Woke and Wired
A satirical short fiction thriller set in a dystopian America under right-wing authoritarian rule, where sleep brings the risk of silent indoctrination.
This morning I was robbed; sporadic flashes of lightning and distant roars of speeding cars brutally stripped me of the last minutes of slumber I had allotted myself. Any typical concern I might have had for the cars’ source of urgency was drowned out by my fixation on the storm—a phenomenon that has terrified me since grade school. My dread for sleep-deprived fatigue was, of course, only secondary to the creeping threat of brain control that could follow. Instead of heading to The Trade Hub early before my shift—a free-exchange, community-run market hidden in a neglected stretch of the city—to slowly savor an iced black coffee and whatever bagel sat furthest from the conspiratorial counter chatter, I suffered the delays of my morning, fighting to keep my eyelids open long enough to get dressed. My lenient childhood curfew never taught me to take sleep so seriously, but the world managed to turn it into a matter of life or death.
All my trusted knowledge of The Diminution comes from Static Boom, a weekly podcast dedicated to unearthing hidden truths, started by Benny Ortiz, a wiry, sharp-tongued wannabe comedian, and Yara Ishmael, a former investigative journalist with a razor-sharp focus and a voice like steel. In an episode a few weeks back, Yara announced the “sleep deprivation loophole” while Benny joked about the cruel irony of conservatives once accusing progressives of obstructing free speech nearly a decade ago. Before Static Boom, I was confined to the output of the polluted mainstream, all corners of which are now doused by government-sponsored narratives. The data I managed to grasp from the technological jargon of the episode's guest was that NeuralSonar, the not-so-covert government intervention network fashioned by Earl Muck had one fatal flaw: alertness acted as a natural shield. The device—a microscopic neuro-emitter embedded within the wiring of all of public infrastructure—was designed to suppress rogue thought, quietly infusing government-sanctioned ideology into the minds of unsuspecting citizens during the vulnerable hours of sleep. I am granted such insights by some stroke of luck, as Gene and my’s shared skepticisms led us to a clandestine network known as The Leftovers. Understood on a public scale as the elusive “WOKE Mafia,” The Leftovers discovered, just before rollout, that maintaining wakefulness staved off the system’s influence. Through further experiments, they also found that vulnerability wasn't limited to the state of sleep but extended to the well-rested mind, both states in which the brain is at its most malleable.
I finally managed to muster enough energy to get myself dressed. I listened to this week's episode of SB on my bike ride to work. Yara discussed alertness strategies like micro-naps along with their risky limits and Benny made some quippy commentary on the just-released Freedom Fighters 5, the latest in the “red-pill” saga that's all the rage. The episode ended with a cautionary tale, as it always does. This time of a fallen Static Boom producer. He started to …” Yara began, her tone loaded with a kind of weight that made you sit up and listen, “…make these passing comments about how ‘maybe the Leftovers could benefit from some levels of cooperation.’” He’d say things like, ‘You know, the government’s trying to keep order right? Maybe we should try giving them something to work with.’” Her voice turned harder. “And we tried to reason with him and remind him of all the measures of control that he himself had witnessed in the most violent forms.” Benny cut in, dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. He started talking about cultural preservation, like that's not the world's laziest code for rounding up the ‘undesirables’ and shoving them in camps. Then he was like, ‘Well, maybe some people just can’t handle freedom responsibly’ and ‘mediation is the only way to retain moral purity’ just stone cold Nazi shit”. Then Benny’s tone took a swift turn. “This stings. We went to the same schools until college… It’s just wild. I don’t know.” Yara takes hold of the ship, tone hardening, “When he started suggesting that Ally ‘put herself in that position,’ that’s when we knew we’d lost him for good. He said, ‘Well, she had a history, didn’t she? People like that attract trouble, ’implying she deserved what happened.” Then he stopped showing up for our show meetings at the Trade Hub.” Benny said, voice low with disappointment. “Started calling it a ‘cesspool of entitlement’ and that giving away goods was just creating a ‘weakness’ and 'feeding leeches who contribute nothing to society.'” Benny carried on. We knew we had to dose him before he vanished on us for good. I texted him some fake line about ‘meeting up to talk strategy for tightening things up at SB.’ He showed up all puffed up like he was about to lead some moral crusade.” Benny’s tone turned colder. “While he wasn’t looking, I slipped the memory-wipe serum into his coffee, then took the long way to the bus stop just to make sure it kicked in. By the time we got there, he didn't remember why he’d come or who I was. I told him I was just his driver for the day.” Benny chuckled darkly. “He gave me this self-important look, scoffed, and just walked off like I was a nobody.” Yara brings the tale to a close. “A few weeks later he made a post on XUltra, ranting about selfish individualism under the guise of liberation… and the same night, he went on American Voice, nodding along as they talked about how 'true patriots’ don’t tolerate dissent.”
The episode ended unceremoniously, leaving me with a gnawing sense of unease. I arrived at The Trade Hub shortly after. I got stationed there a few months after The Leftovers granted Gene and I membership. While it isn’t the most popular of open markets in their network, it is the one closest to my house. As their lead runner and clerk, I play a lofty role in the operation: the sourcing and exchanging of goods for free public consumption. Our services cater to the organization’s progressives who either refuse to hand their money to government-backed monopolies or lack the means to pay for their basic needs. Open markets were the Leftovers’ solution to circumvent government-sanctioned commerce and keep resources readily available for our growing group of resisters. Surprisingly, many of these markets remain open despite the purge that nearly wiped them out at the beginning of the year.
A handful of patrons were grazing the floor when I arrived and, as expected, our group’s zaniest minds barricaded the baked goods, discussing potential surveillance tactics by the sounds of it. It was the usual suspects: Denny, a skilled craftsman of furniture, and handyman of appliances, with his red-rimmed glasses and dirt-ridden hands; Elliot, a grungy retired marine with a seething disdain for institutions of violence; and Marsha, a barber who serves the community with hot gossip and fresh fades. Gene stood in front of the produce stand, his figure—tall and lean, all limbs, and usually topped by his wild head of curls—but today, oddly kept, seemingly snipped of its feral attributes. My best friend Gene had a knack for balancing rebellion and community. It was Gene who took me to my first underground rave, buried deep in the city’s abandoned warehouses, a hidden refuge where queerness and music created the kind of freedom that only bloomed under flashing lights and secrecy. “This is freedom,” he’d said, grinning as the lights pulsed above us. I caught the ironic tone in his voice, but in that moment, it felt disarmingly sincere. He stood with his back turned, stacking crates of oranges until I startled him with a jolting shove. “What the hell?” He spun around, his eyes narrowing as he took me in. “You look like shit. Like more shit than the normal amount.” I couldn’t help but lodge the comment back at him, eyeing the overly neat trim that made him look like a junior bureaucrat. “You do too. This can’t be Marsha’s work…” I circled behind the counter to inspect the cut more closely. “Really like where’s your hair, Sargent? And can you put it back?” He failed to absorb my comments with the humor they clearly called for. With a tone as dry as it was resolute he said “no I can’t actually. I don’t see the use for the most glaring signal of lack of discipline” I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. He followed “Seriously. If a man can’t even keep his own hair in line… what else is next.” I was impressed by such an unflinching commitment to the bit. My trail of laughter lingered but his returning stare sobered me quickly. Denny’s voice soon came from behind. I hadn’t noticed him lurking there, hands rough and dusted with wood shavings. I wasn’t sure how much of our interaction he heard, but his growing stoicism answered that with certainty. Tight face and a lowered voice he leaned in. “Can you help me unload some tables from my truck?” I followed after him, bracing myself. I knew that look—Denny only wore it on two occasions. The first on inspection days, when the cops came through to perform vendor inspections, forcing us to scramble to make our operation appear like your standard for-profit establishment. But it was the second reason I feared was at play. Because that would mean the threat of losing my closest friend. “Denny. What’s going on.” He stared at me until we gained considerable distance from our starting position. “He’s launched,” he spoke with a level of conclusiveness that cut through any hope I might’ve had.
I hardly remember the moments between then and the huddle—formed between Tricia, The Trade Hub’s no-nonsense operations coordinator, Marsha, and me—in the dim, cold stockroom that reeked of damp cardboard. There she pitched my most viable solution. “Resonance Collective. They’ve got all the ways to keep the mind fortified,” said Tricia with stern promise. I was more than familiar with them. We all were. I didn’t wait for her to say more. Before another word left her mouth, I was out the door. Whipped by the chill air as I biked to Resonance’s HQ, Gene’s indifferent expressions haunted me. After a series of coded exchanges and cryptic directions, I found myself at the entrance to a dimly lit vault hidden beneath an unmarked building. Inside, a group of half-awake insurgents sat hunched over, clinging to shreds of themselves. Ronny Tyler, the front man of the Resonance Collective, greeted me with a weary nod and offered a strange, energy-boosting concoction before briefing me on their latest project in resistance engineering. He described a method they called “paradox conditioning,” a regimented process of mental training designed to erode NeuralSonar’s influence over time by slowly chipping away at the traces it’s left on the mind. The concept felt hazy as he spoke, my exhaustion weighing on me enough to ask him to jot it down on a note card before I left. Despite its hopeful sheen, the anecdote felt hollow—another false promise of true liberation.
I made my way back to The Trade Hub, hoping to catch Gene in a state of coherence. I clutched the note card in my pocket as I entered the doors. Ian, the trainee at the front desk, said he was taking his break. I circled the building to no avail, then abandoned my bike to search the yard. I found him crouched behind a pile of rusted scrap metal, his posture stiff. He was engaged in his usual pastime, picking at weeds in the scrap yard. Unsure of his mental affairs, I approached him quietly, prodding him with a joke we’d tossed around before. “I see your harvesting for dinner?” He jabbed back with the crisp irony I remembered so fondly. “Yeah. Stuff looks mighty juicy today” I pulled the card from my pocket and unveiled its contents to Gene. I explained cautiously that he had begun to showcase the early symptoms of manipulation we call “take off”. Gene’s eyes flicked over the sheet before snatching it from my grasp. His face hardened, but a flicker of fear softened the edge. He glanced back at me with a quiet, desperate urgency. “I’ll do it. Whatever it takes.”
I left, relieved but bone-tired and headed home. I didn’t expect to see him again for a few days, during our next pickup shift around the city. I waited for 40 minutes on the sidewalk outside the train station where we usually meet. No show. This was especially odd considering how much he loved pickups. The next day, I was certain he’d be behind the counter for our regular market shift, armed with some lame excuse—maybe another "cat rescue excursion" like the last time. But missing again, he was. The pattern went on for the next 3 days. My consultations with Tricia and a rotation of Hub staff members during such time offered me no comfort.
Soon it was the weekend. I stuffed my mind with the nourishing contents of books, anything that hinted at a potential “after.” I fiercely avoided the top of the week’s episode of Static Boom, dreading any mention of Gene. I couldn’t bear being bombarded by some morbid turn of events. I had barely fathomed the mere prospect of losing him. Instead, I searched for something lighter and stumbled upon a podcast I had never heard of—a pair of brothers weaving fictional stories of a new world. Their voices were warm, detached from any notion of reality. For a rare, fleeting moment, I found myself laughing, letting the mundane rhythm of their words pull me back to a simpler place, though I couldn’t tell if it was their storytelling or the effects of my frenzied state of sleeplessness.
By Monday, I finally worked up the nerve to tune back into Static Boom. It was then that I learned the fate of my dear friend Gene. “Some time in the last few days, a note ended up in the hands of the enforcement.” Yara said, her tone sharp, like she was fighting to keep her anger in check. “They picked it up during a vendor inspection, right off the grounds of the Hub.” “Probably that rat who lurks around after hours,” Benny bit out, his tone simmering with fury. “Yeah, maybe,” Yara replied, the words tight. “But whatever was on that paper… was enough. Enough for them to issue a shutdown order for security risks and ‘evidence of organized subversion’.” Benny’s voice cut in with sharp finality, his bubbliness drained to something raw. “I know this is really brash, but this isn’t the first Molotov cocktail that’s been thrown in our faces. The Leftovers are already working on relief operations, and we’ll keep everyone updated as soon as we gather that intel.” A heavy silence followed, an unspoken tension bracing me for what would come next. Yara’s voice returned. “This isn’t the last story for the week because we also got word that we’ve lost another one of our own. Gene Howard. One of the most loyal hands at the Hub. Lewis found him last night during street watch… multiple gunshot wounds.” Ben reappears, his tone icier than before. "They called it a public safety measure, but we all know what that actually means." Yara’s voice lingered on the line, thick with defiance. “This isn’t over, but it is the hardest hit we’ve seen in a while. Gene Howard didn’t die for some government stamp of ‘security.’ Ben signs off, “stay up everyone.”
When my screen went blank I wanted to weep, but the exhaustion pressed down on me harder than ever. I didn’t care to conspire about how the note wound up in their hands, nor about how Gene had spent those last few days before being slaughtered. Whatever theories there were, I let them dissolve, choosing instead to occupy what little energy I had with memories of Gene.
One evening, I passed by The Trade Hub, our center of service and safe haven now locked away. It felt surreal—a place we’d worked so hard to protect, that sustained livelihoods, now deemed a “threat,” with its doors sealed off by the same hands we managed to outsmart time and time again. That night, a storm gathered force, swelling as I prepared for my carefully measured hours of sleep. Lightning slashed through the dark, illuminating my room with fierce precision. Yet I held firm, my mind anchored by memories of Gene’s unfiltered humor, the fierce loyalty he held like a lifeline, and his wild curls that always resisted taming. They had taken that too, trying to reduce him to their hollow symbols of compliance. But, like his wild curls, he would rise again with new form, more defiant and mighty than ever before.