4, the home team now only down by two runs, a muted groan rippling through the handful of patrons. Cassie slapped the bar lightly. "See? Hope ain't dead yet," she said, though Chance barely registered her words, already staring into his beer, the device cool and heavy against his pulse, Maple Street tomorrow a far more compelling game.
Cassie hesitated, the damp bar rag suddenly heavy in her hand, her usual ready quip dying on her lips as she took in Chance's thousand-yard stare into the beer bottle, the raw scratches stark against his skin. She remembered his usual sharp wit, the easy back-and-forth about the Braves' latest failure, the way he’d always have a sarcastic line ready about the cheap tap. That familiar spark was utterly gone tonight, replaced by a hollow exhaustion that radiated off him like heat from the asphalt outside. The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the tinny TV announcer and the clink of a bottle from the other end of the bar. She swallowed the question on her tongue, the urge to pry, and simply wiped the counter near him, then quietly moved away to give him space, missing the banter but respecting the quiet storm in his eyes, glancing back once before tending to another customer.
Chance watched Cassie move, the familiar sway of her hips beneath her worn jeans as she delivered another beer down the bar, a fleeting image flashing in his exhausted mind: commanding her to strip, right here, the neon Budweiser sign glinting off her skin. The device hummed faintly against his wristbone, a low, eager vibration, but the thought fizzled out instantly, buried under the sheer, bone-deep weariness dragging at him like wet sand. He recalled stumbling over old Mr. Henderson collapsed near the overflowing trash cans, the neighbor’s slack, vacant stare as Chance ripped the humming alien band from his limp wrist; the frantic, obscene spectacle of Amy and the banana on his couch, her mechanical moans echoing in the dusty apartment; then Jen, riding him with terrifying, programmed ferocity in the chlorine stink of the warehouse, her raw screams and the brutal, stinging scratches she’d left on his chest. The weight of it all pressed down, heavier than Georgia clay, leaving him hollowed out and spent, the device feeling suddenly cold and alien against his skin.
But then, a single spark ignited: Jen, naked and obedient, installing a top-tier pool for free. The spark flared, blazing through the exhaustion: I got exactly what I pictured. A second, more potent thought detonated: I can get anything. Fortune, cars, fame, women… anything I’ve ever wanted.
Elation, pure and blinding, surged through him, replacing fatigue with fierce, jubilant certainty as he stared at the humming device. Anything. He could have anything. Cars, mansions, Jen’s terrifying, vacant-eyed enthusiasm forever, Cassie’s warm smile turning obedient and eager… the possibilities roared like a hurricane in his skull, drowning out Cassie’s distant voice calling his name. The tavern lights flared impossibly bright, then dimmed violently, the triumphant roar in his head dissolving into a terrifying, rushing silence as the cold vinyl of the barstool seemed to fall away beneath him. Cassie’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with alarm: "Chance? Hey, Chance! You okay?"
Cassie was beside him instantly, her strong hands gripping his shoulder as he lay slumped against the bar's sticky floor, the smell of stale beer and disinfectant sharp in his nostrils. "Jesus, Chance, you just went down like a sack of bricks!" she breathed, her voice tight with worry as she helped him sit up, his muscles protesting, the scratches on his chest burning anew. He blinked, the neon lights swimming, the device cold against his sweat-damp wrist. "Yeah, I'm fine," he managed, forcing a weak grin, letting her pull him slowly upright, leaning heavily on the worn wooden bar. "Guess I just got... a little lightheaded picturing the Braves winning."
Cassie fussed over him, wiping a damp bar rag across his clammy forehead with surprising tenderness, her brow furrowed. "Lightheaded my ass, you looked like death warmed over," she chided gently, her voice laced with real concern. Chance managed a weak shrug, his eyes drifting past her worried face towards the flickering TV screen mounted above the liquor bottles just as the Braves batter connected with a deafening crack, the ball arcing high and deep into the left-field stands. The bar erupted – a ragged cheer from the few patrons, Cassie’s own surprised shout – as the announcer screamed "WALK-OFF HOME RUN!" Chance met Cassie’s wide, delighted eyes, forcing a tired grin, the device humming faintly against his pulse like a secret accomplice. "Told ya I saw it coming," he rasped, the joke tasting like ashes, "Guess I'm fucking Nostradamus after all."
He pushed the sweaty bill across the sticky wood. "Settle me up, Cass." Cassie waved it off, her smile tight but eyes still shadowed with worry. "This round’s on the house, Nostradamus," she insisted, leaning closer, "but seriously, you good? You look like hell warmed over." He forced a hollow laugh, already sliding off the stool. "Peachy," he lied, turning towards the exit, "Thanks for the beer." The door’s jingle cut off her next question, sealing him into the humid night.
He blinked against the tavern’s neon glare, the scratches beneath his torn shirt stinging faintly with sweat. His own truck, parked crookedly under a flickering streetlight, looked suddenly pathetic – rust-flecked panels, sagging suspension, the cracked windshield reflecting the cheap beer sign like a sad joke. "That piece of shit won't do," he muttered, the transmitter humming warm against his pulsebone as his gaze snapped across the lot, locking onto a gleaming obsidian beast: a brand-new Ford F-350 Platinum, its massive chrome grille swallowing the light, tires like black fortresses, parked pristine beside a dusty sedan. A thick-necked guy in a polo shirt slammed its driver's door, jingling keys, utterly unaware as Chance focused the alien device’s silent command, feeling its thrum vibrate deep into his bones – mine –
The thick-necked man pivoted smoothly, his eyes snapping instantly vacant as the device’s command pulsed through Chance’s wristbone. "Trade trucks with me," Chance ordered, his voice low and rough against the tavern’s distant jukebox thump. The man nodded once, a stiff marionette jerk, and wordlessly extended the F-350’s heavy key fob, its chrome gleaming under the flickering streetlight. Chance snatched the keys, the cool metal in his palm, then tossed his own rusted truck keys onto the asphalt at the man’s polished loafers. Without a flicker of hesitation or recognition, the thick-necked man bent mechanically, retrieved the keys, and trudged stiffly towards Chance’s battered old pickup, leaving the new truck for Chance to ride
Without a flicker of hesitation or recognition, the thick-necked man bent mechanically, retrieved the keys, and trudged stiffly towards Chance’s battered old pickup, leaving the new truck for Chance to ride. "Stop," Chance commanded, the transmitter humming, and the man froze mid-stride beside the rusted door handle, vacant eyes staring ahead. "Look at me and listen," Chance said, stepping close, the sharp scent of the man's cheap cologne filling the humid air, "You lost that beautiful new truck to me in a high-stakes poker game last night down at Murphy’s – remember?" He paused, letting the fabricated memory settle into the blankness. "You’re signing over the title right now because I cleaned you out fair and square, and you want nothing more to do with me or that beat-up piece of junk you’re holding the keys to – got it?"
The man blinked once, slowly, then nodded with that same unnerving precision. "High stakes poker," he repeated flatly, the words devoid of feeling. "Cleaned me out. Fair and square. And I gave you my old truck out of the goodness of my heart" He pulled a small leather folder from his back pocket, extracted a folded document, and uncapped a pen with detached efficiency. Chance watched the pen scratch across the signature line on the truck title, the man’s hand moving with robotic certainty. "Forget my name, forget my face," Chance added softly, the device vibrating warmly, "just drive that old truck home and be done with it."
The man slid the signed title into Chance's waiting hand, his expression remaining utterly blank. He pocketed the pen, turned without a word, and climbed into the creaking cab of the rust-bucket. The ancient engine sputtered, coughed, then roared unevenly to life as he pulled away from the curb, the sagging tailpipe belching a cloud of blue smoke. Chance watched the battered pickup disappear around the corner, the signed title damp in his grip, the cool weight of the F-350’s key fob a solid promise in his other hand. He turned towards the obsidian behemoth, its chrome gleaming under the flickering streetlight, the sharp, clean scent of new leather escaping as he opened the heavy door and slid inside.
The heavy door of the F-350 thudded shut, sealing Chance inside a hushed world of chilled leather and gleaming walnut trim, the stark contrast to his rattling old truck momentarily stealing his breath. He ran a hand over the cool, perforated leather of the steering wheel, the subtle scent of new car and expensive hide filling his lungs as he examined the vast, softly glowing dashboard displays. Outside the tinted windows, the flickering streetlight painted streaks on the flawless obsidian paint, highlighting the truck’s massive, aggressive stance; he peered out, ensuring the thick-necked former owner was truly gone in the rusted relic. The absolute silence inside the cab felt profound, amplifying the low, satisfied hum of the alien device against his pulsebone and the fading sting of Jen’s scratches beneath his torn shirt. A slow, smile touched his lips as he traced the smooth lines of the center console, the sheer ease of taking this monument to power solidifying the intoxicating truth: nothing was beyond his reach now.
The stolen truck ate the miles back to his neighborhood, the powerful engine a deep, expensive purr beneath him, the leather seat cool and smelling faintly of ozone and the device's metallic chill against his skin. He parked the obsidian beast in his cracked driveway, its sheer bulk dwarfing his modest bungalow, the headlights cutting off to leave only the dim porch light casting long, distorted shadows across the overgrown lawn. Inside the quiet cluttered living room, the scent of old paperbacks and dust a familiar anchor, he fumbled with shaky hands, packing a glass pipe, the flick of his lighter illuminating the haunted look in his eyes before the sweet, acrid smoke filled his lungs, pulling the day's jagged edges – Jen's screams, Amy's vacant stare, the thick-necked man's blank obedience – into a hazy, manageable blur. Collapsing onto his unmade bed, the worn sheets cool against his back, he stared at the ceiling’s water stains, the transmitter’s faint, persistent hum a counterpoint to his slowing heartbeat as images flickered behind his closed lids: Cassie’s smile turning eager, mountains of cash, Jen’s perfect robotic submission forever. A giddy, terrifying warmth spread through his chest, pushing aside the last threads of unease, the single thought crystallizing in the smoky dark: Anything. I can have absolutely anything.
The giddy warmth pulsed alongside the transmitter's hum against his wristbone, sharpening his hunger past stolen trucks and drugged oblivion. Nicky's laugh cut through the weed haze – that bright, genuine sound echoing off gym mirrors, the scent of her sweat cutting through chlorine ghosts as she'd wrestled the leg press, ponytail swinging. Tomorrow. Five AM sharp, his normal slot, but now charged with possibility: Nicky bending willingly over a weight bench, Monique gasping against the cold tile wall, charlotte sighing submission into the sauna's steam. He'd start with Nicky, her kindness a sharp counterpoint to the raw command he'd unleash, savoring the shock fading from those warm eyes into vacant surrender. Sleep pulled him under, the transmitter’s steady thrum vibrating against the mattress like a countdown, dawn a promise etched in chrome and yielding flesh.
The transmitter’s hum bled into Chance’s dreams, twisting Nicky’s laugh into a gasp of submission against cold gym tiles. He snapped awake before dawn, adrenaline already crackling through his veins like live wires. The F-350’s engine roared to life, a deep, growl shattering the neighborhood silence, its new-leather scent mixing with the ozone tang radiating from his wrist. He gripped the cool leather wheel, grinning fiercely into the rearview mirror at his own bloodshot eyes. Nicky first, he thought, tires screeching as he peeled out towards Iron Paradise, the transmitter pulsing warm anticipation against his pulse.