Marcus adjusted his Hermès tie in the reflection of his office window, forty-seven floors above Manhattan. Below, protesters marched through sleet, their signs dissolving into papier-mâché resolve.
He’d meant to join them.
“I really was going to go,” he told his reflection. The reflection nodded. It always did.
Instead, he turned to his computer and drafted another post on the firm’s internal message board.
Subject: What can we do to fight fascism?
He typed with the practiced urgency of a second-year associate who had once cried during a documentary about the Weimar Republic. He listed his credentials: the poli sci degree, the semester abroad, the vow he’d made to himself about 1930s Germany while standing in line at the Jewish Museum gift shop.
He was not someone who would simply do nothing.
The excuses arrived fully formed, like trusted colleagues.
The winter storm (forecast models varied; one suggested accumulation might reach two inches).
The firm’s PR department might object to his face being associated with a crowd (he had not asked).
The donations he’d already made (round numbers, which psychologically felt larger).
The idea of hiding immigrants in his home (quickly dismissed—he’d just had the sofa professionally cleaned, and also where would they put their shoes?).
He hit post, received three likes and a “Great point!” from someone in compliance, and returned to reviewing merger documents, comforted by the sense that history had been notified of his position.
—–
Three weeks later, the deportations began in earnest.
Marcus watched footage of families being separated at a processing center in New Jersey. He felt sick. He felt summoned. He felt—if he was being honest—slightly inconvenienced.
He called the volunteer coordinator at the ACLU.
“We need lawyers at the detention center tomorrow morning,” she said. “Six AM. Can you make it?”
Finally, a clean moment. A hinge of history. A before-and-after.
Then he remembered: It was a no-carb day. Tuesday and Thursday were his low-glycemic days, essential for maintaining the mental clarity he’d need for sustained resistance. And those people at the detention center—he’d seen the footage—they looked like they ate a lot of bread. Rice. Tortillas. He’d be surrounded by carbohydrate energy all day, and the temptation would destroy his macros entirely.
“I’m actually in a very delicate metabolic window right now,” he explained. “Insulin resistance is how they win. A foggy mind can’t fight fascism. Can we do Wednesday? That’s my complex carb day. I’ll have the glucose stability for this kind of emotional labor.”
“People are being deported in the morning.”
“Exactly. Which is why I need to be operating at peak cognitive function. We have to think long-term. Marathon, not a sprint. Can’t pour from an empty cup—or one full of simple sugars.”
There was a pause on the line. A human one.
He never called back.
—–
By spring, journalists were being arrested.
Marcus knew one of them—Sarah. She’d covered finance. She once described his firm as “aggressively competent,” which he’d taken as praise.
Her colleagues circulated a letter. One hundred signatures by Friday.
Marcus received the email Tuesday and immediately meant to sign.
Unfortunately, he realized he was completely unprepared for this kind of historical moment. He hadn’t even rewatched Schindler’s List recently. How could he participate in resistance without having refreshed his understanding of resistance? That would be performative, shallow.
He queued up the film that evening. Three hours and fifteen minutes. He’d watch it, take notes, really internalize the lessons, and then sign the letter from a place of informed moral clarity.
By Wednesday, he’d only made it forty minutes in. The film was just so devastating. He needed to process. He started a separate film—a documentary about the documentary. About Spielberg’s creative process. About how to bear witness properly.
He took extensive notes on the proper way to take action.
By Friday, they had ninety-eight signatures.
Sarah was convicted Monday.
Marcus felt terrible, but also he’d learned so much about the importance of preparation. Next time, he’d be ready.
—–
The book burnings began in August.
His sister called from Ohio, frantic. “They’re coming for the library next week. You’re a lawyer. Can’t you file something? An injunction? Anything?”
Marcus wanted to help. He truly did. But he’d been reading about how burnout among activists was actually strengthening fascism by depleting the resistance of its best people.
“I’m trying to practice sustainable activism,” he said gently. “There was this article in the Atlantic—well, before they shut it down—about how martyrdom is actually a tool of the patriarchy. If I burn out now, I’m useless in year three of this thing. I need to save my energy for the most strategic intervention point.”
“They’re burning books, Marcus.”
“I know. Which is exactly why I can’t waste my political capital on a fight we might not win. What if I spend everything on this and then next month something even worse happens and I’m too depleted to respond? I’m being strategic. I’m playing chess while they’re playing checkers.”
“It’s our childhood library.”
“Which is why I need to think clearly and not emotionally. Emotional decisions are how we got here.”
She hung up.
Marcus felt good about his systemic thinking. This was the kind of long-term strategic planning the resistance needed.
—–
The knock at his neighbor’s door started at 4:00 AM.
Marcus sat upright, his heart hammering. This was it. The moment. He reached for his phone to record the arrest, to be the witness history demanded.
Then he saw his battery percentage: 14%.
I can’t go out there with a dying phone, he reasoned, his breath hitching. What if he needed to call a lawyer? What if he captured the perfect footage and it cut out right at the climax? That would be a disservice to the cause. Better to charge to 100% and be a high-capacity ally later.
He sat in the dark, listening to the muffled cries in the hallway, watching the lightning bolt icon, waiting for green.
By the time his phone hit 100%, the hallway was silent.
—–
By fall, the loyalty oaths began.
The document lay on the conference table.
I pledge loyalty to the Constitution and the lawful government of the United States.
Marcus raised his hand.
“I have some concerns,” he said. “Primarily typographical.”
The managing partner blinked.
“Times New Roman feels… retrograde,” Marcus continued. “Very pre-crisis. Judges respond better to Garamond. There are studies. Also, the kerning here—see between ‘lawful’ and ‘government’? It’s distractingly wide. It raises questions about document authenticity.”
Silence.
“If we’re pledging loyalty, shouldn’t the document reflect our commitment to excellence?”
“Sign the form, Marcus.”
“Also, I notice this is printed single-sided. The environmental impact of—”
“Marcus.”
He signed, whispering, “Choosing my battles.”
—–
When the camps opened, Marcus’s firm was asked to consult.
The kickoff meeting conflicted with his blue-zone meal delivery.
“Activated cashew cream has a very narrow temperature window,” he explained to the partner. “If the probiotics die, that’s gut inflammation. Inflammation leads to poor decision-making. Churchill had terrible gut health, you know. That’s barely discussed.”
They rescheduled.
On Friday, he had a new concern: “I’ve been tracking my biorhythms, and Friday is a critically low point in my physical cycle. My astrologer—I mean, my wellness consultant—said I should avoid new commitments during this particular Venus retrograde. Could we push to next month when I’m in a more aligned state?”
“Your… wellness consultant.”
“I’m not saying I believe in it. I’m saying I respect frameworks of knowing that have been marginalized by Western hegemony. Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?”
They removed him from the project.
Marcus felt victorious. He’d resisted! And his gut health had never been better.
—–
In October, the neighbor’s apartment was raided.
Marcus heard everything through the wall. The shouting, the pleading, the children crying.
He sat on his couch, frozen. He should do something. Call someone. Go outside.
But it was 8:47 PM, and he’d already done his evening screen-time limit. His digital wellness app had locked him out of the phone function. He’d set these boundaries for himself when he read that article about how smartphone addiction was destroying civic engagement.
He stared at the locked screen. You’ve reached your daily limit! Great job protecting your mental health!
The crying stopped around 9:15. His phone unlocked at 10:00.
By then, it seemed too late to call anyone. He didn’t want to wake people up. That would be inconsiderate.
—–
By winter, his coworker Elena’s brother had been taken.
She leaned over his cubicle, trembling. “Marcus, I’m going to the courthouse to file a writ. Will you come? You know the clerk. You have leverage.”
Marcus felt a wave of genuine, crushing sorrow. He reached out to pat her hand, then remembered the firm’s new “Physical Boundaries in Crisis” policy.
“Elena, I am vibrating with your pain,” he said, and he meant it. “But I’ve been doing a lot of reading about white saviorism, and I’m concerned that me inserting myself into this situation might center my narrative over yours. Would it be more empowering for you to do this on your own? I don’t want to colonize your struggle.”
Elena stared at him.
“I could send you some resources about filing writs? I have this great bookmark folder. Very empowering stuff.”
“My brother is in a cage.”
“I know. Which is why you need to be the hero of this story, not me. I’m trying to be a better ally by taking up less space.”
She walked away.
“I’ll send you that link to the breathing exercises!” he called after her. “Really helps with the cortisol!”
—–
In December, the “Social Hygiene” laws were posted on every street corner.
Marcus stood before a poster, his fists clenched. He was going to tear it down. His fingers brushed the staples.
Then he noticed the material. Heavy-duty, weather-resistant polymer.
If I rip this, I’m creating microplastics, he thought. The environmental impact of performative rage is rarely discussed. Am I willing to poison the water table just to feel brave for five seconds? The fascists want us to abandon our principles. They want us to become careless, destructive. I won’t give them that satisfaction.
He walked away, feeling a strange, hollow pride in his commitment to the planet.
—–
By January, the “Relocation” trains ran past his apartment at night.
The screech of the tracks kept him awake. He could hear them. Everyone could hear them.
He opened his laptop to finally, finally donate his entire savings to the underground railroad network. He typed in the amount. $47,000. Everything.
His cursor hovered over “Confirm.”
A pop-up appeared: Verify your identity.
He couldn’t find his passport. It wasn’t in the bedside table. It wasn’t in the safe.
“This is a sign,” he whispered. “Security is compromised. If I donate from an unverified account, the regime might track the flow and compromise the entire network. I’m actually protecting the refugees by not sending this money until I find my birth certificate. That’s the responsible thing. The smart thing.”
He spent six hours color-coding his filing cabinet.
He never found the passport, but his 2019 tax returns had never looked more organized.
—–
The final knock came for him on a Tuesday.
Not because he was a rebel, but because the machine eventually eats everything, even the grease.
Two men in grey suits stood in his foyer.
“Marcus Thorne? You’ve been flagged for Low Utility Behavior.”
Marcus looked at them. He looked at his Hermès tie. He looked at his unwashed kale smoothie glass.
“I’m actually in the middle of a digital detox,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s a very sensitive window for neuroplasticity. If you could come back during my scheduled ‘Open Outreach’ hours on Thursday—I have a whole system, very organized—”
“Move.”
As they led him toward the black van, Marcus saw a group of teenagers across the street. They were holding rocks. They were looking for a signal. Waiting for someone, anyone, to show them it was okay to fight back.
Marcus had a moment of pure, blinding clarity. He could shout. He could fight. He could scream the truth so loud the whole block would wake up.
He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said to the agent gripping his arm. “Is this van ULEZ compliant? I only ask because my respiratory system is quite sensitive to diesel particulates. I’ve been doing breathwork—Wim Hof method, very powerful—and I’d hate for a coughing fit to interfere with my processing interview.”
The door slammed shut.
In the dark of the van, Marcus adjusted his posture. Spine straight. Shoulders back. At least, he thought, he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of losing his dignity.
He began to count his breaths.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
He was doing the work.
Compromise
Marcus adjusted his Hermès tie in the reflection of his office window, forty-seven floors above Manhattan. Below, protesters marched through sleet, their signs dissolving into papier-mâché resolve.
He’d meant to join them.
“I really was going to go,” he told his reflection. The reflection nodded. It always did.
Instead, he turned to his computer and drafted another post on the firm’s internal message board.
Subject: What can we do to fight fascism?
He typed with the practiced urgency of a second-year associate who had once cried during a documentary about the Weimar Republic. He listed his credentials: the poli sci degree, the semester abroad, the vow he’d made to himself about 1930s Germany while standing in line at the Jewish Museum gift shop.
He was not someone who would simply do nothing.
The excuses arrived fully formed, like trusted colleagues.
The winter storm (forecast models varied; one suggested accumulation might reach two inches).
The firm’s PR department might object to his face being associated with a crowd (he had not asked).
The donations he’d already made (round numbers, which psychologically felt larger).
The idea of hiding immigrants in his home (quickly dismissed—he’d just had the sofa professionally cleaned, and also where would they put their shoes?).
He hit post, received three likes and a “Great point!” from someone in compliance, and returned to reviewing merger documents, comforted by the sense that history had been notified of his position.
—–
Three weeks later, the deportations began in earnest.
Marcus watched footage of families being separated at a processing center in New Jersey. He felt sick. He felt summoned. He felt—if he was being honest—slightly inconvenienced.
He called the volunteer coordinator at the ACLU.
“We need lawyers at the detention center tomorrow morning,” she said. “Six AM. Can you make it?”
Finally, a clean moment. A hinge of history. A before-and-after.
Then he remembered: It was a no-carb day. Tuesday and Thursday were his low-glycemic days, essential for maintaining the mental clarity he’d need for sustained resistance. And those people at the detention center—he’d seen the footage—they looked like they ate a lot of bread. Rice. Tortillas. He’d be surrounded by carbohydrate energy all day, and the temptation would destroy his macros entirely.
“I’m actually in a very delicate metabolic window right now,” he explained. “Insulin resistance is how they win. A foggy mind can’t fight fascism. Can we do Wednesday? That’s my complex carb day. I’ll have the glucose stability for this kind of emotional labor.”
“People are being deported in the morning.”
“Exactly. Which is why I need to be operating at peak cognitive function. We have to think long-term. Marathon, not a sprint. Can’t pour from an empty cup—or one full of simple sugars.”
There was a pause on the line. A human one.
He never called back.
—–
By spring, journalists were being arrested.
Marcus knew one of them—Sarah. She’d covered finance. She once described his firm as “aggressively competent,” which he’d taken as praise.
Her colleagues circulated a letter. One hundred signatures by Friday.
Marcus received the email Tuesday and immediately meant to sign.
Unfortunately, he realized he was completely unprepared for this kind of historical moment. He hadn’t even rewatched Schindler’s List recently. How could he participate in resistance without having refreshed his understanding of resistance? That would be performative, shallow.
He queued up the film that evening. Three hours and fifteen minutes. He’d watch it, take notes, really internalize the lessons, and then sign the letter from a place of informed moral clarity.
By Wednesday, he’d only made it forty minutes in. The film was just so devastating. He needed to process. He started a separate film—a documentary about the documentary. About Spielberg’s creative process. About how to bear witness properly.
He took extensive notes on the proper way to take action.
By Friday, they had ninety-eight signatures.
Sarah was convicted Monday.
Marcus felt terrible, but also he’d learned so much about the importance of preparation. Next time, he’d be ready.
—–
The book burnings began in August.
His sister called from Ohio, frantic. “They’re coming for the library next week. You’re a lawyer. Can’t you file something? An injunction? Anything?”
Marcus wanted to help. He truly did. But he’d been reading about how burnout among activists was actually strengthening fascism by depleting the resistance of its best people.
“I’m trying to practice sustainable activism,” he said gently. “There was this article in the Atlantic—well, before they shut it down—about how martyrdom is actually a tool of the patriarchy. If I burn out now, I’m useless in year three of this thing. I need to save my energy for the most strategic intervention point.”
“They’re burning books, Marcus.”
“I know. Which is exactly why I can’t waste my political capital on a fight we might not win. What if I spend everything on this and then next month something even worse happens and I’m too depleted to respond? I’m being strategic. I’m playing chess while they’re playing checkers.”
“It’s our childhood library.”
“Which is why I need to think clearly and not emotionally. Emotional decisions are how we got here.”
She hung up.
Marcus felt good about his systemic thinking. This was the kind of long-term strategic planning the resistance needed.
—–
The knock at his neighbor’s door started at 4:00 AM.
Marcus sat upright, his heart hammering. This was it. The moment. He reached for his phone to record the arrest, to be the witness history demanded.
Then he saw his battery percentage: 14%.
I can’t go out there with a dying phone, he reasoned, his breath hitching. What if he needed to call a lawyer? What if he captured the perfect footage and it cut out right at the climax? That would be a disservice to the cause. Better to charge to 100% and be a high-capacity ally later.
He sat in the dark, listening to the muffled cries in the hallway, watching the lightning bolt icon, waiting for green.
By the time his phone hit 100%, the hallway was silent.
—–
By fall, the loyalty oaths began.
The document lay on the conference table.
I pledge loyalty to the Constitution and the lawful government of the United States.
Marcus raised his hand.
“I have some concerns,” he said. “Primarily typographical.”
The managing partner blinked.
“Times New Roman feels… retrograde,” Marcus continued. “Very pre-crisis. Judges respond better to Garamond. There are studies. Also, the kerning here—see between ‘lawful’ and ‘government’? It’s distractingly wide. It raises questions about document authenticity.”
Silence.
“If we’re pledging loyalty, shouldn’t the document reflect our commitment to excellence?”
“Sign the form, Marcus.”
“Also, I notice this is printed single-sided. The environmental impact of—”
“Marcus.”
He signed, whispering, “Choosing my battles.”
—–
When the camps opened, Marcus’s firm was asked to consult.
The kickoff meeting conflicted with his blue-zone meal delivery.
“Activated cashew cream has a very narrow temperature window,” he explained to the partner. “If the probiotics die, that’s gut inflammation. Inflammation leads to poor decision-making. Churchill had terrible gut health, you know. That’s barely discussed.”
They rescheduled.
On Friday, he had a new concern: “I’ve been tracking my biorhythms, and Friday is a critically low point in my physical cycle. My astrologer—I mean, my wellness consultant—said I should avoid new commitments during this particular Venus retrograde. Could we push to next month when I’m in a more aligned state?”
“Your… wellness consultant.”
“I’m not saying I believe in it. I’m saying I respect frameworks of knowing that have been marginalized by Western hegemony. Isn’t that what we’re fighting for?”
They removed him from the project.
Marcus felt victorious. He’d resisted! And his gut health had never been better.
—–
In October, the neighbor’s apartment was raided.
Marcus heard everything through the wall. The shouting, the pleading, the children crying.
He sat on his couch, frozen. He should do something. Call someone. Go outside.
But it was 8:47 PM, and he’d already done his evening screen-time limit. His digital wellness app had locked him out of the phone function. He’d set these boundaries for himself when he read that article about how smartphone addiction was destroying civic engagement.
He stared at the locked screen. You’ve reached your daily limit! Great job protecting your mental health!
The crying stopped around 9:15. His phone unlocked at 10:00.
By then, it seemed too late to call anyone. He didn’t want to wake people up. That would be inconsiderate.
—–
By winter, his coworker Elena’s brother had been taken.
She leaned over his cubicle, trembling. “Marcus, I’m going to the courthouse to file a writ. Will you come? You know the clerk. You have leverage.”
Marcus felt a wave of genuine, crushing sorrow. He reached out to pat her hand, then remembered the firm’s new “Physical Boundaries in Crisis” policy.
“Elena, I am vibrating with your pain,” he said, and he meant it. “But I’ve been doing a lot of reading about white saviorism, and I’m concerned that me inserting myself into this situation might center my narrative over yours. Would it be more empowering for you to do this on your own? I don’t want to colonize your struggle.”
Elena stared at him.
“I could send you some resources about filing writs? I have this great bookmark folder. Very empowering stuff.”
“My brother is in a cage.”
“I know. Which is why you need to be the hero of this story, not me. I’m trying to be a better ally by taking up less space.”
She walked away.
“I’ll send you that link to the breathing exercises!” he called after her. “Really helps with the cortisol!”
—–
In December, the “Social Hygiene” laws were posted on every street corner.
Marcus stood before a poster, his fists clenched. He was going to tear it down. His fingers brushed the staples.
Then he noticed the material. Heavy-duty, weather-resistant polymer.
If I rip this, I’m creating microplastics, he thought. The environmental impact of performative rage is rarely discussed. Am I willing to poison the water table just to feel brave for five seconds? The fascists want us to abandon our principles. They want us to become careless, destructive. I won’t give them that satisfaction.
He walked away, feeling a strange, hollow pride in his commitment to the planet.
—–
By January, the “Relocation” trains ran past his apartment at night.
The screech of the tracks kept him awake. He could hear them. Everyone could hear them.
He opened his laptop to finally, finally donate his entire savings to the underground railroad network. He typed in the amount. $47,000. Everything.
His cursor hovered over “Confirm.”
A pop-up appeared: Verify your identity.
He couldn’t find his passport. It wasn’t in the bedside table. It wasn’t in the safe.
“This is a sign,” he whispered. “Security is compromised. If I donate from an unverified account, the regime might track the flow and compromise the entire network. I’m actually protecting the refugees by not sending this money until I find my birth certificate. That’s the responsible thing. The smart thing.”
He spent six hours color-coding his filing cabinet.
He never found the passport, but his 2019 tax returns had never looked more organized.
—–
The final knock came for him on a Tuesday.
Not because he was a rebel, but because the machine eventually eats everything, even the grease.
Two men in grey suits stood in his foyer.
“Marcus Thorne? You’ve been flagged for Low Utility Behavior.”
Marcus looked at them. He looked at his Hermès tie. He looked at his unwashed kale smoothie glass.
“I’m actually in the middle of a digital detox,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s a very sensitive window for neuroplasticity. If you could come back during my scheduled ‘Open Outreach’ hours on Thursday—I have a whole system, very organized—”
“Move.”
As they led him toward the black van, Marcus saw a group of teenagers across the street. They were holding rocks. They were looking for a signal. Waiting for someone, anyone, to show them it was okay to fight back.
Marcus had a moment of pure, blinding clarity. He could shout. He could fight. He could scream the truth so loud the whole block would wake up.
He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said to the agent gripping his arm. “Is this van ULEZ compliant? I only ask because my respiratory system is quite sensitive to diesel particulates. I’ve been doing breathwork—Wim Hof method, very powerful—and I’d hate for a coughing fit to interfere with my processing interview.”
The door slammed shut.
In the dark of the van, Marcus adjusted his posture. Spine straight. Shoulders back. At least, he thought, he hadn’t given them the satisfaction of losing his dignity.
He began to count his breaths.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
He was doing the work.
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