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Tell this story


If we were forced to wear a warning label, what would yours say?

Use these lines as inspiration for a short story or poem.



INT. IMMENSE UNDERGROUND CONTROL ROOM
A room the size of a football field carved out of the living stone at the heart of a mountain, fit with ranks of COMPUTERS, desk-inset MONITORS, and dozens of MEN AND WOMEN who might as well have been cut from stone at the same time. Three TIERS, each arcing toward the front of the room, step down so that the operators in the back can see over the heads of those in front.
THREE ENORMOUS MONITORS, each hundreds of inches across, surrounded by smaller but no less impressive SUBSIDIARY MONITORS are the focus of the whole creation.
Despite the population, the air is eerily QUIET - not muffled so much as controlled. The burbling of hundreds of VOICES hangs like a low fog.
On the screens, a bewildering array of ICONS and CONNECTIONS. Some are a dull indigo, some more energetic ones flicker green, and a few yellow ones are the focus of several of the smaller side-screens.
ACTIVITY AT ONE OF THE STATIONS
A young operator, PERKINS, peers for a moment into a RADAR SWEEP SCREEN before her eyes widen.
Frantic typing follows, a flurry of fingers on keys, before she hammers a fist on a RED COVERED BUTTON.
KLAXONS begin burping.
PERKINS
Major, you'll want to see this! We just lost one of the Yellows!
REVERSE TOWARD THE BACK OF THE ROOM
MAJOR TOM WESTERBROOK lifts one eyebrow and lets his Southern drawl thicken just a bit before answering.
MAJOR TOM
Well then, just put it on the big screen, Perkins and we'll all take a look at the big game.
There are a few tense chuckles. The Major lifts a MUG that says "#1 Commander" to his lips for a slurp as displays settle themselves.
THE MAIN SCREEN
A mass of tangled LINES shifts and blurs before settling over a knotted NEXUS. Several more sedate icons hang around the periphery in tones from indigo to green.
PERKINS
This was the memescape twenty minutes ago.
Icons shift and roll, tracing the paths which they'd trod, dangling attached pieces of data (names, timestamps, service providers, percentage surety). The clock in the corner rolls back ten minutes.
https://lifeboat.com/ex/warning.signs.for.tomorrow
In the center, a bright yellow icon glimmers.
TIGHT ON THE ICON
Dependent data: Alexander Williams. Aliases: Dark Shepherd, The SquidLord. Provider: Google Location Tracking. Activity (Observed): None. Activity (Computed): Reading a physical book. There's a little inset map showing a physical location in the southeastern US.
WIDE ON ROOM
MAJOR TOM
Well, that's not so bad. Not for a Yellow, it ain't. It ain't like he's fomenting a rebellion in an ally nation or --
The yellow icon begins dropping connections to other icons around it. A few of them bump up the spectrum before creating even more connections, some linking to grey icons signifying broadcast media and spewing connections to thousands.
MAJOR TOM
I could be wrong.
Yellow drops a line down to a grey hub marked TOR. The line itself is quivering and unstable.
PERKINS
Encrypted, sir!
MAJOR TOM
Blast and Hell, I know that, Perkins!
CRYPTO OP
Crypto is on it, sir, but you know these Yellows. It could be anything.
MAJOR TOM
Get me a protocol, boy, or you'll be back in Langley callin' your mother to explain why you don't work for the country club no more!
The icon brightens and shifts hue to an angry orange, not-quite-red.
Everyone not working on the current emergency goes dead silent. Shouts can be heard coming from Crypto and Tracking.
The icon fades to black. No links. No anything. Things around it just pack back together as if it were just a silent, dead icon, leaving only elevated activity and colour spreading away from the spot through the network.
PERKINS
(awed)
He went black, sir. I've never seen anything go black.
CRYPTO OP
You can't go black! It's not possible; the system tracks --
MAJOR TOM
Son, maybe you better stop before your tongue starts tellin' your lyin' eyes what they're seeing.
Tom puts his mug down, carefully. Bites his lower lip. Reaches to the side to pull a closed file off a bottom shelf and breaks the tape seal with a pen.
Flips it open.
Scans down a page with a finger.
The low hum is starting to filter back in. People are talking. The job has to be done.

MAJOR TOM
Next step is to contact Homeland, folks. Keep sharp. Watch the links. He'll be back.
I have to tell some twitchy folks we just had an Existential Threat go black. This is going to be a shit-storm.
Location: Lawrenceville, GA 30046, USA

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