CHAPTER TWO ... arriving at prison, the war or words.

 

Around 15 or so young Black men, prison‑buff, well groomed and wearing clean clothes, are working their way smoothly through the crowd toward me. A few make eye contact with me, smile and wave — like people do when they see a Celeb they have grown up with and think they know, before getting back to the business of moving through the people, flowing like water. They get here like that. Obviously practiced at picking up cars and shit, they hunch down under us and then smooth as hell lift this 2.3‑ton vehicle on their shoulders.

Behind them, the Mongrels — mixed‑race, disciplined, calm — begin forming a human corridor to protect the women and children being funneled into the gym. They move with quiet authority, guiding families past the chaos, keeping them away from the white gang’s territory.

Another gang, Mexican, goes out ahead of us and begins to clear a space for them to bring her in. They order the guards around, to get the refugees into the yard so we can get through.

The Diablos coordinate with the Panthers, both groups running crowd control. Panthers keep the men from pushing forward. Diablos keep the elderly from being trampled. It’s a choreography — not kindness, but competence.

This is the last thing I expected. After all the horrors I have tried to walk past in the last week — after a LOT OF PILLS trying to forget the sound and faces of this last platoon... they come rushing at me and I shake my head, come back to the now. There is never time to mourn.

I look around at the men carrying me and those clearing a path. They, like the whole place, are spotless. In a world with a dim sky and black mold everywhere, no showers or clean water usually, the simple luxury of being clean was part of the past. I figured I was driving into chaos. Not order. Not after the battlefield. Not after seeing that which I will never speak. Not after watching a man tear his teeth into raw, bloody, steaming brown liver like the starving animal he was, right on the battlefield as he slaughtered a soldier. If there is a worst part it was how terrified he looked that someone would see him. His offense would get him shot in the Ellison army. A memory I repressed or the pills blacked out until now.

Try again to take comfort in the sheer order of the prison. Order — a strange, improvised, gang‑built order. The yard was filled with choreographed movements, people with purpose. Supplies were stacked neatly. Outside the prison walls there is extensive work being done. Battle prep from what I can tell, ramparts. Trenches. IEDs.

The white gang — Sons of Odin — are separated from the others, working in a designated section of the yard. They build fortifications with military precision. They do not mix with the Mongrels or Panthers. Their tattoos are Odin‑related. Their territory is clearly marked. They watch Juan with curiosity, not hostility.

They are all white, muscled like the rest. Their tattoos are Odin related. White supremist. Are they alone because they segregate?

I look back into the prison yard and realize I had no expectations coming into this prison, but clean and organized were not among them. Let alone a gang carrying me to a parking spot.

⭐ MAYA ARRIVES (your prose preserved)

Maya is standing by where they sit me down. She looks harrid. Her black hair disheveled — what I used to call her “Einstein hair” in university.

She looks at me with a wry smile, “Wow, aren't you Juan Rivera, the Celeb? You look shorter in person.”

"Well, the camera adds a foot.."

“Touche.”

…

Ruby leaves a cloud of dust behind us on the empty road.  Around us are burnt trees, long dead, stubbornly still standing, their branches scratching at the smoggy sky.  We travel a few hundred miles in quiet, then begin to see people headed toward the prison -- as soon as they see the camo covered beast coming they start trying to wave us over to get a ride. There are only a few at first, then more and more as we near the prison. War refugees. Promised food for days by 6 holos if they gathered at the prison. They are beyone carrying any possessions, just the clothes on their backs, unwashed and dusty, too worried about trying to get their next meal --or avoiding becoming someone else's -- to worry about petty shit like dirt. Kind of like me, lately. Four days laying in filth -- I stayed because I didn't want to leave until I knew none of the platoon was meeting back up with me.

"Ruby, start telling these people that we are law enforcement and will run them over if they do not get out of our way. Add we cannot take riders, and anyone coming near the truck will get an electric shock. Run on repeat."  I try not to look too close at anything or anyone anymore. Hard to miss the road scorched black in front of me speaking of the fires of 2079 turning the skies dark, or the death of animals, plants, most life... or the ragged defeat in the posture of the people I pass/or their rugged ability to go on when all they had left was hope itself. When we are forced to slow down enough the windows beside us are no longer blurs, I start to see the dead, and much worse, the given up on, by someone else or themselves, laying here and there by the road preparing to join the rotting corpses.

I had heard enough of those stories to fill a holo library.

The announcement and a flashing blue light clears the road for a few minutes, while the refugees are few enough for such niceties, though the closer we get to the rising prison walls, the denser the crowds, the slower our progress. I stop about 20 yard out from the crowd trying to cram into the prison gates as guards direct them.

As soon as I stop, Elias is wide awake. As I now suspect he has been for who knows how long?

"Ruby, open my window, please." He says in his preternaturally calm voice. Before I can think to do shit Elias leaps out of the window and disappears in the crowd. "What the fuck?'

Ruby responds through the Ai sounding amused. 'Sherlock Not. Look in the yard, kiddo, before you start I banging on the dashboard.'

Around 15 or so young Black men, prison‑buff, well groomed and wearing clean clothes, are working their way smoothly through the crowd toward me. A few make eye contact with me, smile and wave -- like people do when they see a Celeb they have grown up with and think they know, before getting back to the business of moving through the people, flowing like water. They get here like that. Obviously practiced at picking up cars and shit, they hunch down under us and then smooth as hell lift this 2.3‑ton vehicle on their shoulders. Another gang, Mexican, goes out ahead of us and begins to clear a space for them to bring her in. They order the guards around, to get the refugees into the yard so we can get through. This is the last thing I expected. After all the horrors I have tried to walk past in the last week -- after a LOT OF PILLS trying to forget the sound and faces of this last platoon . . . they come rushing at me and I shake my head, come back to the now. There is never time to mourn.

I look around at the men carrying me and those clearing a path. They, like the whole place, are spotless. In a world with a dim sky and black mold everywhere, no showers or clean water usually, the simple luxury of being clean was part of the past. I figured I was driving into Chaos. Not order. Not after the battlefield. Not after seeing that which I will never speak. Not after watching a man tear his teeth into raw, bloody, steaming brown liver like the starving animal he was, right on the battlefield as he slaughtered a soldier. If there is a worst part it was how terrified he looked that someone would see him. His offense would get him shot in the Ellison army. A memory I repressed or the pills blacked out until now.

Try again to take comfort in the sheer order of the prison. Order — a strange, improvised, gang‑built order. The yard was filled with choreographed movements, people with purpose. Supplies were stacked neatly. Outside the prison walls there is extensive work being done. Battle prep from what I can tell, ramparts. Trenches. IED's. They are all white, muscled like the rest. Their tattoo's are Odin related. White supremist. Are they alone because they segregate?

I look back into the prison yard and realize I had no expectations coming into this prison, but clean and organized were not among them. Let alone a gang carrying me to a parking spot.

Maya is standing by where they sit me down. She looks harrid. Her black hair disheveled--.what I used to call her 'Einstein hair' in university. 

She looks at me with a wry smile, "Wow, aren't you Juan Rivera, the Celeb? You look shorter in person."

"Well, the camera adds a foot.."

“Touche.”

"Only took me twenty years to think of a good response to that.."

Her smiles fades, first from her eyes, then her lips. “Koch is already slamming you.”

I don’t react at all and thank you God for pills. "Of course he is."

“You’re helping lying deserters,” she continues. “And that your broadcast tonight will be dangerous. He’s putting on a special show — pulling out all the stops. The 40 Celeb's Phenom.”

I groan.

Celeb 40's Phenom — the most vapid, manipulative, emotionally engineered spectacle Koch had ever created. A nonstop parade of Celebs crying, confessing, forgiving, begging, praying, performing morality like it was a talent show.

“He’s trying to spare people from the pain you’re bringing,” Maya said. “That’s the line. Juan is a bummer, has been the tag line by Kosmo all day, promoting the show.”

I laugh bitter and snide. “Of course, he fucking is.”

She nods.

“They know we're going to try to regroup here. Then take whoever we can to Chicago. They are ready to close their doors."

I frowned. Looking around the yard, how organized they are, with at least four gangs I can tell now. The blacks work with two others, the Mexicans and Native Americans. They must hate each other but I know they work together behind bars to deal drugs, AI's, keep the peace.

“Chicago?”

“The last public sanctuary,” she said. “The only one Koch, or the environment, hasn’t taken. His soldiers are starving. They want the food here. Supplies. They want to use... us, and our supplies, to get Sanctuary 6's working farms. They are not using slaves, so they don't have the problems Koch does. We have reports of people sacrificing themselves to stop his progress on his shelters. It's that bad. Now with what Elias went through, brought back... Lord. The world will walk past this. We just need enough people to get to Chicago.”

I looked around the yard — at the gangs, at the refugees, at the guards taking orders from men most people dismissed as criminals. They are more organized than the latest recruits to the union, who had seemed like cannon fodder. I wonder how many of them will listen when I ask them to regroup here?

“We can get north, with the last of the war refugees." Maya goes on, "Once Chicago shuts the doors on the shelter, they are shut. Sanctuary 6, complete. Unless Koch can talk his way in. That is where you come in. Pen mightier than the sword and all that. A counsel would have to vote him in."

I motion around at the bee-hive like activity, as the guards process the refugees, the gangs police a troublemaker silently, with no fuss. Just take him to a room off to the side. "Maya, I want to get this. For tonight. "

"Well, that's what we need you for, to prove these guys are not cannibals."

"He's saying they ...  are.... the cannibals?"

"Psy-op's 101.  School Yard Bully.  'I'm not, but you are."  It works on people who want to believe.  They want Ellison's army to be coming to save them.  They believe the myth."

"Maya leads me through a CLEAN smelling prison. The windows are even clean. Smelling all the variations of cleaning products contrasts strongly with my stench.  Of course, Maya is perhaps the only person on the entire damn planet I would even think to care about that shit. 

The people we pass who recognize me say hello and I nod. Maya is amused by my act. I needed my

credibility in the beginning of my career, and part of that was not being an asshole to people. I always

hated people who used whatever bit of power they had to look down on someone else. Despite the

fame, inside I was never anyone and never would be, really. I WAS the kid who wanted to save the world . . . who learned the generations before me had already killed the planet. Forcing us to go underground for our last few years of life on the planet. Our next phase... then I became the guy who was going to expose injustice, in industry and the government, and that worked when we had a

government that could enforce laws. Before the multi-trillionaires decided fiefdoms were more to their

liking, and Ellison's private army grew too strong for the domestic forces to fight.

"I could give a shit, Maya.  I watched the Holos... don't."

"I been doing this long enough to listen when people tell me that I don't need another nightmare."

"Yeah, well, I spread nightmares.  That is supposed to make them go away, for reasons that make no sense right now."

"We are going to stay ahead of this. First show Koch, then you respond. I need you to win these people over. All of them. They're all your fans. They won't admit it. Well, maybe Theo. Just be ready, and know. For now, the Panthers and the Mongrels are protecting you, but no one wants you harmed, so... you are the safest person in the prison. For now. Fuck up in there, they might shiv you."

"My old agent used to try to motivate me, too. She never tried the Shiv thing, but... it works."

Maya has had the gangs gathered into the gym, along with most of the refugees, minus the children. The place is packed wall to wall, bodies pressed together.  I walk in and it hits me like a body slam--swamp stench; after the clean smell I am a little shocked that I smell like them.  The refugees have the usual reaction to a celeb, the glassy eyed look I never quite understood, as if they were discovering for the first time that I was real?  They loved to be near me because of the face showing up on their holo, the same as the painted celebs Koch used to fuel his destruction and death. Nothing to be proud of. One woman wolf‑whistles. Most of the others just stare with that glassy, worshipful look I’ve come to hate — the look people get when they think fame means divinity.  People always think I can get things done that... I wish I could. I hear a few of them mention my height. They always expect me to be six foot seven or something.

I know how others use their fame, and I hate the results worse than I could ever show. My instincts tell me to hate all humans for the shit I’ve seen, but something flips inside me and I slip into the role they expect — the hipster reporter in dark sunglasses and leather, driving the mythic beast Ruby, the cranky old woman who somehow has more fans than I ever did -- bless her cold, cold heart.

Maya raises her voice. “This is Juan Rivera." The gang leaders make hand signs and the gymnasium goes silent, other than a few people, who notice the silence after a moment and shut up too.  "He has holos he’s going to release tonight, and Koch doesn’t want people to believe them. So, you’re going to see this tonight during Primetime Kosmo Live.   Hold off your opinions until you see both broadcasts.  Juan is responding right after this.”

The holos around the gym flicker on, showing everything in a perfect 90‑degree panorama.

Bright purple lights explode across the gym, pulsing in hypnotic strobes that shrink into a single dot and vanish. Music blasts — the number one hit of the afternoon. Kosmic Kosmo bursts onto the stage in a neon green suit, his candy‑apple red pompadour bouncing like it’s alive. He seems to be in the room, the 90 degrees of the holo giving the usual illusion of viewers being right in the audience of the show, like they could be touched.

“WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY! WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY! WE ALREADY KNOW THE STORY!”The audience chants it with him. A CLAP SIGN flashes overhead: CLAP NOW — YOU GET POINTS! People clap madly, hoping someone at home will clap while they’re on screen, raising their Celeb status. Their holos blink green: POINTS AWARDED.

The audience laughs. My stomach twists. They had laughed last week,too, when they countered my witnesses to the cannibalism with the this food poisoning shit.

Kosmic spins, kicks, thrusts, freezes mid‑pose.

“Folks, folks, folks… apparently a certain someone — a certain Juan someone — thinks he’s BREAKING NEWS. Uhm, that was… gas, Juan.”

Kosmic cups his ear. “Little Red is SCREAMING. He says, ‘Kosmic, baby, we SAW that cannibalism LAST WEEK!’”

He twists his nipples violently.

“CRY ME A RIVER‑IARIA!”

The audience howls. The CLAP SIGN flashes again. More points.

Kosmic struts across the stage. “Juan, sweetheart, darling, my little battlefield blogger… you’re late. You’re SO late. We already covered the whole mayo‑madness thing!”

He winks.

“Bad mayonnaise, folks. BAD. MAYO. NAISE.”

The audience chants: “BAD MAYO! BAD MAYO!”

Kosmic nods solemnly. “Those soldiers weren’t monsters — they were HUNGRY and CONFUSED. Who among us hasn’t eaten someone... errr, I mean something questionable at a picnic?”

The audience roars.

Music softens. Plumage floats in wearing a feathered gown, made to glow like a saint descending from heaven. She smiles warmly.

“Juan… sweetheart… we worry about you.”

The audience “aww”s. The CLAP SIGN flashes: CLAP IF YOU CARE. Holos blink: CARE POINTS AWARDED.

“You’re out there alone, filming terrible things, and we admire your courage. Truly.”

Kosmic wipes fake tears. “He’s BRAVE, Plumage. SO brave. Like a puppy lost in a thunderstorm.”

“But darling… you’re seeing things that aren’t real,” Plumage says. “You’re interpreting chaos as conspiracy.”

She leans toward the camera. “Juan, we already knew about the soldiers. We already explained it. You don’t need to carry this burden alone.”

Music kicks back in. Kosmic shouts, “HIT IT!”

Backup dancers rush in wearing glitter‑covered military uniforms. They pretend to eat giant foam drumsticks, faint from “bad mayo,” and film themselves crying dramatically like me. Kosmic sings:

“🎵 MAYO MADNESS, BABY,

DON’T YOU LOSE YOUR MIND!

JUAN’S OUT THERE FILMING,

THINKS HE’S SAVING MANKIND! 🎵”

The CLAP SIGN pulses: CLAP FOR BONUS POINTS! Holos blink: BONUS AWARDED.

Plumage joins the dance, doing slow, exaggerated crying gestures.

Kosmic shouts, “Juan, honey, you’re not a hero — you’re a HOLO‑HYPE MACHINE!”

The audience explodes.

Music stops. Lights dim. Plumage steps forward, voice soft.

“Juan… listen to me.”

Kosmic holds Little Red like a wounded pet.

“We care about you. We really do.”

“You’re overwhelmed,” Plumage says. “You’re exhausted. You’re seeing patterns that aren’t there.”

“He’s cavorting with spies,” Kosmic says. “He’s talking to shadows.”

“Juan, sweetheart… we want to help you.”

She gestures to a holo graphic: CELEB MENTAL WELLNESS CENTER — FREE FOR JUAN.

The audience gasps.

“Come home,” Plumage says. “Let us take care of you. You don’t have to fight alone. We realize you are surrounded by criminals, and they have probably taken you hostage, or made you their bitch by now. We will save you. Don't worry. We are coming, so no matter what lies you say, or how you get this mistake... this 'mayonnaise mistake'... Oh, God, now I am laughing and crying.”

“Little Red says you’re crying,” Kosmic adds.

The audience laughs.

Plumage looks directly into the camera. “Juan… please. Get help. We’re here for you.”

Kosmic puts a hand on her shoulder. “We love you, buddy.”

The CLAP SIGN flashes: CLAP IF YOU SUPPORT JUAN’S RECOVERY. The audience claps wildly. Holos blink: SUPPORT POINTS AWARDED.

“You’re not alone, Juan,” Plumage says. “We believe in you.”

“Even when you’re wrong,” Kosmic adds.

Fade out.

The gym stays silent. Hundreds of eyes on me. No one cheers. No one jeers. They just wait.

I feel humiliated — not because of the jokes, but because the jokes work. Because truth becomes entertainment faster than I can film it. Because Plumage’s fake compassion cuts deeper than Kosmic’s cruelty. Because the gangs behind me are angry, humiliated.

I send an AImind to Ruby to edit the prison footage and start talking as soon as I can get control of my anger. Sanctuary 6 gives me an intro I do not hear, and Maya tells me I am on. Suddenly I am no longer just in the gym. I feel myself splinter into peoples living rooms, abandoned basements, anarchists camps, prisons, Union areas throughout the north and maybe the west. Standing in a gym filled with supposed bloodthirsty criminals -- who they are going to all notice are clean, just like he did, first thing.

“You saw what Ellison’s soldiers did.” My voice is steady. “I didn’t go looking for anything except the truth. I went looking for cannibalism… and I found something worse.”

I pause.

“I found slavery. AND MUCH WORSE!"

“And now you’re going to see what Koch calls ‘sanctuary.’ You’re going to see what he hides under his shelters. You’re going to see what he advertises to his Celebs.”

I have Ruby load the first Koch holo, faces and genitals blurred out as grotesque perversions of pain and pleasure play out. I leave the demonic voice over on for five seconds, than cut it off.

"How can a human being even describe perversions in this manner? Like they are selling luxury yachts.? Let me frame them like they should be. Children. Raised for sex. Raised for torture. Raised for entertainment. Koch — you told the world I’m unstable. You told them I’m crying. You told them I’m late. You told them I’m wrong. But I didn’t find madness. I found your business model.”

I add, “I will only release this holo with three adults on the presets. I wouldn’t watch it if I were you. If you find anyone who likes watching this… kill them. The children's faces will remain marked out, the adults will be shown.”

I switch to footage of the prison — food lines, order, discipline, children eating, no chaos, no cannibalism.

“Koch says the prisoners are eating people. Look at them. Look at the food lines. Look at the order. Look at the discipline.”

I pause.

“The only people eating human beings are Ellison’s soldiers.”

I don’t yell. I don’t rant.

“Kosmic, Plumage — you danced. You sang. You mocked the dead. You pretended to be my friends. You pretended to care. You pretended to offer help.”

I shake my head.

“You don’t want to help me. You want to bury me. Or give me a personality like your own, vapid, insipid selves. I didn’t find a conspiracy,” I say. “I found a supply chain.”

"Cannibalism.

Slavery.

Pedophilia.

Propaganda.

Brainwashing.

This isn’t madness. This is policy.”

I raise my voice — not in anger, but urgency.

“If you can hear me — if you’re retreating from the battlefield, if you’re National Guard, if you’re local militia, if you’re armed, if you’re starving, if you’re scared — come to the prison. We leave for Chicago this week. After we kick Ellison’s ass. Which we will, with your help."

I nod toward the gangs.

“They all think very differently, but when it comes to working together to save their lives, they come together. Everyone is welcome, as you can tell. I always say, 'Friendship will be the last commodity.' If you are hungry, you know a meal is priceless, and whoever feeds you is a saint. They’re feeding people. They’re protecting people. They’re saving people. Some will only protect their own. This is like 6, they don’t care how you think, just how you act”

“They are not eating anyone.”

I look straight into the holo.

“Koch — you want to hospitalize me. You want to erase me. You want to put a compliant personality in my body.”

I smile.

“No. I am going to tell people the truth about your perversions, and Ellison's army. We know you want the last Public Sanctuary. You fucking multi-trillionaires were taxed one tiny fucking bit to get five shelters going. This is the last one we know of... we are going to shut your perverted ass out.”

I lean forward.

“As far as coming to the prison, well... we are ready to kick your ass. So, bring it the fuck on. This is Juan Rivera, wishing all of the good people out there a warm place to sleep, and a full stomach.”. ”

I end the broadcast.

The gym stays silent. Stoic. Concerned. Measuring me again.