Three Hours to the Hopper

Three hours ago I was inside a maintenance node beneath Sector 9 trying to gain access to a CityStream relay.

Nothing special. Nothing ambitious. Just another scrape-and-run operation. Pull a little traffic. Copy a few logs. See what OptiCorp doesn’t want archived.

I’ve done it before.
A lot of us have.

This time was different.

The moment I touched the relay my wristband vibrated. Then my phone. Then every screen around me. The maintenance terminal locked.

A message appeared.

Temporary.
That’s the word they always use.

My transport pass stopped working thirty seconds later. My apartment access was suspended ten minutes after that.

I can’t buy food. Can’t book transit. Can’t access my work profile. Can’t even request medical assistance.

Three hours.

The system hasn’t accused me of anything. Not officially. It’s just making sure I understand my options.

Report to the Hopper.
Or become a ghost.

I’ve been trying to raise ULTRA for the last forty minutes. Nothing. CB channels are dead. Every frequency is static.

Not natural static.
Artificial.
Clean.
Engineered.
Like somebody laid a blanket over the entire spectrum.

I know you’re out there. I know somebody is listening. I know this message is reaching somewhere because the upload counter is moving.

If you’re receiving this, don’t come looking for me. The signal is compromised. I’m compromised. And if they caught me this quickly, they already know who I spoke to.

The funny thing is I still haven’t seen a Sheriff. No drones. No officers. No black vans. Nothing.

Just notifications. Polite reminders. Helpful warnings.

The city doesn’t need to arrest you anymore.
It simply withdraws permission.

I’m sitting in an abandoned storage unit near the Glowline writing this on a disconnected tablet. My CivLux account was frozen seventeen minutes ago. I didn’t even know they could do that before an assessment.

Maybe that’s new.
Maybe I’ve never been important enough to find out.

The timer says two hours and eleven minutes remain.

Part of me keeps thinking this is a mistake. That I’ll walk into the Hopper and explain everything. That somebody will laugh and tell me there was an error.

The other part remembers every neighbour who went in and came back quieter. More careful. More compliant. Or didn’t come back at all.