New-Denmark, Summer 2045
Will Follow, still technically mayor, leaned back in his chair, stiff-backed, arms crossed. His suit was frayed at the cuffs. A trace of tobacco on his breath. Across from him sat Angela Smith — crisp blouse, federal badge, eyes too bright for comfort.
— “Let’s not waste time, Mr. Follow. Homeland Security needs actionable intelligence.”
Will shifted in his seat.
— “I’ve given you what I know. Most of ‘em keep to themselves. But they’ve stopped answering calls. Even the polite ones.”
Angela opened her tablet, swiped.
— “We’re not interested in polite anymore. We have the funds. CropF’s ready to buy out the non-compliant farms. You just need to find the pressure points. Everyone has one.”
— “You think we haven’t tried?” Will said, a dry laugh in his voice. “They’re tight. Stubborn. Their kids are even worse. These folks plant their own food, build their own tools, live offline. You can’t just wave a check and make them vanish.”
Angela didn’t blink.
— “Tell the ones who are still with us to speak up. Neighbors talk. Fear doesn’t work, then maybe loyalty will. Or profit.”
— “Some of them still remember who CropF used to be. Before the raids. Before the implants.”
She tapped her pen once, sharp.
— “Then remind them who CropF is now.”
Will’s jaw tightened.
— “If they find out I’m involved—”
— “They won’t. You’ll just be the old mayor doing his duty. Keeping the peace.”
She stood, buttoned her coat.
— “Time’s running short. We’ve tolerated the rogue pockets long enough. Tell your people to help us buy silence. Or we’ll come and take it.”
She left without shaking his hand. Will stayed seated, looking out at the road, where the snow kept falling, quiet and relentless.
The door clicked shut. Silence returned.
Will didn’t move. The snow was still falling. He reached into the drawer, pulled out a half-empty flask, took one careful sip, then pushed it back.
Will watched Angela disappear into the falling snow. He stayed seated for a while, then reached for the old landline on his desk.
A crackle on the line, then a deep, wary voice:
— “Yeah?”
— “It’s Will. We need to talk.”
— “I’m listening.”
— “You still know some folks who haven’t gone full off-grid? The ones who haven’t sworn off town halls and tech? They need to start talking to their neighbors. Calm things down.”
Silence. Then:
— “You’re asking me to spy on farmers, Will? The same guys who helped pull my kid out of the river last year?”
— “I’m asking you to prevent a storm. Angela Smith didn’t come here for small talk. If we don’t give them something, they’ll show up with drones and warrants.”
A long sigh.
— “You don’t feel it, do you? The wind’s changing. People are done. The soil’s exhausted. Yields are down. The seeds are garbage. Even the animals are twitchy. We’re farming dead land and CropF keeps selling fairy tales.”
Will winced.
— “That’s why I think someone’s sabotaging this from the inside. A mole. Someone trying to bring CropF down for good. We need to find them.”
— “Or maybe there’s nothing left to sabotage. Maybe the machine’s already hollow.”
— “You really think it’s that far gone?”
— “I think the farmers are waking up. And you’re not their mayor anymore, Will. Just a guy making phone calls a little too late.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Will held the receiver to his ear a moment longer, jaw clenched, the weight in his chest just a little heavier than before.
Will Follow had never truly known the farmers. He’d been parachuted in just as CropF arrived — a planted piece of the program. He didn’t know who lent out their tractor, who sang in the rain, or who baked Sunday bread. That belonged to a world that no longer existed. Before drones, before sensors, before seeds bore marks. Before CropF swallowed New-Denmark whole and never spit out the bones.
Today, when he walked down the main road, all he saw were shuttered windows and gray faces. Families barely spoke. Tools rusted. Laughter had vanished. And yet, behind the surface, something still held. The farmers talked — quietly, cautiously. They helped one another in secret. An old solidarity, discreet but stubborn, clung on like a root that refused to die.
His own daughter hadn’t spoken to him in five years. She had said,
— “You sold the valley’s soul for a badge and a yield report.”
And he hadn’t known what to say. She was right.
At night, Will didn’t sleep. He sank. Into a thick mire of half-digested memories. He dreamed of bleeding fields, of barley whispering in his ear, of silos ripped open by human screams. He’d wake up drenched in sweat, gripping the sheet like a rope already pulled too far. His house was empty. The dog, dead. The kitchen, too clean. And that silence — that goddamn silence — buzzing with network noise.
Sometimes he’d get up and stare into the mirror. Not to shave. Not to fix his hair. Just to see if he was still there. His face had hollowed. His eyes were dull. He looked like a man who had forgotten the promise he made at twenty: never bow. And he had bowed.
They still called him “mayor.” Technically. But a mayor doesn’t hold meetings over encrypted lines. A mayor doesn’t need an escort to buy milk. What he’d become was an interface. Between the suits and the soil. Between the orders he received and the ones he pretended to pass on.
Will knew one thing with certainty: if he ever hoped to change anything, to truly reach the farmers — it wouldn’t be through CropF, or federal memos, or whispered bribes. It would have to go through her. The one they called Gipsy. Soham. She had become more than a name — a signal, a myth, a quiet force threading through the back roads and barns. The problem was, she wouldn’t take his call. Not after all he’d stood for. Not after what had been done under his watch. But maybe… maybe if he could find her, not as the old mayor, not as the suit — but as a man who once believed in growing things — then she might listen. And if she listened, others might follow. If.
He wanted to believe the course could still be corrected. That he could do one right thing before the end. Just one. But the path was narrowing. And his only compass was that dull ache in his chest every time a farmer hung up without saying goodbye.
Maybe that ache was all he had left.
And maybe it was all he deserved.