Chapter 3: Fulfilling Dreams
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 predatory thrum vibrate deep into his bones – mine – watching the man pivot smoothly,