We dream of days free of sickness. Of mornings without vomiting and slurried bowels. Of a city not reeking of its own blood and shit and sweat. So many plagues fester in our innumerable ranks, down through the thousands of floors of the hive apartments, that we have lost track of their names and lost count of their number. We know only to mask our bodies and work through the ailments that ravage us. Evenings spent sitting still, drinking filtered water, in the bleary light.
No wonder we are so eager to sip from the vials offered by the Strangers. Dark liquids that soothe the symptoms. Flush the body. Coax out strange desires hitherto unfelt.
There are dark rumours of things shifting in the lower city, where the Strangers first began administering their mystery cures. But rumors alone would hold no one back from the allure of wellness.
Never mind what the cure might do in turn. Never mind what it's made from.
Paddy Dobson
24th September 2022