TheFictionFactory

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[FM] The Ask

Wild, but probable. Just observing LA. Total mess. Got me thinking. Asking a lot of questions. Wanted to explore scenarios. 

And yes, empty plates served for lunch. Metaphorical, no?

_In a desolate dining room, Marcus confronts state officials over their empty promises and desperate need for his Bitcoin, laying bare the broken trust that hangs over their failures._

Marcus enters the dining room.

They're all waiting.

Ramirez at the head of the table like some broken queen. Morrison to her right, medals catching light that costs more than food. Chen sweating through his collar, salt stains mapping his desperation. Williams straightening his tie with shaking hands.

The table is set.

China plates cracked at the edges. Crystal glasses clouded with water spots. Nothing on them. Nothing coming.

"Mr. Cross." Ramirez rises. Perfect smile painted over ruin. "Marcus. Thank you for coming."

"You said lunch."

"Yes. Well. Please, sit. We have so much to discuss."

He takes the empty chair. Studies the empty plates. The pristine silverware that won't touch food. Because there is no food.

Outside, sirens wail. Inside, silence breeds.

"How was the drive?" Morrison asks. His voice too bright. "Traffic not too bad, I hope?"

"Fine."

"The new checkpoint system," Chen adds, dabbing sweat. "It's actually improved flow rates by thirty percent."

"Forty percent," Williams corrects. His collar damp now. "In some sectors."

Small talk. The dance of the damned. Marcus waits. Watches them perform their ritual of normalcy while the state dies around them.

"Your parents," Ramirez says finally. The real conversation beginning. "We've been discussing ways to honor them."

"Have you."

"The Cross Memorial Act. Full posthumous pardons. A park perhaps." She gestures at nothing. "With fountains."

"They're dead."

"Their legacy—"

"Dead too."

Silence falls like ash.

Morrison adjusts his medals, each one marking battles they've already lost. Chen dabs his forehead with a napkin that costs more than most people's meals. The air conditioning hums but doesn't cool. Nothing cools anymore.

"Water?" Ramirez offers. Lifts an empty pitcher. Crystal catching fluorescent light. Sets it down with a clink that echoes. "I apologize. We're waiting on a delivery."

"No need."

"The shortages," she explains. Her voice smaller now. "Temporary. Everything's temporary."

"Except Bitcoin."

The word hangs there.

What they've been dancing around.

Why he's really here. Why they called him to this tomb of a dining room with its empty promises and emptier plates.

"Yes," she says. Breathing shallow. "Bitcoin. We should discuss that."

"Should we."

"California's position has... evolved." The word costs her. "We see the value now. The importance."

"You had ten thousand coins once."

Her smile flickers. Dies. Returns as a grimace. "Ancient history."

"You sold."

"The state needed liquidity." A lie they've told themselves so many times it almost sounds true.

"The state needed better advisors."

Morrison leans forward. His chair creaks under the weight of his desperation. "We've learned... from our mistakes."

"Have you."

"We bought back what we could," Chen says. Voice breaking on each syllable. "Four coins. Cost us everything."

"Two coins," Williams corrects quietly. A whisper of defeat. "We paid for water this morning."

The mask slips. Ramirez's perfect composure cracks like drought earth. Like everything else in this dying place.

"Two coins," she repeats. Testing the words. Tasting failure. "Yes. Two."

"Not enough," Marcus says.

"No. Not nearly enough."

More silence.

The empty plates mock them with their hunger. The crystal glasses hold nothing but light and broken dreams. Somewhere in the distance, gunfire. Always gunfire now.

"We know you have ten," Morrison says. Drops the pretense like a worn mask. "Chain analysis confirms it."

"So?"

"First purchase at sixteen thousand. Smart. Eight more over the years. The last two—" He stops. Even desperation has limits.

"What about them?"

"We know what they cost you. What you sacrificed."

Marcus says nothing. The silence stretches taut as wire. They all know. His wife. His daughter. The hospital that wouldn't take dollars. That only took Bitcoin. The choice no father should make.

"We need your help," Ramirez says simply. Truth naked and bleeding. "California needs your help."

"California needed help ten years ago."

"We weren't ready then."

"You're not ready now."

"We are." She opens her laptop. Shows him contracts printed on paper they can't afford. Plans drawn in blood they haven't shed yet.

"With what funds?"

"We'll find funds."

"You can't afford lunch."

The words land like bullets. Chen looks at his empty plate as if it might sprout food through will alone. Williams studies the ceiling, counting cracks like rosary beads.

"The militia needs payment," Morrison says. Each word a stone in his throat. "Without them, it's chaos."

"It's already chaos."

"Controlled chaos. One Bitcoin keeps them loyal for three months."

"And then?"

"We mine more."

"With what power?"

"Solar. Wind." Fantasies dressed as plans.

"With what hardware?"

"We'll source it."

"With what expertise?"

"You."

Ramirez turns her laptop. "Digital Currency Advisor. New position. Help us transition."

Marcus stands. The empty chair scrapes marble like nails on coffin wood. The sound echoes in the tomb they've made of governance.

"We're done here."

"Wait." Morrison stands too. His hand moves toward his sidearm. Old habits. "Executive order 12204. We can requisition digital assets."

"From where? My brain?"

"We have methods."

"You have nothing. Empty plates. Empty promises. Empty threats from empty men."

"Sit down," Ramirez says quietly. The last queen of a broken kingdom. "Please."

Marcus remains standing. Ten feet tall in a room full of shadows.

"Half a coin," he says. Each word measured. Weighed. "For the kids. Not for you. Not for your militia. For the kids dying of thirst in your streets."

"Half?" Chen's voice breaks completely. "We need all ten."

"You need time travel. You need your ten thousand coins back. You need leaders who understood value before it was too late."

"That's not fair," Williams whispers.

"Fair?" Marcus almost laughs. The sound would shatter glass if there was any left unbroken. "You invited me to lunch with no food. You talk about honoring my parents with no money. You make threats with no power. Tell me about fair."

Ramirez closes her laptop. The performance over. The curtain fallen. The truth naked between them like a wound.

"Half a coin," she says. "We accept."

Marcus pulls out his phone. The transfer screen glows like salvation. His fingers pause over buttons that control the future.

"This is the last time. Don't contact me again."

"Understood."

He sends it. Half a Bitcoin disappearing into the void of their incompetence. Five percent of his wealth. For children he'll never meet in a state that can't save itself.

The transaction confirms. Somewhere, servers hum. The blockchain grows. The future loads one block at a time.

Marcus walks to the door. Each step an epoch. Stops. Turns back to them. Their empty plates. Their empty treasury. Their empty souls.

"What if we fail?" Ramirez asks. The last question of the dying.

"You already did."

He opens the door. Steps through. Closes it behind him with the finality of extinction.

In the dining room, they sit with their empty plates and their half Bitcoin and the weight of what comes next. Outside, through windows that still gleam with borrowed light, California burns on. The sovereign individual has made his choice. The state has made theirs.

The future already loading. One block at a time.

Stories forged here. Raw. Sharp. Weekly fiction. Sci-fi that bites. Economics that cuts. Philosophy that haunts. Tales to jolt the soul. Spark questions. Linger like ash.

# My Path
Animation for decades. Worlds built. Characters shaped. Since 1999, I’ve directed, produced, created. Award-winning studio founded in 2010. Work aired wide—networks, streaming. Now, I trade frames for words. Fiction’s my blade. Sharper. Truer.

# The Stories
Speculative. Human. Messy. AI-run economies. Philosophers in freefall. Systems that crush dreams. Sometimes softer—coffee shops, quiet lives, choices that weigh heavy. Always truth. Always economics, philosophy, the human fight.

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