Decoded

When I heard that Med-Stock was low in supply, my dreams of the end nearing were confirmed. Over the past month, sector-wide blackouts have incre ased exponentially; blips, as I prefer to call them. For most, the high-frequency surges induce sleep attacks. For glitches, like me, they’re telegrams of activations and energetic downloads. Med-Stock, the supplier of our mandatory medications and supplements, is advertised as the backbone of our society, claiming that they keep our internal systems healthy and our performance optimal. I’d agree that from the House’s perspective, medicated functioning is optimal, though I’d argue that it’s due to an increase in susceptibility that facilitates such conformity and “order.”

I’m only exempt from daily meds because of allergies. Typically, such sensitivities immediately give away glitches; I suppose being the House Scribe’s daughter was worth something after all. When I feel out of place, I remind myself to take a step back and remember that there is order to the cosmic assembly line that we were all produced. The “coincidences” are only confirmation of this. I must be stealthy, nonetheless, and try my best to blend in. I know all it takes is one misstep, and I’d be deported, or worse- treated with shock therapy for being a glitch.

There are others like me who challenge the system fundamentally- biologically. Those without sensitivities stereotype us, but I don’t blame them; it’s hard to interpret what one cannot understand.

After a House mandated search and purge of all under investigation three years ago, on top of annual deportations increasing and treatment facilities filling up each year, we’ve adapted to flying under the radar. Surely more than ever, we must protect ourselves from the House. Many are quick to assume and point fingers at the glitches for supposedly causing the blackouts.

I’m one of the lucky ones, being excused from daily meds. Unfortunately, other means of mass sedation are nearly impossible to avoid. The Florex Act of 3193, for example, was passed to infuse trace amounts of manufactured minerals through our irrigation and water systems. In history, we’re taught that it’s to keep our minds sharp, but according to my research, it’s all just propaganda for mass mind-control. Along with regulated media, we’re forcibly exposed to twenty-four hours of updates broadcasted over the general intercom as “news.” The baiting stories are far from what I’d call “newsworthy,” though. It appears that even with different titles and headlines, the same stories are recycled repeatedly, all to induce fear. It’s easy to command obedience when fear is all-permeating.

I’m an outsider, lucid in meditation to the maze of which our sector wanders. At the same time, I also know that there’s still so much to learn and see, which is why I document all of my observations, patterns, codes, and especially dreams. The youth are fed different medication than the graduates and conditioned differently, so they still dream. Over time, we’re conditioned to question the validity of our intuition, however. Only once taken off the graduate medication did I start dreaming regularly again. My younger sister, Beck, still has six years until she graduates. No one’s caught on yet, but she’s a glitch too. I volunteer to pick up and set out my pod’s weekly meds for that reason; so that I can purposefully reduce her dose. Someday, I know she’ll have to navigate the system and learn how to protect herself, but that reality only gives me further incentive to journal away. I hope that one day when the time is right, my dreams, visions, and insights can be enough to guide her through her lullaby lectures to freedom. If only we all would- could- listen to our dreams.

If I were to describe the blips to an outsider, I’d best compare it to that of a dream state or lucid projection. Expanded awareness attuned with the collective consciousness overwhelms all otherwise rational or logical thought. To the normies, it’s simply comparable to deep sleep. It’s through these states of blips and night that I’ve been able to uncover many of our protocols. Beyond liberty in the blips, overlaying is always a script of code. I suspect that the numbers direct our conscious thought and dictate coincidences in the waking realms. I know that the meaning behind the code itself holds great significance, but I have yet to learn its translations. Still, I’m good at putting together the puzzle pieces underlying daily interactions. With awareness, it’s hard not to notice it playing out, even by those lacking in conscious awareness. I believe they used to be called synchronicities, at least, before free thought was revoked and dreams fell to a deep state of oblivion. I’d love to learn someday, or at least understand what has been playing during the blips to confirm my intuitions. Realistically though, to learn now would be suicide. With my father’s access to the intercom, if I knew how to code and anything went wrong with the broadcast, without a doubt, I would be first reprimanded.

There’s only one person left in my sector who knows that I’m a glitch. We haven’t spoken since regulations became more heavily enforced, and the only reason he knows about me is because I know about him. Archer Emmett was my best friend throughout grade training, but since we realized what made our connection so special was also what could hurt each other worst, we’ve kept our distance. I still think of him, though, and wonder if he keeps up in code. To have a friend who understands you is rare; likewise, it leaves you vulnerable.

Even if it was safe to share authentically, non-familial interactions are limited right now. All pods have been ordered to prepare their bunkers for lockdown, and all non-essential workers directed to work remotely. I don’t mind it. I’m detached from the drama this way. If it weren’t for my mother telling me to go early to fetch our weekly meds, I would have never known that Med-Stock was facing a supply deficit. News of the sector’s biggest monopoly facing a shortage was what caused the truth behind my dreams to dawn upon me… it really is the end of life as we know it.

The rest of the sector must have had the same idea about going early for med-pickups; I’d never seen so many faces in Med-Stock at once. Usually, on Sabbaths, I try to roam around and greet other members of my community. As the week’s busiest day, dedicated to preparations, interpersonal interaction eases otherwise high anxiety duties and tasks. From astral adventures, I’ve gathered that long ago, Sabbath was honored as a day of rest. I haven’t yet cross-checked that, but any concept of sanctified rest sounds like music to my ears. These days, work and order are treasured, while play and rest are merely myths. On this Sabbath, despite the longing for connection, there was no time for small talk. The past three nights, my dreams have been increasingly vivid- as always before a blip.

I scanned my ID into the kiosk and roamed the aisles while waiting. This week’s shoppers varied greatly from the usual crowd. Not a single elder was in sight. I’d heard of rumors going around about how the blackouts caused radiation poisoning in the elderly but assumed that it’d be dismissed as most tales are. I can’t say I’m surprised; fear can drive even the most level-headed man to insanity if not mastered.

Taking mental note of my surroundings, I briefed the room. Around the corner, I spotted the first familiar face I’d seen all day. Could it be? As Archer and I made eye contact, a sudden recollection of my dreams resurfaced. In all three of them, Archer was present. While I had figured his appearance to reflect more symbolically, a morsel of my consciousness mirroring my blind spots back to me, I realized it was, in fact, premonitory. All three of the dreams ended the same: Asher would bare his chest to show me his heart, only I’d wake up gasping each time before reading it.

“Doris Castling? It can’t be!” Just as I had dreamt, his kind smile hadn’t changed a bit. I wanted to stay and catch up, but I knew time was of the essence.

“Archer, hey!”

“Castling, Pod 248.” The supplier called. Thank God.

“It was nice to see you! Stay safe!” I dismissed my old friend. A tingling sensation began to overtake my third eye and crown as I noticed it to prior each blip. Before I could render how to escape, the overhead lights started flickering, and the intercom broadcast sizzled. I didn’t have as much time as I had thought. I looked to Archer, who seemed unphased, and rather preoccupied with my reaction. He was also awake in a sleeping world. I prepared to drop, and once the crowd around me fell, we pretended to follow in suit.

The transmission was more vivid than any blip before, the colors increasingly hallucinogenic, and vibrations of all thought visible to the naked eye. I focused upon the midpoint of my forehead, trying to absorb the flashing numbers and downloads as best as I could. However, I couldn’t help but notice that while I was focused on the blip, Archer was focused on me.

“I knew you were receptive,” he spoke confidently, his face expressing inquisition.

“Be quiet! I’m trying to remember the numbers!”

“You don’t need to; I can translate it for you. The last six blips have been the same.”

His assurance dumbfounded me. “You can read code?”

“Write it in my free time. You don’t?”

I laughed for the first time since we had last spoken, “My family,”

“-Ah, yes. How could I forget your pod’s association? It’s the lack of lucidity in mine that grants me the freedom to write without worry.” He shrugged. Though trying to deflect with humor, I recognized the depressing reality of living in a pod of sheep. “I’m almost finished with my final script,” he added, finally breaking eye contact.

“Your final code?”

“Instructions; for when I leave, in case any others catch on to escape before it’s too late.” I had heard of others who had broken out, but the House always announced them as workforce casualties.

“You’re leaving? When?”

“Next Sabbath. This is the seventh transmission of the thirteenth disclosure—a set of warnings. The next bunch are commands. I love my pod but can’t sacrifice my sovereignty for conditional love and lifelong slavery.”

I tried to comprehend his insight. “Forty seconds left, you should put your head back down,” Archer warned, interrupting my train of thought.

“-I can broadcast your program. My father- I- have access to the intercom.” I offered before understanding my own prompt. Archer’s eyes lit up. For the shortest moment, in his eyes, I saw something I hadn’t in years: hope.

“This is for you,” he pulled something silver out of his pocket and enclosed it in my palm. “Meet me at the Equinox tomorrow, and don’t forget to dream!” The lights began to flicker back on, and the intercom system slowly buzzed back in. I rubbed my eyes and yawned to blend in with the sector members awakening. I looked back up to ask what he’d given me, but Archer had already left.

“Stay safe, Doris!” The supplier called as she handed me my order. I’d rather be free than safe, I replied in my head. I slipped the talisman in my sack and made my way back to my pod. For how dark the skies turned during the blips, the pixelated atmosphere after blackouts always shone sunniest after.

Once in my room, I eagerly poured out my knapsack. In my hands, the silver gleam and last scene of my dreams took form. I opened the heart-shaped locket and read “11.11” on the left side and “REMEMBER” on the right.

I hooked the clasp around my neck and tucked the chain underneath my tunic. Remember.