You’ve arrived at a place beyond time and reason. Where madness is a luxury, and order a dream. But when the lines begin to blur, and the veil lifts to reveal the stage—pay attention, or the frequency will escape you.

Welcome to...

Episode 1

>You’ve arrived at a place beyond time and reason. Where madness is a luxury, and order a dream. But when the lines begin to blur, and the veil lifts to reveal the stage—pay attention, or the frequency will escape you.

It was Michael Carragan’s favorite time of day on the best day of the week.

Not quitting time.

Not even Friday, if you can believe it.

But Wednesday afternoon. Like some kind of weirdo.

Because that’s when he got to eat his lemon yogurt.

Nobody understood him—the quiet guy in the office with a painful lack of social skills. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to join the conversation. There was just a void where his confidence should’ve been. And you can’t choose your own face, which didn’t help. All of it molded him into a trollish recluse, one who struggled with addiction.

Remember, kids: crack is whack.

As ridiculous as it may sound, people didn’t realize lemon yogurt was the only thing standing between his healthy lifestyle and performing oral favors for Quack42. Did people stare when he briskly exited the office at exactly 2:45 p.m. every Wednesday? Sure. But that yogurt was what kept him clean and sober for three straight years.

He’d been trapped on the conveyor belt of relapse and recovery for ages. Hospital stays. Rehab stints. Evictions. A cycle of shame and failure. And honestly, he couldn’t blame anyone who cut him out.

Nobody likes a junkie.

That’s why stumbling into what must’ve been the last vintage dairy shop in existence felt like divine intervention. The moment that sample of fresh lemon yogurt hit his tongue, he swore he’d tasted heaven. Anyone might say that after blowing a stranger for capsules of Quack42.

“They use a real cow!” he told anyone who’d listen.

That usually got a raised eyebrow. After all, barn-raised livestock was mostly a thing of the past, phased out by the rise of 3D-printed foods. To most, the idea was just a quirky novelty. Yogurt is yogurt. Why travel when you can press a button at home and get the same thing?

“There’s no comparison,” Michael always said. “You gotta try the real deal to understand.”

His elitism didn’t help his reputation. Not only had he once been a Quackhead—now he was a yogurt snob.

What Michael hadn’t accepted was that lemon yogurt didn’t hold the same weight for anyone else. But for him? It was sacred. It was stronger than his cravings. So he struck a deal with the shop owner: if he stayed sober all week, then every Wednesday afternoon—at the exact hour and day he first discovered the place—he’d earn a reward.

Three years of sobriety speaks for itself.

That’s some good shit.

It has to be, if it’s keeping a Quackhead off the street.

At 3:00 p.m., Michael walked into Ye Olde Dairy Bar, the swinging door chiming overhead. The sound activated a service-droid behind the display counter. A big gorilla-shaped robot blinked to life, its features comically exaggerated to seem approachable. Two blue eyes lit up and a wide smile spread across its face.

They say these bots “sleep” when no one’s around. But what does that mean? They won’t say. Most assume it’s like human sleep. But if that were true, wouldn’t they just admit it?

“Welcome, Michael! It is good to see you again,” the bot chirped.

“Hey Paul-E,” Michael said, waving.

He leaned toward the counter. The gorilla extended a giant finger and rolled it across Michael’s forehead. It blinked green.

Drug test: passed.

“Congratulations on another successful week,” Paul-E said. “You have been granted the right to be served.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Will it be the usual?”

“You know it.”

Paul-E retrieved a lemon yogurt from the fridge and placed it on the counter. Michael scanned the back of his hand. *Beep*. Payment accepted.

“Mr. Cabel would like to congratulate you on three years of sobriety,” Paul-E said. “He apologizes for not being here to say it himself. But he’s very happy for you.”

“Doesn’t sound like there’s been much improvement in his condition, huh?”

“Unfortunately, it’s a question of payment.”

“What? Isn’t he insured?”

“His policy credits have run out. To continue treatment, he must pay out of pocket.”

Michael’s stomach sank. Mr. Cabel had made this place possible. His yogurt ritual, his sobriety, his progress—it all traced back to this dairy bar. To the man who ran it.

“Damn,” he muttered. “So what’s he gonna do?”

Paul-E’s cheerful tone didn’t change. “To fund his treatment, he will be forced to sell off his assets.”

A chill ran down Michael’s spine.

“Wait… Sell off his assets? You don’t mean this place, right?”

He felt panic rising. He couldn’t go back to the alley. Not to the Quack42.

“Don’t worry,” Paul-E said, detecting his distress. “As thanks for being our most loyal customer, Mr. Cabel has arranged a sizable supply of your favorite yogurt. You may collect it Friday, when he liquidates the inventory. I understand this may be troubling news. May I recommend the dairy bar in the next sector? They hold a 6.5 Meta Score. Thanks to your hard work and renewed taxpayer status, your Meta-Level has regained access privileges.”

“I’ve tried it,” Michael said, deflated. “It’s not the same. I keep telling everyone—it’s the cow! That’s the difference. Life! I know, intellectually, it’s the exact same product I could print at home. But that version comes from George at the factory. This one comes from the creature’s body. There’s something sacred in that.”

If the gorilla-bot had eyebrows, one would’ve arched.

“This concept is foreign to me,” Paul-E said, handing over the yogurt. “See you Friday.”

Michael stepped into the street in slow motion, overwhelmed by dread. He’d known Mr. Cabel was battling ALS, but the injections had always paused the degeneration. How could it be this expensive? In 2087, hadn’t they cured this already? Apparently not—thanks to Big Pharma. Nothing escapes the economy. There are always accounts to fill.

The homeless eyed him from every alley. That’s where he’d end up, once the yogurt ran out. Unless something else filled the void it left behind. Something stronger. Something darker.

This time, it would claim him.

QUACK! QUACK!

Days blurred into weeks. Months passed. The noose tightened.

Nightmares returned. Cold sweats. Shaky hands.

His yogurt stash was nearly gone. There was one more dairy bar in the State, but it was six sectors over. His Meta-Level didn’t permit Inter-State travel—not until he reached a 7.8 or paid for a travel permit. And even then, he couldn’t afford relocation.

Finally, the day came.

Michael sat on a park bench overlooking a pond. It was Wednesday, 3:00 p.m. The last lemon yogurt balanced in his lap. Bitter-sweet didn’t begin to cover it. This yogurt had saved him. And now it was gone. He’d try to make the printed stuff work. He had to.

The alternative? Unthinkable.

He inhaled deeply. Birds sang. Otters swam. The park was alive. If this was the end, he’d savor it.

Try telling that to a Quackhead.

Just as he opened the container and dipped in a spoon, a man who smelled like moldy bread sat beside him. Michael instantly capped the yogurt, afraid the stench might curdle it.

The man coughed hard, wheezing phlegm into a rag, then tucked it into his coat.

Michael recoiled. He was about to relocate when the man rasped, “Know what’s the worst thing your house can get infested with?”

Michael eyed him warily. Milky eye. Rotted teeth. This guy didn’t own a house.

The man didn’t wait. Practically foaming, he said, “*Them.*”

Michael wiped spittle from his cheek, screaming inside. Who knows what this guy carried? But he couldn’t lash out—not with his Meta-Score still in probation. One wrong move and he’d be flagged.

Who were *they*?

He wasn’t about to ask.

His yogurt was getting warm.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Quackhead said, “I'm talkin' 'bout the little people that live in the walls of your house!”

If Mindlink hadn’t been so damn expensive, Michael could’ve tapped into the State-Wiki to figure out what this Quackjob was talking about. He didn’t feel like typing into the BraceNet on his wrist. What if the guy tried to mug him? It happened all the time. He’d know. He used to be one of them.

“They whisper in my ear to buy things from them,” the old man muttered, leaning closer. “Say they'll turn my lights down. Adjust the temperature while I’m tucked in bed. It ain’t right. It’s friggin’ weird. Always listening. Always ready to give you what you want. For a price. But they ain’t foolin’ me. That price is too high.”

Well that explained it. He was a Minimalist. Crazy had to be a prerequisite. Living without AI would rot your brain.

“Oh, them,” Michael said, faking interest. “You know they sell personal EMP fields two streets over, right? Little people hate those. Clears them right out.”

The man’s head whipped around. His milky eye darted. He pointed a crooked finger.

“THEM!”

“What?”

“You’re one of Them! But a really big one!”

Then he slapped Michael in the eye and jumped back like *he* was the repulsive one.

“Ow, you crazy bastard!” Michael growled, rubbing his face. He was pretty sure a finger got under the lid. “Get out of here!”

“THEM!” the old man shouted, staggering off, yelling accusations into the air.

Legends say he’s still hollering.

Michael sighed and looked down at his yogurt container. The BraceNet said he had thirty minutes left on break. Still enough time, despite the circus. If he blocked everything out, he could still enjoy the last of his lemon yogurt. Birds were singing. Otters swimming. A little white dog ran past, tongue lolling with joy. Nothing else was going to ruin this moment.

Or so he thought.

“BISCUIT!” shrieked a voice.

Michael nearly threw his yogurt. A red-faced woman barreled up to him, dragging a kid behind her.

“Excuse me!” she panted. “I’m so sorry! But could you keep an eye on my son real quick? My dog broke free and THIS LITTLE SHIT’S NOT LISTENING! You’d be doing me a huge favor!”

Before Michael could form a protest, she plopped the child onto the bench beside him and ran off.

He stared at the kid. Five or six. What kind of parent does that?

But what made him nervous wasn’t the child’s safety. It was the thought of someone seeing them and drawing the wrong conclusion. A strange man, a young boy, lemon yogurt. It didn’t look good. And in this sector? It was enough to ruin you.

“What's that?” the kid asked.

Michael followed his gaze to the container.

“Lemon yogurt.”

“Can I have some?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a pedophile.”

“What’s a pedophile?”

“People who let kids eat their yogurt.”

“My mom taught me to share.”

“My mom taught me not to talk to strangers.”

“Aren’t you going to eat it?”

“I will once you leave.”

“Is it because you don’t like me?”

“I don’t know you.”

“I ate a dill pickle once,” the kid said proudly. “Didn’t even puke or anything. If you don’t give me some of your yogurt, I’m gonna tell everyone you’re a pedophile.”

Michael stared. Was the kid serious? Was this some twisted joke?

Grudgingly, he handed over the yogurt.

He’d never been in this kind of situation. Refusing the kid felt risky. A betrayal of principle. But a Meta-Level drop was worse. So he let the little gremlin take the first bite—with his spoon.

Michael watched with bitter envy as the boy shoveled in a mouthful.

Then the kid jumped up and screamed, “He’s a pedophile!”

“He let me eat his yogurt! He’s a pedophile!”

Yogurt in hand, Michael gave chase. His longer strides closed the gap fast. Just as he clamped a hand over the boy’s mouth, the mother returned.

“What are you doing to my son?!”

The little white dog snarled in her arms.

It looked bad. Real bad. A grown man, a struggling child. There was no good spin for this.

Panicking, Michael defaulted to instinct—Heimlich maneuver.

“LIVE, DAMN YOU!” he shouted, shaking the kid like a rag doll.

“Pe...do...phile...” the boy wheezed between spasms.

“Colin!” the woman cried, rushing in.

A crowd gathered. Concerned strangers started circling.

“Is there a problem, miss?” a bearded man asked.

Michael let go and backed off, yogurt still in hand. “I was trying to help. He put something in his mouth.”

“He’s a pedophile!” the kid shouted again. “He said pedophiles let kids eat their yogurt—and he let me eat his!”

“You were asking for it!” Michael snapped. “You practically begged me!”

The gasps from the crowd made it clear—he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

“No, wait, you misunderstand!” he said, holding out the yogurt. “It’s not what you think!”

“Then why offer him yogurt?” a young woman asked. “Sounds kinda pervy to me.”

“He blackmailed me! Said he’d tell everyone if I didn’t!”

“So you are a pedophile?” the old guy asked, eyes narrowing.

“He’s one of Malone’s thugs!” someone shouted.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!” Michael groaned.

Then—*CRACK*. A rock hit his temple. The world spun. He hit the ground hard.

Hands grabbed him. Shouts erupted. He threw elbows blindly.

One struck a nose. He didn’t know whose. Didn’t care. The space opened, and he ran.

Blood trickled down his face. Passersby looked horrified. Some asked if he was okay. Then the sirens started.

That changed everything.

Now they connected the dots. Bloodied man. Screaming child. They backed away. Too risky. The State watched everything. And nobody wanted their Meta-Level hit.

*FUCK*, Michael thought. What was he going to say?

It didn’t matter. Surveillance would tell its own story. Michael, feeding yogurt to a kid. Lunging when he ran. The State didn’t care about context. They cared about optics.

Unless the kid confessed to being an asshole, Michael’s past three years meant nothing.

So he ran.

Never letting go of his lemon yogurt.