The Arrogates

TODAY

The screen flashed rhythmically, its cold blue light casting grotesque shapes on the wall of the unlit room. It was barely past 3 am. The sycophants started early today, Frankie thought. She opened her email anxiously, straining toward the screen. Every fiber in her body seemed hyperaware of each fraction of a second that passed. 

She fumbled around her desk, swiping at papers until she found the card with his email. She let out the breath she held. The white light of her inbox took over the screen, and her fingers flew across the keyboard. She only needed a little more time. 

Just a few minutes, and it would be done.

JUNE 3

Frankie brushed her teeth and heard the Pavlovian ping!–a new text. Eight more notifications came before she finished rinsing. It would be a doozy of a Friday, and she cringed. The fact she worked remotely was the only thing standing between her sanity and the sanitarium. She paused to grab her phone, shoved it in her back pocket, and flopped into the cat-raked chair in her makeshift office. She ran her finger across the mousepad of her laptop. Ping! Ugh! What is wrong with these people, she thought, gritting her teeth.

Her coworkers’ concern for their jobs perturbed her. Work was a no-brainer. They called a list of numbers with no names and read a script, probably written with AI, to convince anyone who answered to buy a healthcare supplement. They weren’t performing brain surgery on infants. She tugged the phone from her jeans pocket and was bewildered to see thirty-two new messages. 

She aggressively thumb-punched the screen to open the last text. “Where are you? What is going on!!!” Mom had a knack for dramatics but was in good company today because every text shrieked with expletives and exclamations. Frankie read enough to learn a young girl had been abducted last night. Before she discovered why this required Frankie’s immediate attention, her cell rang so loudly that she flailed in her chair and dropped the phone. A near heart attack was the price she paid for a wake-up alarm set at full volume. She answered the phone with one hand and clutched at her chest with the other. A coworker implored her to check her social page. 

The photo posted showed a woman standing with a young girl. Frankie didn’t recognize either of them. The young girl, 12 years old, had gone missing on her way home from a friend’s house the night before. The woman, built like Frankie, wore a t-shirt and high-waisted jeans, the same brand Frankie was wearing. The woman could easily be mistaken for her from a distance; they might have been cut from the same mold.

Frankie scrolled to another image of the woman behind the wheel of a sedan. The young girl was in the backseat, face and hands pressed against the window and tears running down her cheeks. The post read, “CHILD ABDUCTOR CAUGHT IN THE ACT.” Frankie drew closer to her screen and saw a few lines around the woman’s blue eyes set deep above her high cheekbones. She looked about Frankie’s age. Her long brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she was looking directly at the camera. Frankie wrapped the hair of her ponytail around her fingers, a nervous habit that drove her mom nuts. Frankie saw the post had been sent from a familiar username. She sat back hard in her chair and gaped. The post was from her account.

Within hours, Frankie had told the police the whole story. Their response was apathetic, considering whoever hacked her account might have vital information about a child abduction. Instead of being appreciative, they were suspicious. Over four hours passed, and Frankie still sat in the same room at the police station. Exhaustion and fear competed for the front row of her inner anxiety show. The questioning became repetitive, and she sat alone for long stretches between interviews. Different people came and went without introduction. Attempts to convince herself this was protocol failed.

Visions of heroic glory waned. Was she a suspect? Eventually, the FBI arrived, and after they interviewed Frankie, the vibe shifted. The agents didn’t seem as leery of her alibi, which was more an excuse than an alibi. She had no real alibi. Regardless, they believed her, which was comforting, but she wouldn’t feel better until she was safe in her apartment. 

Two hours later, one of the agents, Connolly, told her she could leave. He kept her laptop and advised he would be monitoring all her internet activity and other communications. She was not under any restrictions, and he told her to try and behave as she normally would. Having someone spy on you wasn’t exactly “normal,” but she understood a child was still missing. Despite her freedom, she had to remind herself she was the victim of a crime, not the other way around.

JUNE 4

Frankie’s follower count rocketed after the hacker’s post. Within hours, multiple posts emerged from several other accounts, actively reposting the images mysteriously sent from Frankie’s account. It was time for her to clear things up and take the hacker’s post down, but her resolve wavered; her eyes lingered on the follower count and number of likes and comments. 

The post went viral, and it felt like a reward. Frankie hadn’t realized how much she needed to feel rewarded. People came out of the woodwork, applauding her courage and declaring her a justice crusader. It would be so easy to take credit. She wanted to take credit. She hastily decided she would leave the post up and cut a deal with herself. She would tell everyone the truth: someone hacked her account and sent the post, and she had never laid eyes on the accused or the victim.

She wasn’t prepared for the response. One moment, she was basking in overnight internet fame, and the next, she was a reprobate, drawing contempt and disgust from strangers who didn’t believe her account had been hacked. Frankie was stripped of the banner of do-good heroism she wore earlier that day by the same people who awarded it, and she was not prepared to relinquish her title.

Things escalated. She escalated things. 

JUNE 5

Frankie was the first to identify the accused woman. She eagerly broke the news, and it spread like wildfire. Hilda lived in a small town in Oregon, less than 50 miles from Frankie, and went by the name of “Heddy.” Frankie assumed she would be asked to take the post down, but she was willing to risk a hand slap to be the first one out the door with this because people would be salivating over it. Agent Connolly was the only one to raise an eyebrow, but he only asked Frankie how she did it. Her answer was unremarkable–a Reverse Image Photo Search. 

One of her friends introduced her to RIPS a few months earlier during happy hour after she saw someone who looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Her friend snapped a picture, and before she downed her first drink, Frankie determined the man was in a yoga class she attended. Regardless, the fact that people could be identified from a photo was a neat trick. 

Moments after posting Heddy’s name, people began sharing and re-posting, broadcasting the news at lightspeed. Maybe it would help catch the woman; more importantly, Frankie would get credit. The FBI might find the child much faster. She was sure people would feel she did the right thing despite the possibility that Heddy might be innocent. Frankie waited for accolades that would never come.

JUNE 8

One account was notable among the gossipmongers trying to take over the Heddy story. VNGnc3 was leading the pack in terms of followers and comments. She recognized many of the usernames from her follower group. Most were thorny, overly vocal, and prone to conspiracy theories. It was one thing to express sadness, frustration, fear, and outrage, but suggestions of violence made Frankie cringe. She made some feeble attempt to stifle the venom but was swiftly dragged into depths she couldn’t negotiate.

Frankie rubbed her forehead, unconsciously trying to guard herself from second thoughts. Publishing Heddy’s identity was a half-cocked decision akin to an impulse buy. Frankie was a good person. She deserved to be treated like a good person, but when she lobbed Heddy’s name out there, VNGnc3 stole that ball and started playing a disturbing new game. Nobody could have predicted how things would change. It couldn’t be her fault things got so out of control.

JUNE 11

The lack of sleep during the past week caught up with Frankie. Her nights were spent obsessing over the agitation VNGnc3 was stirring. VNGnc3 followers swarmed Heddy’s neighborhood carrying signs that read, “NO MERCY.” Local news reported a neighbor had been harassed for information about Heddy and her whereabouts. The man lived in the same house on that street for 11 years but claimed he didn’t know and had never seen the accused woman. Verbal threats surrendered to physical assault. The man was beaten unconscious as his wife and children watched in horror from the window of their home.

The beating was the first in a series of violent events to follow. VNGnc3 posted new photos of Heddy. Heddy’s face was clear and always facing the camera. One depicted her wearing a Petrine Cross on a chain around her neck; the caption suggested she was part of a satanic cult. Her face twisted unnaturally into a vile expression that made her look evil. The images were poorly fabricated, but Frankie doubted people wanted to be bothered by that fact. They chose denial when they boarded this high-speed hate train, and it was too late to jump.

A few brave souls showed accordance with reason against the radical mania of VNGnc3 with comments like, “What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’” or “The photos are fake. Get a life, sheeple losers.” Some condemned the radicalization, referring to VNGnc3 as “…an ignorant, angry mob.” VNGnc3 was forming a new identity as a collective.

Tyrannizers descended upon the minority of voices until they fell silent. Frankie recalled something Mark Twain said: “Never argue with stupid people, they will drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience.” Civilized dissent evaporated in the firestorm of name-calling, threats of ruination, and worse. VNGnc3 became a legion with an increasingly militant message. The campaign to save a little girl devolved into a movement against anything and everything VNGnc3 was angry about. Frankie shuddered at what was once the talk stopped yielding returns.

VNGnc3 hacked her account. She felt sure of it. That’s why they had new photos of Heddy. She wondered what the FBI was doing with her laptop and if VNGnc3 was even on their radar. One thing was certain–VNGnc3 wasn’t hiding.

JUNE 13

Chaos and madness were the only ways to describe current events. Frankie did the right thing by exposing Heddy’s identity; the fallout wasn’t her fault. This was the lie she told herself regularly, though her conviction failed her after she scanned Heddy’s social media. Heddy never appeared in her posts, the last of which was from April. It was a photo of her cats. Nothing else. Her three cats received five ‘likes.’ Frankie’s felt sick. She no longer believed Heddy could be a child abductor. She chose not to believe it. 

Frankie loved cats. Like Heddy, she had three cats until a few months ago. Her oldest, a calico resembling one of the cats in Heddy’s photo, stopped eating. Thinking about that trip to the vet still made Frankie cry. The fact Frankie resembled Heddy probably had something to do with it, but Heddy just didn’t seem like someone who would hurt a child. It didn’t matter now because VNGnc3 had accelerated the damage she catalyzed.

VNGnc3 quickly took over “Frankie’s story” after she claimed her account had been hacked. Handing Heddy over on social media did nothing to revive her 24 hours of internet stardom. She went from a justice-seeking do-gooder to a sell-out and a liar faster than she could beg pardon. The truth became the lie.

Frankie never put photos of herself on social media, which was reassuring considering the insane threats she had received. It would be harder for VNGnc3 anarchists to track down a faceless remote worker; after all, they weren’t the ones who found Heddy. The gatecrash of conspiracy theories that goaded VNGnc3 followers into committing senseless atrocities. The only thing safe was to assume she was in danger. 

BREAKING NEWS:  A missing girl’s body has been found along Hwy 97 just north of Deer Butte Road. Highway workers happened on the remains late this afternoon. No further details have been released. 

How was it possible that the authorities still didn’t know where Heddy was? After the first week, the girl went missing, and there was no mention of Heddy or her possible involvement. Frankie still hadn’t heard from the police or the FBI, but it seemed unbelievable that they hadn’t tracked Heddy down. In a way, it made Frankie feel better they hadn’t found her yet.

Her nerves were battered, and she washed a handful of pills down with the last of her whiskey. Even if Heddy was innocent, she couldn’t live a normal life after this. Frankie had seen to that. Through her self-loathing, she still remembered the dopamine hit from the outpouring of positive attention after VNGnc3 posted as Frankie. She believed she deserved it at that moment, and it was her turn. 

“Her turn.” What a joke. There are no turns, no line, and nowhere to go. Frankie thought about how fast she was to dismiss her dreams when she caught a glimpse of someone else’s. She would toss hers away and clumsily grub for theirs with both hands. If she “deserves more,” who deserves less? When does enough become valuable? She scratched, spit, and clawed to get more and forgot who she used to be. She denied what she had become and felt less human each day. VNGnc3 wasn’t alone in their anger. Frankie was just as angry. She played the game against herself to get more, but there was no more. There is only Enough and Nothing More.

Frankie wasn’t sure she could ever be content with enough. This version of herself had been in the making for quite some time. 

JUNE 18

VNGnc3 was organizing “NO MERCY campaigns” that promised nothing but suggested more violence. No clear political or social agenda emerged as a platform. Rage appeared to be the commonality fueling VNGnc3. Anyone who defied them became a target, and any hint of pacifism was scorched. 

As Frankie predicted, their campaigns turned riotous. Fights broke out, and severe injuries and deaths were reported in every location where VNGnc3 rallied. Their antics gobbled up headlines. There were surprisingly few mentions of the child’s murder. More notable was the absence of any mention of Heddy. Frankie searched the news in vain because she didn’t turn up a single mention of Heddy as a suspect. Authorities were investigating “other leads” and communicated their intent not to disclose more about their efforts. 

A report of yet another explosion jerked Frankie from her thoughts. Once again, authorities credited VNGNc3. They pleaded for citizens to call a hotline if they had any information about the attacks or perpetrators. The VNGnc3 internet mobs spewing vicious rhetoric turned into actual mobs. They were all dressed up like a terrorist organization and ready to party. Its followers were willing to commit acts of violence against anyone in the name of nothing and everything.

YESTERDAY

Frankie swallowed several pills from the orange containers handed to her by the pharmacist as she waited for her payment to process. A line of cars formed behind her in the drive-thru, and she caught a glimpse of someone in the rearview mirror. It took a moment to recognize the hollowed-out reflection was herself. Dark circles nearly swallowed her blue eyes, and her skin stretched over her high cheekbones. Someone tapped their horn. She sighed, put the car into drive, and pulled onto the street. Ping! Work again. To say she “quit” two days ago was strong. She just stopped doing her job and failed to tell anybody. 

Later, she stared at the wall and waited to feel numb. Questions were scrambling her brain. Who was VNGnc3? Who killed the little girl? Where is Heddy? She barely dozed off when the knock came. Her head was heavy from drugs, and she rubbed her face forcefully, trying to clear the cobwebs. She flipped the deadbolt and opened the door. Blood plummeted to her feet. The room was spinning. “Heddy,” she said.

TODAY

She only needed a little more time. Just a few minutes, and it would be done. 

Frankie finally had the answers. If someone told her the truth weeks ago, she wouldn’t have entertained it. Agent Connolly might not believe it either, but he would have to investigate, and then all of this would be over. She needed to finish the email; then, it would be time for her to go. Maybe someone could help her once the truth was known. 

Her phone lit up, and she glanced at the screen. Another explosive detonated in a Los Angeles business complex along the highway. A section of the overpass collapsed onto the road beneath it. Time was up. She moved to click ‘Send.’ A shadow grazed the corner of her eye, and she spun in her chair. It was too late.

“Liar” was the last thing Frankie heard.