Chapter Seventy-Nine: The One Who Chokes Must First Speak
Section One: Refinery's Falling
Rustmouth main warehouse, four in the morning.
The warehouse lamps hung dim, half-lit, their faint glow swallowed by the cavernous dark. The only sound was the low hum of ARGUS's cooling fans, a pulse beneath the silence.
Jason stood before a projection, a map sprawling across the wall, its edges bleeding into shadow.
Refinery District—Iron Valley's southernmost underbelly, a forsaken stretch of waste and ruin.
Red zones, gray zones, black zones.
Trust indices below 35 marked gray; below 15, black. The map was a mottled scar, pocked with despair.
This was the system's "meme-polluted deadland."
Zhao Mingxuan pulled the latest field data, his fingers moving swift over the terminal.
"Wells reports from the front: Refinery's effectively lost control. Dispatch system's been down seventeen days. Crowd behavior's veering into extreme clustering, and info channels are showing 'structural replacement memes.'"
Maria glanced at the screen, her eyes narrowing on "structural replacement memes." Those words carried weight—they signaled the system was prepping to abandon the zone.
Not a lockdown.
A severance.
—
Jason spoke, voice low, cutting the quiet: "Who's holding that ground?"
Zhao Mingxuan: "The 'New Citizen Coordination League.' Sounds like a community outfit, but it's a composite shell of old Fire remnant systems. Outwardly claims volunteer coordination; inwardly, they run crowds with leftover meme hierarchies."
Maria cut in: "Half-religion. Denies it publicly, but fosters worship-like behavior inside. Paired with tight resource control, they breed dependency."
"Once the system pulls out, they'll declare themselves the sole order."
—
Jian Ci's patience frayed, his voice sharp: "What're we waiting for?"
"Wells is still in Refinery, right? We go down, string a line, nail the points. Anchor before they start chanting their bullshit."
Zhao Mingxuan, calm: "Not that simple. The system's ready to ditch, but hasn't finished its exit process. Move now, TRACE tags you for disrupting their cleanup."
"Rustmouth gets branded a structural invader."
Maria, eyes on the map, mused: "We need to move like we did in Rustmouth—not seizing turf, but being needed."
"We don't raise flags. We do the work."
—
Jason tapped a spot on Refinery's map—F-Segment Lower Distribution Hub.
"Here's our anchor."
"Dense population, secondary supply node, controlled by the League's gatekeepers. Crowds can't self-draw; they're forced to queue, register, wait. Three dispatch accidents, five crowd clashes."
"Wells pulled raw data: this hub's meme riot risk is 72%, highest in the zone."
Zhao Mingxuan's face tightened: "You're hitting the chaos epicenter?"
"Exactly," Jason said, voice flat, unshaken. "This is their throat—control distribution, control crowds, control the story."
"Break in here, we hook their jaws."
—
Maria: "How do we hit?"
"Not hit," Jason's gaze iced over.
"We deliver a dispatch model."
"Cross-accountability, node drops, behavior feedback, shared liability, crowd escalation."
"Don't recognize us? Fine. We let the crowd decide who runs it. Block us—you admit you're scared they won't pick you."
—
Jian Ci grinned, eyes sparking: "Want me to carry it in?"
"You're not the fit," Jason shook his head. "Too hot-headed."
He turned to Tarn.
"This is yours."
—
Tarn blinked, then nodded, steady.
"I don't pose, don't fight. I go in, do three things: string the line, seed the points, drop the questions."
"Ask who?"
"The crowd."
"What order do you want: ours—or theirs?"
—
South Zone fringe, Wells stood before a derelict tower, sliding a data card into an encrypted box, handing it to a Rustmouth runner.
"Tell Jason, time's short."
"They're gearing up to purge."
"This isn't a drill."
"This is replacement."
Section Two: Tarn Steps In
Refinery F-Segment Distribution Hub, six-thirty AM.
One of Iron Valley's lowest pits, ventilation choked, light barely seeping through. The warehouse roof, decayed from years of neglect, no longer hinted at its past as a system dispatch point.
Now, it bore a new name: "Fifth Coordination Vault."
A gray sign with red letters hung at the entrance, smeared below with old paint: "Managed by Citizen League, Unified Resource Distribution."
—
Tarn shouldered a pack, stepping into the haze of this stagnant edge-world.
No Rustmouth colors, just a forged low-tier coordination pass, its code blurred among obsolete system serials.
His cover: independent dispatch consultant, non-coded cooperative agent.
A title too vague to explain—and no one cared to hear it.
—
The entrance guard, a man in a black cloth vest, had grayed eyes, sizing everyone like goods on a scale.
He glanced at Tarn's pass, didn't block, but muttered: "Co-op, huh."
Tarn nodded, sparing words, and walked into the warehouse.
—
Inside, three main corridors brimmed with supply crates, tagged with staggered timelines.
Few people, but the air pressed heavy, thick with unspoken strain.
Crowds queued on the floor, some grumbling, "Why's it not my turn today?" Others curled in corners, eyes down, avoiding faces, skies, waiting for their number.
Tarn reached the second distribution post, spotting a bald man behind a counter, clutching a thick stack of papers.
"Next group, 1 to 20!" he barked. "Your zone's applicants, follow yesterday's filing order!"
The crowd surged, but didn't dare raise voices. Discipline held here—discipline, and pressure.
—
Tarn approached, standing beside him, voice low: "I'd like to sync with your dispatch logic, see if we can run an optimization pilot."
The bald man shot him a glance: "Who're you?"
Tarn pulled a brief from his pack: "I'm a… co-op consultant. Ran point trials in other zones. System didn't sign off, but didn't block."
The man eyed "didn't sign off," sneering: "Call yourself co-op, you're not system."
"Whose side you on?"
—
Tarn didn't rush.
He set the brief on the counter, a single line bolded:
"Consensus Escalation × Protocol-Driven Resource Devolution × Multi-Point Accountability, No Sole Dispatcher."
Crowd members edged closer, peering.
The bald man scanned it, then bellowed: "You're handing our warehouse to the rabble?"
"You out of your mind?"
"You think they've got the brains to decide who gets what?"
—
Tarn met his gaze, tone even: "I don't think they should decide who gets what."
"I think they deserve to choose who decides."
—
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"He's not all wrong…"
"We've asked before—why's it always the same few handing out?"
—
The bald man swept the brief to the floor.
"If you're not system, not our League, don't lecture us on distribution."
"Want to try? Go play outside."
—
Tarn held his stare, unyielding, then pulled a single sheet from his pocket, placing it on the crowd's self-serve table.
It read:
"Survey: Who should organize next week's resource distribution?
A: Current management team
B: Cooperative agent's joint accountability system
C: Unclear, but I want an open choice"
He didn't say who sent him.
He taped it up, stepped back.
"I'm not here with answers."
"I'm here to give you options."
—
Section End:
ARGUS logged the first crowd-sourced survey upload, sender anonymous, tagged: "Even if they don't back him, I want to hear more."
Main warehouse, Jian Ci saw the unsigned receipt, chuckling low: "Tarn didn't waste a word, but he's cutting deeper than anyone."
"This isn't about picking us."
"It's forcing them to say: 'No one else gets to choose.'"
Section Three: Seal Their Mouths, Not Their Choices
Refinery F-Segment Hub, the air never clean, today stifling, thick with tension.
Tarn's survey, posted two hours, was torn down twice, taped back thrice.
No names, no one guarding it, but hands grew bolder—from one to four, then five, pasting it anew.
—
"This isn't a vote."
"It's a question."
"We don't force your choice, but you can't stop the choice."
No one spoke these words.
But in corners, queue edges, under scrap crates, wrinkled survey sheets piled, silent and stubborn.
—
Before noon, the New Citizen League took notice.
A coordinator, flanked by two armed "internal security" members, strode into F-Segment's core.
He wore a crisp gray-black uniform, a formal dispatch liaison badge gleaming on his chest.
His steps were slow, deliberate, parting the crowd without resistance.
Tarn, marking points, heard the voice press down: "Who sent you?"
He didn't turn: "Just here to work."
"Is this illegal propagation?"
"No system approval, no dispatch code, no personnel registry."
"Your actions will be logged as unauthorized attempts to divert crowds from established governance."
—
Tarn folded his map, meeting the coordinator's eyes: "No broadcasts, no slogans."
"I put a sheet on a table, asked: Who do you want handing out supplies?"
The coordinator's face hardened: "This zone's under our control. Crowd participation stays within our structure."
"Your survey bypasses us, undermining the League's stability framework."
—
Tarn's lips twitched, a faint smile: "You call yourselves 'Citizen League'—scared of a survey?"
"If you're for the crowd, why fear the results?"
—
The crowd stirred, faces shifting. No one approached, but a few pulled terminals, quietly recording.
The coordinator's eyes iced: "One more word, I report you as a structural disruptor."
"Rustmouth's not system-sanctioned. Once I send this up, your whole crew's on the meme contamination watchlist."
—
Tarn stood, brushing dust from his jacket.
"No need to send it up."
"We already did."
He flicked his terminal, ARGUS's mirror system syncing a full log of operations.
[Behavior Record: Crowd Micro-Intervention Pilot × Resident Spontaneous Response Capture × No Directive Language × No System-Induced Content × Path Legitimate, Behavior Neutral]
Tagged as "Coexistent Model Prediction Point Calibration," filed under "Proposed Acceptable Non-Structural Behavior."
—
The coordinator's face twisted, like swallowing ash.
"Who authorized your model?"
"No one," Tarn grinned. "Your system didn't block it."
"We just showed it another way."
—
"You're not scared we'll destabilize."
"You're scared the system sees we don't."
—
The coordinator clenched his jaw, glared, then turned, stalking off.
No calls for arrest, no League muscle to drag Tarn.
He knew—act now, and he'd sabotage the system's own "non-structural collaboration sample."
—
Main warehouse, Jason watched the data.
ARGUS's mirror model logged crowd actions as neutral meme responses, neither faction propaganda nor meme triggers.
"Not immunity," Zhao Mingxuan said. "It's a mechanism: call it wrong, you negate the crowd's natural choice."
Maria nodded: "To crush us, they'd have to admit Rustmouth's influence."
"Admit we exist—we win."
—
Jian Ci, eyes on the screen: "They touch one finger now, they're writing an approval to explain it."
Jason shut his terminal, voice like a nail driven into wood: "They want us silenced? We make them speak."
"The uglier they talk, the more the system wonders what we're doing right."
—
Refinery's walls, the survey torn thrice, was taped up again.
No one saw who did it.
Before a monitor, a resident passed, glanced at the sheet, finger brushing Option C, silently uploading.
Option C: "Unclear, but I want an open choice."
Section Four: When No One Speaks for You, Make Them Unable to Say You're Wrong
TRACE Temp Observation Post, Iron Valley South Line Briefing Unit.
A senior staffer stared at a fresh report, brow furrowed, the terminal's glow casting sharp shadows.
[Rustmouth Structure Behavior Module]: 48 hours, no explicit faction voice, no active meme propagation.
[Crowd Behavior Response]: Survey engagement rising, clustering stable, zero conflict events.
[Recommended Assessment]: Classify as "Behavior Controlled × Meme Neutral × Crowd Trending Cooperative" structure.
He glanced at Reno, tone flat: "You said Rustmouth's spread would spark crowd chaos."
"Now?"
"You stay quiet, they're quieter."
—
Reno's face paled, jaw tight, silent. He flipped through private intel, a TRACE internal memo, unsigned:
"The Citizen League is no crowd-driven structure but a masked remnant meme agent."
"Its suppression of Rustmouth's survey suggests intent to monopolize opinion, block crowd choice."
Red-lined below: "Pending Review." Reno knew—if the system greenlit this, the League was done.
What he couldn't grasp: what had Rustmouth done?
No fights, no grabs, no public stands, no stepping out, no flashing IDs.
A survey sheet. A dispatch model.
That's it?
And the system didn't scrub it, tagged it "coexistent test sample"?
—
He hadn't foreseen—Jason didn't care if the system liked them.
He wanted it unable to deny them.
Main warehouse, Jian Ci skimmed Tarn's field logs. Crowds stayed blank-faced, but their terminals hummed—snapping photos, scanning codes, sharing survey points at a startling clip.
Maria tallied numbers, a rare flicker at her lips.
"No cheers, no words, but they're moving."
"Their devices are moving."
Zhao Mingxuan: "Per ARGUS's meme response matrix, Rustmouth's actions in Refinery are 'low input, high convergence.'"
"Structural terms: credible, default, undefined."
He flipped the panel, staring at the words, a low chuckle: "We're not a faction. We're the baseline."
Jian Ci grinned: "Reno's losing it. Just caught his breath after stepping down, and we're building a sample in his backyard."
"No slogans—we're just there. Anyone squeaks, the system starts drafting reports."
Jason cut through, voice sharp: "Let them write their fear."
He stood, approaching the map, pen circling F-Segment.
"Now, we do something crueler."
He looked to Maria: "Send this data up—unsigned, no propaganda, no announcements."
"Let the system log it itself."
Maria caught on: "You're—"
"Yes."
"We make the system—
record Rustmouth's second stable point."
"We don't chase recognition. We force their documents to write:
'Iron Valley South Refinery Zone × Unknown but Controlled Cooperative Order.'"
TRACE System Regulation backend, an analyst stared at a new line:
"Suggest classifying F-Segment pilot as non-factional cooperative module test."
He froze, glancing at his superior: "This… Rustmouth?"
The reply, eyes averted: "No name, don't guess."
"Just note—this place, someone's holding it steady."
Reno slammed his terminal shut, eyes bloodshot.
He'd seen more meme cases than most—street violence triggers, self-mocking viral spirals—he'd handled them all.
But this?
No slogans, no faith, no IDs, no codes, no faction—
just work done, forcing the system to log "they did it."
And "did it" cut deeper than any speech war.
He'd tried steering crowd talk, failed.
Tried fake Rustmouth gear for chaos, got backtraced.
Now, he couldn't move.
Touch this "non-faction" Rustmouth, he'd strike the system's own "non-structural trust experiment."
His own blade—Jason had turned it, pressing it to his face.