Please look under my coat before she sees you!
The convention center in San Antonio was a cacophony of flashing lights, fervent cheers, and patriotic anthems. Two thousand supporters filled the grand ballroom, waving signs, their faces alight with anticipation. On a massive stage, bathed in blue and red spotlights, Evelyn Albright-Hollister stood at the podium, her smile radiant, her voice booming through the sound system. Live television cameras captured every angle, broadcasting her triumphant rise across the state.
I had arrived in a blur, ditching my motorcycle miles away and approaching the venue on foot, melting into the throngs of supporters. The bypass transmitter was tucked deep inside my jacket, its small indicator light a silent beacon of hope and destruction.
Evelyn was mid-sentence, her voice soaring, promising a “new era of prosperity and integrity for Texas.” Her eyes, I imagined, scanned the teleprompter, confident in her script, secure in her power.
Then, just as she gestured expansively, something flickered.
The giant stage monitors behind her, displaying her campaign logo and a smiling portrait, suddenly froze. The image pixelated for a moment, then shifted.
An automated message, stark white text on a black background, appeared on the screens, momentarily replacing her face.
It read: “STATE AUDIT WARNING: Unverified Data Packet Ingress Detected. System Integrity Compromised. Review Pending: TX-GUBERNATORIAL-04282024-APEXTITAN.”
The teleprompter in front of her also went blank, then displayed the same message.
Evelyn faltered. Her voice, which had been so strong, hitched. She blinked, her smile tightening, her eyes darting to the side.
Her campaign manager, Victor Delaney, was visible in the wings, his face a mask of panic, frantically waving his hands, trying to get her attention.
The crowd, sensing the sudden shift, murmured. The cheers died down, replaced by confused whispers.
Evelyn cleared her throat, her eyes wide, scanning the monitors behind her as if she could will the message away. “Ah… it seems we’re having a slight… technical difficulty.”
She stammered, her composure visibly fracturing. The confident politician was gone, replaced by a woman caught unawares, unprepared for a glitch in her perfectly orchestrated performance.
“Just a… a sudden bit of heat exhaustion, perhaps,” she mumbled, fumbling with her microphone. “We’ve been campaigning so hard… A brief apology, everyone, for this… unexpected interruption.”
She cast a desperate glance at Delaney, who was now jogging towards the stage. Without another word, Evelyn Albright-Hollister, the formidable Lieutenant Governor, stumbled away from the podium, her shoulders slumped, and stepped down offstage into an immediate, uncomfortable silence that spread through the vast ballroom like a cold front.
The cameras, still rolling, captured her bewildered retreat. No dramatic outburst, no defiant speech. Just an awkward, unceremonious exit.
The crowd looked at each other, murmuring questions. The technical difficulties weren’t just glitches; they were automated state audit warnings, already triggered by Rachel’s archive release.
Evelyn’s political machine had just silently ground to a halt.
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