Repentance
Whistleblowing. 1,000 words, 3 minute read. With Gemini.
The garage smelled like failure – a potent blend of stale cigarette butts overflowing an old paint can, cheap beer soaked into rotting wood, hot motor oil, and the cloying metallic tang of sweat from too many unwashed bodies crammed together. Grime coated every surface with a sticky film. Under the flickering fluorescent tubes, casting everything in a sickly yellow pallor, the gathering felt less like a meeting of minds and more like a festering wound. Ben kept his breathing shallow, nodding along to a rambling monologue about 'replacement,' his own reflection warped in the greasy chrome of a nearby motorcycle fender.
Cutter detached himself from a cluster near the drill press, moving with the heavy assurance of a junkyard dog. His faded neck tattoo, partially obscured by a sweat-stained collar, pulsed slightly as he stopped inches from Ben.
"Heard you wanna run with the big dogs," Cutter’s voice was gravel dragged over concrete. He smelled faintly of decay beneath the oil and cigarettes. His eyes, small and buried in folds of flesh, assessed Ben with reptilian stillness. "Takes more than showing up. Gotta prove you ain't just some tourist."
Ben’s hand felt clammy as he reached for his phone. The motion felt rehearsed, artificial. He scrolled, forcing himself to look at the images: a younger, angrier face contorted in a performative snarl; clumsy, misspelled declarations of hate; a shared meme depicting violence against a minority group that now made bile rise in his throat. He remembered typing one particular phrase, a crude slur aimed at a classmate, feeling a surge of pathetic power then. Now, it just felt… hollowed out. He held the phone out, screen lit.
"Been angry a long time," Ben said, pitching his voice low, trying to mimic their flat affect. "Just looking for the right… channel."
Cutter squinted, his thick thumb smudging the screen as he scrolled. He lingered on the slur Ben remembered. A noise escaped him, something between a chuckle and a cough. "Kid stuff," he finally said, though his eyes remained hard. "But the hate's there. Raw material." He handed the phone back. "Don't just stand there looking dumb. Grab Sarge a beer. And one for me. The cheap stuff." He turned away, already focused on something else, leaving Ben with the distinct impression he was less a recruit, more a piece of furniture that might eventually prove useful.
The first sip of the cheap, metallic-tasting lager he fetched felt like swallowing sand.
The following weeks were an exercise in controlled dissociation. Ben learned the specific cadence of their grievances, the approved vocabulary of victimhood, the way paranoia coiled beneath the surface bravado. He watched Sarge, the self-styled leader, fumble with a PowerPoint presentation, misspelling 'sovereignty' while boasting about his impenetrable digital fortress. Ben noticed the frayed network cable snaking out from under the locked office door, held together with electrical tape. He cleaned rifles that felt unnervingly light in his hands, participated in drunken debates that circled the same tired conspiracies, and forced laughter at jokes designed to strip humanity from entire groups of people. Once, he had to physically restrain himself from intervening when Cutter cruelly mocked another member for wearing glasses, calling him a 'weak-eyed intellectual.' The man had flushed crimson but said nothing. That night, Ben scrubbed his hands raw in the gas station restroom down the street, trying to wash off a filth that felt more than skin deep.
The storm broke on a Tuesday, the kind of sudden, violent deluge that rattled the garage's loose metal panels. Inside, the air grew thick with humidity.
One by one, the others drifted out into the rain, leaving only Sarge snoring in his usual throne – a cracked vinyl office chair – his keys glinting near his outstretched hand. The rhythmic breathing, the drumming rain, the low hum from the locked office – the sounds pressed in on Ben. His own heartbeat felt unnaturally loud.
He moved, each step deliberate. Lifting the keys felt like theft, intimate and transgressive.
The cheap lock scraped, loud as a gunshot in the relative quiet.
Inside the small, cluttered office, the server rack’s blinking green and amber lights pulsed like a mechanical heartbeat. The air was cool, dry. He sat, the worn chair sighing beneath him. Maximus_2016. The screen unlocked. Folders nested within folders, labeled with a chilling blend of banality and menace: ‘Roster_Active,’ ‘Comms_Secure,’ ‘Op_LibraryCleanup,’ ‘Intel_Local_Traitors.’ He clicked on the latter.
A list of names, some associated with local businesses, community groups, even a teacher at the high school. His fingers felt numb as he plugged in the keychain drive. The blue progress bar seemed to mock him with its slowness. He saw Sarge’s reflection overlaid on the screen – slack-jawed, oblivious. Outside, lightning briefly illuminated a pathetic, hand-drawn diagram taped to the wall titled 'Phase 2.' Thunder shook the foundations.
Almost there.
Complete.
He ripped the drive out, logged off, wiped the traces. Locking the door felt final. He didn’t replace the keys, just dropped them gently onto the concrete near Sarge’s hand.
Outside, the rain was relentless, cold. It plastered his hair to his forehead, soaked through his thin jacket instantly, but it didn't feel cleansing. It just felt wet. He walked away from the dim light spilling from the garage, the structure looking small and insignificant against the vast, stormy dark. Headlights sliced through the downpour. In the back of the cab, the city lights were distant, blurred fireworks.
He sent the single-word message – 'Delivered' – the phone screen’s light harsh in the darkness. He leaned his head back against the cool vinyl seat, the drive a small, hard lump in his pocket. There was no relief, no sense of victory.
Just the drumming rain, the engine's drone, and a hollow space inside him where the mask had been, now filled with the chilling certainty of what those files contained and the deep uncertainty of what came next.