Story code: ST-001250
Part 2: The Outrage Feed
The plastic zip-tie bit savagely into Wade’s ulnar nerve as the guard hoisted him upward by his bound wrists. The pain was a blinding white flash behind his eyes. He tried to get his boots under him, but the armored men simply dragged him backward across the hot granite, his steel toes scraping uselessly against the stone.
Through watering eyes, Wade saw the plaza being dismantled. It wasn’t a standard police riot line. There were no precinct commanders shouting on bullhorns, no blue-and-red lights flashing against the surrounding glass office buildings. The black-clad guards operated in absolute, terrifying silence. They were sorting the protesters like industrial cattle, scanning faces with handheld devices and shoving them toward a line of massive, matte-grey transport haulers.
There were no government seals on the trucks. Just a sleek, chrome logo embossed on the side panels: *Aegis Civil Management*.
“Move,” a mechanically filtered voice barked from behind a dark visor.
Wade was hurled forward. He slammed shoulder-first onto the ribbed metal floor of the transport. A second later, Elaine was thrown in beside him. She hit the deck hard, crying out as her bleeding chin smacked against the heavy steel grating. The massive rear doors slammed shut, sealing them inside with a heavy pneumatic hiss. The blinding afternoon heat vanished, instantly replaced by freezing, hyper-circulated air and the sterile glare of recessed LED strips.
Wade lay on his side, gasping, trying to ease the agonizing pressure on his bound shoulders. He managed to scrape his boots against the floor and slide his back up the cold metal wall.
Across the narrow compartment, Elaine was curled into a tight ball, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the grating. Her tailored blazer, so immaculate ten minutes ago, was torn at the shoulder and smeared with grey dirt.
“You alive, Elaine?” Wade asked, his voice rough and breathless.
She glared at him, her eyes dark with pain and lingering fury. “Don’t pretend you care. Tell your fascist paramilitary buddies to back off.”
“They aren’t mine,” Wade spat back, the political hatred flaring up again despite the throbbing in his skull. “Did you see any badges? Any sheriff stars? They didn’t even read us our rights.”
Before she could answer, a flat monitor embedded in the steel bulkhead between them powered up with a soft, melodic corporate chime. A smooth, AI-generated female voice filled the freezing compartment.
“Welcome to Aegis Civil Management,” the voice purred. “Your temporary detention is currently being processed. Please be aware that transport overhead, physical intake processing, and oxygen-circulation fees are now actively accruing to your citizen profiles.”
Wade stared at the screen. A digital overlay appeared, pulling their names and driver’s license photos in real-time. Beneath their faces, a running tally was already spinning.
*Wade Harrison: $450.00.*
*Elaine Cho: $450.00.*
The numbers ticked up by three cents every second.
“What is this?” Elaine whispered, struggling to sit up. She leaned against the opposite wall, clutching her ribs. “They can’t charge us to arrest us. My PAC paid the city for the plaza permit until four o’clock.”
“I don’t think Aegis Civil Management gives a damn about your permit,” Wade muttered, testing the heavy plastic restraint holding his wrists. It didn’t yield a millimeter. “The city council. They must have outsourced the riot control to clear the municipal deficit.”
The hauler lurched violently into motion. There were no sirens, just the deep, electric hum of a massive battery-powered engine pulling them away from the courthouse.
On the bulkhead monitor, the display shifted. It showed a split-screen video feed. Wade felt his breath catch in his throat. It was a high-definition, multi-angle recording of him and Elaine screaming at each other on the steps just minutes ago. But it wasn’t raw security footage. It was heavily edited, chopped into a slick, fast-paced clip with aggressive kinetic typography flashing their words across the screen.
*HIS BLOOD IS ON YOUR POLICIES!* flashed in bright red letters over Elaine’s face.
*YOU ARE A POLITICAL VULTURE!* flashed in stark white over Wade’s.
A banner across the bottom read: *Outrage Feed: Live. Brought to you by Secure-Life Pharmaceuticals.*
“Why are they playing this?” Wade asked, squinting at the screen. The deeply personal tragedy that had haunted his neighborhood, the dead boy whose memory he was trying to protect from Elaine’s political machine-it was all being packaged like a reality television trailer.
Elaine shuffled closer, her animosity momentarily overridden by absolute bewilderment. She nodded toward the top right corner of the video. “Wade. Look at the numbers.”
A view counter was spinning wildly. *44,000. 65,000. 89,000.* A small green arrow indicated high engagement. Beneath the counter, a secondary string of text scrolled specifically for the transport’s automated system: *Subject pairing highly volatile. Recommend extending detention for optimal ad-revenue extraction.*
Wade felt a cold, sinking dread in his stomach that entirely eclipsed the physical pain of his arrest. They weren’t swept up to clear the streets. They weren’t detained because of their political affiliations, or because Elaine was mourning a tragedy, or because Wade was defending a constitutional right.
They were harvested.
“They’re broadcasting us,” Elaine said, her voice trembling. She looked up at a small, black dome camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling. Its red tally light was glowing steadily. “They scooped up the loudest people on both sides to put us in a cage together. They’re monetizing the fight.”
“Don’t look at the camera,” Wade ordered, ducking his head. “Don’t give them anything to use.”
“I need a doctor,” Elaine whimpered, her composure finally shattering. She tilted her head back, and Wade saw the deep, jagged laceration under her chin. Blood was soaking into the white collar of her blouse. “My jaw is throbbing. I think the bone is cracked.”
Wade looked back at the screen. The debt tally was still ticking upward relentlessly. *$482.12.*
He looked up at the camera dome. He hated Elaine. He hated everything she stood for. But he hated this sterile, smiling machine more.
“Hey!” Wade shouted at the lens. “She needs medical attention! Get a medic in here!”
The AI voice chimed instantly, cutting through the low hum of the electric engine. “Medical intervention requested. Current market rate for Tier-3 mobile triage is four thousand dollars. Would you like to split this cost with Detainee Cho, or assume full financial liability? A verbal confirmation is required.”
Wade stared at the black lens. His bank account was already stretched to the breaking point just paying for gas to travel to the rallies. Four thousand dollars would absolutely ruin him. But across the small space, Elaine was swaying on her knees, her face chalk-white beneath the dirt and blood.
“Please continue engaging,” the smooth voice added cheerfully. “Viewer retention is currently peaking. Higher interpersonal conflict may qualify you for a sponsored medical discount. Would you like to resume your previous ideological debate?”