I am one summer break until mid-September. (Truthfully, I am moving and it’s a lot of work.) So I am bringing back some oldies but goodies you may have missed. First published March 2025.

This is Chapter 1 of my book, The Herd.

If you missed the other chapters, you can listen to Chapters 2, 3 and 4 right here on this blog. And if you’d like to own the book, you can grab a copy from your favorite retailer via my website.

You can also listen to the audio version of this chapter, just a heads-up, it does include some strong language.

But hey, this dystopia might just feel a little better than the one some of us are living through.

Enjoy the ride.

I slide the story toward the editor and wait for a response. He curses while furiously striking his keyboard.

"Fucking idiot, these fools will believe anything." He doesn't look up or reach for the paper. "Is this what the bots gave you?"

"I—" I pause, unsure if I should tell him the truth. "I made some changes. I had to—"

"Again?" He finally looks at me.

I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans and calculate my words.

"The numbers were off. I ran it several times on my own. Changes the whole story," I manage to choke out the truth.

The fury from his fingers engulfs his hand like flames as he slams his fist against the desk. His mouse and keypad jump, and the precious coffee others in the outside world would literally kill each other to have spills on the ground.

"Damn it." His eyes dart toward the coffee.

He stands up and trudges towards me. Instinctively, I stumble backwards and graze my hands over the dagger hidden on my waist.

He keeps marching toward me, and I keep backing away until I hit his cold mahogany door. I keep my eyes on him while feeling for the handle, wishing I had left it open. I inhale and exhale with each step he takes.

"You will not tell anyone about this," he says, digging his finger into my shoulder and fogging my glasses with his breath.

"We are working on an update, and there are a few kinks. We don't want anyone to needlessly panic. You understand?"

I nod slowly.

"Very well then." He takes a few steps back, leans against his desk, and lets out a deep breath.

"Thank you again for making the corrections. It's imperative that we have and maintain trust. You are dismissed."

Relieved, I whip around, open the door, and bolt out of the room. But just as I am turning the corner, I catch a glimpse of the stack of papers I left on his desk hanging over the trash bin.

That was three months ago.

***

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My sweaty hands grip the edge of my desk as I sit at my usual workspace, waiting for my name to be called. I close my eyes and try to tune out the noisy beeps and churns of the machines and chatter all around me. I've waited four years for this moment, but somehow I still don't feel ready.

I work as a contractor for one of the largest news networks in the world, the only network on this side of the Atlantic to survive the crash and resist acquisition by either a billionaire or the government. People tell me I'm lucky to be here, that many desire my job, and so I should be happy. And I am happy, or at least I think I am.

I work in the heart of the news station, which buzzes like a factory. There are about ten long tables in parallel rows, each with about ten editors seated next to machines that resemble printers but possess the artificial intelligence of advanced bots. These machines scan the internet, smart devices, and all types of digital outputs for announcements and credible leads for news stories, then assemble the first drafts of stories for the editors to review. The editors review the drafts, make the necessary changes, and upload the articles. But most of the time, they simply upload the drafts since the machines have become so advanced that they hardly need editing. Once the higher-ups in the station approve the stories, they are published, and the editors share them on social media. I sit in the third seat on the first row.

Our seating is a sign of rank. Editors say it can take years to get to the first row, but I did it just after two.

I stare at the paper the bot has spewed out for me to review. It's about the poverty rate throughout the country. According to the raw copy, based on leaked government records, the numbers have remained stable for the last six months. My fingers glide across the bot's screen, requesting the dataset the computer has used. With a quick glance, I notice several errors.

Another one, I think to myself. That's the fourth time this week!

Lately, I've been catching a lot of these mistakes. It started about five months ago when I was bored and picked up one of the rare history books my uncle left me about what used to be the United States economy before the crash. While reading, I noticed a historical detail in the book that directly contradicted something I saw in one of the bot stories I edited and published earlier that day. As I dug deeper into the details and reviewed the story, I found multiple inaccuracies.

Since then, I've gone down rabbit holes with these bot stories, checking and double-checking. Normally, I try to keep a low profile, but there were so many mistakes I decided to alert some senior editors. They supposedly looked into it and told me it’s nothing but an update bug. I don't know if I believe them. Something feels off.

I also have a strange feeling I've been watched more closely since reporting the incident. People know who I am, but for years I've successfully laid low. My father had a reputation for constantly shaking things up, and I saw firsthand what it cost him and my family.

Truth is, there's not much value in shaking things up these days. We need the station. People need something they can trust. I need something I can trust.

My mind returns to the story. It's clear from the data that certain regions have been severely undercounted. I decide to rework the headline and the story. It now reads, "Bogus Numbers Keep the True National Poverty Rate Hidden."

I stare at the bot next to me, wondering if I need to report this uptick in errors again—not just from what the bots spew out but also from what I see published. It worries me that the public might begin to question our credibility. But I also wonder, who am I to bring up such accusations?

"Feonix, Feonix!" A voice jolts me from my thoughts.

I look up to see Emre hovering over my desk. I tense, instinctively wary of his intentions.

"Uhhh, hi," I reply, confused, wondering why after all this time he has decided to make conversation today.

His hazel eyes meet my brown ones as I look up. He's tall and handsome, with a mischievous grin that makes me wonder if he knows something I don't. The way he carries himself, people might assume he thinks he's better than everyone else—present but a bit aloof, as if he has better things to do than this job. I assume he's talking to me because of the competition and nothing more. But as his eyes pierce mine, I almost hold my breath, waiting for his reply. I'm not trying to get caught up in any more station entanglements, but I cannot deny that Emre has swag.

"I know we haven't spoken much," he says slowly, seeming unsure of what to say next, "but I wanted to say good luck tomorrow—not that you need it. You make this look easy."

There's a sincerity in his voice that catches me off guard, as if he genuinely cares about my fate. It makes me want to believe that perhaps not everyone here is part of the facade. Maybe, just maybe, I could afford to let my guard down. But old habits die hard.

"We haven't spoken at all," I snap back at him, immediately regretting the harshness of my words. "And I really don't have the time to start today."

His half-smile fades to a frown, and for a second, I want to kick myself for being a bitch again. I could maybe use a friend, or at least one less enemy in this process. But my instincts remain, and instead of apologizing, I give him a look that says, "Why are you still here?"

His beautiful eyes dim as his pleasant demeanor vanishes. He walks back to his seat in the second row. If my response has dejected him, he doesn’t show it as he quickly resumes his work. I can't help but notice how he nervously taps his fingers on the table, something I've seen him do when he's deep in thought. I wonder what he's thinking about now. Probably that I'm such a bitch.

I shake my head as if to clear it and look back down at my computer. My hands shake, and my face feels flushed. I suddenly thank my lucky stars for the melanin in my skin.

Get it together, I think to myself. What an outsized reaction to a basic greeting.

The bot lights up. My story has been approved. The tension in my body drains away with this realization, then immediately tenses again as I remember what else I have to do. I’ve come to enjoy most of my work, but sharing on social media always gives me anxiety. Some editors are obsessed, arguing with every bot and person online. They thrive on the drama, the relentless back-and-forth exchanges that give them a sense of purpose. And somehow, all the belligerence and hot takes have garnered them large followings. To me, social media interactions have always seemed disingenuous. We all know we put up a facade there. Would they say that shit to my face? I know they wouldn’t.

Up until two years ago, my account looked like a bot's. I followed a few people, like the news director (everyone follows the news director), and only a few people from my neighborhood followed me. But two years ago, I decided I needed to do more to qualify for the Aptitude Test. Now, I have thousands of followers.

There's only one news director position, and for years, they have been looking for a successor. To narrow the choice down fairly, years ago, the station director announced that the person with the highest score on the Aptitude Test, when she either passes the baton because she can no longer work or passes away, will be the successor.

But to even qualify for the test, you must be a Station 7 employee and have at least 300,000 social followers—the concept being that you must be both intelligent and exhibit leadership. Few contractors qualify, and none have passed any part of the test. So I certainly stand out, and I know it.

But today is my last day as an editor because my contract is about to expire, and—in order to fulfill my promise to my uncle—I decide to take the Aptitude Test. I will probably fail. I am not a leader. I don’t even have friends. But I made a promise.

If I pass the test with the highest score, I'll take over this building as the head of the source of information that has given me and others hope for so many years—an improbable scenario.

If I lose, the more likely outcome, I don’t really have a next step planned. There’s not much planning that can be done with life outside of the station, only trying to survive.

After all I've done, I have never been offered a full-time role. I guess I’m not perky or likable enough. I applied so many times but am always told they feel a different candidate is a better fit. Maybe it’s all my complaints about the bots. Either way, my time as an editor expires because my contract will be up, and I'll have nowhere to go.

I've known for a while that my time was ticking, so two years ago, I amped up my social strategy to qualify. Station 7 employees often get more followers than most people because of the organization’s reputation. Two years ago, I had 6,804 followers. But when I started taking the work more seriously—spotting mistakes the bots made, staying up late to take on challenging stories, and not only sharing my stories but also the process behind them—my following exploded. Now I have about 450,000 people following every post I make, giving me many more followers than I need to qualify.

"This will be one of my last story explanations," I begin typing my next post to my followers.

"I've entered the contest. I will start the Aptitude Test tomorrow," I continue.

"If I win, I hope I can be half the leader Director Revel is, consistently upholding the truth. Thank you all for your support. I hope you will continue to follow and support me."

I hesitate for a minute, reading the message about three times. Then I hit send.

Immediately, my screen lights up with notifications, and my following grows by the thousands. Every time someone enters the Aptitude Test, they gain thousands of followers. Though the details of the test are secret, people update their followers as they pass certain parts, and followers root for contestants like sports teams.

I wonder who these followers are. I wonder how many of them root for me to succeed. Then I consider how many of them want me to fail.

I close the screen and take a deep breath. I try to hide my anxiety, which has built to mountainous proportions by this time. It’s coming from not only from the fact that I am taking the test but also because I waited until the last minute to do it.

I close my eyes.

"Idiot, you are an idiot," my father's words echo in my ear.

"Where will you go when you fail?" I imagine him questioning me. "Once you lose, you'll be thrown to the wolves. Chicken shit. You have a month, then you'll be back in the streets with the rest of the trash where you belong."

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I hope you found this newsletter helpful and engaging. Please share with any friends or family you think would be interested and feel free to buy me a coffee by subscribing if you got some use out of it or make a one-time donation.

Follow me on Instagram too!

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Order a signed copy of my sci-fi novel The Herd- When Democracy Falls.

And remember,…

This is Chapter 4 of my book, The Herd.

If you missed the earlier chapters, you can catch up on Chapters 1, 2, and 3 right here on this blog. And if you’d like to own the book, you can grab a copy from your favorite retailer via my website.

You can also listen to the audio version of this chapter, just a heads-up, it does include some strong language.

But hey, this dystopia might just feel a little better than the one some of us are living through.

Enjoy the ride.

I had a flashback to the moment when I woke up in a hospital bed after my family was burned alive. But this time, I know I’m not in a hospital bed.

“We need to get to a hospital,” says the male voice holding up my body.

Pain throbs through my body as if someone took a hammer and smashed my muscles. Half of my body is held up by the stranger, while my legs still feel the cold ground beneath them.

I try to speak, but all I can let out is a groan.

“Relax.” I realize the voice is familiar, but I can't lift my head to see who it is. “I am going to get you out of here.”

Then everything goes black again.

***

The next time I wake up, I’m in a bed, but it isn’t a hospital.

I look at my hands—no more blood. I’m wearing a shirt I don’t recognize. Footsteps approach, and my heart races, fearful of who’s coming.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” says Emre. I look up to see him speaking to me. “We don’t have much time. A day has already gone by. How are you feeling?”

“Where am I?” I ask, feeling a bit disoriented by his familiar face.

“This is my apartment. I brought you back here after finding your body on the ground outside of Riverside Academy. The cab driver...” He pauses. “He didn’t make it.”

“How did you know I was at the school?” I ask.

“I didn’t. I guess we must have been chasing the same tip,” he replies.

Then I remember Michelle Robinson at the massage parlor and the principal I was supposed to meet. I need to get back to the station to show my team what I have.

“Where is my bag? I need to get going.” It takes all my strength to raise my body and turn my head to look around the room.

“I didn’t see a bag,” Emre replies. “Actually, I was going to take you to the hospital when I realized that what may have happened was no accident.”

My body shudders as I remember the sound of multiple gunshots, the wet sprinkle of blood and brains all over me, and the crash. But I have no idea who tried to kill me. Did Michelle call someone to tell them to kill me? Did they trace me through the photo online? Who took my things? Did I fall into a trap?

“No, it was no accident,” I say softly.

“Look.” Emre sits on the edge of the bed and gently raises my head so our eyes are interlocked. His hazel eyes seem to pierce through mine. “I’ve been watching you, and it’s no secret that you’re smart. I can help you, but you have to help me too. I think if we put what we have together, we can create a story for the station.”

“And I can help you through the next two parts of this exam,” he continues. “I’ve taken this test twice before, and I know what it takes to get through it.”

“Why should I trust you?” I narrow my eyes at him and move his hand away from my face. “You’re not on my team, and in the end, only one of us will be chosen.”

“So why not make it one of us? I saved your life, didn’t I?” Emre replies, shifting to the rickety chair beside the bed. “Plus, I can tell you from experience that it’s almost impossible to get through this on your own. And I don’t want to point out the obvious, but right now you need me more than I need you.”

“If I’m so useless, then why do you need me? Why trust me?” I snap back.

“‘Need’ is the wrong word,” Emre replies calmly. “I don’t need you. But I do trust you. I’ve been watching you for a while, and you’re different from the other... drones at the station.”

“Drones?” I repeat quizzically.

“Yes, drones. Those who move, breathe, and live for Station 7,” Emre’s tone turns dark. “It may not be official, but Station 7 is the largest, most powerful faction there is. They make or break faction leaders, can drive the public to revolt, and do a bunch of other crazy shit.”

“You’re talking crazy.” I shake my head at him.

“And most people working in Station 7 worship it, assuming they’re doing God’s work or something,” he continues.

“And you don’t?” I interrupt. “Think you’re doing good work, I mean?”

“We live in a time where ‘good’ is arbitrary,” Emre replies. “If ‘good’ means helping one of the most powerful entities in the city consolidate power and influence over the people, then sure. We’re doing good work.”

“What do you mean?” I reply. He really sounds crazy to me.

“Look, I enjoy the work Station 7 does just as much as the next guy. If there are faction leaders taking money from foreign governments to deceive the public, then we should expose those fuckers,” he says. “But you need to pay attention to the patterns. I guess it would be hard for someone who’s only a contractor to see...”

“Excuse me?” I give him a sharp look. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he says.

Emre explains that Station 7 has friends and enemies. The stories station leadership chooses to pursue—and the ones they don’t—are not by accident. By breaking up faith in faction leaders, the station builds faith in itself. If we check the history, many of the big investigative stories we produced on leadership were about people who lobbied against the station or ideas the station leadership opposed.

He believes that though many of the station leaders began as journalists with strictly editorial missions, that changed some time ago. Now, many of them take on the role of reformers. They’re no longer satisfied with just telling what is; they want to shape what could be.

“You know why I want to be the news director?” Emre’s eyes lock onto mine intensely. A smile—or a smirk—creeps onto his face. His broad shoulders hunch over me in the bed. “Because that’s the only way I can make this story public. It’s time someone checked the largest power in the country.”

My mind races. I’m scared and want to shrink. For years, I’ve worked with an idea of what I thought was the truth. It centered me. It gave me purpose. I don’t want to throw a monkey wrench into that vision.

“Y-you’re a liar,” I yell, hating that my voice stammers. “How do you think you know all this?”

Emre gets up and pulls a projector and a laptop out of the closet. He connects both devices with a black cord and plugs in the projector. The computer’s interface becomes visible against the white wall, shown through the light emanating from the projector.

“I’ve been following this for almost two years now,” he says. “Remember Brian Reynolds?”

Emre pulls up his picture on the screen.

“The former Opes faction policy advisor?” I ask.

“Yes,” Emre replies. “As you know, Opes believes in trying to achieve pure capitalism—almost anarchy of sorts. So when Station 7 reported that Reynolds was giving contracts to family members, he was forced to resign. Great story, right?”

“Respectable,” I reply.

“Well, what people didn’t know was that Station 7 employees—those going through tests like us—found several members of Opes leadership doing the same thing Reynolds did. Fortunately for them, they voted in favor of legislation to increase the information war budget,” he continues.

Emre scrolls through documents on the screen like he’s giving a million-dollar presentation at a company meeting. Each document tracks how different leaders who favored changes like increases to the information war budget, food and resource supply pipelines that included the station, and maintaining media and internet connections that didn’t censor the station received favorable coverage. Meanwhile, others were brought down by one scandal or another.

Additionally, he shows documents proving that many who weren’t brought down by scandals engaged in similar or worse crimes that were never revealed.

“I tracked this most closely during the last test I took,” Emre says, pulling up another document onto the screen. “One of our teammates found multiple faction leaders in the Patriots plotting to attack Latus, the liberals, for their goods like they did nine years ago. Latus isn’t as strong as it was before, but they’ve been trying to rebuild their faction.”

When Emre says this, I feel my heart stop. I don’t want him to continue.

“But this time, the Patriots want to wipe Latus out,” he says, his eyes blazing with an intensity I’ve never seen before. “A girl named Lynn got hold of the plans and shared them with me before she turned them in for a story. Only the money laundering portion of the documents was published, taking down two faction leaders. There were at least ten involved! The story was much larger, and they knew it! Lynn never got the other parts of the Aptitude test, and later, she disappeared!”

Eight other Patriot leaders planned to attack my old faction again—and they got away with it? They never found the girl? My mind races.

“What do you mean she disappeared?” I ask, desperate for an answer.

“Exactly that,” Emre says, his eyes dropping to the floor. “I hadn’t seen or heard from her since the test. It’s impossible to understand how someone could just disappear like that. Maybe she left for her own good, or maybe something worse happened. The truth is, I don’t know.”

“What do you get from exposing all of this?” I ask. “You could be the next one to disappear—or me! No one cares about two people disappearing in a world like this! Why are you doing all of this?”

Emre is silent for a moment. I can almost feel the tension in the air between us.

“Right now, you’re freaked out because you’re beginning to realize you’ve been living a lie,” he says. “I’ve known that feeling for four years now. Two years ago, I decided I couldn’t live like that anymore. Ignorance is fucking bliss, but I don’t have that luxury anymore. The truth taunts me to do the right thing, Feonix.”

“That’s all fine and noble until you’re dead,” I reply with a sneer.

“But Feonix, what exactly are you living for anyway?” he asks, looking straight at me.

There’s silence, as if I could answer such a question. I think of my family, my promise to my uncle, and my need to learn if there was anything else behind my family’s murder. I’m fulfilling promises. But do I even know what I’m getting myself into? I have no one. A sick feeling creeps up inside me. The mystery—what was my dad working on? What did he know? Was he one of the leaders seeking to stand up to the station? Could the station somehow be connected to my family’s death?

Without faith in Station 7’s work, I feel like I have no purpose. I want tears to come to my eyes, but the emptiness I feel in this moment is a pain I know tears won’t relieve. My mind teeters on the edge of consciousness, where some people choose death, and others choose madness. Right now, I don’t know how those who reach that edge bring themselves back to stability again.

“Emre, I cannot do this,” I say, dropping my head into my hands in shame. “This mission seems like something worth pursuing, but I’m not the right person for it.”

“Look, I know it’s a lot to take in right now, but I want you to think about it,” he says, brushing my hair out of my eyes. “When I look into your eyes, I see a determination I don’t see in others. I don’t know what drives you, but you operate with direction and purpose. You move like something greater than just the station’s goals drives you.”

“And here I was thinking your looks meant something totally different,” I say, smirking up at him, trying to pull myself out of the hole I’ve sunken into.

“Trust me, this wasn’t exactly the first scenario I imagined us in—with you in my bed, I mean,” he says, smiling back at me and starting to gather his things.

I narrow my eyes at him and lose the smirk.

“Hey, it’s not my fault that the perfect person for this mission also happens to be the most beautiful,” he says, not looking at me as he puts the projector back into the closet.

I don’t know how to respond. How did we go from talking about a mission that could kill us both to flirting like this?

Then he starts toward the door.

“Emre, where are you going?” I yell after him.

“To sleep. We have to get back to the station first thing in the morning if either of us wants a chance at winning,” he replies from the hallway.

“You don’t have to do that,” I yell back.

“Don’t have to do what?” he replies.

“Sleep,” I say hesitantly, “on the couch.”

What am I doing? I think. I can’t believe I just invited him to share a bed with me. But the memory of my family’s loss, and maybe my purpose, leaves me feeling so empty and alone. I’m not sure I believe or even care about Emre’s mission, but I don’t want to be alone at this moment. And I know he doesn’t either.

“There’s only one bed,” he says, poking his head through the doorway, confirming he understands what I’m suggesting.

“I know,” I offer him a weak smile and attempt to make space for him beside me.

I can see him studying me.

“Look, I’m not suggesting...” I pause. “I’m not suggesting anything will happen. Just, I don’t want to be alone.”

My own admission of vulnerability surprises me. But it’s true. I’ve spent so much of my life alone. I miss trusting people. I miss hugs.

He steps into the room with a smirk on his face. I smile back. He dives into the sheets next to me and starts laughing.

“Hey!” I yell. “Don’t break the bed! This is the only one you have!”

I hit him with a pillow and chuckle. It almost doesn’t sound like me. I haven’t laughed in so long. He turns around and leans over me in the bed.

“Maybe I was wrong about one thing, Feonix,” he says, scanning my eyes. His face is so close to mine, I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips. I see my chest moving up and down as the intensity of our breathing increases.

“I’m scared,” he continues. “Because I don’t think I can do this mission on my own. I said I didn’t need you, that ‘need’ was the wrong word, but I was wrong. I do need you.”

My body shudders at the thought of the mission again. Somehow, in the course of this day, I’ve gone from needing no one—living independently for years—to needing him too. And with my motivation for living mostly destroyed in a matter of hours, I know I need him and this mission to pull myself away from the edge of insanity. But I still can’t bring myself to say it.

I look back into his eyes towering over mine.

At that, Emre leans in, and I kiss his lips. He kisses me back. Then I pull myself out from under him. Emre hesitates, not sure what to do at that moment.

“Good night, Emre,” I say, turning away from him.

“Uhhh... good night,” he replies, slowly turning the other way.

I can still feel the warmth of his back against mine. That’s what I need. I listen carefully as the pace of our breathing slows down.

I’m sure I wouldn’t have been the first Station 7 worker he’s slept with if I had gone through with it, just like he wouldn’t have been my first. Something about station workers living and working side by side every day seems to breed an environment where casual intercourse is normal. But being with Emre feels different. There’s nothing casual about how desperate we both feel at this moment, and I pray I’ve made the right decision.

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I hope you found this newsletter helpful and engaging. Please share with any friends or family you think would be interested and feel free to buy me a coffee by subscribing if you got some use out of it or make a one-time donation.

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What would a governance system based on ideological divides as opposed to geographical ones like the United States currently has look like? I have some thoughts.

I’m back diving deep into my twisted world-building rabbit hole for my post-apocalyptic trilogy The Herd (Book 1 is out, Book 2 is coming whether you're ready or not), and I thought I'd share some of the delightful process with you. Because nothing says “fun newsletter content” like exploring how America could fracture into ideological factions, right?

One of the first things you have to do when building a sci-fi or fantasy novel is world-building. For speculative fiction, this is easier because you're often pattern projecting—recognizing patterns in society and behavior, identifying a strong theme, and building around it. For me, that pattern was disinformation and ideological extremism (someone said I set my book too far in the future, lol).

The Faction Influence Map I created shows where the ideological strongholds end up after they take over in the form of factions. In the novel, the factions operate like states within a nation (if states had more power than the federal government), and the faction leaders are like more powerful versions of senators.

Think of the Herd world as what might happen when your family dinner political arguments become actual governing structures. It's representation by worldview rather than zip code.

Read or listen to 5 chapters for FREE!!!

The Faction Breakdown

There are many more ideologies I could have drawn from, but these are the factions I chose to create. I pulled most of these names from Latin:

Patriots: Extreme nationalists with quasi-eugenic tendencies. The description speaks for itself.

Tantum: The unaligned folks who said “nah, we’re good” to the whole faction thing. They´re concentrated along the East Coast, probably stress-eating bagels and complaining about everyone else.

Latus: The socially liberal crew. They’re the ones who’d probably have the best coffee shops in this dystopian hellscape.

Sumbolas: The communists hanging out in blue-collar territory. Picture Michigan but with more workers' councils and a collective healthcare system.

Divinus: Your friendly neighborhood theocracy, primarily Bible Belt-based.

Opes: The extreme capitalists who would literally sell your grandmother's kidney if the market offered enough for it.

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So What?

Creating a sci-fi world was an entertaining form of escape, but it also made me imagine where our current ideological extremes could lead us. That dark future is part of the Herd, but so is the hope that even in our twisted fate, there are people who still care about truth, integrity, and each other.

This weekend in the DMV, some people went to the President’s parade, but quite a few went out and protested the current system. I like to ask protesters: what world do they want to build instead?

World-building isn't just about becoming a sci-fi writer (though honestly, we could use more of those). It's about stretching your imagination muscle. Because if Americans can’t envision the future we want, how are we supposed to build it?

Coming Soon: The World Map (Because Apparently I Hate Sleep)

Next up, I'm building out the global map for this universe, and let me tell you, some of what I imagined is already starting to happen in real life. Which is either really good world-building or really concerning pattern recognition.

Probably both.

Subscribe and Share

I hope you found this newsletter helpful and engaging. Please share with any friends or family you think would be interested and feel free to buy me a coffee by subscribing if you got some use out of it or make a one-time donation.

Subscribe now

Follow me on Instagram too!

And here is my LinkedIn.

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I feel overwhelmed with emotions the next morning.

It feels as if I have just been there, in our old apartment, arguing with my sister, my mom breaking up the fight. My dad is even there, his eyes twinkling as he smiles at me while serving us dinner. Then that twinkle turns into a flame and engulfs us all.

I wake up in sweats. I haven’t had such nightmares in years.

But there’s no time to decompress or try to understand why the nightmares have returned. Today is test day.

I pull myself out of bed. Normally, I get up just in time to dress and leave, but today I decide to give myself more time. My room is a mess, as usual, but somehow I know my way through the chaos.

I stumble toward the small coffee machine in my room and turn it on. Coffee is a luxury. I never had it when I lived with my uncle. We simply couldn’t afford it. But with my salary from the station, I can purchase coffee from the grocery store in the cafeteria. My salary doesn’t make me rich, but given the rate of poverty outside the station, I feel as if I’m part of the upper class. Coffee solidifies that feeling. It’s one of the many comforts you can easily get at the station store but not from other grocers outside.

I get dressed while waiting for the coffee to brew. Normally, the newsroom requires business casual clothing, which for me means black slacks, a T-shirt, and a blazer. But for the aptitude test, we’re told to dress comfortably. I grab blue jeans and a T-shirt from my clean laundry pile on the ground. Then I put on a used leather jacket I bought a few years ago.

I decide to grab two knives from my collection—just in case. Knives have become something of a small obsession ever since my uncle died. I train with them almost daily and collect them, too. Apart from coffee and books, I spend a significant part of my salary on new knives. I have knives that can be disguised as cell phones, lipsticks, and other accessories. The holes in the dartboard on my wall are proof that my aim has improved significantly.

After grabbing my coffee, I sit in front of my computer and open it. I have 560,000 followers now.

“So it begins,” I type and hit send. Then I close the computer and leave the room.

There are five groups of four people competing for one open position: Groups A, B, C, D, and E, each with its own set of contestants, marked one through four. I find a seat in the theater room underneath a sign that reads “Group B.” I can feel the sweat tingling on the back of my neck, but I try to appear confident, reminding myself that I am prepared for this.

The people on my team are both my companions and my competition today. I remind myself to be friendly but not get too attached. Throughout my time as an editor, I haven’t made much headway in the friends department. You need to be open and sociable to make friends. I am none of those things. Up to this point, I’ve needed an accurate understanding of history, a prudent and detailed understanding of sourcing, and clear, concise writing—not friends.

“Hi, my name is Feonix.” I extend my hand toward one of the guys approaching my section.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” he responds, shaking my hand. “I heard no mistake makes it past you. I’m James Han.”

I can’t help but stare a little longer than I should at him. He’s tall and incredibly handsome. His brown eyes seem to shimmer against the light as he looks into mine, and his smile is warm but shows no weakness. I haven’t seen many Americans of East Asian descent since our faction was attacked by the Patriots.

Though Americans from several ethnic identities suffered that night, few suffered like people of East Asian descent. They were already under stricter government surveillance. They were imprisoned for the smallest crimes. But when the Patriots thought our faction was colluding with the Chinese, they killed any American that appeared to have Asian ancestry indiscriminately, questioning their loyalty to America.

“Where are the others?” he asks, pulling his hand away from mine and snapping me out of my stare.

“I’m not sure,” I reply, slightly embarrassed by his unease. I can see the other groups gathering in their own respective corners around the room.

“This is no way to begin,” says James, sounding agitated.

I already like his attitude. He seems commanding and confident, like someone who came to win.

“Sorry we’re late,” two young guys—clearly related, one fat and one skinny—join our group.

“I’m Titan,” says the fat one, extending his hand first to me. His fade is flawless, like he just did it yesterday.

“And I’m Ray,” says the skinny one, also extending his hand. His short dreads bobble up and down with his head.

“Oh wait, I know who you are,” says Titan, looking at me. “I heard Fred Cheenoma’s daughter worked here, but I never thought I’d meet you.”

“You’re Fred Cheenoma’s daughter?” asks Ray. “Your dad’s a legend—at least for those of us from Latus.”

“Who’s your dad?” asks James, staring at me curiously.

I hesitate. I don’t usually talk about my family with strangers. Ever since my parents passed away, I hardly have people approach me to speak about my father. Titan and Ray are clearly brothers from Latus.

“Depends. Who are you?” Titan asks, clearly sizing James up—both as a greeting and something more.

“James Han.” James extends his hand to Titan.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Titan says, shaking James’s hand and holding on a little too long.

“Who was her dad?” James pulls his hand away.

“Oh yeah,” Titan continues, making me feel better about my awkward handshake with James moments earlier. “Only one of the greatest reporters turned faction leaders of this century,” he says, cutting me off before I can respond. “While he was in charge, Latus was one of the wealthiest and most educated factions. Nothing like how they are now. Rumor has it that all the faction leaders wanted to work with him, but he refused because of their corruption. My parents said that’s why they killed him. What they couldn’t get through negotiations, they took by force.”

Titan’s words hit me like a knife. These are rumors I’ve heard before, but they always make me uneasy. I open my mouth to try to respond, but I am interrupted again.

“Enough of the pleasantries, teams. It’s time to gather around,” says a woman with thick, curly, reddish-brown hair and bold blue eyes. Something about her look is beautiful and exotic—clearly mixed race. Her personality is instantly appealing, like she should be the host of a show. She stands on stage, gesturing to the space on the ground in front of her. I feel drawn to her as I walk closer.

As we are shepherded forward, I notice Emre in Group A watching me. He tries to look away as soon as I notice him, but realizing he already has my attention, he offers a slight smile that I do not return.

“For most of you, this will be your first and last time meeting the news director because only one of you will be chosen to eventually take her position,” the woman on stage continues. “Remember, you must tell no one about the tests you are about to go through.”

Something about the spectacle seems theatrical. The woman speaks as if she is putting on a show, like we are being watched on film for someone’s entertainment. Though people are clearly nervous, her tone also seems to excite the contestants. They begin to whisper and squirm among themselves. For a second, it is almost as if we are entering a fun competition where our sole means of survival isn’t at stake.

Then suddenly, the room falls silent as the news director appears in front of us for the first time. Her red hair is bright, shining under the lights on the stage. She seems to study us intently as she walks out, registering every face gazing up toward her.

“My name is Victoria Revel, and I am the news director here at Station 7,” she says, taking the microphone from the other woman on stage. “I like to explain the rules of the tests myself because if you pass the Aptitude test with the highest score, your training to take over the newsroom will come from me. And if you can’t listen to me now, you won’t be a good protégé later.”

“First, I want you all to know that regardless of whether or not you are chosen, you have done your part in this war. Our enemies are both cunning and well-resourced, putting us in a position where we need the best and brightest to run this operation,” she pauses, looking around to meet eyes with at least one person from each group.

“It has been a combination of your courage, leadership, hard work, and intelligence that has brought you this far. Now, we must learn how far those qualities, in addition to other attributes, extend.”

As she explains the rules for the first test, I slowly begin to realize that these tests are nothing like what I imagined. They drop us directly into the chaos of our real world, closer to the subjects our news covers than I have ever been.

“This could get us killed,” blurts out one girl from Group A—Emre’s group—after the instructions are given. I am relieved to hear that I am not the only person finding it hard to believe what we are being asked to do.

“If you are worried about your life, then you are not ready for war. This is an information war!” yells the news director back at the girl.

Revel’s fists are balled, and she is shaking with rage. The girl seems to shrink under Revel’s gaze, looking as if she is holding back tears. No one else says a word.

I feel my stomach turn as fear creeps up my spine. I have heard of multiple people from our news group dying in the course of gathering information for stories. Many of them are admired, seen as martyrs for a great cause. I admire them. But it never occurred to me that they may be in the middle of a test.

The newsroom received a tip that multiple faction representatives are accepting various forms of compensation from the Saudi government in exchange for spreading allegations that Iranian leaders are working to replace democratically elected leaders in various countries and to attack Americans. This is reportedly part of an effort to turn public sentiment in the United States and other parts of the world against Iran, so the Saudis can attack the Iranians without fear of rebuke.

For years, those two countries have been powerful forces in the Middle East. Their economies thrive on oil and natural gas resources that seem endless. For a time, some thought their power would diminish because of the global push toward renewable energy sources, like solar. But when the crash occurred, investments in renewable energy dried up, making the two countries stronger than ever. Since the U.S. maintained good relations with both countries, accepting their aid to rebuild, they are more powerful now than before.

World order shifted as countries saw the crash and the weakness of the United States as an opportunity to reject the status quo and redraw boundaries as they saw fit. To the terror of many in Europe, Russia started to rebuild something that resembled the former USSR, annexing Georgia, Ukraine, Finland, and Poland in bloody battles.

The Saudi Kingdom annexed all of the Gulf countries in its periphery—Bahrain, Yemen, Oman, and later the UAE and Qatar—with equal force. And now, it appears they are looking to take on their powerful regional foe, Iran. If they take over Iran, they will be the most powerful country in the region—maybe the world.

But most Americans are less concerned about the vast nature of the Saudis’ plans. Their concerns are domestic issues. They would be horrified to learn their leaders are accepting money from foreign sources to deceive them—horrified enough to remove and hang the representatives.

So much has changed in the United States since the crash. Faction leaders are more like what senators used to be, but with less organization and more power. The crash caused an erosion of trust between the people, the federal government, and all its representatives. It led the American people to turn away from the existing system and begin to create their own.

Factions are part of the new order. Their leaders represent groups of people who share ideas without boundaries, meaning a faction leader can represent one person in Oregon and another in Texas. Though many people cluster with those who share their own ideology and faction.

Faction leaders gain voting power based on the number of people registered in their faction. There are many different groups: the communists, called Sumbolas; the nationalists, known as the Patriots; the religious Christians, called the Divinus; the capitalists, known as Opes; the socially liberal, known as Latus; and so on. There is even a faction for those who officially subscribe to no faction or ideology—Tantum—where I and many others in the newsroom currently belong.

But the factions share one thing in common—everything the people in them do is based on a collective sense of loyalty to the faction. There is probably more tolerance for murder than for betraying the trust of the faction.

When we are told that our mission is to work as groups to find proof that some faction leaders are somehow being compensated to betray the trust of their people, we know that if this is true, it is a secret they are willing to kill to hide.

The tip we receive is reportedly from a top-ranking official in Divinus. The official remains anonymous, but the document sent to the newsroom reportedly bears the official seal of their faction.

After the instructions are given, the news director wishes us luck. Without prompting, each group huddles under its respective letter to hatch a plan.

“There’s no time to waste,” says James.

“But where do we even begin?” asks Titan.

“Where else?” James replies, pulling his laptop out of his bag. We all follow suit, pulling out our own laptops.

James shares a digital document with us. “Let’s make a list of anyone who could possibly be involved with a scheme like this—their titles, contact information, and close connections.”

Then he shares another document with the group. “In this document, everyone needs to list any of their contacts within Divinus. Then, Ray, I want you to cross-reference these lists with any social network you can think of. See if these contact lists are in any way connected.”

I start to feel useless. I want to take charge and prove myself, but I’m still in shock at how sharply the stakes of this test have risen. I feel terrified—not so much about the test, but about feeling unprepared.

Soon, names begin to populate the first list: Michelle Robinson, 35, former Divinus faction leader, forced to resign by the current leader after he accused her of having an affair with her secretary. Nathan Widum, the Divinus policy secretary, reportedly bitter toward the current leader, Joshua Welsh, for divorcing his sister and remarrying another woman—making his sister “unfit” to marry anyone else in the faction. Jaleesa Brown, the secretary who mysteriously weathered the scandal with Robinson and even seemed to receive a promotion after Welsh gave a speech on “forgiveness and the Christian way.” David Uberman, the Divinus financial minister, who insists his massive fortune—complete with a luxury home and several high-end vehicles—is a reflection of God’s favor. "Favor isn’t fair," he often tells those who ask, while adding that they should try praying more and being more grateful for what God has given them. The list goes on.

“Okay,” says Ray, “I have the cross-referenced list and some people who might be able to connect us to folks who can confirm this tip. I guess we can divide the names up and start meeting with them.”

“If, in the course of investigating, we see one another on the outside, we shouldn’t tip people off to the fact that we know each other,” says James. “As soon as we leave these walls, we are strangers. Gather as many facts as possible before regrouping and taking on the head honchos. We’re looking for a leaker—someone more loyal to the faction than its leaders. This is tricky in Divinus, since many leaders convince members that God has chosen them.”

I close my eyes and let out a deep sigh, taking in the mission lying ahead of me.

“Are we boring you?” James snaps at me.

“N-no,” I stammer, immediately regretting how unsure I sound.

“Good,” James replies, his eyes slightly narrowed. “We only have three days—probably less, because we need to stay ahead of the other groups, not behind. As more of us move in, Divinus members will grow more suspicious. Which means the likelihood of one of us getting jailed or killed also increases.”

“So let’s get this show on the road,” says Titan, breaking the tension between James and me.

I grab my pack and list and head out of the building.

It’s snowing. It has been snowing for over six months now. People grow more anxious each year as winters stretch longer and longer. Every year, the city seems to be setting new records for winter weather.

All around the city, there are reminders of the crash. Abandoned cars with smashed windshields and missing radios line the streets. Stray cats and dogs roam in search of food. Looking up, I see broken windows and rusted fire escapes on apartment buildings.

Then there’s the homeless—hundreds of people living in tent communities with fires burning around the city. Every small enclave where parks used to be has turned into a tent city. Fountains tourists once admired have become bathrooms for many of the homeless. As I walk into the night, I can feel eyes on me. I pull my hood over my head to appear more intimidating.

“Look like the kind of person who makes others cross the street when they see you,” my uncle once told me.

This is nothing new to me. I have walked these streets many times before, picking up trash so my uncle and I could have something to sell. But the separation from this reality—living and working in the newsroom—has been jarring. It suddenly hits me how desperate I am to pass this test.

After some internal deliberation, I change the plan. There’s no time to gather information. I need to find Michelle Robinson, the former Divinus faction leader. She seems like my best bet to learn more about what’s really going on in the faction. They betrayed and rejected her—maybe she’ll do the same to them. And if the rumors about her vices are true, she clearly doesn’t mesh well with Divinus anyway.

Like many in Divinus, Robinson’s personal life is a mystery. But in some of the public interviews she’s given, it came out that she’s a fan of high-end luxury massage parlors. Most people from Divinus hang out in Ward 4, so I figure I should try to find a luxury spa there.

First, I need a place to sit down, surf the internet, and make some calls. Across the street, I see a coffee shop with one guard holding an AK-47 in front. This is how many businesses stay in service—keeping the unwanted poor and homeless out. I show the guard my Station 7 ID, and he gestures for me to enter.

I open my laptop and start searching for luxury massage parlors in Ward 4.

“Hey, I know you,” a teenage girl with dark skin and curly hair nudges me.

“I—I’m sorry,” I reply, confused. I’m certain I’ve never seen her before.

“I follow you online. You work at Station 7, right?” she says.

I’m stunned—slightly afraid, but also flattered. It’s a strange experience being recognized after spending most of my life alone and almost invisible.

“Uh, yes, I do,” I reply.

“Good luck! You’re my favorite! I hope you take over the station,” she says with a full smile and a look of excitement.

“T-Thanks,” I stammer.

Before I can object, she takes my picture with her phone and walks away. I stare after her for a second, then decide I don’t have time to waste.

There’s only one luxury spa in Ward 4. I should have known. After the crash, not many people have funds for high-end anything. I write down the address, put on my coat, and head toward the nearest bus stop.

But as soon as I step outside, I see two men in my peripheral vision walking toward me. My heart starts to race, and I immediately pick up the pace.

“Stupid,” I think to myself. I left that fancy coffee shop and should have hopped directly into a cab. I frantically feel for my pocket knife and pepper spray. The footsteps behind me quicken.

I know I can’t outrun them, so I turn around, pull out a knife, and lock eyes with them. That stops them in their tracks. Maybe they were hoping to surprise me.

One of the men immediately takes an attack stance. The other smiles and raises his hand, like he’s about to crack a joke. But then I start yelling and charging toward them. I stab the smiling man twice in the leg. Then I swiftly turn around and use my other hand to pepper spray the second guy, who seems unsure whether to attack me or help his friend.

I don’t stay to see what happens next. I just run—leaving them in their shock. I sprint several blocks and turn a corner until they’re out of sight and I can no longer hear their screams.

Voluntary or not, I’m annoyed that I already seem to be drawing so much attention to myself. I need to get this mission done and get out quickly. After two unsuccessful attempts, I finally hail a cab.

“Take me to First Temple Church in Ward 4,” I tell the driver. I decide it’s best not to head directly to the spa. One, because I don’t want the driver to think I have a lot of money. Two, because I don’t think I can afford to stay at such a place for more than an hour.

I glance at my reflection in the cab’s rearview mirror. I look terrible. If I want to get into a place like that, I need to look the part. I brush my hair, use a cloth to wipe the sweat off my face, and put on some lipstick.

“Going somewhere special?” the cab driver grins at me through the rearview mirror.

“No,” I reply, trying to discourage small talk. I suddenly notice his radio is tuned to Station 7.

“Can you turn that up?” I ask, softening my tone.

“Oh, yeah,” the driver responds. “It’s the only news I trust.”

“Did you hear? Earlier they were reporting that Nathan Widum, the Divinus policy secretary, is considering resigning. Those motherfuckers are all crooks if you ask me. Oh, sorry—those are your people, right?”

“Those aren’t... my people,” I reply.

“Then why are you going to First Temple?” He looks confused.

I want to end the conversation, but then it suddenly hits me—the news about Nathan Widum may have come from one of the other groups in the field seeking this story.

“Did the report say how they knew he was considering resigning?” I ask, dodging his question.

“I don’t really remember,” the driver says, shaking his head. “I think it was an anonymous source or something like that. But I believe them. Station 7 is the only true thing in this world full of phonies.”

My phone buzzes. I have several messages from James.

“Is this your low profile?!?!?!?!?” reads the message, followed by an image of me in the coffee shop on social media.

“Shit,” I think to myself.

“They can trace you and all of us good enough without the social posts,” reads another message. “They know you’re out and about now. You better watch your back.”

I decide not to reply.

Suddenly, the car slows down and stops in front of a beige building. It’s larger than most of the surrounding homes, clearly designed to stand out from the old but well-maintained neighborhood buildings.

“We’re here,” the driver says, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he adds as I start to open the door. “I don’t judge people for their work at Heavenly Masseuse. It’s hard to make a dollar these days,” he says with a wink.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, stepping out of the cab. I pay the fee and walk in the direction of the church until he drives away. Then I promptly turn and head toward the massage parlor, Heavenly Masseuse.

The interior of the building is newer and more lavish than the outside suggests. The furniture has vintage designs, though it’s all new, with velvet seats. Pink floral wallpaper covers the walls. A podium stands at the front entrance.

“Can I help you?” asks the woman behind the podium.

I haven’t thought much about my plan beyond getting here, but the taxi driver gave me an idea.

“Uh, yes,” I reply. “I’d like to get a job application.”

“I’m sorry, we’re not hiring at the moment,” she replies with a slight smile, looking completely unapologetic.

“Don’t be silly, Savannah,” says another woman, walking up behind her and pulling out a paper from behind the podium. “She came all the way here from... where, dear? Where have you come from?”

“Ward 1,” I reply, taking the paper and pen she hands me.

“All the way from Ward 1—she can at least fill out an application,” the woman says, giving Savannah a coy look. Then she walks away.

Just as I begin filling out the papers, unsure of what my next move will be, the door opens.

“Lady Robinson, you’re early!” Savannah says, startled.

My heart thumps in my chest as adrenaline rushes through my veins. I slowly tilt my head up, and there she is.

“I’ve told you this before, Savannah—call me Michelle,” says Robinson.

I’ve found her. I can hardly contain my excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be in the presence of a possible faction traitor. I go back to filling out the application, this time more slowly and meticulously, to avoid drawing attention to myself.

“I didn’t realize I was early,” says Robinson, turning to a young woman who enters with her, carrying several bags. “Renee, what time is my next appointment? And why are we early?”

The young woman opens her mouth to offer an explanation.

“Never mind. I don’t want to hear your excuses. Savannah, is there no one available who can do this massage? I have an important meeting after this and must be on my way.”

Savannah fumbles through the papers on her desk.

“I’m available,” I say, trying to sound confident.

Savannah’s eyes widen in panic, then she quickly regains her composure.

“Yes…,” she pauses, clearly struggling to remember my name.

“Feonix,” I pipe up.

“Yes, Feonix is available. But she’s new. Is that all right?” asks Savannah, forcing a smile.

“Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road,” says Robinson, tossing her coat onto her assistant, Renee.

Savannah leads us to a back room, giving me a look that says, You better not fuck this up.

“Here you are,” she says, opening a door and gesturing for us to enter.

As soon as Savannah leaves, my heart races. It’s just Michelle and me in a private room. I can ask her anything. I decide to ease into it.

“I’ll give you a moment to change into this robe,” I say, stepping out of the room. Three minutes later, I return.

Michelle is under the sheets. The room is warm, almost like a sauna. Soft music plays in the background. Candles flicker on every surface. It’s not exactly the scene for an interrogation, but maybe that’s for the best.

I pull the sheets away from her back and pour warm oil onto her skin—clearly too much, but only I can tell. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is heavy.

I remember my dad giving my mom massages when she was pregnant with my little sister. He mostly pressed down on her lower back, center back, and shoulders—places she said she felt pain. I try to imitate his moves on Robinson’s back, but it must be clear to her that I’m a novice.

“Can you add more pressure?” she asks after a few minutes.

I try again, and it must be better because her muscles finally start to relax. My mind races. I need a smooth way to ease into this conversation, but nothing comes to me.

“I have lots of tension in my thighs,” she says after about 15 minutes.

“Oh, okay,” I stammer. I cover her back with the sheets and notice oil spots bleeding through the fabric. Then I pull the sheet off her legs and pour more warm oil. As I rub her thighs, she shifts and moans slightly, widening the space between her legs.

“A little higher,” she says, spreading her legs further apart.

My heart races faster as I remember what the cab driver said about Heavenly Masseuse. Did everyone know something about this place that I didn’t?

“You can use your fingers or something else if you have it,” she says.

That’s when I notice she isn’t wearing underwear. I freeze. I don’t have any more time to waste. Ideas of what to ask her race through my mind until I finally blurt everything out at once like word vomit.

“Is Nicholas resigning because he knows who is taking money from the Saudis? Did he refuse to be involved? Why is he leaving?” I ask, my face stern and serious.

Michelle’s body tenses all over. Her eyes widen with fear as she slowly turns her head to look at me. She pushes my hands away from her thighs, pulls the sheets over her body, and stares at me speechless.

“Wh-who are you?” she stammers.

“Look, my story has nothing to do with you—a married faction leader attending massage parlors that double as brothels—yet,” I say, pulling a pen, recorder, and notepad from my bag while keeping my eyes on her. “I want to know what’s going on with the Saudis. Who are they paying? How are they paying them? When did this start?”

“You work for Station 7,” she says, looking at my face for confirmation. “These questions could get us both killed.”

“I already asked. Now it’s time to talk,” I say, hitting record on my device.

“I don’t know anything about this,” she says, trembling.

“You’re lying. Tell me what I need to know, and you’ll never see me again. No one has to know we spoke. You simply came here to get your… massage, like you always do.”

“Nicholas would never betray the faction. But maybe he knows too much now. You can’t cite me as a source!” she blurts out.

“Keep your voice down,” I whisper forcefully. “I don’t need to cite you if you can lead me to someone who can be cited.”

She trembles beneath the sheets, looking at me like I’m her worst nightmare come to life.

“You can’t make it in Divinus faction leadership unless you embrace some corruption. But the deal with the Saudis clearly took things too far,” she says, looking down at her hands.

“I think Welsh is a plant from another faction. I had my fair share of vices, but I never betrayed the faction like he and David—and maybe now Jaleesa—have,” she whispers, her voice pained at the mention of Jaleesa.

“David Uberman, the financial minister, and Jaleesa Brown, the secretary,” I confirm, writing their names down.

“Yes,” says Robinson.

“How does the money come in?” I ask.

Michelle explains that there is a nonprofit real estate developer specializing in education facilities. The developer takes in donations from around the world, including large sums from the Saudis, to build new schools.

In the city, tax funds normally go toward building and maintaining educational facilities, but tax collection slowed significantly during the crash. In its place, nonprofits and philanthropies—often run by billionaires—took over the role of providing public services.

Since much of the money for public services comes from private entities, the government raised the ceiling for public-private contract disclosures to $500,000 five years ago. It’s an absurdly large amount, but with a shattered economic system, people clung to anything that offered stability. Many were so disillusioned they barely noticed that the high ceiling created the perfect environment for corruption.

Michelle continues, explaining that the education developer exploits those loopholes to contract with private companies run by friends and relatives of Divinus leadership. The contracts cover construction, school supplies, custodial services, lunches, and more—all at astronomical prices.

“So, money from the Saudis goes to the schools. The schools contract with ridiculously expensive vendors, who are often related in some way to Divinus leadership. Then, when the vendors are paid, they funnel the money back to Divinus leadership?” I ask, confirming what I heard.

“Exactly,” Robinson replies. “Check the campaign finance reports. Anyone receiving support or donations from vendors that could also service a school is probably getting Saudi money under the table, too.”

“Look, as far as anyone knows, you got your… massage and said nothing about this. As long as you keep it that way, I will, too. Who can I talk to? Who will go on record?”

“Maybe the school principal at Riverside Academy,” Robinson says, pulling the sheet tighter around herself. “He’s been uncomfortable with the whole operation, and they’re actively trying to replace him—if you know what I mean. To my knowledge, he should be there today.”

At that, I gather my things and leave the room. Savannah looks puzzled as I head toward the exit without so much as a glance in her direction.

“Feonix, come back,” she calls after me.

I don’t stop or turn around. I hail a taxi and get in.

“Take me to Riverside Academy,” I tell the driver, relieved that this one isn’t as chatty as the last.

I check my phone: seven missed calls from Ray. Through an encrypted app, I send a message to the group.

“Headed to Riverside Academy. I think I have the lead I need to tell this story,” I type and hit send.

“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?!?”
“We’ve been trying to reach you!”
“The school???” James messages in rapid succession.

“That’s funny,” Titan texts. “I got a bunch of contracts between that school and a custodial company from a source. They’re making millions.”

My heart races with a mix of anxiety and excitement. I’m on the right path. The earlier messages disappear automatically. I upload my recording of the conversation with Michelle to my drive.

“You all won’t believe what I got Michelle Robinson to say on tape. I’ll tell you when we meet tonight,” I text.

“In the meantime, Titan and Ray, can you find out who owns the custodial company? See if they have any ties to Divinus leadership. James, can you check the tax forms from the school and see who its donors are?”

“Ok,” they all respond.

For a second, my heart swells. I’ve taken a chance and almost have everything I need for the story—two days ahead of the deadline.

“As soon as I speak to this principal,” I think, “I’m heading back to the newsroom to write one of the most thrilling investigative pieces I’ve ever written.”

Ten minutes later, I don’t see the window shatter, but I hear it. I hardly notice the driver’s blood and brains spray onto my body like a sprinkler system. I just remember screaming as every muscle in my body tenses. I stretch out my arms, gripping anything that can orient me as the taxi spins out of control.

It feels like the world is moving in slow motion. I know the only way the vehicle will stop is if it collides with something.

Then everything goes dark.

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Beep, beep, beep. Notifications from my phone snap me out of my haze.

I take a deep breath and stand. I need air and a stroke of good luck. I figure if I leave for a short time, I won’t miss my name being called. I head to the locker room to change.

When I enter, a group of young women laughing loudly suddenly drops their voices to whispers and observe me from the corner of their eyes.

"Good luck, Foenix," says Stacey.

Stacey is tall, smart, beautiful, curvy, with silky brown hair and perfectly dewy skin—so many things I am not. I try not to resent her for just existing the way she does.

"T-thanks," I reply, hesitant.

These interactions are always a bit awkward because, when it’s time for the test, people truly don’t know if they will ever see you again. I take off my uniform and glance at my athletic frame, wishing I had a bit more of the curves Stacey does.

Then I slip on my worn, patched-up leather jacket, threadbare jeans, and battered sneakers.

Stacey looks like she wants to say more—maybe "bye forever." But I don’t wait for the awkwardness to linger. I grab my things and head toward the building’s garage. There, I check out the most battered Station 7 vehicle and drive out.

Beyond the station—a rare occurrence given the chaos outside—I make sure to drive inconspicuously. I try to blend in, appearing as worn and beaten as possible to avoid attracting the attention of robbers or gang members prowling the streets.

It’s been 23 tumultuous years since a sinister collaboration between China and Russia unleashed an information war that toppled the U.S. economy, snatched jobs away, ignited riots, and coerced Americans into joining factions. Whispers of underground information wars circulated for years—pro-Black activists' social media pages run by Russians, and American-appearing white supremacy blogs churned out by the Chinese. But when the war erupted, barraging the public with a relentless stream of messaging online, on the radio, on television, through smart speakers, and in text messages, no one was prepared—especially not the government.

Elected officials became the primary purveyors of disinformation, spreading outright lies in a desperate bid for votes from a disenfranchised, distrustful, and despondent public.

I drive past the haunting remnants of a once-magnificent bank building in one of Washington, D.C.’s wealthiest neighborhoods. Bloodstained ropes still dangle from its sides—a chilling memorial to the public hanging of bankers, investors, and any other affluent-looking person the furious mob of years past could seize after the crash.

Russia and China targeted the economy with laser-like precision, disseminating fear-mongering information to stock market investors, bitcoin bros, and every other kind of dealer you could think of, goading them into a frenzied selling spree that sent market valuations into a nosedive.

Countless people lost everything. As faith in the government withered, they took it upon themselves to administer their own brutal brand of justice.

Suddenly, I feel the car shudder. Someone tries to pry open the back door and clamber inside. The other back door starts shaking too.

"Damn it, gangs," I mutter, my heart racing.

Normally, I’d be ready for this kind of assault, but today, my mind is swathed in a fog of anxiety about the Aptitude Test.

My foot slips for a moment as I try to switch from the brake to the gas. Just as I hear the shattering of one of my car windows, my foot slams onto the gas pedal, and I speed away from the assailants.

A rock wrapped in newspaper crashes through the passenger window. Cold air nips at my cheek, but I can’t help wondering where they found the newspaper.

Before the crash, the independent American news media was already fragile, reeling from the loss of advertising dollars to social networks and celebrities who often boasted more followers than the most popular news outlets. The crash dealt the final, crushing blow.

Initially, networks struggled to counter the flood of propaganda from all directions. As they attempted to debunk lies and remind audiences that stories cited by congressmen or excerpts in the president’s speeches were sourced from falsehoods, these sources only gained more traction.

Disinformation had been festering on society’s fringes for years. Outlandish conspiracy theories found a home among small groups of neglected and disenfranchised people. The more these theories spread, the more people subconsciously grew accustomed to them—until even those who wouldn’t normally entertain such ideas began to consciously embrace them.

Overseas information warmongers targeted the free media, casting doubt on their work by distorting reporters’ words, exploiting private chats, and highlighting mistakes to claim bias. Their goal was to discredit, and they succeeded.

Before everything went haywire, newsrooms had cut funding for editors and fact-checkers while ramping up production. Reporters churned out stories at breakneck speed, sacrificing accuracy to meet demand.

So when foreign actors unleashed their information war on the U.S. news media, public trust crumbled. Then, when the economic crash struck, fragile U.S. news groups were wiped out—losing venture capital funding and public support, laying off thousands.

For a brief period, it seemed like all independent news media had vanished, leaving only billionaires and government agencies to spew messages through every available channel.

Without independent media as a check, American government-run news agencies devolved into propaganda tools. President Michael Dickson declared a state of emergency and incessantly broadcast his messages. He implemented desperate economic policies, slashing interest rates and offering funding to the poor, but these measures did little to alleviate the harsh realities people faced.

Inflation soared. Those on minimum wages—about 40 percent of the employed population—could no longer afford basic goods like bread, eggs, and milk. People formed gangs, raiding grocery stores. Protests escalated into nationwide riots. America, once a pillar of democracy, crumbled.

Before long, the riots reached the White House. To the horror of democratic societies worldwide, President Dickson’s administration ended with a mob hanging, streamed live across multiple platforms.

The new president, former mob leader Jeffrey Lewis, clamped down even harder on all media outlets. He transformed the FBI and the Department of Homeland Security into a police force that monitored traditional and social media for "terroristic ideas." Overnight, people found to harbor such ideas were arrested and thrown into makeshift prisons. The waiting times for court hearings stretched into years. With Senate support, he suspended constitutional rights, claiming he needed to control the messaging to stabilize the economy and rebuild the country. If people disagreed, their dissent was considered a threat to national stabilization, and they were also labeled terrorists.

All billionaire-owned news entities existed solely to amass profit for the wealthiest Americans, safeguard their interests, and provide them with exclusive information while distorting facts to manipulate the public and squeeze out more profits. Most wealthy Americans retreated into gated parts of cities, isolating themselves from the struggling masses. Reporters at billionaire-run news agencies, largely replaced by printer-bots, focused only on gathering business intelligence to sell at exorbitant prices. Consequently, the majority of the population was left in the dark and economically disadvantaged.

The fourth estate, once meant to bring checks and balances to power, was effectively shattered for several years. Governments and billionaires, both domestic and foreign, waged relentless information wars against each other and the people they governed. The rich grew richer as the middle class plummeted into poverty. The powerful monopolized information to maintain their grip on power, even at the nation’s expense.

Amidst the chaos, Station 7, my workplace, emerged from the rubble. Initially, a small group of renegade engineers ran the operation, releasing short articles auto-generated through algorithmic code. This sent government officials into a frenzy as they tried to locate and apprehend them.

The code incorporates popular news-writing principles like varied introductions and putting the most engaging information at the top of a story. The articles are based on information sourced from scanners that scour the internet, with source code free from Russian or Chinese influence.

Station 7 employed a single human editor to review the information before it went online. This editor quickly gained a devoted following for producing and fearlessly revealing information no government or billionaire-owned news agency will touch. She became a beacon of hope for many across the nation and the world, her image synonymous with truth, bravery, and resistance in a world that had forsaken democratic ideals.

Now, she is the news director, answerable only to the public that donates what little they can to keep the network afloat.

Station 7 evolved from a covert operation to a public one. Its headquarters blossomed from the ground like a flower in the desert. Though the director remained a wanted figure, her popularity grew so immense that an army of supporters rose to defend the building every time government forces approached. For them, keeping Station 7 alive and thriving is a cause worth dying for.

I finally arrive at my old apartment building. I park the car in an alleyway, hoping it won’t draw unwanted attention. Then I enter the half-empty structure. With my hand on the knife strapped to my hip, I wonder why I even came back. The polluted soot in the air reminds me that I couldn’t even get the breath of fresh air I was hoping for.

Although I know many of the apartments in this building are vacant, I feel eyes on me as I sprint through the hallways and navigate corners searching for my old apartment.

This will likely be one of my last visits, I think.

I eventually find it—the door to our old apartment. The wood shows beneath the chipped gray paint. I push on the door, and to my surprise, it opens with a small creak. I cautiously step inside, scanning each corner for potential threats. Memories flood back.

As a teenager, I remember sketching the station director’s image onto a piece of scrap paper. Her fiery red hair billows in the wind, her intense green eyes stare back at me from the paper. My uncle adored it so much that he hung it on the door.
"This could be you one day," he used to tell me. "We must never lose hope, or we’ll become the savages all around us."

I nodded to appease him, but deep down, I never believed it. I could hardly fathom finding food for the next day, let alone running a place like Station 7. It was clear my uncle saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself.

Six years ago, the news director sent shockwaves across the globe when she announced that she was suffering from an incurable disease that would ultimately claim her life. She sought a successor for the station, someone she planned to mentor until her final breath.

That night, my uncle and I embraced each other, tears streaming down our faces. Despite having only a few candles to ration for light, we attended a vigil outside Station 7, using our limited wick to honor her. It felt as though a beloved family member had fallen ill.

Her impending death inspired those with sinister ambitions, and that year, violence escalated. No accurate count could be confirmed since the government didn’t maintain reliable records.

About a year after the announcement, my uncle staggered into our shabby one-bedroom apartment, clutching his side. A stab wound oozed blood.

"They took everything I had," he mumbles, choking on the blood bubbling in his throat.

My memories of that moment are fragmented. I recall screaming, desperately trying to stop the bleeding with a blanket, and the look of despair in his eyes. He wasn’t afraid of death, but he dreaded leaving me alone in this cruel world. As I held him and sobbed, he made me promise to pursue the news director position. I sat with his lifeless body in my arms until it grew cold and still.

The next day, I buried him in a lot behind our building. Though I doubted God’s existence, I prayed for my uncle’s eternal peace.

Later that afternoon, I spotted a man in the distance wearing my uncle’s jacket. Rage consumed me as I realized he must be the one who robbed and killed my uncle. I charged toward him without any regard for my own safety.

I must have caught him off guard because, in no time, he was on the ground, and I was punching without control—hoping to pummel his face deeper and deeper into the cement until I could feel the rocks on the other side of his head. After a few hits, I pulled out my dagger and prepared to gut him like a fish.

He screamed, begging for his life, offering my uncle’s jacket and wallet. I suddenly felt the deep pain of my uncle’s loss, and my eyes began to swell with tears. But I refused to let that monster witness my grief. I took the wallet and jacket and raced home.

Aware that only station employees can vie for the news director position, I cleaned myself with a rag, changed clothes, and headed to apply for an opening at the station that same day.

Walking around the apartment, I notice the bookshelf still leaning against the wall. I can see the initials my uncle and I etched into it one night when I couldn’t find him after waking from a nightmare. He was out bartering for money at the time, and when he came home and saw me terrified and sobbing, he reassured me that if he was ever absent, I could simply place my hand on those initials to feel his presence and dispel my loneliness.

Tears well up in my eyes as I trace the carved letters.

"I really need you now," I think.

It’s as if my uncle is there to warn me; I sense danger approaching. Instinctively, I drop low and prepare to flee. I hear three men enter the room.

"You sure she came in here?" one man questions.

"Positive," another voice confirms.

"Hey, pretty thing, we won’t hurt you too bad," taunts a third voice. "It’ll be quick and painless if you enjoy it."

My mind races. Three against one—bastards.

Then, suddenly, as if my uncle is still there guiding me, I spot the fire extinguisher. It appears to be in working condition. I stand up and yank the extinguisher off the wall. Startled, the men charge toward me. I pull the lever, unleashing a spray that clouds our vision, but I’ve already mapped my escape route. I hurl the extinguisher at one attacker’s head and sprint for the door.

As I reach the threshold, one man lunges, grasping my heel, and we both tumble to the floor. Adrenaline surges through me.

"Get the hell off me, you bastard!"

He clamps down harder with his other hand, smirking. Rage consumes me as I think of all the women and young girls they must have tormented over the years. Without hesitation, I whip out my knife and plunge it into both his wrists.

His smile morphs from shock to agony in slow motion as he registers what just transpired. I break free and sprint for the car, driving straight back to the station.

"Fucking fresh air," I mutter, shaking my head at that stupidly unnecessary adventure.

When I get back to the station, I sit in my seat, exhausted and bloodied.

"Foenix Cheenoma," the sound of my name through my headphones snaps me out of my thoughts.

"Group B, contestant 3," announces the robotic voice.

I hastily jot down the number and group letter on a sheet of paper, curious about the others in my group. I shake off the worry, knowing I’ll find out tomorrow. I resume my work—only two hours left as an editor.

***

At the end of the day, I gather all my things, aware that tomorrow morning someone else will take my place.

Like most Station 7 employees, my home is in the living quarters underground. I think about my apartment outside of the station. I remember my family.

Both of my parents and my little sister were killed when an angry mob attacked our faction’s living quarters nine years ago. I was told that hysteria started to rise after the Russians pushed out an onslaught of propaganda reports against key leaders in our faction, alleging that they were working with the Chinese to embezzle government funds meant to go to the Patriots.

The Patriots faction is mostly made up of those who believe in extreme American nationalism. There had always been people who subscribed to some forms of nationalism. Before the fall, sayings like "America first" had become more pronounced.

But the economic crash—and the knowledge and fear that foreign actors were behind it—drew a new kind of fever out of people. The country split into factions that acted more like tribes. The most extreme people took over, drawing on the worst parts of their ideologies.

More than most factions, the Patriots suffered severe economic loss because of their refusal to trade goods with non-American entities. But for many of them, it was easier to believe that the source of their suffering is an outside faction that stressed tolerance for foreigners than to accept that their ideology is in conflict with their own economic well-being.

Patriot members quickly turned their anger and the pain of their economic loss toward innocent people within our faction, and one night, the group attacked us. Stores were robbed, and many homes were burned to the ground, including ours. I don’t know who saved me from my burning apartment that day. I only remember the sooty building crumbling beneath my feet as the fire tore through the foundation.

I woke up in a hospital bed, terrified.

"Relax, little one," a nurse cupped my hands in hers.

I pulled away.

"Where am I? Where is my family?"

"They are gone, but you are safe now," she replied, her tightly curled hair pulled back in a bun.

The nurse told me I was lucky to be alive. My father, a newspaper reporter before the crash, had become the faction leader at the time we were attacked, and they intended to kill our entire family. I remember not comprehending all her words and wondering why anyone would want to kill my family.

I also didn’t quite understand what she meant by "they are gone," because after that moment a part of me still expected to see them. But when I saw the sadness in her dark eyes, my own emotions—fear, sadness, and confusion—overwhelmed me, and I joined the weeping voices of many others who lost loved ones in the hospital.

After the incident, my uncle took me in. He was a quiet man, a historian and writer before the crash. Somehow, he managed to save several books that filled his tiny apartment, which felt more like living in a closet. He was still a reader and writer, though he sold used goods on the side of the road.

I spent my days reading many of the books in his apartment and digging through trash to help him find things to sell so we could survive. I also maintained an irrational fear that the people who killed my family will come back for me. I began training to protect myself with a knife I found and polished while rummaging through the trash one day.

In the evenings before bed, he talked for hours about "how things used to be." He always said he felt "overwhelmed" with the ignorance around him. He had a hard time watching people behave as if this is the way the United States has always been.

"How could they forget their own history so quickly?" he scoffed while watching a fight outside the window. "Savages."

Most days he seemed to waver between crankiness and loneliness. He lost his wife and son the night the Patriots attacked our faction. His only delight seemed to be in teaching me. He said teaching me made him feel like he had a purpose again, like he’s doing his own little part "to save the next generation."

Where my dad tore me down, my uncle built me up. He taught me about the history behind our current state of affairs, who ran the news groups, what information could be trusted and what couldn’t.

"Leader of the communist party during the Vietnam War," he quizzed.

"Ho Chi Minh," I replied.

"Theory that suggests that countries should specialize in the production of goods and services in which they have a lower opportunity cost and trade with other countr—," he continued.

"Theory of Comparative Advantage. David Ricardo. Early 19th century. Too easy," I smirked.

"No, you’re too smart," my uncle looked at me as if in wonder.

"I’m not smart," I looked at the ground, shaking my head.

"Stop saying that. You’re brilliant. You are a born leader. I loved your father, but he was a fool for not seeing that in you," he put his hand on my shoulder and closed the book.

I choked back the tears. My uncle pulled me close for a hug.

"There are so many things I wish Fred had done differently," he said. "But even the best heroes are flawed."

My uncle and I talked about almost everything, but he always has trouble talking about the night of the attack.

"It was like your dad knew something was coming," my uncle told me. "He knew something he never told me. A month before the attack, he had the same look he got when he stumbled onto something interesting. I wish he told me. Maybe we could have saved some people that night."

I could tell this mystery ate at him. Sometimes it ate at me too. I wanted to know what my dad knew. I wanted a more satisfying explanation for my family’s death. Was it really just ignorance that drove the Patriots to attack?

It’s this mystery that kept me from seeking revenge by killing Patriots like some in my faction chose to do after the attack.

I am more interested in learning the truth. Something in the story isn’t complete. It’s like the systematic breakdown of trustworthy information hits me on every level. This breakdown robs me of peace. It keeps my family alive in my dreams, as if, even in death, they won’t let me rest without the truth.

I knew finding that truth will bring me to the front lines of the information war and could possibly get me killed. But I didn't know where to start until the day my uncle died.

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Hey there, fabulous folks!

I just had a little adventure on the Amtrak from NYC back to DC, and something really special happened. As I boarded the train, a woman looked at me, full of intention, and said, “Happy International Women’s Day.” I was so moved—I thanked her and wished her the same. It hit me differently this year, almost like a rebellious act to celebrate ourselves out loud.

So here I am, telling all of you: Happy International Women’s Day, and happy Women’s History Month! Thank you for subscribing, for following along, and for being part of this amazing community. We recently did a giveaway, and it was such a joy to send books to so many of you—and see the photos you shared! It’s been wonderful meeting strong, insightful women all month long. It’s like diamonds forming under pressure—I’ve seen so many sparkle this week, helping me see my own light more clearly.

This is also a big week because my book is coming out! My excitement is off the charts. Two women actually told me I’m “the next Octavia Butler,” and I’m still floating on that compliment. Talk about an honor of a lifetime—I’m taking it, embracing it, and running with it!

And because I want to share this journey with all of you, I’ll be releasing a few chapters of my book—either as an audio snippet or text in the newsletter. The first chapter is already up for you to sample! The story itself is timely. It’s escapist fiction, sure, but also a warning about the future, and I think it’ll resonate with those of you feeling the pinch right now (especially my DC folks).

Thank you again for subscribing and hanging in there with me. This coming week, I’m sending you all the positive energy that’s been showered on me. Keep an eye out for the good things around you—even if they’re tiny, they’re worth noticing and celebrating. Let’s all take a moment to pause and appreciate where we are, and who we’re becoming.

Have a wonderful week, and I can’t wait to keep sharing more with you!

The Herd

Disclaimer

This is a work of fiction. While the story and characters are products of the author’s imagination, the book explores themes of police violence, murder, assault, and other difficult subjects. It also contains sexual content and explicit language, which may be triggering for some readers. The author has approached these topics with care and respect, aiming to shed light on complex human experiences. Reader discretion is advised. If you or someone you know is affected by similar issues, please seek support from a trusted professional or helpline.

For my husband, Sedat, who stuck with me through the creation of this art.

Chapter 1: Washington, D.C., 2065

I slide the story toward the editor and wait for a response. He curses while furiously striking his keyboard.

"Fucking idiot, these fools will believe anything." He doesn't look up or reach for the paper. "Is this what the bots gave you?"

"I—" I pause, unsure if I should tell him the truth. "I made some changes. I had to—"

"Again?" He finally looks at me.

I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans and calculate my words.

"The numbers were off. I ran it several times on my own. Changes the whole story," I manage to choke out the truth.

The fury from his fingers engulfs his hand like flames as he slams his fist against the desk. His mouse and keypad jump, and the precious coffee others in the outside world would literally kill each other to have spills on the ground.

"Damn it." His eyes dart toward the coffee.

He stands up and trudges towards me. Instinctively, I stumble backwards and graze my hands over the dagger hidden on my waist.

He keeps marching toward me, and I keep backing away until I hit his cold mahogany door. I keep my eyes on him while feeling for the handle, wishing I had left it open. I inhale and exhale with each step he takes.

"You will not tell anyone about this," he says, digging his finger into my shoulder and fogging my glasses with his breath.

"We are working on an update, and there are a few kinks. We don't want anyone to needlessly panic. You understand?"

I nod slowly.

"Very well then." He takes a few steps back, leans against his desk, and lets out a deep breath.

"Thank you again for making the corrections. It's imperative that we have and maintain trust. You are dismissed."

Relieved, I whip around, open the door, and bolt out of the room. But just as I am turning the corner, I catch a glimpse of the stack of papers I left on his desk hanging over the trash bin.

That was three months ago.

***

My sweaty hands grip the edge of my desk as I sit at my usual workspace, waiting for my name to be called. I close my eyes and try to tune out the noisy beeps and churns of the machines and chatter all around me. I've waited four years for this moment, but somehow I still don't feel ready.

I work as a contractor for one of the largest news networks in the world, the only network on this side of the Atlantic to survive the crash and resist acquisition by either a billionaire or the government. People tell me I'm lucky to be here, that many desire my job, and so I should be happy. And I am happy, or at least I think I am.

I work in the heart of the news station, which buzzes like a factory. There are about ten long tables in parallel rows, each with about ten editors seated next to machines that resemble printers but possess the artificial intelligence of advanced bots. These machines scan the internet, smart devices, and all types of digital outputs for announcements and credible leads for news stories, then assemble the first drafts of stories for the editors to review. The editors review the drafts, make the necessary changes, and upload the articles. But most of the time, they simply upload the drafts since the machines have become so advanced that they hardly need editing. Once the higher-ups in the station approve the stories, they are published, and the editors share them on social media. I sit in the third seat on the first row.

Our seating is a sign of rank. Editors say it can take years to get to the first row, but I did it just after two.

I stare at the paper the bot has spewed out for me to review. It's about the poverty rate throughout the country. According to the raw copy, based on leaked government records, the numbers have remained stable for the last six months. My fingers glide across the bot's screen, requesting the dataset the computer has used. With a quick glance, I notice several errors.

Another one, I think to myself. That's the fourth time this week!

Lately, I've been catching a lot of these mistakes. It started about five months ago when I was bored and picked up one of the rare history books my uncle left me about what used to be the United States economy before the crash. While reading, I noticed a historical detail in the book that directly contradicted something I saw in one of the bot stories I edited and published earlier that day. As I dug deeper into the details and reviewed the story, I found multiple inaccuracies.

Since then, I've gone down rabbit holes with these bot stories, checking and double-checking. Normally, I try to keep a low profile, but there were so many mistakes I decided to alert some senior editors. They supposedly looked into it and told me it’s nothing but an update bug. I don't know if I believe them. Something feels off.

I also have a strange feeling I've been watched more closely since reporting the incident. People know who I am, but for years I've successfully laid low. My father had a reputation for constantly shaking things up, and I saw firsthand what it cost him and my family.

Truth is, there's not much value in shaking things up these days. We need the station. People need something they can trust. I need something I can trust.

My mind returns to the story. It's clear from the data that certain regions have been severely undercounted. I decide to rework the headline and the story. It now reads, "Bogus Numbers Keep the True National Poverty Rate Hidden."

I stare at the bot next to me, wondering if I need to report this uptick in errors again—not just from what the bots spew out but also from what I see published. It worries me that the public might begin to question our credibility. But I also wonder, who am I to bring up such accusations?

"Foenix, Foenix!" A voice jolts me from my thoughts.

I look up to see Emre hovering over my desk. I tense, instinctively wary of his intentions.

"Uhhh, hi," I reply, confused, wondering why after all this time he has decided to make conversation today.

His hazel eyes meet my brown ones as I look up. He's tall and handsome, with a mischievous grin that makes me wonder if he knows something I don't. The way he carries himself, people might assume he thinks he's better than everyone else—present but a bit aloof, as if he has better things to do than this job. I assume he's talking to me because of the competition and nothing more. But as his eyes pierce mine, I almost hold my breath, waiting for his reply. I'm not trying to get caught up in any more station entanglements, but I cannot deny that Emre has swag.

"I know we haven't spoken much," he says slowly, seeming unsure of what to say next, "but I wanted to say good luck tomorrow—not that you need it. You make this look easy."

There's a sincerity in his voice that catches me off guard, as if he genuinely cares about my fate. It makes me want to believe that perhaps not everyone here is part of the facade. Maybe, just maybe, I could afford to let my guard down. But old habits die hard.

"We haven't spoken at all," I snap back at him, immediately regretting the harshness of my words. "And I really don't have the time to start today."

His half-smile fades to a frown, and for a second, I want to kick myself for being a bitch again. I could maybe use a friend, or at least one less enemy in this process. But my instincts remain, and instead of apologizing, I give him a look that says, "Why are you still here?"

His beautiful eyes dim as his pleasant demeanor vanishes. He walks back to his seat in the second row. If my response has dejected him, he doesn’t show it as he quickly resumes his work. I can't help but notice how he nervously taps his fingers on the table, something I've seen him do when he's deep in thought. I wonder what he's thinking about now. Probably that I'm such a bitch.

I shake my head as if to clear it and look back down at my computer. My hands shake, and my face feels flushed. I suddenly thank my lucky stars for the melanin in my skin.

Get it together, I think to myself. What an outsized reaction to a basic greeting.

The bot lights up. My story has been approved. The tension in my body drains away with this realization, then immediately tenses again as I remember what else I have to do. I’ve come to enjoy most of my work, but sharing on social media always gives me anxiety. Some editors are obsessed, arguing with every bot and person online. They thrive on the drama, the relentless back-and-forth exchanges that give them a sense of purpose. And somehow, all the belligerence and hot takes have garnered them large followings. To me, social media interactions have always seemed disingenuous. We all know we put up a facade there. Would they say that shit to my face? I know they wouldn’t.

Up until two years ago, my account looked like a bot's. I followed a few people, like the news director (everyone follows the news director), and only a few people from my neighborhood followed me. But two years ago, I decided I needed to do more to qualify for the Aptitude Test. Now, I have thousands of followers.

There's only one news director position, and for years, they have been looking for a successor. To narrow the choice down fairly, years ago, the station director announced that the person with the highest score on the Aptitude Test, when she either passes the baton because she can no longer work or passes away, will be the successor.

But to even qualify for the test, you must be a Station 7 employee and have at least 300,000 social followers—the concept being that you must be both intelligent and exhibit leadership. Few contractors qualify, and none have passed any part of the test. So I certainly stand out, and I know it.

But today is my last day as an editor because my contract is about to expire, and—in order to fulfill my promise to my uncle—I decide to take the Aptitude Test. I will probably fail. I am not a leader. I don’t even have friends. But I made a promise.

If I pass the test with the highest score, I'll take over this building as the head of the source of information that has given me and others hope for so many years—an improbable scenario.

If I lose, the more likely outcome, I don’t really have a next step planned. There’s not much planning that can be done with life outside of the station, only trying to survive.

After all I've done, I have never been offered a full-time role. I guess I’m not perky or likable enough. I applied so many times but am always told they feel a different candidate is a better fit. Maybe it’s all my complaints about the bots. Either way, my time as an editor expires because my contract will be up, and I'll have nowhere to go.

I've known for a while that my time was ticking, so two years ago, I amped up my social strategy to qualify. Station 7 employees often get more followers than most people because of the organization’s reputation. Two years ago, I had 6,804 followers. But when I started taking the work more seriously—spotting mistakes the bots made, staying up late to take on challenging stories, and not only sharing my stories but also the process behind them—my following exploded. Now I have about 450,000 people following every post I make, giving me many more followers than I need to qualify.

"This will be one of my last story explanations," I begin typing my next post to my followers.

"I've entered the contest. I will start the Aptitude Test tomorrow," I continue.

"If I win, I hope I can be half the leader Director Revel is, consistently upholding the truth. Thank you all for your support. I hope you will continue to follow and support me."

I hesitate for a minute, reading the message about three times. Then I hit send.

Immediately, my screen lights up with notifications, and my following grows by the thousands. Every time someone enters the Aptitude Test, they gain thousands of followers. Though the details of the test are secret, people update their followers as they pass certain parts, and followers root for contestants like sports teams.

I wonder who these followers are. I wonder how many of them root for me to succeed. Then I consider how many of them want me to fail.

I close the screen and take a deep breath. I try to hide my anxiety, which has built to mountainous proportions by this time. It’s coming from not only from the fact that I am taking the test but also because I waited until the last minute to do it.

I close my eyes.

"Idiot, you are an idiot," my father's words echo in my ear.

"Where will you go when you fail?" I imagine him questioning me. "Once you lose, you'll be thrown to the wolves. Chicken shit. You have a month, then you'll be back in the streets with the rest of the trash where you belong."

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