PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 4
Dystopian Psychological Thriller
PARTISANCHIP: EPISODE 4
A Dystopian Psychological Thriller
©2022 Stephen Conway
“Yes! Got it!” Marlena said—ignoring my choking and gasps for air. Held my head firm as she slides the endoscope out of my face. Brings the glowing tip of the scope to her eye. Pulls the trigger a second time and the chip drops into her hand. Crushes it with tweezers and melts it with a cigarette lighter.
“Great. You did great,” she said. “Better behaved than most.”
She tossed me a handful of tissues, “Here, clean yourself up. Hate seeing grown-men cry.”
“Not…crying,” I said, flubbering through mucus bubbles in my tear ducts and nose.
She wiped her tools with alcohol three times. Bagged everything up.
“I’m outta here. Suggest you do the same,” Marlena said as she slipped into the hallway like a cat. She turned the corner disappearing to the second of two staircases in this building.
I closed the door. Secured lock after lock after lock. Schickt Schickt. Schickt.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
The SWAT team. Knocks to Bangs. Sucks me out of my Partisan Chip abortion replay with Marlena. This set of knocks is the end of a riot stick. Tired of these animals. Making my way to my front door—wrapping my fist tight with duct tape, grab a cylinder of lip-balm and clench it in my fist for extra support. Peek through the security peephole. One of the SWAT dudes is standing a little to the left. I slam my fist through one of the front door panels, I grab the SWAT goon by the throat and crush his windpipe before any of the other SWATters knows what’s going on—before anyone shoots. But this…my assault…that was only a fantasy created in my mind by the natural flow of adrenaline and cortisol throbbing through my body. A natural flow no longer mediated by that chip. Pituitary privilege. Feeling what I really feel. Haven’t felt like this in a long time. Wow. Fifteen going on sixteen. Energy coursing through me.
When first installed, their Partisan Chip gets connected to your pituitary gland. Regulates your biochemical responses. It also tracks you. Builds a dossier on your responses and how you respond to various environmental stimuli. My fight-or-flight responses were under the control of The Consortium by way of this chip. There’s also been chatter that the chip modifies the brain development of kids.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
SWAT team is persistent.
The people who run the power grids—along with the nice folks at the pharmaceutical, telecom, tech, and defense industries all joined forces after the economy slid down the toilet. Voilà! They released the Partisan Chip: a mandatory—and supposedly apolitical—solution to close the deep divisions in the country. Get one of these little numbers installed in your noggin’ and you get a guaranteed lifestyle. Depending on your background; assessment test-scores, and/or the color of your skin, you may be eligible to receive a salary, full health benefits, and get to choose from a menu of feel-good job opportunities that neither harms the planet nor exploits anyone’s labor. More importantly—your job doesn’t hurt anyone’s feelings. Bonus points if you sign-up for volunteer work. Not too shabby. Even better: you work the hours you want. No more nasty bosses; mean customers; back-stabbing colleagues. Imagine that? On the down-low if someone in your family or someone you know has connections to the Consortium, you can probably find yourself in an even better situation.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The pounding on my apartment door getting harder. Pauses even louder. The SWAT team will be breaking through in a fistful of heartbeats. Took a deep breath and grabbed my “go-bag.” Nylon rope hand-cranked flashlight, matches, light weight mountaineering-clips, waterproof tarp, hunting knife, basic first-aid, trail mix, canteen, toothbrush, floss, soap, manual razor, small mirror, scissors. Made them all myself. No tracers. No internet of things. Moved to the window at the back of my apartment. Looked down to see an inflatable airbag six stories below—the ones used by firefighters. Surrounding the giant bag were eight people. Stenciled on the airbag—in five foot tall letters—were the words:
JUMP
JUMP
JUMP