Dystopia

-8

It was only three years ago, but it seemed as if time had washed it out like fresh blood on old walls.

Camila recalled that William was nervous, and at the time, she was nervous for him, but Mr. Hartford knew he was skilled at what he did; he knew he was the best in the business, and his wife was also well aware of this. But no matter the odds, nervousness still hung over them, like an axe above their living flesh, silencing their words and amplifying their thoughts.

It was just a simple presentation, William's specialty. He could capture the attention of millions with just the tone of his voice. And yet, here he was, stressing over a petty handful.

And he walked in the room, head held high and eloquent as ever. Potential business partners lined the room in neat rows, and William was slightly distracted within how everything seemed so linear that it masked his fear for a few short-lived seconds.

His presentation visuals already garnished a projection screen behind him, and a small remote remained in his hand, concealed, but still resting on his side.

Ash satin clung to his body, not only a symbol of profession, but also of great wealth. And even so, his palms were sweaty and it kind of felt like the world may or may not fall apart right upon him. But he spoke anyways, because even if oblivion was right at the edge of now, waiting to unfurl, William had convinced himself that in such circumstances he would die trying. 

"I'm certain you all know if me," Mr. Hartford smiled, his voice smooth and soothing. "And I'm certain you're all aware of why I'm here and what I'm here to do. But first of all, thank you all for coming, I truly appreciate your time." He paused, stopping to look at the people from Lansoft, and Techni, and Progrun, and all the other business awaiting to hear what he was now slightly less apprehensive to say. "Now, I'd like to begin with some kind of story, a background more or less."

The minute crowd before him had marginally more curious expressions at those words, intrigued at what sort of story he ought to tell.

"It was about five years ago," he said, and chucked for no apparent reason. "When I heard about a drug outbreak in England. It was all about this substance called Ruptiphrene, and it's main components was a derivative from opium, and dopamine. It essentially interrupted neurotransmitters and drowned them in enough dopamine to drive the subject insane, which is exactly what happened. It was used in Salem, a long while ago, to convince governments that psychiatric units were necessary, all the while, the money that was supposedly being used to run them, was being pocketed by the institution owners. And after this was discovered, the drug was outlawed in just about anywhere." 

William had to stop himself right then and there, and it truly was difficult, considering he found the entire situation simply fascinating and he couldn't help but find himself infatuated within it. And by the looks on their faces, he could tell his audience was as well.

"I distinctly remember one particular case where in which a girl in London was being given this drug without her knowledge of it. And the person secretly drugging her was being paid by a third party." William summarized quickly, but regretfully so, considering that he longed to tell the entire story, after all, communicating information was his favorite activity. "Now, I won't go into tremendous detail because we haven't got the time," He said; the memory fresh as day. "But I just wanted you all to know the backbone, or, my inspiration, rather, towards the Microtac."

The minute audience looked at him curiously, and he looked back, excited as a child, but still managing to keep his composure.

"You see, I couldn't stop thinking about this girl. It seems so simple doesn't it?" William said; amazement in his eyes. "I realized then, how completely easy it is to persuade the mind, how easy it is to drive someone insane. Even as it's thoughts and intelligence that rule the world, people never realize how easy it is to poison someone's mind."