TheFictionFactory

What are you working on this week?

Editing a book. 
Writing another. 
Drafting more short stories. 

BooksAndArticles

The Fiction Factory // Mini Zine

Check this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ab4O9SWNl9g

bitcoin

Bitcoin will inevitably be corrupted?

leaf

Bitcoin's a cat. 9 lives. 1 down. 8 more to go.

Run your node. Hold your keys. Mine your coin.

History repeats. 

![atl](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!o3ME!,w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F3f7e027f-3a2c-4a5f-935a-1271c29c68e0_1920x1080.jpeg)

Office devours them. 

Five bodies crushed in a closet posing as workspace. Shoulders collide. Breath festers. Miami heat strangles. Air conditioner wheezes, mocking. Chase, Ohio dreamer, flattens against wall. Notebook clutched. Shield. Watches his hero, Beckett, brace for the butcher’s block.

Desk a slab. Clean. Bare. Control in chaos. Beckett’s hands still. Waiting for the axe. “Twelve months.” Voice dead. “Twelve months of this.”

Defoe shifts. CPA. Sixty-three. Built his firm when fairness wore a thin disguise. Eyes sag. Seen this farce before. “You made that anarcho-capitalist’s campaign. Vowed to torch the IRS. They’re skinning you for it.”

Penny, ex-sergeant, aligns papers. Sniper’s aim. Knew Beckett’s parents. Watched him rise. Nothing to paychecks. Face fierce. Mother’s love. Jagged. “Your parents would’ve been proud.” Words fall. Grave dust.

Margin paces. Three steps. Tax attorney. Constitution’s ash now. Good men ground down. Jaw chews glass. “State’s eaten too many. Not today.”

Chase sticks to wall. Small-town kid. Portfolio. Myth. Beckett his star. Nothing to something. Gave Chase nerve to dream it. Until IRS turned ambition to a sick joke.

Phone squats. Black widow. Three boxes tower. Thousand pages. Legal shrapnel. Precedents. Violations. Year’s defiance against a machine that yawns. Rings.

Beckett’s hand pauses. Fifty futures hang. Employees. Families. Answers. “Beckett.”

Agent Bane’s voice slithers. Sixty-seven. IRS drone. Twenty-three years. Built nothing but a pension. “Yeah, Beckett. It’s Bane. Let’s wrap this up. I got dinner plans.”

Chase’s gut lurches. Monster? This clerk craving a burger?

“We’ve been at this a year,” Beckett says. Voice steady. Tightrope. “Accounts frozen. Portfolio seized. Can’t keep a bank account. What more do you want?”

“Look, kid,” Bane says. Indifference thick as grease. “You made that campaign for the guy who wanted to torch my job. You owe. Pay up. It’s just business.”

Defoe points. Boxes. “Agent Bane, we’ve documented seventeen procedural violations in your case against Mr. Beckett.”

Sigh crackles. “Yeah, great. I don’t make the rules, pal. I just collect. It’s the job.”

Margin’s voice cuts. Switchblade. “You’ve violated due process. Seized assets without court orders. You’ve—”

“Got a pension to protect,” Bane interrupts. “Your guy’s got a business. I got paperwork saying he owes. Let’s deal.”

Chase sees Beckett’s face. Myth dies. No Goliath. Clerk blind to the sling.

Penny trembles. “You can’t just—”

“Ma’am, I can do whatever I want,” Bane says. “That’s the perk of the gig. No competition. No accountability. Just quotas.”

Absurdity hits. Brick to chest. Chase reels. War planned. Charts. Laws. Truth. For a clerk itching to clock out. His dream—Beckett’s path, nothing to something—rots. System doesn’t punish success. It giggles. Spits.

Defoe pulls paper. “Agent Bane, you’ve violated Section 6103 of the Internal Revenue Code. Overstepped your authority—”

“Yeah, fascinating,” Bane drawls. “I’m retiring in six months. Know what happens if I miss my quotas? Nothing. Know what happens to your guy if he doesn’t pay? Prison. Ten to fifteen years. Trust Fund Violation. Fines. Two-fifty to five hundred grand, depending on how my steak tastes tonight.”

Margin reddens. “You can’t—”

“I can,” Bane says. “Federal government’s my muscle. You got… what? A thousand pages I didn’t read?”

Penny snaps. “We spent months on those.”

“Good for you,” Bane says. “Real cute. But your guy owes. Pay or he’s done. Simple.”

Chase stares. Boxes. Thousand pages. Truth. Ignored by a man eyeing salmon. Dreaming of a corner booth. Napkin on lap. Another dream diced for his quota.

Margin leans in. “You’ve exceeded Title 26. Violated due process—”

“Don’t care,” Bane says.

“Should,” Defoe cuts in. Voice heavy. Tax law’s weight. “Seizure violates Treasury Regulation 301.6330-1. Tax Court? You lose. Badly.”

Silence.

“What do you want?” Bane asks. Swagger gone.

“Follow the law,” Defoe says. “Crazy idea, I know.”

“Fine,” Bane mutters. “Maybe I moved too fast. Drop the penalties? Two hundred grand?”

“No,” Margin says. “You broke the law. We’re not negotiating from weakness.”

Chase feels shift. No begging. Teaching. Bane’s flunking. Hard.

“Fifty thousand,” Bane says. Voice tired. “Final offer.”

Beckett’s eyes flicker. Weighing. “I’ll need time.”

“Close of business,” Bane says. Bluff dead. Caught.

Line dies. Silence shifts. Victory. Rancid. Hollow.

Defoe leans back. “Twenty-three years of tax law. Not one page read.”

“He broke the law,” Margin says. “Caught him.”

Penny wipes eyes. “Fifty thousand. After all this.”

Beckett opens drawer. Hardware wallet. Bitcoin. Lifeline. “This is all I got left,” he says. Voice calm. “Kept us afloat. Company. Me. Whole year.”

Chase’s chest knots. Hero. Nothing to something. Survived siege. Digital rebellion. Cost too steep. Dream’s corpse lies grinning.

“So we pay?” Penny asks. Hope frail.

Beckett stares. Wallet. “Can. Should we?”

“What?” Chase blurts. Voice cracks. “You beat them. You won.”

Beckett’s eyes meet his. Year’s weight. Sleepless. “Love this company. My people. Can’t ask them to live like this. Not again. Been through this before. State’s indifferent. Always will be. Writing’s on the wall.”

Margin frowns. “Caught him. Pay. Move on.”

“Move on?” Beckett says. “Came for a campaign. Free speech. Building something. Not the first time. Won’t be last. I’ll start again. Different. Has to be.”

Defoe nods. “Productivity’s a crime.”

“I’m done,” Beckett says. Clipped. Final.

Penny bolts up. “Close? You can’t. People. Money—”

“Machine wants me dead for a video,” Beckett says. “Years of this. No more.”

Chase feels it crumble. Myth. Beckett. Nothing to something. His dream—same path—ash. System doesn’t win. It cackles. Toasts itself with cheap wine.

Team scatters. Penny gathers papers. Tears fall. Precise. Margin packs briefcase. Body bag. Defoe rises. Slow. History’s weight. Boxes stay. Thousand pages. Futile. Mocked by a clerk’s fork twirling spaghetti.

Chase lingers. Watches. Hero stares at wallet. Saved life. Not soul. Fifty jobs gone. Not markets. Not failure. Clerk’s whim. Dinner menu. Salmon or steak. Another dream gutted for a tip.

Phone rings.

Beckett answers. “I’ll pay the fifty thousand. But I want something.”

“What’s that?” Bane asks.

“You killed the last honest man in America.”

Line dies.

Miami hums. Cars. Laughter. World spins. Blind. Dream rots in a cramped tomb. Chase eyes wallet. Bitcoin. Last refuge. Free. American dream. Line item. Bane’s salary. Bonus for apathy. Tip for the waiter.

Shadows stretch. Office blackens. Clerk orders salmon. Dreams of dessert. Oblivious. Murder done. Beckett’s last word hangs. Absurd world. Victory’s a bitter jest.

--- 

_Originally posted on Substack: https://thefictionfactory.substack.com/p/becketts-war_

Beckett's War

Books & Articles Weekly, Issue 80

siggy47

Thanks for the mentions. 🙏 Great community here. 

![](https://image.nostr.build/f49a8199cbb849be3d756962c3a08f1dd0d6ca324e63becd3ec28dabc19360ed.jpg)
![](https://image.nostr.build/8994f0655a1321d15d40e7c13d8beaee1079e8e57818ec23b7036c2f77ec4d3f.jpg)

Made a mini zine. Small 3x2. 6 pages. Printed a few copies. Giving them away. Dropping off at local cafes around town. 

Had fun. 

The Great Delete

YouTube's deletion helped. Fueled the fire. 

"If you don't hold it, you don't own it." Old gold-bug saying. Applies everywhere now. 

Thanks for reading.

Why I decided to sponsor Fiction Month

TotallyHumanWriter

Crafting culture's important. You guys are crushing it. Grateful for your time and energy. 

Helping make labor of loves mean something. Not just messages in bottles. 

Keep going. 

![img](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!JIAH!,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F0616ea22-7648-4d8d-8608-94379fedf2ea_1920x1080.jpeg)

Cato sits in the light of the ring lamp.

Half a million souls watch. Small room. Foam walls, peeling paint.

He checks the chat.

A bombing run scrolls across the news bar on his second monitor. It's the seventh month of the Ankara Accord war. He swallows once.

"I can't back bombing kids," he says. "That's not winning. That's murder."

The words fall dense and hot. Silence in chat. Then the fire. Tags. Hashtags. Cancel him. Crown him. Roast him. Raise him.

_MAGA_PATRIOT_77: You're done
ANARCHO_QUEEN: BASED KING
CORPORATE_SHILL_BOT: RIP your career lmao_

He gives a crooked grin. Remembers his first upload at thirteen. Him doing backyard wrestling moves on his little brother. Nineteen years ago. Mom yelling in the background about broken furniture.

"Chat's getting spicy tonight." Merch link flashes. PEACE NOT BOMBS. Ten percent off if you smash the like.

Message pings. Monetization suspended.

He calls the platform hotline. Automated voice loops. "Your call is important to us." He hangs up. Scrolls the mail. Legal slush. Community standards. He laughs, but the sound cracks. "Tomorrow," he says to the empty room. "They'll flip it back tomorrow."

Payment app frozen. Ad clawback hits—negative balance. Sponsorship inbox empty. His editor texts: Can't work with you anymore. Sorry bro.

Cato types back: Coward. Three dots appear. Vanish. Nothing.

He drives his dented hatchback to the gym. Maya waits by the door. Hair in a knot. Laptop under her arm like a weapon.

"They flagged you," she says. "You know why."

"Noise sells," he shrugs. "I'll bounce."

She opens the laptop. Black window. White code. "Everything I own fits here," she says. "Air-gapped. Off-line."

He smirks. "I got ElevenCloud. Infinite mirrors."

She shakes her head. Her fingers absently trace an old scar on her wrist. Wire cutter accident from when they built their first server farm together in college. "If it's not in your hands, it's not yours."

He waves her off. "Gotta shoot. Big day."

"Cato—"

"What?" "I watched you build this from nothing. Don't let them take it for nothing too."

Views climb. Dollars zero. Email from Clarissa at Trust and Safety. A stock smile in the sig. Pastel heart.

Please retract anti-state statement.

He calls the number in her signature. "This is Clarissa." A pause. Background keyboard clicking. "This is Cato. About my monetization—"

"I can't discuss individual cases."

"You literally emailed me."

"Have you considered retracting your statement?" The words sound rehearsed, but something wavers underneath.

"Have you considered eating glass?" Click. Dial tone.

He screenshots the mail, prints it. Paints his face white and red like a clown. Reads the letter word for word. Uploads. Strike two. Demonetized again.

Cloud host sends a soft note. Account under review. He clicks the terms. Wall of gray text.

His phone buzzes. Maya. How's that cloud storage working out? He doesn't reply.

Bank pings. Fraud alert. Limit cut. Smoothie bar declines his card. "Try again?" the cashier asks.

"It's broken," he says.

"The card or the system?"

He films the exchange. Titles it THEY TOOK MY MONEY LOL. Another five-hundred-thousand views. No ads.

Laptop wheezes. Six gigs free. Progress bar crawls. 12%. 15%. Error. "Come on," he mutters. His fitness content. Seven years of deadlift tutorials. Form breakdowns. Motivational speeches that pulled kids out of depression. "Come on."

Blue pop-ups bloom like rot across the dark screen.

Channel terminated. All content removed. Appeal if you wish.

He stares. Clicks refresh. Nothing grows. The cursor blinks in the empty space where nineteen years used to live. His breath catches. The room tilts. He grips the desk edge until his knuckles go white and the world stops spinning. Nineteen years. His brother's first steps caught on camera. High school kids thanking him for saving their lives. A million small moments that mattered to someone, somewhere. All of it. Vapor.

His phone rings. Maya. "I saw the news," she says.

"What news?"

"You're trending. #RIPCato."

"I'm not dead."

"Your channel is."

ElevenCloud final mail. Section 7.3. Violation. Data purged. Thank you for being a valued customer.

The ring light flickers.

He drives through empty streets. Stops at Maya's place. Pounds the door.

Door opens. "I lost it," he says. "All of it."

She steps aside. "Come in. Sit."

He sinks onto the floor. Eyes red. Hands shaking.

"Teach me," he says.

"Teach you what?"

"How to own something. Really own it."

She lays out a palm-sized drive. Cold steel. "Twelve cryptic words," she says. "This is the key. Learn them or lose them."

"That's it?"

"That's everything."

They work till dawn. Seed phrases. Tor relays. Nostr posts. Torrent seeds. He fumbles letters. Curses. Learns. "Again," she says.

"I got it."

"Again."

They scrape what they can. Fans send screen caps. Audio rips. Ten videos survive. His squat form tutorial. The depression pep talk. Gym safety basics that kept kids from wrecking their backs. She scripts a mirror. Hashes scroll like hymnals. "This is beautiful," he says. "This is survival."

He powers a refurb laptop. Streams on his own node. No sponsors. No ads. Tip jar blinks lightning. Chat is smaller but fierce.

_FREEDOM_FIGHTER_88: They can't stop signal
MAYA_WAS_RIGHT: Should have listened sooner_

He reads aloud. "If you don't hold it, you don't own it."

Clarissa files takedowns. Relays shrug. Community recuts his clips with cat faces. Hash mismatch. Takedown fails. His phone buzzes. Unknown number. "This is Clarissa from Trust and Safety."

"How'd you get this number?"

"Cato, I—" A pause.

"Look, this isn't personal. I have metrics to hit." Soft exhale.

"Sounds pretty personal to my bank account."

"I'm trying to help you here. Just apologize. Say you were wrong. They'll let you back."

"And if I don't?"

Silence stretches. Then: "I don't write the rules." He hangs up.

Heat map of the world lights up. Seeders in Krakow, Nairobi, Boise. His voice bounces between them like iron shot.

He parks the hatchback by the river. Pocket holds the drive. He breathes. Weight of real things. No algorithmic hum. Just wind and water. Maya calls.

"How does it feel?" she asks.

"Heavy," he says.

"Good."

Garage gym. Old camcorder on a tripod. He pulls deadlifts. Steel rings.

Voice over rough and low. "They erased nineteen years. Left me breathing. Good trade."

He stores the tape on a shelf of numbered drives. Sharpie labels. LIFE. WORK. REGRETS.

He slides a new one in place. OWNERSHIP.

Cold steel in his palm—no ring light, no lens, just weight. "Back up off-line," he says, and kills the light.

Do you have a separate laptop / computer for doing all bitcoin things?

HardMoney

Air-gapped as cold. 
Main wallet(s), multiple. LN wallets, Sparrow, Ashigaru, etc.

@TheFictionFactory's bio

"Tokemon" (chapter draft)

Appreciate the feedback. And thanks for the comparison. PKD's someone I aspire too. Not the paranoia though. 

> "Enlightened." 

Good note. Was going for the guy who buys the stuff but never learned how to use it. Underground by necessity. Like upstanding Argentinians buying USD off black markets. But agree, could use some buffing. 

> bitcoin

Yeah, exploring that. Keeps it interesting. Have 15 chapters mapped. Really feeling it. Wanted to see how it tested. 

> offend

None taken. Helpful feedback, thanks! 

_New story in the works. 15 chapters. Sharing an early draft. Felt timely. Vibe checking. LMK_

---

# Chapter 1: Real Money

Jack counts silver coins. Twenty-three eagles. Twelve maples. The metal feels cold against his fingertips. Real. Substantial. Not like the numbers flickering on his UBI account.

The baby cries.

Ellen dips her brush in gray paint. Another landscape of burned Malibu. Blackened hillsides where mansions used to gleam. She paints from memory now. The real coastline lies behind concrete towers and surveillance checkpoints.

"We should have left," she says. Her voice carries no emotion. Just fact.

Jack slides a coin across the table. Silver gleams under the apartment's harsh LED strips. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere but here."

The baby's cries intensify. Neither moves to comfort him. The sound has become background noise. Like the drones humming outside their window.

Jack's phone buzzes. UBI notification. Monthly allocation deposited. $2,847 in programmable tokens. Expires in thirty days. Just enough for their concrete box and processed food. Never enough for anything else.

Ellen adds darker gray to her canvas. "Milk hit two hundred today."

"Per gallon?"

"Per quart."

Jack counts again. Same twenty-three eagles. Same twelve maples. Their hidden fortune shrinks in purchasing power daily. Hyperinflation devours everything. Even silver struggles to keep pace.

Through their window, Malibu's transformation sprawls below. UBI housing towers where celebrity estates once dotted the hills. The Pacific Coast Highway runs like a scar between surveillance checkpoints. Citizens shuffle between towers, faces glowing blue from their screens.

Everyone scrolls Tokemon.

The platform promises everything. Fame. Wealth. Purpose. Jack watches neighbors become creators. They film their daily UBI routines. Rate their government-issued meals. Review their assigned housing. The algorithm rewards compliance with engagement. Engagement generates tokens. More tokens mean better housing assignments.

Jack counts his coins instead.

"The Hendersons got premium placement," Ellen says.

Jack knows. He watched their moving video yesterday. Their daughter needed surgery. They couldn't afford private medical care on basic UBI. So they documented everything. Her diagnosis. Their desperation. The algorithm loved their authentic suffering. Viewers sent donations. The family got upgraded housing near the medical district.

Their daughter got her surgery.

Jack counts coins. Ellen paints ash.

The baby cries.

Outside, OMNI drones patrol in formation. Transparent aluminum shells house surveillance clusters. Cameras. Microphones. Chemical detectors. Heat sensors. They map every citizen's movement through the smart city infrastructure. Each face gets scanned. Each voice gets recorded. Each digital transaction gets logged.

Jack pays cash when he can. Silver when merchants accept it. Bitcoin is necessary. The underground economy shrinks daily. Store owners cite "compliance issues." Health departments find violations. Licensing boards revoke permits. The system offers smoother alternatives.

Why struggle with metal when tokens work everywhere?

Ellen paints the pier. Before the fires, tourists crowded its wooden planks. Street musicians played for tips. Families bought cotton candy. Now it serves as a Tokemon content hub. Cameras line the rebuilt structure. Creators film against artificial backdrops depicting pre-fire Malibu.

Paradise filtered through corporate algorithms.

"Dr. Martinez closed her practice," Ellen says.

Jack stops counting. Dr. Martinez delivered their baby. Accepted bitcoin and metals as payment. Asked no questions about their UBI status. Trusted providers grow extinct. Digital-only payment systems squeeze them out.

"Where will she go?"

"Underground."

But the underground shrinks. Jack's silver dealer stopped answering his Cryptchat messages. The bakery that traded bread for coins got raided last month. "Tax evasion," the news reported. The owner pled guilty. Joined Tokemon from prison. His confession video went viral.

The system shows mercy to those who surrender.

Jack's neighbor appears on his feed. Danny something. Former plumber. Now he creates content about "UBI lifestyle optimization." His videos show meal planning with token budgets. Exercise routines in government-approved spaces. Meditation apps that sync with TRUST scores.

Danny's content gets good engagement. His UBI allocation reflects his value to the platform. Premium housing. Enhanced medical coverage. Educational credits for his kids.

Jack counts coins. Danny counts followers.

The baby's crying changes pitch. Higher. More desperate. Ellen sets down her brush. Jack stops counting. They both recognize the sound. Hunger. Not the normal kind. The kind that means something's wrong.

Jack checks their UBI balance. $847 remaining. Three weeks until next allocation. Milk costs $200 per quart. Formula costs more. The baby needs special nutrition. Premature births require expensive supplements.

Ellen lifts him from his crib. His tiny body feels too light. His skin looks pale. Too pale. She checks his temperature with the back of her hand. Warm. Too warm.

"We need Dr. Martinez," she says.

"She closed."

"The hospital then."

Jack opens his laptop. Hospital payment portal. Digital only. No cash accepted. No silver accepted. UBI tokens or approved credit lines only. Their balance won't cover an emergency visit. Their TRUST score prevents credit approval.

Citizens with hidden assets represent security risks.

Jack stares at the payment screen. Twenty-three silver eagles sit on the table. Each coin worth hundreds of UBI tokens on the black market. If he could find buyers. If he could make contact. If the Cryptchat network still functioned.

The baby's fever spikes.

Ellen rocks him gently. Her gray paint stains his blanket. Ash-colored smudges like old burns. "What about your stash?"

Jack's hidden fortune. Beyond the coins on the table. Gold buried under the floorboards. More silver cached behind false walls. Bitcoin locked in a hardware wallet. Wealth enough to buy medical care for a lifetime.

All of it illegal to possess.

Regular citizens can't hold precious metals. Only institutions qualify for Bitcoin ownership. Jack's stash predates the restrictions. Grandfathered possession requires registration. Registration means confiscation. Confiscation means redistribution through UBI allocations.

His wealth becomes everyone's poverty.

Ellen knows about the gold and silver. She doesn't know about the Bitcoin. 0.01 BTC tucked away in a hardware wallet. At current prices, enough to buy their building. Maybe two buildings. Jack hides the wallet even from her.

Some secrets carry too much weight.

The baby's breathing becomes labored. Shallow. Rapid. Ellen's face loses color. She looks at Jack. He looks at the payment screen. The hospital requires advance payment for emergency services. Tokens expire before treatment completes.

The system prevents hoarding through planned obsolescence.

Jack opens his Cryptchat app. Empty channels. His contacts went dark weeks ago. The mesh network shrinks as users abandon it for integrated platforms. OMNI-TRUST offers seamless communication. Universal compatibility. No encryption barriers.

Why struggle with hidden messages when everything works smoothly?

Ellen paces with the baby. Back and forth across their small space. Each step echoes through thin walls. Their neighbors probably hear everything. OMNI probably records everything. Smart city infrastructure captures all audio. Privacy died with old Malibu.

Jack counts coins one more time. Twenty-three eagles. Twelve maples. Enough to buy medicine on the black market. If the black market still existed. If dealers still operated. If anyone still accepted silver.

The underground economy needs customers to survive. Customers need suppliers to function. Both need trust to operate. Trust requires consistency. The system disrupts consistency through raids. Raids generate fear. Fear drives compliance.

Voluntary servitude through artificial friction.

Ellen stops pacing. "Call them."

"Who?"

"The hospital. Tell them we're coming."

Jack dials the number. Automated system. Press one for emergencies. Press two for appointments. Press three for billing. He presses one. More menu options. Insurance verification. Payment confirmation. TRUST score validation.

The system requires identification before service.

Jack provides his citizen number. The system retrieves his profile. UBI recipient. Basic tier. No enhanced benefits. No medical coverage beyond emergency stabilization. Payment required for treatment beyond life support.

The baby needs more than stabilization.

Ellen watches Jack navigate the phone system. Her painted landscapes surround them. Burned hills. Empty beaches. Concrete towers rising from ash. Her art documents their lost world. Before the fires. Before OMNI-TRUST. Before UBI housing replaced beach communities.

She paints what they remember. Jack hoards what they can't replace.

The baby's fever climbs. Ellen strips his clothes. His tiny chest rises and falls too quickly. Sweat beads on infant skin. His eyes lose focus. Ellen's panic shows in her movements. Jerky. Desperate. Maternal instinct overriding resignation.

Jack ends the call. "They want eight hundred tokens upfront."

Ellen looks at their account balance. $847 total. Enough for medical screening. Not enough for treatment. Certainly not enough for extended care. The baby might need days in the hospital.

Their UBI won't renew for three weeks.

Outside, drones shift position. Lower altitude. Tighter formation. OMNI updates its surveillance grid nightly. Citizens adapt their routines to avoid attention. Shop during approved hours. Travel predetermined routes. Communicate through monitored channels.

The system provides safety through comprehensive observation.

Jack's laptop displays Tokemon feeds. Neighbors documenting their evening routines. Dinner preparations with token-bought ingredients. Entertainment consumption through approved platforms. Family time in designated spaces. The algorithm rewards authentic content. Authenticity generates engagement. Engagement creates value.

Value supports the universal basic income.

Ellen sits with the baby. Her resignation returns. The moment of panic passes. She accepts what she cannot control. Jack admires her stoicism. Ellen endures reality without fighting it.

Jack fights reality without changing it.

The baby's breathing stabilizes slightly. Still too rapid. Still too shallow. But not immediately critical. Ellen checks his temperature again. Lower than before. Maybe the fever peaks. Maybe they have time.

Time to decide. Time to choose. Time to surrender.

Jack counts coins. Ellen paints ash. The baby cries.

Outside, Malibu sleeps under OMNI's watchful grid. Citizens dream programmable dreams in concrete towers. Their smartphones charge beside their beds. Notifications arrive on schedule. The algorithm never rests.

Tomorrow brings new content opportunities. New engagement possibilities. New ways to generate value from authentic suffering.

Jack secures his silver in the hidden floor safe. Twenty-three eagles. Twelve maples. Real money in a digital world. Heavy metal in a weightless economy. Substance in a system of shadows.

Ellen adds final touches to her painting. Gray waves crash against gray shores. No color remains in her palette. No hope remains in her art. Just documentation. Just memory. Just truth rendered in monochrome.

The baby sleeps fitfully. Fever dreams in a surveillance state. His generation will know only the system. UBI housing. Programmable money. Comprehensive monitoring. He'll grow up digital native. System integrated. Properly socialized.

If he survives.

Outside their window, OMNI drones complete their patrol pattern. New formation. Tighter grid. Lower altitude. The Crackdown approaches. Jack doesn't recognize the signs. Ellen ignores them. Only the baby remains oblivious to the coming storm.

The system prepares to collect its debts. All debts. Even those not yet acknowledged.

Jack turns off the lights. Ellen cleans her brushes. The baby whimpers in his sleep.

Real money waits in hidden places. Real problems demand real solutions. Real choices approach like OMNI drones in the night.

Silent. Inevitable. Absolute.

[FM] Low Tide

Art imitates life. Writing's a mirror. Sometimes it's hard to look at. But it's real. And needed. Glad it brought value to you. 

Thanks for reading. 

*In a poignant moment over burnt coffee, a father and son confront the weight of life's struggles—financial woes, family issues, trust in the wrong people, and the harsh reality of aging.*

The coffee tastes burnt. Dad stirs his black coffee with a plastic spoon. His hands shake a little. Seventy years of working hands.

"How are the girls?"

"Good. Emma lost her first tooth. Sophie's learning to ride her bike."

He smiles. First real smile I've seen from him in months.

"Remember when you learned? Took you all summer. Scraped knees every day. Kept getting back on."

A seagull lands on the window ledge. Fat from tourist scraps.

"Your mother says Sophie looks like you did at that age. Same stubborn streak."

"She gets that honest."

We watch people walk the beach. Families. Couples. Kids building sandcastles that won't last the tide.

"How's retirement treating you?"

"Can't complain. Get to spend time with the kids. Help with homework."

"Lucky man. Forty-three and done."

His coffee sits untouched now. Getting cold.

"Market's been crazy lately."

"Yeah?"

"Down thirty percent this year. Everything I put away for forty years. Just... gone."

The seagull flies away. Smarter than us.

"Your mother keeps watching the news. Every day it's worse. Says maybe we should sell. Cut our losses."

"Timing the market's tough."

"Tell me about it. Bought high. Always buy high."

An old couple walks past. Moving slow but still moving.

"Your uncle says it'll come back. Says to buy more while it's cheap. Easy for him to say."

"He's got different circumstances."

"That's what I told your mother. But you know how she listens to him."

Dad finally drinks his coffee. Makes a face. Cold and bitter.

"Your sister called yesterday."

"Yeah?"

"Needs money for the lawyer. Divorce is getting messy."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Can't say no to my kids. Even when they're forty-two."

His shoulders sag. Seventy years of carrying weight.

"How's the night shift?"

"Long. Double shifts most weeks."

"That's rough."

"Back's killing me. Feet hurt. Everything hurts."

The tide is going out. Leaving shells and debris on the sand.

"Mom's job situation?"

His face goes dark.

"They're shipping it overseas. AI's taking the rest. Forty years of experience. Means nothing now."

We sit in the quiet. Two men running out of safe ground.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

He looks at his hands. Working hands. Tired hands.

"Son, we can't retire."

The words hang between us like smoke. Everything we've been dancing around. Everything he's been trying not to say.

The market. The job. The sister. The uncle's bad advice. All of it leading here.

To this moment. This truth.

I want to fix it. Want to offer solutions. Want to give him some Bitcoin or a check.

But I don't.

The waitress brings the check. Her left arm moves too smooth. Servos hum quiet under synthetic skin. Half her face is still human.

Dad taps his phone against the reader.

Red light.

Insufficient Funds.

He stares at the screen. Tries again. Same red light.

"Would you like to finance this purchase?" the waitress asks. Her real eye shows kindness. The cybernetic one just blinks blue.

Dad looks at the screen. At the payment options scrolling past.

"Yeah. Okay."

He taps accept. Green light this time.

"Thanks for choosing Flexi," the waitress says. "Your first payment is due in fourteen days."

She walks away on legs that don't quite sound human.

Dad stares at his phone. At the debt that's now enough.

Sometimes the best thing you can give someone is silence.

Let them keep what's left.