10:00 AM — Portland, Oregon
The alarm didn't ring. Oliver was already awake.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of the one-bedroom farmhouse. Outside, the world was perfect. The morning sun hit the green hills of Oregon, the neighbor's cattle grazed in the distance, and the wooden fences were freshly painted. It was the American Dream. And Oliver hated every inch of it.
Beside him, Jane stirred. She rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. Jane was twenty-four, beautiful, and a rising star at a downtown marketing firm. She was a capitalist success story.
"Jane," Oliver whispered. "Wake up. It's late."
"Mmm," she groaned, not opening her eyes. "Five more minutes."
Oliver slipped out of bed. He walked to the living room and turned on the TV. A rugby match was playing—brutal, fast, distracting. He left it on mute.
He walked to the bathroom, brushing his teeth while staring at his own reflection. Blue eyes. Six feet tall. Jawline sharp. To the world, he looked like a model citizen. But behind the eyes, there was only fire. He washed his face, scrubbing hard as if trying to wash away the lie.
Twenty minutes later, he sat on the porch with a mug of black coffee. The wind was cold, rushing down from the pine forests. Jane stepped out behind him, holding her own cup. She was dressed in a sharp grey suit, ready to conquer the corporate world.
"Good morning, darling," Oliver said, forcing a smile.
"Morning," Jane said, checking her watch. "God, I'm running late."
"Why the rush?" Oliver asked. "Take a sick day."
Jane laughed, shaking her head. "I'm not like you, Oliver. I have a team relying on me. Deadlines. Clients. Real work."
"Right," Oliver said. "Real work."
She drank her coffee in one gulp and kissed him on the cheek. "I'll see you tonight. Don't forget to fix the fence."
"I won't," he lied.
He watched her car disappear down the winding gravel road. He waited until the dust settled. He waited another full minute to make sure she wasn't coming back.
Then, his posture changed. The "loving boyfriend" mask dropped. He let out a long breath.
"Thank God."
He stood up and scanned the perimeter. The neighbors were too far away to see. The cows didn't care. He was isolated.
He walked ten meters into the tall grass near the tree line. He stopped at a patch of overgrown ferns. He kicked the dirt aside, revealing a metal handle.
The Hatch.
He pulled it open. It groaned, revealing a dark ladder leading down into the earth. Oliver climbed down.
The Bunker
The air down here was different—stale, cold, and smelling of ozone. Oliver hit the light switch. Red light flooded the room.
It wasn't just a basement. It was a shrine. The concrete walls were plastered with posters. Marx. Lenin. Che. Written in bold red paint across the far wall were the words: YOUTH RECRUITMENT MOVEMENT. Below it was a list of names. Most were crossed out.
Oliver walked to the metal table. His footsteps echoed in the small space. He poured a glass of cheap PBR beer—warm, flat, disgusting. He didn't care. He lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up into the ventilation fan.
He walked to a locked drawer and pulled out a heavy walkie-talkie. He turned the knob. Channel 22.
"Come down," Oliver said into the mic. "The hatch is open."
"Copy," a voice crackled back. "Inbound."
Two minutes later, heavy boots hit the concrete floor. Jack D'Souza stepped into the red light.
He was older, harder. A retired FBI agent who had seen the belly of the beast and decided to cut it open. He knew how the CIA worked. He knew how the Bureau thought.
"Comrade," Jack said, nodding.
"Comrade," Oliver replied.
Jack looked around the room, scanning for bugs out of habit. "Do they suspect anything?"
"As far as I know, we are ghosts," Jack said, his voice gravelly. "The Bureau knows something is brewing in Portland. They hear whispers. But they don't know it's us."
Jack pointed to the cigarette. "Give me one."
Oliver tossed him the pack. Jack lit up, inhaling deeply. He eyed the cheap beer on the table. "Still drinking this piss?"
Oliver laughed. "Soon we will drink expensive wine, Jack. We will toast with the proletariat."
"That's the spirit," Jack said, though he didn't smile. "Does your wife suspect?"
"Jane?" Oliver scoffed. "Not at all. She is a slave to the system. Her brain was bought and paid for by capitalism years ago. She doesn't have the capacity to doubt."
They both shared a grim chuckle. Then, the mood shifted.
"To the point," Jack said, leaning on the table. "Why are we here?"
"The numbers," Oliver said, pointing to the list of names on the wall. "It's not enough. We need an army to bring a Red Revolution to the USA. Two guys in a bunker can't overthrow the government."
"Ask the recruits to bring friends," Jack suggested.
"I did," Oliver said, frustrated. "They are scared. They hate the government, sure. But they are terrified of the FBI. They have no energy. No fire."
Jack stared at the smoke rising from his cigarette. "So we target a new demographic," Jack said. "College students."
"Exactly," Oliver said. "But how? We can't walk onto campus handing out flyers."
"This is the age of the internet," Jack said. "We recruit them online."
"A website?" Oliver shook his head. "The FBI will track the IP address in ten minutes. We'll be in prison by dinner."
"You're missing the trick," Jack said. "We don't build a 'Revolution' page. That flags algorithms." Jack looked Oliver in the eye. "We build a porn site."
Oliver choked on his beer. "A what? Fuck that."
"Listen," Jack said calmly. "We don't blackmail them. We use it as a Trojan Horse."
"I'm not following," Oliver said.
"We run ads," Jack explained. "We host a site that gets millions of hits. And in the sidebar, we run targeted ads. Questions like: 'Are you lonely?' 'Do you feel like the system failed you?' 'Are you in debt?'"
Oliver frowned. "Who is going to look at an ad on a porn site?"
"The desperate ones," Jack said darkly. "Think about it. A lonely man, late at night, angry at the world, looking for a dopamine hit. He is vulnerable. He is listening." Jack smiled, cold and calculating. "We catch them when their guard is down. That is how you build an army."
Oliver stared at him. It was dirty. It was immoral. And it was genius.
"But we can't build a site like that," Oliver said. "We don't know the code."
Jack checked his watch. "No. We don't. But I know a man who does."