Issue Three: Resistance Isn’t Futile

7:45 AM

Ivory Tower Workers Cross Picket Line Despite Protests

The first of five planned protests occurred outside the Ivory Tower premises amid a mass walkout. Ex-employees and concerned citizens are rallying against the creators of the PAM management system over supposedly poor working conditions and alleged human rights violations. However, the Ivory Tower rejects the accusations, maintaining that 80% of employees are still showing up to work— 

'Of course they are—they can’t afford not to,' he huffed. Closing the article, he grabbed his car keys and asked, 'PAM, what’s the traffic like today?' 

'Please pay two tokens or watch one of our personalised advertisements.'

He rolled up his sleeve, gave the screen secured to his arm a sullen glance, sighing at the dwindling balance displayed. 'PAM, play ad.'

The pin on his chest awoke with a buzz, projecting a floating screen before him. A green cow wandered into frame, darting eyes landing everywhere but the plinth on which a jade-capped bottle stood. When it finally spotted it, the cow galloped over and nuzzled the bottle, licking its bovine lips.

'Get a mooove on, Greg, and go green! Our milk comes from natural sources and …'

8:15 AM

Traffic slowed from a crawl to gridlock. He should have watched a sixty second ad to unlock alternative routes, as Pam had chirpily suggested. 

Why would the cow lick its lips? Cows make milk, they don’t drink it.

Greg’s car inched towards the junction. He could make back five, maybe ten minutes if he took it. As he approached the turn, his car stalled. Letters scrawled across his windscreen, blocking his view of the road ahead.

'Please pay ten tokens to access this road or watch one of our personalised advertisements.'

'Oh, come on!' He pounded the dashboard. It burst into life like fireworks beneath his fist. Words flashed, patterns whirled, burned into his corneas, 'Please pay ten tokens or—'

'I don’t have any tokens!' he shouted. He was holding up the cars behind them now, honking their disapproval. 'I’m trying to get to work so I can give you more tokens! Why are you working against me?'

His window swelled black. A peasant lady held a bowl, a bag of rice suspended above her. Also dangling over her, a bucket of lava. 'Greg! Only you can save me!' swelled the speech bubble from her mouth. He buried his face in his palms.

'Advertisement paused,' PAM spoke calmly, but claxons wailed in his ears, 'Please resume watching to unlock your route.'

8:50 AM

Another riot by the ivory tower, where PAM’s creators reside. They swarmed the company car park. God knows how many ads they had to watch for that. 

Greg didn’t even make the picket line this time. A brick shattered his passenger window and smashed his cheekbone.

Holding his fractured bones in place, he entertained the thought of using his tie as a makeshift bandage and braving his cubicle. But that’s why he’d been hit with the brick in the first place. He knew it was ridiculous to play the Ivory Tower’s game of hustling and endless ads, but what was the alternative? 

His vision blurred, there was a ringing in his ears, distinct from the police sirens and protest chants. They were closing in, glowing flames from the tips of Molotov cocktails spreading amber cobwebs across his cracked windscreen. 

The message was clear, unlike the cannibalism cow ads he pondered all morning; join the revolution or be a victim of it.

'PAM, Call an ambulance,' Greg choked.

'Please pay fifteen tokens or watch one of our personalised advertisements.'

The windows flickered to black, strips of dead pixels creating a cage over an elaborate coffin, a distorted voice reading a tired script, ‘no one wants to think about it, but a funeral plan is the easiest way to ensure your loved ones can honour your final wishes—'

The car’s sudden lurch sent his face into the footwell, the rubber mat sanding down the skin of his wound as protesters rocked the vehicle from all sides.

'Advertisement paused. Please resume watching …'

Greg said goodbye to the notion that help was on its way, to snoozing alarms, and the faint dream of milk, and wondered how fast they would fill his cubicle.