Chapter 23

  JOB IN THE PAWN INDUSTRY

  NEW YORK/ 2052

  Dave stood outside the mega-factory of Global Apex Industries, watching Sophia cross the road with the man she’d been speaking to—a stranger, a fellow student called Adam. They joined the peaceful protesters on the far side.

  She must have warned him, Dave thought bitterly about what Gaia’s Wrath had planned. She always had a way of seeing the bigger picture.

  Yes, the group would make headlines tonight. She was right about that.

  But no one was supposed to get hurt—not physically, at least. Property? That was another matter.

  A convoy of trucks crawled forward past the protest line at the factory gates. Under the harsh industrial lights, corporate logos gleamed—a hollow attempt at eco-virtue signalling. These trucks carried goods from fossil-fuel-burning factories halfway across the globe. The cargo, the companies, the slogans—they were fair game.

  Dave crouched beside his rucksack, identical to several others spread among the group. Inside were fist-sized rocks, chosen for weight and flight. Quietly, he handed them out. Each member accepted their share without a word.

  Their chants swelled, syncing with adrenaline, becoming something primal.

  “Gaia’s Wrath!” Dave bellowed, his voice slicing through the noise like a war cry.

  The first rocks flew, arching through the air and slamming into the truck panels with dull thuds. Metal groaned. Reinforced windows held, but the message was clear.

  Dave hurled a stone of his own, heart hammering. It ricocheted off the side of a truck. He reached for another, threw it, and watched, helpless, as it veered wide and struck an elderly protester on the far side of the road.

  Time froze.

  She collapsed, blood streaking her forehead. Her friends rushed to help, eyes turning toward Dave—shock and fury painted across their faces.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen.

  He stood frozen. The sirens registered only faintly, far away. His eyes stayed fixed on the injured woman. He didn’t notice the officer approaching from behind.

  The baton came fast.

  A crack of pain.

  Darkness.

  Dave came to on the cold bench of a holding cell. His head throbbed. His sense of shame was even worse. Just outside the bars, his father stood, disappointment carved deep into his face. He’d bailed him out. Of course, he had.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The cell door clanked open. Dave followed his father wordlessly through the station and into the waiting autonomous cab. The interior was sleek and silent. The tension between them was louder than words.

  Dave couldn’t take it. “Go on, then. Say something.”

  His father’s jaw flexed. He kept his eyes forward. Then, coldly, deliberately:

  “You’re a well-intentioned idiot. You know that, don’t you?”

  The words hit like a second baton. Dave slumped into his seat, stung more than he’d expected.

  At the trial, Dave listened in silence as the injured woman gave her victim statement. She described her fear—how she no longer felt safe attending the protests she had once believed in. Her voice trembled only slightly.

  And then, unexpectedly, she turned toward the judge. “He’s young,” she said gently. “Misguided in his methods. But his intentions were sincere. Don’t be too harsh on him, Your Honour.”

  Dave stared at the floor, her kindness cutting deeper than condemnation ever could.

  The judge nodded slowly, delivering a suspended sentence.

  Relief surged through Dave. His parents, seated behind him, smiled. From the gallery, a few members of Gaia’s Wrath clapped.

  But it didn’t last.

  “I’m not finished,” the judge said sharply, silencing the room. “As of this morning, Gaia’s Wrath has been classified as a terrorist organisation. I want you to leave them. Immediately.”

  Chaos erupted. Shouts. Outrage.

  Bailiffs swept in.

  Dave sat frozen.

  Days later, back at his parents’ house, Dave lay staring at the ceiling. His name was on a terrorist watchlist because of a rock that missed its mark.

  But he knew the truth. Some faction within Gaia’s Wrath had splintered off, allegedly plotting to bomb a warehouse. Whether they intended to hurt anyone, Dave didn’t know. He hoped not.

  With only an art degree, a criminal record, and a world run by AI, his prospects were bleak. His paintings—once vibrant and distinct—were now merely fodder for machine learning algorithms that had cloned his style and made it freely available for anyone to generate.

  He considered suing, but the cost of a patent lawyer was more than he had in his bank account.

  So he painted in silence.

  The canvases piled up.

  Six months passed. Universal Basic Income kept the lights on. Job applications went nowhere.

  Then one afternoon, his mother handed him an envelope. Slim. Embossed with the Stipe Industries logo.

  He hadn’t ordered anything from them.

  He opened it.

  Dear Mr. Dave Samson,

  We would like to invite you to an interview for a position for which we believe you are uniquely suited. Stipe Industries' philanthropic branch, "To The First Rung", offers employment opportunities to offenders and former prisoners. We see potential in your skills and would be pleased to discuss this further…

  Dave blinked. Reread it.

  Stipe Industries? The dream company?

  A shout burst from his room: “YES!”

  He passed the first stage. Now came the second: a retreat, hosted in a secluded Stipe Industries estate nestled in misty forests and rolling hills. It felt more like a monastery than a tech campus. Yet beneath the peaceful surface, tension simmered. Everyone here had a past.

  Days were packed with tests—psychological, strategic, creative. Nights were quieter, cautious. Dave kept to himself, scrolling bland content, avoiding controversy, trying not to say the wrong thing.

  One night in the dining hall, as he ate a great vegetarian meal, a calm voice interrupted.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  Dave looked up. A man of his age stood there, with brown skin, a composed, thoughtful expression.

  “Yeah, sure,” Dave said. “Go ahead.”

  They exchanged names. Iskander. From Somalia. Once an electrical engineer. His country, he explained, had contributed almost nothing to global emissions—but suffered more than most. Sea level rise. Droughts. Collapse.

  Eventually, Dave asked the question.

  “What did you do to end up here?”

  Iskander’s gaze hardened. “Attempted terrorism,” he said flatly. “Tried to sabotage an oil refinery.”

  Dave stiffened.

  “I was part eco-warrior, part… product of circumstance,” Iskander added. “Cultural pressure. Ideology. But I served my time.”

  The silence between them thickened.

  “Well,” Dave said, forcing a smile, “we’ve all done things we regret. Want to play pool?”

  Iskander leaned back. Studied him.

  “My regret,” he said quietly, “was getting caught.”

  The air turned cold. Dave laughed nervously. Iskander didn’t.

  Later, as they walked toward the recreation area, Dave’s thoughts drifted.

  Stipe Industries. Ethan Stipe. The enigmatic founder. Saviour of the dispossessed—or manipulator with a master plan?