I’ve spent years writing about the intersection of technology, culture, and policy. When social media is increasingly used to create events, rather than report on them, I find that work increasingly relevant.
It is one thing to write an essay here or a newsletter there. Given the potential harms, utilizing adding additional forms, like narrative, seems warranted. Hurricane David is a corporate-gothic tech tragedy set in a near future Florida Archipelago. This post-truth fable traces the edges of where reality can be manufactured - and what happens when the natural order reasserts itself.
I hope you enjoy this one, and maybe see a bit of your own fight in it. For more on the story’s background, check out the appropriate section on my Stories page.
~Matthew
Scene 2 - Party On
That evening, David zipped down the marina ramp on an electric ride-share scooter. He was late for Declan’s party. Work had run over, and he was now having trouble finding the right mooring among the other stationary vessels.
It was uncomfortably muggy, per usual for Florida’s late summer. The afternoon didn’t have the courtesy of cooling things off, so David was stuck trying to keep sweat out of his squinting eyes as he scanned for landmarks. This close to the ocean, he could taste the salt at the back of his throat, and smell a faint trace of mildew.
Finally, after more than few embarrassing dead ends, David caught signal and found his way to the sleek two-story white box on pontoons. It glowed at the end of the dock, LED light strings casting colorful reflections in the canal water.
As David approached, music, punctuated by laughter and whoops, could be heard. And there was Declan, lounging at the end of the gangway. He was with a couple of hangers-on David recognized from previous parties. They sat on either side of the walkway, drinking beers from a cooler between them.
Declan waved and swung a sockless loafer over the barrier from where he had been straddling the rail. His tanned skin gleamed from days spent pretending to sail. He met David with mock disapproval.
“It’s Mr. 9-to-5! Bout time! I was starting to think the Bureau had revoked your public privileges.”
“Never!” David tugged at where his shirt stuck to his back, and readjusted his fit. “Would’ve been here sooner, but work’s been crazy. You know how it is when the Midwest thinks they have a bit of heat.”
Declan handed David a beer, “Ah, the joy of keeping the Karens calm. So chivalrous!”
David gratefully accepted the drink. The condensation had been almost instantaneous, making it slick.
“Well,” Declan grandly gestured, “What do you think of me casa? Isn’t she a ‘beaut?”
David ran his eyes over the entirety of the illuminated craft, all 65-feet of pulsating brightness; a stark contrast to the fading twilight all around them. “I dunno, man. You couldn’t have bought something bigger?”
“Bought?” One of the others laughed. “Hell no. Declan doesn’t buy shit.”
“It’s a lease,” Declan clarified. “Ownership’s a liability, man. Shows up on the balance sheets-“
“-and lawsuits-“
Declan swatted the air, as if he was waving away something unpleasant. “I suppose that’s true, too. But like I was trying to say, real wealth is leverage.”
The other two in Declan’s orbit chuckled. David nodded, taking a mental note to try and work out what they meant later.
“So, bureau boy, come aboard. I’ll show you around.”
Declan and David crossed the gangway. On board, the crowd was Declan’s usual mix of high and low-brow, a clashing of class and culture. He seemed to do that on purpose; the greater degree of friction, the greater likelihood of free entertainment.
They slowly circulated, Declan making introductions or issuing orders to the handful of wait staff. As the night began to envelop them, the hot air seemed to grow heavier, more oppressive. Somewhere, on the horizon, there was a distant flicker of lightning; a late attempt at relief. But nobody seemed to notice.
They climbed the ladder to the second floor, past the DJ and the makeshift bar. That’s when David noticed a woman by herself toward the stern, set apart in white against the railing. She didn’t look like Declan’s usuals. There were no designer logos, no gaudy influencer techwear; just a simple light cotton summer dress gently animated in what little breeze came off the water. Poised, but not performative.
“Who is she?”
Declan turned and looked, his eyes taking a minute to adjust. He then laughed with recognition. “The granola? That’s Lucía, my second cousin. Mom thought I should invite her since she’s home between tours. ‘We’re family’, and all that.” “Tours?”
“‘Food Without Borders’ or something. Some kind of disaster recovery non-profit. Feed the poor, film the pity reels, make everyone else feel guilty for still drinking imported rum. All moral compass, pointing nowhere.”
Declan looked back at David, who was still staring. “Ahhhh, nah-uh. Not your league, dude. Not even the same game.”
“Uh-huh.” The challenge was made. David reached over and grabbed a pair of bottles from the bar. “I think I’ll go over and introduce myself.”
“Your funeral.”
David winked and sauntered his way as casually as possible to the back of the boat.
Lucía leaned on the railing, thick curls pulled into a loose bunch atop her head. She seemed to be intently looking at something while scrolling on her mobile.
She looked up at his approach.
David nodded and gestured to her device. “Something important?”
“Nothing that can’t be handled by people on-site,” Lucía said, powering off the screen. “I’m doing a poor job of taking a break, I suppose.”
“Same. Except my boss calls it ‘field listening’.”
Lucía seemed to smile, despite herself.
“Cold one?” David offered one of the beers. “I’m David, a friend of Declan.”
“Thanks, David. I think I will.”
David handed her a bottle and took a spot next to her. He studied her as she twisted off the top and drank.
“Declan mentioned you do relief work? Is that, like, internationally?”
“Yes, I run field ops, sometimes overseas. But, lately, that has been a lot more stateside than most people realize.”
“Cool. Where were you at last?”
Lucía turned to look out across the water, somewhere in the darkness. She took another drink, giving her response a moment to collect. “Tennessee to Ohio and back. The new tornado alley. Lots of towns there that don’t exist anymore, except on maps.”
“Oh wow,” David said. “But fresh starts for the people there, though, right? Silver linings?”
From somewhere across the water, there was a clap of thunder loud enough to be heard over the DJ’s bass.
Lucía gave David a quizzical look.
“Not really. Mostly grief.”
“I just mean,” David picked at the edge of the bottle’s label, “that kind of thing can be a reset. People are freed up to move somewhere else, somewhere safer.”
The line was smothered in damp silence.
David pivoted. “I think I remember some of what you’re talking about, though. Lots of pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps stories the past couple months came outta that area.”
There was flash of lightening, illuminating the clouds building over the ocean.
“That is certainly one take. What is it that you do, David?”
He leaned in conspiratorially, “I’m with the Bureau.”
“Bureau?” Lucía’s brow furrowed. “As in Bureau of Truth?”
A whoop rose near the DJ; someone popped a cork. The bass started again, with renewed vigor.
“Yeah. Is that a problem?”
Lucía straightened. “Not for me. I’ll sleep fine tonight. I can’t speak for you, though.”
“Hey - come on. It’s not so bad. In fact, you could say we do the same work-“
Lucía cut in, “Feeding people and filtering them aren’t the same.”
She took a sip while staring right through him.
David tried to laugh it off. “We both help people. You-“ he said, gestured vaguely, “do what you do. We keep people from stampeding every time it rains.”
“That’s one way to describe propaganda.”
David laughed. “Look, if we hit the siren every time the radar twitches, then shelves empty, freeways jam… I’ve seen it. Sometimes the calmest thing is… not shouting.”
She scoffed.
“You can’t argue that there’s lots of people, here and overseas, looking to capitalize on driving people apart. Disasters-“
Lucía tried to interject, but David kept going.
”-Disasters are primed to be piled on and exploited. Somebody has to have their hand on the brake.”
“Hand on the brake? Or across the lens?”
Another flash. The LED strings hiccuped. David reached for a response and found nothing.
“I was in Lower Broadway, outside of Nashville, after the F4. The fuel we brought for the hospital generator ran out after 36 hours. We made call after call for help, only to be told that the ‘reported weather anomaly’ didn’t ‘qualify for disbursement’. We were accused of running counter-Bureau narratives.”
She exhaled, turning back to eye the horizon.
“When it was clear help wasn’t coming, we moved those who could be moved… but-“
There was thunder. She seemed to soften, slightly.
David waited for the sound to fade.
“That’s… a lot. You really carry it.”
“That’s reality. Most don’t really get much of a choice.”
Lucía remembered her drink, considered it for a moment, and then set it on a nearby table. A sudden gust blew off the water, pushed to shore by the advancing storm.
“You seem like a bright guy, David. Really. You could do anything. But you choose to tell fairy tales. And people are dying because of it.”
Lucía straightened her dress.
“I’m tired. I’m going to find my friends.”
She brushed past him, her bare shoulder icy against his.
Around David, the music seemed to resume. The storm continued to build over the open water, closer now.
David’s face felt flush.
“I told you, man,” Declan yelled over the crowd, his arm around some new acquaintance, “She’s not gonna go for no Bureau boy.”
David forced a smile back, then turned from the railing and back to reassess the party drinking deeply.
Analyst, he thought. A Bureau analyst. Let’s see her try to dismiss that.
End Scene 2 - Check back tomorrow for the next installment.