The Inculcation

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy - my friends, my family." Arthur leaned forward and gazed directly into Diane's eyes. "But see, that's the problem. I'm not crazy. Everyone is just too blind to see through all the bipartisan rhetoric, unable to recognize that they're being spoon-fed propaganda designed by an oligarchy intent on inducing hyperactive cortisol states and polarized -"

Arthur paused, and sat up abruptly. He looked around the small appointment room, and began kneading his hands. He looked at Diane, studying her features. She was implacable.

"Yeah... Anyways."

Diane removed her glasses, and set down her notepad.

"Arthur, I want to affirm you. You are not crazy." Arthur nodded. "Nonetheless, these fears you have? I can assure you, they are irrational -" Arthur scoffed, "- even though they may feel real."

Diane reached across and touched Arthur's hand. He suppressed an impulse to flinch away. "But you are strong, and intelligent. I recommend some gratitude practice. Also, spend some time with your family and friends. But refrain from any political discourse. Focus on the experience on judgement-free bonding instead."

"Its not political discourse..." Arthur muttered.

Diane smiled. "Of course." Arthur wondered how many patients she placated like that in a day. "I think we should try a new anti-anxiety medication that has had some outstanding results in clinical trials. But there will be a $20 co-pay." Arthur stared at her, his mouth twitching. He didn't feel like arguing today.

Diane wrote out the prescription, then stood. "Now, unless you have anything else, we can end today's session here." When he didn't reply, she continued. "Alright then. Always a pleasure, Arthur. Same time next week?" She held the prescription out to him. He nodded, and took it.

On the way out, he crumpled it up and tossed it in a waste bin.

Arthur turned in to work shortly before noon. He passed through the lobby, showing his 'Data Analyst' ID to the disinterested guard at reception, before making his way for the elevator. He carried his phone, laptop, and a vegetarian burger from a local grille.

The elevator hummed up to the fourth floor, and Arthur exited, heading for his office. He passed the breakroom, and saw his coworker Tina taking her lunch while watching a midday news program. Arthur couldn't help it; he popped his head inside.

"You shouldn't watch that mainstream junk. Its controlling your identity."

Tina stopped mid-bite, and turned to look at Arthur. He thought she wasn't quite ugly, just homely. But he was somewhat disgusted by how she sat there, staring at him with her mouth hanging open.

"Arthur," she began, "we literally work for a media conglomerate." She waved a hand dismissively at him. "I don't want to hear your conspiracy theories today."

Arthur paused, and thought about what Diane had said. He decided he had sympathy for Tina.

"I don't judge you. And if you ever want to talk - you know, about normal stuff - we can."

Tina gaped at him for a long moment. She finally said, "Riiight..." before turning her back to him and tucking her AirPods into her ears.

Arthur shrugged, and continued to his office.

Once he reached his cubicle, Arthur set down his things, opened his laptop, and started his desktop. He sat down and began checking his emails, reviewing his work long, and taking small bites of his burger.

This continued until he was certain there was nothing urgent to attend to. He peeked over his cubicle wall and peered through the office. It was quiet, and he was satisfied he wouldn't be disturbed anytime soon.

Arthur connected his laptop, and opened up an encrypted sandbox program. Security protocols engaged, hiding his tracks. Once again he scanned the office. Contented, he continued.

Notifications cascaded in. The company was conducting some routine data dumps, and Arthur had trojan-horsed an inconspicuous backdoor into the core network. His algorithms were running around-the-clock audits, archiving any data matching specifically tailored weight values, in an effort to uncover evidence of corporate corruption. It was the only reason Arthur kept the job. But he had thus far come up empty handed.

Arthur squinted, searching. One notification was of interest. He began analyzing the data. His eyes grew wider with every line. He set his burger down, and wiped some ketchup from the side of his mouth.

"... Holy shit."

Arthur quickly rooted a hard drive from the bottom drawer of his desk. He'd been prepared for this, of course; and yet...

I really found something.

He plugged the drive into his laptop, and initiated a download, before closing the screen. He scanned the office; he felt his heart rate rising, and he at crawling up his neck. He grabbed his phone, and stole off to the bathroom.

Once inside, he ensured that he was alone, and locked the door behind him. He pulled up an encrypted messenger app, and flicked through his contacts. He sought one in particular. Dublinsfinest21. The secret handle of a prominent independent journalist.

The Revolution begins.

Jan. 6, 2026, 1:46 P.M.

shrike_1984:

We need to talk. I've found something big.

dublinsfinest21:

This better be good

shrike_1984:

Its not just aggressive marketing - its psychic architecture. The feedback loop is fucking real. Shell companies funding both sides, controlling political narratives and fostering reliance on packaged solutions. Its all here.

dublinsfinest21:

Jesus fucking christ, man, how long have you been adderall-scrolling the an archist reddit? Do you have something or not?

shrike_1984:

You think I'm bullshitting? I'm sending you some snapshots now. I'm already downloading the raw encryption key now, and if you can meet, I'll have it solid-state. Its the same, embedded lines of metadata across multiple opposing political groups and domestic consumer lines. Its like they aren't even trying to hide it! Radical activist groups, ultra-nationalist media syndicates, pharmaceutical backers, AI software companies. You've got to get this out.

dublinsfinest21:

...

Downtown, Snowball Café, East 49th. One hour. No contact. I'll give you instructions for a drop in a moment. If what you're saying is true... Be careful. These things can get messy.

Arthur leaned against a wall, took a deep breath. I'm not crazy, he thought. This could change everything.

Arthur rushed back to his cubicle. He texted his sister on the way: Rebecca, I might need your help. Its important. Do you have a secure e-mail? I need to send you some files.

Back at his desk, he checked the download. It was nearly complete. His hands shook as he wiped sweat from his brow. While he waited, he looked up the café the journalist had mentioned, committed the directions to memory. It was a few miles uptown. The air was stuffy - or he was hyperventilating - so he unbuttoned his collar and focused on controlling his breathing. The office hummed and clicked, the sound of its employees working away.

The download bar flashed green.

Arthur snatched up the drive, shut down his laptop, grabbed his phone, and rushed from the office. He left without pausing to speak to anyone, and without notifying his manager.

Down on the street, Arthur hailed a taxi. As he waited, he checked his phone. Two notifications - texts, one from his sister, one from Diane.

Sis:

What are you talking about? Not today, Arthur

Diane:

Hey Arthur, could you stop back in? I forgot to discuss some adjustments to the treatment plan with you.

He stared at the second message for a while. Sweat rolled into his eyes, stinging them. His heart pounded. A cab pulled up along the curb, waiting. Arthur shoved the phone into his pocket and climbed in.

"East 49th." The cabbie pulled off. The car smelled of cheap deodorant, and the driver was streaming some pop music from his phone. Arthur put his head down and looked out the window.

Traffic was a problem - as they penetrated the city, their pace slowed to a crawl. Arthur checked the time - still a half-hour to spare.

"Can't we get around any quicker?" Arthur asked.

The driver gave him a blank stare in the rearview, and shrugged. "Sorry, pal."

The song on the streaming station ended, and a commercial began. LifeTrust said the strong male voice, for when you need protection from data theft. We diligently combat cyberextortion, bringing dangerous individuals to justice...

Arthur shot up, and surveyed the street. "Hey man, can you turn that crap off? Can hardly hear myself think..." The driver scowled, but complied.

They were idling now, in the center of a crowded street. An LED bus stop billboard flashed an advertisement on depression. Arthur watched as the man in it walked around, plagued by a dark cloud. In one scene, his family turned their backs to him. In another, he received a foreclosure notice. Arthur waited for the 'turnaround', where the man would reclaim his mental health. But it never came; instead, the man's broken eyes grew and grew, boring into Arthur until they filled the entire screen.

Oh fuck this. Arthur fished a twenty from his pocket and threw it to the driver, then dashed out of the cab, and scanned the street. He was still a few dozen blocks away. And was he imagining the quiet stares of the nearby pedestrians?

Arthur located a sign for the subway, and determined to go that route. He scurried in that direction, avoiding eye contact with anyone. As he did, he dialed his sister. She answered after two tones.

"Rebecca? Listen, give me the email -"

"Arthur? Arthur! You listen to me. You need help. I read about this once, in an article -"

"What? No, Rebecca, I'm -"

"Arthur! I love you, but I can't watch you do this to yourself. Some people are calling, looking for you. They're saying you're a domestic threat! Please, just... "

Her voice trailed away as he lowered the phone from his ear. His heart was pounding in his chest. In front of him, a smartscreen dominated a large stretch of the walkway. It displayed a massive tarantula, its coarse hairs and beady eyes sickeningly vivid. Arthur froze, petrified. His mind ranged back to the pranks the schoolboys used to play on him, the spiders assaulting him from within his desk, or crawling out of his shoes, or scattering from his lunchbag, the long sessions with a therapist, the...

Arthur faced the screen, and screamed: "I know what you're doing!" The people around him jumped back, glowering at him and pointing fingers in his direction. Arthur shot down the street, quickly reaching a full sprint, heedless of the people he was bowling over.

He reached the subway entrance and scrambled down the steps. As he did, he messaged the journalist: Something's not right, I can't make it. Arthur requested an encrypted address - he would just have to upload the data package.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder as he reached the ticket gate. Two men in nondescript clothing were hurrying towards him. He jumped the gate and ran, desperate to get away. A train was screeching as it pulled in. People cursed as he shouldered through the midday throng. A backwards glance confirmed that the men were closing. Arthur ran harder, heaving with the effort. He hadn't prepared for this. But he was so close! Footsteps were falling close behind him as he neared the train. The doors began to close.

Arthur slipped in at the last moment, and the doors slid shut behind him. He flipped off his pursuers as the train departed. He only had a few moments to spare. He checked his phone. To his relief, the journalist had sent an address. Arthur fumbled with sweating fingers as he connected the drive to his phone. He pun ched in the details, and began the download.

Six minutes remaining.

He held the phone and drive tight in his hand, and prepared to run as the train pulled in to the next stop. To his dismay, a trio of men were standing along the platform, watching him as his cab approached. They didn't look friendly. Two minutes remaining. The doors slid open. The men moved forward.

Arthur pointed at the lead man. "He's got a gun!" he yelled.

The crowd erupted into a frenzy - the trio was caught off guard. Arthur bolted to the cab's other door, muscling his way through. He fled as fast as he could, half hyperventilating, half laughing, as he took the stairs to the street.

Just when he emerged onto the sidewalk, a man bumped into him. Arthur felt a pinch in his side, followed by an almost immediate dulling of his senses. In his onset stupor, the clamor of the busy stre et faded into a relaxed him. He felt a hand grip his elbow, and he realized he was being led toward a parked SUV.

Arthur's consciousness was fading - but he was smiling. In his hand, his phone displayed two lovely words:

Upload complete.

Arthur awoke to stark white light, sterile walls, and a wide mahogany table. He was seated, slumped over the table's edge. He sat up, a fog clouding his thoughts, and gathered his surroundings. There was a chair across from him, and a television on the wall behind it. To the left was a single grey door. Above that, peering surreptitiously from a corner of the ceiling, was a camera. The silence was total and oppressive. Arthur shivered, noticing the cold. He had no sense of the time, or how long had passed since the chase through the city. He wore the same clothing, and his mouth dry and bitter.

The door opened.

The man who stepped through was of average height. His suit fit with absolute precision, betraying not even the slightest hint of dirt. His cleanly groomed hair was contrasted by a light stubble along his jaw. The man looked vaguely familiar.

"Good evening, Arthur." His voice was friendly. "I'm really sorry about all of this. I've sent for some coffee, but would you like anything else?"

Arthur balked. "Where am I? What's going on?"

The man displayed open palms. "My office. My... coworkers... brought you here yesterday. But I can assure you, they will be severely reprimanded. How are you feeling?"

Arthur grunted. "So what now? You kill me?"

The man laughed, then frowned. "Kill you? God, no. You are a valued member of the company, Arthur. I share your distress -"

"The company? What the fuck are you..." Arthur paused, and looked more closely at the man; his sharp jawline, the hazel eyes. "You... You're the conglomerate's Chief Architect."

The man grimaced. "By title, yes. But I'd much rather you consider me a co-worker. An equal."

Arthur stabbed a finger at the man. "We are not equal! You're complicit in a construct of stress generation and political mind control. But I found it! Its out there now. You guys lost."

The Architect smiled deprecatingly, and walked over to the television. He turned it on. There was a live news broadcast.

"You're right, Arthur. Its out there. Of course, only you could've accomplished that."

Arthur was ready to retort but was caught off guard. "What?"

The man turned to the television, raised the volume. "See?"

The broadcast featured a report about crowds gathering outside government offices. Protests. Internet dissension. The leak had been publicized.

"I did it," whispered Arthur.

"We counted on it," said the Architect. He removed a phone from his pocket, and held it out. "I believe this is yours. Take a look Arthur. You're a hero. Or, well, a villain, to some."

Arthur took the phone, his hands shaking. He opened a social media feed and began scrolling. The leak was trending. Many were lauding the whistleblower, hailing him as a revolutionary. But, mingled with the praise, was outcry. A cadre of opposition, declaring the leak a hoax, fake news, a conspiracy against nationalist values. Riots were mobilizing, politicians were scheduling rallies, both championing and bashing the exposé.

It was a world on fire. And mixed into it all, was hard-line political agendas, merchandising, and pharmaceutical offerings. It was weaponized hysteria, Arthur realized.

He sunk into his chair, trembling. "Why? Don't they understand?"

The Architect sat and folded his hands in his lap.

"There are no absolute truths, Arthur."

Arthur dropped his phone, and began giggling. "No... Its so intrinsic that any relative truth is easily swallowed by the greater machination." Arthur's laughter swelled into a hoarse cackle. "Its being digested by its own exposure!"

The Architect stood, and moved to the door.

"You're not so powerless. In the end, we even needed you." Arthur's laughter subsided, and he grew very still as he processed that.

"You needed... Me. The leak - it was..." Silent tears began to stream down Arthur's face as realization dawned. "Is freedom an illusion?"

The Architect smiled. "Of course not, Arthur. You're free to go, after all." With that, he left.

In the weeks and months following the leak, Arthur returned to work. He put his head down, was quiet and diligent. He even received a promotion.

He began watching mainstream news, and participated in online dialogues about the respective values of the different parties. His family started speaking with him again, and often commented on how well he seemed to be doing.

He never saw the Architect again, except from a distance, in social media posts or at the company's annual team encouragement cookout. He stopped monitoring data from the conglomerate; in fact, he hardly remembered why he'd been so interested in the first place.

And the next time Diane prescribed him those anxiety meds, he took them dutifully, usually when he plopped down after work for a bit of nightly news.

And hell, they felt pretty good, too.