Dream Plot 1 - The Tap

posted on 5 Jul 2026

I’m remembering that dream that I had and I want to make a short story from it. It’s the one where I was in a concrete jungle as an operator of this large vat that was feeding blue fluid to convicts through tubes going into their backs. Gigantic ass tank thing, something like the Halo vehicle that carried an entire fleet of people.

The aesthetic was that of 90s, where there was this peculiar dull or drab feeling, especially in the projects/poor areas. Sepia-laden concrete shithole, people left to their scraps. Hardly any greenery whatsoever, everything is some form of steel, concrete, or asphalt. Blood and gore on these materials is especially striking in a way that makes the visceral registers deeply uncomfortable. There’s nowhere that’s really safe since the space was designed for machines and not people. There was a thread of dehumanization, of not knowing what’s really going on spun throughout it. The further you go back in time, the more experimental and less certain things seems. Think of when doctors thought smoking was beneficial or at least not harmful. There’s a naivety in new technology with a smaller knowledge substrate to work from. That’s exactly what this blue fluid was: an experiment and a last ditch effort to siphon off manpower resources by sacrificing those who they saw as not even human.

I’ve failed to find this setting in any medium. The movies that exist in this environment don’t take themselves seriously. There might be an aesthetic backdrop of 90s concrete jungle and inchoate tech, but the material and substance are not worthy. It’s too silly, not done from a certain perspective that it needs to be done from.

What perspective am I talking about? A dirty, depressing one. Like the feeling of dirty gauze on rotting flesh forming a gooey, infected fluid that sticks between it and then letting that air out in the elements to get damaged even more. The delicacy of the human body. Precariousness of even being out in the open. Too much open space and too much claustrophobia at the same time.

The streets were a complete bloodbath, stupid deaths, showcasing the fragility of humanity for all to see. Body parts, peeled flesh, shattered bones, howling or the immediacy of deathly silence muting the screams that would have come with a working brain. Where the tubes connect on their backs never fully heal and the convicts are in agony.

The program was designed to eliminate the gigantic swaths of violent gangs that had taken over entire sections of cities. Murder rates at an all time high. Areas in disarray and anarchy, gangs so numerous they could form their own armies to overthrow the government. Special fluid found that allowed the convict army a lot of strength and the ability to push past normal amounts of pain and injury. Source unknown, but installed into very large vats that looked like steel beehives in the top section of the multi-story tank vessels, operated by a specialized crew.

Story assumes the perspective of vat operator. Not a fighter, but someone who risks their life in the process (the vessel could be blown up, shot up, or completely overrun) and gets to deal with the stress of pumping the right amount of fluid and seeing the carnage first-hand, day after day.

When the convicts are “on the tap,” it’s like a dysphoric mania. Emotions from the full spectrum run hot. Increased muscle mass and bone density. Grotesque looking vein networks. All are bald from the stupid amount of artificial testosterone, look like roided chemo patients. “Off the tap,” they are vapid, hollowed-out shells of who they were, barely able to stand on their own. Muscle tears, fractures, organ failures, and suicide are all common. Often in wheelchairs. Most prefer to stay fighting and “on the tap,” but this degrades their body extremely quickly. The vessel is essentially a biohazardous meat lodge.

Blue fluid has an unknown source.

Main character wants things done a certain way. Neurotic about the process of pumping fluid. Complete weirdo. Alone. No friends, no family, no girlfriend. Spends his days glued to the controls of the vat. Lost himself long ago, no longer cares to live a “normal life” back in pockets that are still civilized. Feels no sense of mission or obligation in his line of work, does it because he needs to a sense of grounding and control. Had to cut himself off long ago from emotional attachments to the convicts. Once he realized that several of them had minor crimes or were otherwise good people, couldn’t deal with them dying. So he stopped talking to them or associating with them and chose to stay in his own world, cut off from them and seeing them as casualities. He maintains his distance. Trained to use a weapon but only in the event that the vessel is overrun, which happened once. He had to kill three people this day, hiding in a corridor as they came in group around the corner, held down the trigger. Incapacitated the men, came up to them and finished them off by emptying another clip into their skulls.