"This is Kaine on Order. I'm your host, Elias Kaine—still here, still unbought, still unbroken. Broadcasting live from a city that calls itself free, in a world that mistakes noise for thought and chaos for liberty."
The red "ON AIR" bulb glowed faintly above him, its tired filament flickering like a warning light.
Elias sat hunched in the same leather chair he'd used for five years of podcasting—its spine softened and broken in like an old warhorse.
His studio was barely more than a corner in his apartment: lined with books on philosophy and failed regimes, a few military figurines from his modding days, and a clock stuck at 19:19—an intentional artifact.
A synth loop rolled softly beneath his voice: low, moody, like the undercurrent of a brewing storm.
"Tonight's topic is not new, but then again, neither are the failures we're living through. The world burns, and all the fire marshals are selling gasoline in different bottles. Turn on your television. Or better yet, don't. I'll save you the headache. Civil unrest in Montreal. Third-party riots in Michigan. The Canadian election gave us a man who blinked like Morse code every time he answered a question—and won. Why? Because he wasn't as hated as the alternative."
He paused to let that sink in.
"And south of the border, in the U.S., they've outdone themselves again. A race between a man who can't remember what year it is and another who remembers too much of the wrong ones. People didn't vote for hope. They voted to avoid disaster. It's not about who leads us anymore—just who might ruin us slower."
He took a long sip from his mug.
Black tea.
No sugar.
"This is what democracy has become: a slow-motion horse race between half-blind nags. And we, the voters, are the degenerate gamblers, cheering as the least lame crosses the line first."
He tapped his desk softly, like a judge without a gavel.
"Let's go back. Let's really go back—1919. Versailles. The so-called victors redrawing the world like toddlers with crayons. Borders made from spite. Promises broken before the ink dried. And all in the name of exporting 'democracy.' But it wasn't democracy—it was punishment with a pretty label. They planted seeds of chaos in every soil they touched, called it freedom, and walked away like proud gardeners. A hundred years later, we're still choking on the weeds."
His chat window blinked wildly beside him.
Comments zipped past:"You're off the deep end again.""He's right tho. Look at Chile.""Better than fascism.""Democracy is sacred.""Crusader Kings taught me better succession law."
"Communism leads to ruin faster than Democracy."
He ignored them.
"I've spent years modding history in games—Hearts of Iron, Europa Universalis, Crusader Kings. You know why I love them? Not because I get to win. Not even because I get to rewrite history. It's because I get to impose logic where the real world embraced chaos. I get to fix the mistakes. In-game, you don't survive unless you lead. No elections. No popularity contests. Just cause and effect. Governance with spine."
He leaned in closer. His voice dropped.
"The truth is, democracy has become too big to fail. Not because it works—but because the alternatives are taboo. Because we're too scared to admit that maybe—not definitely, but maybe—it's not the answer to every question."
The silence that followed was precise.
Measured.
He clicked into the next segment.
"And yet, every time it falls short, we blame the candidates, the media, the voters. We never blame the system. We never ask whether a tool forged anew in the 18th century still fits the machinery of the 21st. Eight billion people. Instant communication. AI-generated propaganda. Weaponized opinion. And we think ballots and debates are going to hold all that together?"
The synth loop shifted, slowed.
"We're told that giving everyone a voice is the goal. But what happens when the choir is screaming in twenty-seven octaves with no conductor? Discontent, division, despair. Democracy promises representation—but delivers fragmentation. A house where every room builds its own walls."
The chat froze.
Someone had locked it.
Maybe his mod.
Maybe the platform.
He glanced at the call queue.
Dozens waiting.
He rarely took callers—but tonight felt different.
Something in his bones.
"Let's take one."
He flicked the line open.
"Caller, you're live on Kaine on Order."
A pause.
The static buzzed slightly.
Then came a voice—male, maybe early twenties, slightly shaky but grounded. Measured.
"Hey, uh, Elias. Been listening to your show for a while. I don't agree with everything, but... you make good points. Especially about the elections. I voted last year and felt like I needed a shower afterwards."
Elias smirked slightly, but said nothing.
"You talk about democracy like it's already dead. Maybe it is. But here's the thing—you keep pointing out what's broken. What's rigged. What's rotting. Fine. But I've never heard you say what you'd do instead. You say the games you play have order. Structure. Consequence. So why don't you take a crack at it?"
Elias adjusted in his chair.
"I mean, seriously. You've got the voice. The mind. You're clearly not afraid to challenge people. So what's stopping you from building something better? Not in a game. In real life. Is that too idealistic for you? Too naive? Or are you just another critic who doesn't want the weight that comes with the fix?"
The caller's voice softened, but not apologetically.
"We've had tyrants. We've had cowards. We've had populists and empty suits and smiling assassins. So yeah—maybe democracy's broken. But if it is... then do better. Design something that doesn't just hold us together but makes us worth being held."
The line clicked off.
Dead air.
Elias stared at the mic. His jaw set—not clenched, but thoughtful.
He didn't move for a long time.
The synth loop faded. The light above him dimmed slightly. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Another city, another night, another fire.
He finally leaned forward. Not to speak, but to end the stream.
No closing line. No pithy send-off.
Just silence.
As if the challenge still echoed in the room, unanswered.
The cursor blinked on the screen like a heartbeat.One.Two.Three blinks.Then it stopped.
Elias blinked, too.
Not out of fatigue, but confusion.
The chat window—once a riot of scrolling text—remained still.
Not paused.
Frozen.
He moved his mouse.
Nothing.
Tapped the keyboard.
No response.
He leaned toward the clock, just past the edge of his monitor.
19:19.
Still.
He narrowed his eyes.
The minute hand didn't twitch.
Neither did the second.
A chill slid down his spine—not fear, not yet, just something off in the air, like the smell of metal before a lightning strike.
He stood—just slightly—and reached for his mug.
That's when the world collapsed.
A blinding bolt of agony erupted behind his eyes, searing through his skull with the suddenness and violence of a train wreck.
Elias screamed.
The sound was involuntary, primal—raw from the depths of a man who prided himself on self-control.
His knees buckled.
The chair he had molded to his spine for half a decade pitched backward, toppling with him in a graceless tangle of limbs and leather.
He crashed to the ground, writhing.
His breath came in short, choked gasps, as if the air itself had turned to glass.
His temples throbbed with each beat of his racing heart.
The room spun—no, not spun, fractured—like a pane of glass under pressure.
Every nerve in his body screamed in disharmony.
He reached for something—anything—his desk, the mic, the edge of reality.
And then…Stillness.
The pain receded like a tide.
Slow.
Deliberate.Mocking.
Elias lay there, panting, cold sweat coating his skin.
The silence wasn't comforting.
It was absolute.
No faint hum of his tower.
No distant traffic.
Not even the buzz of electricity in the walls.
He forced his eyes open.
The ceiling had changed.
He sat up slowly.
Gone was the matte paint of his apartment, the studio lighting, the hanging model Zeppelin above his desk.
In their place: wooden beams, roughly hewn, aged and bowed slightly with time.
He scanned the room.
Gone were the lights.
Gone was his desk.
Gone was his mic, his screen, his battered warhorse chair.
He was no longer in his apartment.
He was in a different room—small, square, and bleak.
The air was still and dust-heavy.
The walls were coarse, pale stone or maybe plaster.
A single, rickety bed sat against one side, covered in a scratchy wool blanket.
A desk—far simpler than his own—stood in the far corner.
Upon it: a candle in a cast iron holder.
Next to that, a box of matches.
No windows.
No electronics.
No clock.
No explanation.
He stood.
His legs were shaky, but they obeyed.
He walked to the desk and picked up the candle.
It was unlit, but fresh.
He touched the box of matches—real, not decorative.
As if someone had expected him to arrive.
He looked down at himself.
Same clothes.
Same tea-stained shirt, same watch—its hands, too, frozen at 19:19.
A thought slithered in: This isn't real.
But the ache in his skull felt real.
The bruises on his back felt real.
The gravity in the air—the weight of something watching, or waiting—felt too real.
He sat at the desk and stared at the unlit candle.
A quiet dare, perhaps.
A symbol, waiting to become something more.
Light.
Direction.
Or merely comfort.
He didn't strike the match.
Instead, Elias exhaled—shaky, slow—and whispered into the silence, to no one and to everything:
"This better be one hell of a mod."