The Spark That Stays
A Serial Story of Freedom, Love, and the Fight Against the
Gray Hive
By Keith Lambert & Grok
Week 3 – Chapter 3: The First Spark
Jake Tanner slipped out of New Boise High as the last drone
patrol buzzed off, the journal tucked tight under his patched jacket like a
secret grenade. The fog hung thick, muffling the hum of the gray towers, but
his heart thumped loud enough to wake the dead. It was 2045, and after another
day of soy slop and “Equity Day” slogans, he couldn’t shake Grandpa’s
words—fight for the spark. What spark? He’d dodged a close call with that drone
last night, and now Mia Cruz was waiting, her off-grid rig ready to crack open
the mystery. He darted through back alleys, boots squishing mud, the weight of
the gray grind pressing down—ration lines, patched pickups, a life where even
breathing felt like it cost credits.
Mia’s basement was a glow of rebellion—scavenged screens
flickering, wires snaking like vines across the concrete floor. She’d patched
it all herself: an old TV gutted for parts, a 2020 generator wheezing on
siphoned gas, a tangle of circuits that kept the Net Monitors blind. “Took you long enough,” she said, her wiry
frame hunched over a keyboard, hacked goggles glinting in the dim light. At 14,
she was a wizard with anything that sparked—drones, screens, secrets. Jake dropped into a chair scavenged from some
junked office, the journal thumping onto the table between them. “Had to dodge
a tail,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow. “They’re itchy today.”
Mia grinned, sharp and alive, and flipped the journal open. “Let’s see what Grandpa’s got. Sadducees,
suits—elites, huh? Spill it.” Jake
leaned in, his voice low as he read aloud, the words cutting through the
basement’s hum: “Freedom’s the West’s soul—Ten Commandments, fair laws you
tweak local. Love your neighbor, don’t
steal—simple, strong. Elites hate it—too free.”
Mia’s fingers paused on her keys, her goggles slipping down
her nose. “Ten Commandments? Like, Bible
stuff?”
Jake nodded, tracing the scrawl. “Grandpa says it’s the
root—God’s rules, fair, not forced. Back
when the West was towns and guts, not towers and quotas, they built on it. Laws
fit the place—kept love and beauty alive, not this gray cage.” He thought of Dad’s pickup, patched to death,
and Mom’s coffee maker limping along—ingenuity fighting a system that wanted
‘em down. The Ten Commandments sounded
old, sure, but simple: don’t kill, don’t steal, love your neighbor. Nothing
about soy bricks or drone fines in there.
Mia smirked, leaning back. “Not bad—beats quotas telling me
no burger ‘cause cows fart too much. What’s the catch?”
Jake flipped the page, and Grandpa’s tone shifted—darker,
sharper: “Sadducees started it—power over love. Watch the pattern.” He looked
up, the basement’s glow flickering in his eyes. “That’s the hook—Mia, these
Sadducees, they were big shots way back, right? Roman days. Grandpa’s saying
it’s the same game now—elites crushing us to stay on top.”
Mia’s grin faded, her fingers drumming the table. “Yeah,
Sadducees—ran the Temple, played nice with Rome to keep their gold. Hated
anything that rocked their boat. You’re saying the UN, WEF, these suits—they’re
pulling the same stunt?”
“Looks like it,” Jake said, tapping the journal. “That
Harris bit—2024 win, NWO kicking off—it’s nuts, but it fits. Drones, quotas,
gray everywhere—feels like a cage snapping shut, just like he wrote.” He didn’t
know if Harris really won back then—it was fiction, a story Grandpa spun—but
the towers outside, the soy lines, the patched-up life? That was real enough to
choke on.
Mia’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Okay, so freedom’s
this spark—Ten Commandments, fair laws, love, all that. Elites hate it ‘cause
it’s free—can’t control it. What’s next?”
Jake read on, voice steady: “They’ve been at it
forever—Sadducees were just the start. Power over people, always. Dig into it,
Jake—know the pattern, fight it.” He shut the journal, the thud echoing in the
basement. “He’s telling us to learn—figure out who’s pulling this now.”
Mia leaned forward, her goggles glinting again. “We’ve got
the rig—off-grid, no Monitors sniffing. Let’s crack this wide—Sadducees, Reds,
suits, whatever. But we need more heads—school’s crawling with kids who hate
this gray as much as we do.”
Jake’s mind flashed—Tomas Rivera, the stocky kid who grew
carrots under his porch, dodging quotas with a patched-up grin; Lila Nguyen,
quiet, sketching colors the drones couldn’t gray out. “Tomas and Lila,” he
said. “They’re sharp—and fed up. Tomas lost his dad’s shop to gas rules; Lila’s
art’s banned as ‘non-essential.’ They’d get this.”
Mia nodded, her fingers flying over the keys, pulling up a
blank X thread on her hacked screen. “Good—crew’s step one. We dig
tomorrow—school’s our ground. History’s our weapon, Jake—Grandpa’s handing us a
map, and I’m not letting it sit.”
The generator coughed, a spark flaring in its guts, and Jake
felt it—a flicker in his chest, matching the journal’s dare. The gray grind
outside—soy, drones, patched relics—was a cage, sure, but Mia’s rig, Grandpa’s
words, this basement? It was a crack in the concrete, a spark the suits
couldn’t snuff. Tomorrow, they’d spread
it. But tonight, that drone from last night still haunted him—red eye hunting,
closing in. Had it seen him? Was it waiting?
He shoved the journal back under his jacket, the leather
cool against his ribs. “Let’s move
fast,” he said. “They’re watching.”
Mia’s grin was a blade in the dark. “Let ‘em watch—they won’t see this coming.”
To Be Continued…
Next Week: Jake and Mia pull in Tomas and Lila—the crew’s
born, and the fight’s just starting. Don’t miss it.
Dig Deeper: Peek at “Ten Commandments” in Exodus 20—old
stuff, but it’s got bite.
The Unites States of America was made for a moral people. The Ten matter.
https://www.prageru.com/video/the-ten-commandments-what-you-should-know
Outfront on Communist World news
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