Vitality

Chapter 1

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An alternative frequency of dysfunctional communication murmured. The tissue looked alive but manufactured. It clunked regularly with pressure, held then released. Something thick and slimy dripped down the walls and created a puddle on the floor. It glimmered in the darkness.

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What's that smell? asked Stylo, detecting a mixture of mouldy air, old socks and cheap toothpaste.

Oh, that's nothing, you'll get used to it, said the hairy man.

And what are those red stains on the floor? 

Look, this is all we've got in your price range.

Stylo observed the small room. The metal bed frame held a bare mattress. Loud humming came from the fridge and the rusty oven looked ready for the scrap heap. The chipped, wooden table stood by the only window, which had a view of a concrete wall. When he opened the toilet door, a spider scurried up the side of the bath.

So, are you going to take it or not? asked the man, glancing at his watch. I knock off soon and I want to go to Raggy's. There's a new girl there with giant melons. He licked his lips, although this was barely visible due to his carpeted face, encrusted with crumbs and home to small insects.

Stylo touched his pocket, feeling his thin wallet. Okay. I'll take it. 

Once the man left, Stylo sat on the hard mattress and glanced up at the ceiling, only to see a few damp patches. He put his head in his hands and sighed. He'd never wanted to come to this strange and dangerous place. However, Vitality had offered him a job designing the packaging for their soft drink. He couldn’t turn down such an opportunity.

He left the apartment and the misshapen door unwillingly closed behind him. An out-of-order sign mocked him from the elevator entrance. Each of the seven flights of stairs creaked more than the last. Outside the apartment block, noisy late night traffic sped past with life-threatening urgency.

He entered a small restaurant and sat down at a plastic table. An old Asian man with a wispy white beard, whose face wore the hardship of a life of misery, gloomily shuffled towards him. 

A bowl of buckwheat strings, please.

Stylo looked out of the window. A group of youths laughed as they drank from cans of beer. A middle-aged couple held hands. Glancing at the empty seats surrounding him, Stylo remembered he knew no one in the city.

He thought about his mother and father in their house. It was only the two of them now. For a brief painful moment he remembered how there used to be four of them – but he soon blocked this from his mind before sadness engulfed him.

His food arrived so he picked up his eating-sticks and watched the steam rise from the boiling soup like ghostly vapours seeping in from the afterlife. This strange food was another aspect that made his new home feel more alien as he sampled the unpleasant, plastic taste for the first time.

The old Asian man resumed watching a small television which hissed and crackled as static invaded the picture.

Do you remember what the city used to be like ... a man asked from under a furry moustache, emerging from a potato-shaped nose, ... before darkness descended, corrupting the minds of the weak?

Glimmers of remorseful reflection appeared in the depths of the old Asian man's eyes as he watched the screen, apparently transfixed by its emotive message.

Stylo left and walked towards neon lights. They advertised massage parlours and lap dancing clubs. Security guards stood menacingly outside each establishment.

A dusty box with its list of cheap alcohol caught his attention. Inside he saw a couple of aggressive alpha-males swearing and grunting as they hit balls around a table and a few tragic looking old timers whose saggy faces and pitiful eyes could arouse sympathy in a rock.

What do you want? snarled a barmaid with a face like a demented prune.

A double whiskey.

Stylo sipped his drink and looked at the cracks on the wooden surface before him. His body welcomed the alcohol as it warmed his soul helping him to forget his unpleasant surroundings.

Scraping the floor with a loud screech, the door swung open.

A man stepped in. He had goggles on his head – making him look like a four-eyed alien. Green foam ran down his chin. In one hand he held a bottle containing similar-looking liquid. His long face swivelled about until he saw Stylo. Bent teeth stuck out menacingly as a smile, the shape of a piece of watermelon, stretched his cheeks.

Are you Stylo Green? he asked, his words falling over each other like a game of dominoes.

Err ... yes, I am, said Stylo.

I've finally found you, said the man. Everyone in the bar watched as he moved closer to Stylo and fumbled around in his pockets. I've got something for you. Now ... where is it? Oh, here it is. His hand appeared holding a shiny red apple.

Look, said the demented prune. We don't want any trouble. No fruit in here.

Just as the man tried to hand the fruit to Stylo, the door burst open and two cops came in. One of them grabbed the apple while the other cop punched the man in the stomach. The man fell to the floor gasping in agony.

Stylo watched in horror. He wanted to help the man, but he stood frozen. If he tried to help then he would be beaten too. The man was breaking the law, and even if it seemed unfair, he was in no position to question the authority of the police.

Scum, said the cop who now had the apple. From behind his visor his eyes looked like eggs being squeezed to death. The gun at his side looked bigger than the regulation size for a normal officer.

He spat in the man's face before kicking him in the groin. The man moved spasmodically like a captured eel.

His bottle lay beside him, green liquid pouring onto the floor. The other cop picked up the bottle and gave it a sniff. His top lip flared up with disgust before he reached down and grabbed the man's collar, forcing him to stand up.

Sorry for any trouble, said the cop with the egg eyes. We've been after him for a while.

Get that piece of scum out of here, said the prune.

The cops marched the man out of the bar and the door screeched as it closed and everyone turned back to their drinks.

Stylo's heart beat out of control. Barely able to believe what he'd seen, he gulped down the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar. Then he got up to leave, aware of the locals watching him suspiciously.

Chapter 2

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What time are you knocking off, Maztop? It's really late, asked a man with a yellow tie and a creamy complexion.

Um, however long it takes to finish this report. Maztop's round face and small ears would have been considered cute if it wasn't for his pointy eyebrows and beady eyes.

Okay. See you tomorrow.

Maztop returned to his computer screen and watched the Easy Food logo float in the corner until the man had left. Then he looked around the office. Maztop was alone at last, so he pulled open his desk drawer and grabbed the security card he'd found in the elevator earlier.

He held the card and considered what he intended to do. He had been waiting for such an opportunity and now it had presented itself. Of course, he couldn't help feeling nervous but knew he couldn't back out now – too much depended on it.

Maztop turned off his computer and picked up his briefcase. When he got in the elevator he pressed the button for the next floor. He looked at himself in the mirror and saw globules of sweat dripping down his forehead. This was it. He was going to do it.

The elevator doors opened. Before him stood a door with a security lock. He inserted the card. Lights flashed as it read the data. Maztop waited, holding his breath, expecting an alarm to go off.

The door opened. He exhaled a mouthful of relief but his heart still pumped away like a drill. He flicked the light switch and the corridor stretched out before him. Maztop walked along checking the signs outside each door until he found the one he wanted.

He opened the door and stepped into the darkness. As he flicked the light switch he saw a room that didn't look any different from the office he worked in. Computers sat on desks and piles of paperwork overflowed from trays. However, Maztop was sure the data contained in this room revealed a lot more than the information he usually had access to.

He sat down in front of a monitor. The chair felt the same as his. Everything seemed the same – except behind the keyboard stood a black box. Maztop wondered what it was for a moment but realized he didn't have time to waste. He reached down and turned on the computer. For a moment nothing happened. Then the screen came to life.

Maztop wiped sweat away from his forehead. He waited for a message to tell him he didn't have the authority to use this computer or for it to ask him for a password he didn't know.

Instead two red lights shone out of the box into his eyes. Fear spread throughout Maztop's body. What the hell was happening?

A whir preceded a clunk and the box opened. Maztop's mouth fell open as a blade shot out and stabbed him in the forehead. His body slumped, blood gushing out of his head like a red waterfall.

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Each one held a thought, an idea or a dream. Some were chosen; some dissolved, forgotten before they were realized. But the ones that appeared slipped and moved. Perfect bubbles came down the funnel. Ribbed edges lined the wall.

She had long blonde hair. A badge with the number twelve was pinned to her red dress. She ran towards a present wrapped in sky blue paper with a pink ribbon. She grabbed hold of the present and ripped open the paper. Inside she found a camera. 

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Stylo managed to get a seat, but he was next to a man smelling of sour yoghurt. The bus pulled out into the busy traffic. He looked out the window at the people rushing to their jobs. They dressed in suits, carried briefcases, and their faces looked grim despite the speed their legs carried them forward.

Thoughts of the previous night lurked in the back of his mind like a swamp monster spitting out questions in slimy bubbles. How did the man know Stylo's name? Why did the man come looking for him? And why did the man try to give him an apple?

As the smell of sour yoghurt decreased, Stylo decided the man must have been crazy. Anyone who dabbled in real fruit couldn't be anything else. The documentaries on television made that clear.

Perhaps the man strolled past Stylo's new apartment block and overheard him giving his name to the hairy man, implanting an obsessive quest in his fruit-mangled mind that caused him to follow Stylo to the bar. 

Is this the stop for G54? asked Stylo, moving down the aisle.

Yes, it is, the bus driver grunted – with a spray of spittle that caught Stylo in the eye.

Stylo got off and walked until he found Vitality HQ. Pushing the doors open, he headed towards the reception area. An attractive girl with a cold smile sat behind the desk.

Hello. I'm Stylo Green.

Stylo Green?

I'm here to start work.

Oh really?

He showed her his I.D. She glanced at the photo and then at him. Messy brown hair reached his thick eyebrows. Pale white skin covered his thin face. His chin was grey with stubble. She picked up the phone and pressed a button. Stylo Green is here. Says he's here to start work ... Okay, I'll tell him. She put the phone down. Eighth floor.

Err ... Shall I go up to the eighth floor?

Yes, she answered, flashing him a glare. Go up to the eighth floor. 

He stood in the spacious, chrome plated lift, ascending towards his prosperous future working for Vitality Corp. However, all the extravagance fronting the organisation didn't prevent Stylo from being wary of its ambiguity. Complete confidentiality seemed rather extreme for a soft drink. 

The elevator stopped, reaching the eighth floor. Stylo took a deep breath. The doors opened.

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Purple liquid flowed though the transparent walls. A small man with glasses frowned as he sat behind a pile of paperwork. Amongst the stationary, each labelled with the Vitality logo, a small monkey played with a ball of elastic bands.

The man looked at Stylo, straining his eyes. Satisfaction emerged upon the man's face as he focused on his guest. Vexation soon replaced this as the ball hit the man's head, bouncing across the room.

The man mumbled an introduction but Stylo was unable to catch his name. The opportunity to ask for it to be repeated disappeared fast. I'm going to show you the ropes regarding security measures. As I'm sure you're aware, Vitality's business is top secret so there's a lot to get through. Also, there are the company videos to watch and several forms to complete. Stylo sensed the day stretching.

After the man informed him of numerous codes and took his finger prints, he led Stylo into a small cinema. On the screen, a stream flowed through a meadow. Classical music drifted out of the speakers. Softly spoken female words encased Stylo in a bubble of euphoria and he gave in to fatigue, guided by the voice as the images continued in his imagination.

We are perfecting a liquid like no other. The formula will nurture the drinker and stimulate them into having a more positive outlook on life. They will be mentally transported to a magical place where their fresh perspective will protect them from the troubles of this world and guide them along the correct path.

Stylo opened his eyes and saw the video had finished. Feeling confused, he tried to recall the strange thoughts floating about his brain before his subconscious absorbed them. Soon he could barely recall anything. It must have been a dream he concluded before noticing his hunger. The man said the paperwork could wait so Stylo left the building.

Other high-rise office blocks surrounded Vitality and he walked for a few minutes until he found a café. Despite its dirty walls and lackluster menu, he entered. A burly woman served a queue of office workers which Stylo joined.

A cup of coffee, and some chicken and vegetable hot filled-bread, please, said Stylo when he got to the front.

"Ran out of chicken paste, so you'll have to do with just vegetable paste," informed the woman.

Sitting down in one of the few available seats, he sipped the coffee and waited for his food. As he observed all the other people wearing suits he wondered if he blended in or if he stuck out as someone new to their world of meetings, deadlines and pie charts.

Stylo couldn’t deny that he was impressed by Vitality. The company had a unique, forward-thinking approach that seemed to have a moral founding supported by the financial backing evident in the ostentatiously modern building.

However, he still wasn’t completely convinced by the company’s intentions. When it came down to it, businesses only existed to make money and any pretence at making a difference to society was bound to stir up suspicions.

On top of that the impersonal, uncomfortable atmosphere created by the members of staff he’d met so far were nearly enough for him to leave and never return. The receptionist was unfriendly, and that man was really odd – what was the deal with that monkey anyway?

Table four ... Your food's ready, table four. TABLE FOUR. COME AND GET IT NOW.

Stylo got up and collected his food. Hunger overpowered him and he took a huge bite straight away without considering its temperature. The boiling hot vegetable paste felt like lava as it squirted out of the filled-bread, burning his mouth and causing him to shout out, to which he received disapproving looks.

On the way back, he got out his mobile to give his mother a call. He hadn't contacted his parents since arriving in the city and he knew his mother would worry until he'd contacted her. He selected their number and listened to it ring, but they didn't answer so he hung up with the intention of trying again later.

The next few hours consisted of banal work procedures. On completion, the man with