Ever since Devlin went under that first time he had been having them too. First minutes, then hours, days even – even a whole week on occasion. He would wake up in the ward in mid-beating. Open his eyes in mid-conversation to a cafeteria table of other’s of society’s cast-offs. Even once, he was back in Detroit, briefly. A revitalized Detroit – but he could still see the reconstructed ruins of old car factories – long since automated out of existence – but it was a home he recognized before he woke¬†up again strapped to the table injected with a neon fluid he always asked about without getting any answers.

During the blackouts he realized once that he seemed to be able to communicate, but he sorta knew, or at least questioned, who or what exactly he was communicating with.


Blackout Copyright © 2015 by Jonathan Wexler. All Rights Reserved.


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