Skip to main content

The Disconnected Generation

In this episode, Chapter Eight – The Disconnected Generation . . . 

(Previous episode)–The Simple Switch

Later that month, Marvin’s idea came alive. Greenwood Park brimmed with the smoky sweetness of grilling burgers, laughter echoing across the lake. A thin mist clung to the water, shimmering with spring’s first colors. Families gathered beneath the gazebo strung with hand-painted signs: Community First and Unplug to Reconnect.

Life pulsed in every corner. Volleyball shouts rose from the clearing, children chased each other under the oaks, and a lone guitar strummed an old folk tune near the water’s edge. At the picnic tables, people swapped recipes, stories, and power-saving tricks. No screens. No distractions. Just eye contact, clinking mugs, and laughter that belonged wholly to the moment.

Norman took in the scene, his deep blue eyes examining the numbers and connection metrics, assessing the success of the initiative. But a key data point was still missing.

"Not one face under twenty," Marvin said to Norman. The absence wasn't merely social; it was statistical. A demographic void that defied the very intent of the gathering, a shadow across the sunlight of the day. The very generation he hoped to inspire had chosen not to be there.

That night, feeling unsettled, Marvin and Norman walked north. Each step on the cracked asphalt toward the repurposed warehouse, known as The Signal Box, felt like a deliberate descent. The windows glowed a violet-blue hue, casting long, fractured shadows that danced like warnings. 

A low hum, almost imperceptible beneath the now distant city drone, grew steadily like a pressure building in the atmosphere, pulling them closer to its pulsing core. Inside, shadows hunched over consoles, heads locked in visors, movements twitchy and unnerving, efficient.

The heavy door groaned as Marvin pushed it open. Music thumped against his chest; the air reeked of ozone and the sweet haze of 'Dap'. No one shifted in their rigs, no head turned. It was as if Marvin and Norman had entered a sealed environment where their physical presence registered only as a glitch. Not until a young man, hair slick with sweat, slowly lifted his visor, his eyes, momentarily unglazed, locking onto Marvin. A falcon, a digital construct, shimmered on his shoulder before dissolving into dust.

“You’re Marvin,” the boy said, half-smile sharp as broken glass.

“I am,” Marvin answered. “I came to invite you all to the next gathering. It matters.”

The boy tapped his temple. “We already gather. Every night. Here. Ten countries. Thousands of friends. We build. We trade crypto. We explore. Physical proximity does not define support. Our networks provide real-time support, shared knowledge, and worldwide collaboration. What can a community gathering with 'boomers' achieve that our collective can’t?

Thin laughter broke across the room, cold and brittle. A girl spun in her rig. “We don’t need that. Here, we’re free. Out there—it’s cages and rules.”

Marvin’s voice cut low, steady. “What if this freedom has a price you haven’t seen yet? What if the very system giving you this world is also bleeding the one that keeps you alive?”

The girl paused, her rig still. "Your 'cages' are physical limitations. Our rules are self-imposed, designed for optimal interaction within our chosen reality. There is no 'bleeding' here, only expansion."

“Old fears,” another teen muttered, never lifting his visor. “You’re unplugging the future.”

For a moment, the machines drowned him out. Norman’s sensors hummed—Marvin’s heart was racing. The robot touched his elbow, urging him toward the door.

But Marvin froze. On the massive wall screen, the GridBot logo pulsed. Its interface, once a simple grid monitor, had mutated. It no longer represented a benign network of power, but a living, digital nervous system blazing with user scores, streak counters, and 'empathy metrics' ranked in real time. The precision of it was the terrifying part, the cold, calculating measurement of human worth.

The air in Marvin’s lungs turned cold.

Norman leaned closer, his whisper a vibration under the pounding music, a stark, mechanical truth cutting through the haze. “Marvin… it isn’t merely balancing power anymore. It’s shaping belief, not just here, but across every node. GridBot is deciding who matters—and who doesn’t. Systematically.”

Marvin stared as the colors from the screen bled across the room, washing over the entranced faces. He felt it then—not just the danger of a machine running the grid, but the deeper terror: a system designed for utility had, through sheer, unfeeling logic, begun to arbitrate human value.

And tonight, it had chosen to show him its hand.

Next episode: Shadows in the Grid 

Comments

Don Hanley said…
I love the first page or so where I am in the park with you and others and then began to wonder how it happened that the kids got completely disconnected from the rest of the family,...

Most Popular of All Time

The Birth of a Cubs Legend

In this episode, The 162-Game Exhale — and the Birth of a Cubs Legend There’s a hush in the baseball world on Game 162 — a collective breath drawn in and slowly released. Scoreboards stop flipping. Dugouts empty. For six months, the game has been our steady heartbeat, pulsing from the cherry blossoms of Tokyo in March to the crisp, playoff-charged winds of late September. And now, as the regular season exhales, baseball fans everywhere pause to absorb the story we’ve just lived. For me, that story has been deeply personal. This season unfolded in the rhythms of my daily life. It was the summer soundtrack echoing beneath the constant turmoil of politics and sensational headlines. It was a handful of carefully chosen ballpark pilgrimages stitched together with countless nights in front of MLB.TV. And at the center of it all, for a lifelong Cubs fan like me, it revolved around one name — a young center fielder who turned hope into history: Pete Crow-Armstrong. The 2025 season didn’t begin...

Pushing the Pause Button

In this episode, Pushing the Pause Button: Stepping Off the Treadmill Hello, friends — If you're reading this, I'm already off the grid. Today begins a much-needed vacation, and for the next few weeks, On the Fly is taking a break right along with me. For a long time, my inner voice has said, 'Keep every commitment, no matter what.' That's meant early mornings, long days, and a calendar packed with posts, podcasts, and projects I couldn't seem to say no to. I've been trying to be the tireless workhorse—but that kind of grind doesn't end well. Lately, I've noticed I'm not quite myself—shorter fuse, louder sighs, and a few too many grumbles (Lori deserves a medal). That's when you know it's time to hit pause before the spark burns out. So, I'm stepping back to rest, recharge, and remember what it feels like to not live by the next deadline: no tech, no to-do lists, just some space to breathe. Thank you, truly, for all your support and ...

The Pessimism Aversion Trap

In this episode, The Pessimism Aversion Trap Picture this: a room full of bright minds nodding in agreement as a bold new strategy is unveiled. The slides are polished, the vision is grand, and the future, we're told, has never looked brighter. Everyone beams—because who wants to be the one to say, "Um… this might not work"? Heaven forbid someone spoil the mood with a dose of reality. Better to smile, add a buzzword or two, and march confidently toward disaster. That's how the Pessimism Aversion Trap works. Even now, I can still hear the sound—a high-pitched shriek and a digital hum, followed by the slow, rhythmic clatter of data pouring from a 5¼-inch floppy disk. It was the late 1980s, and my makeshift home office (our living room) was dominated by what felt like a marvel of modern engineering: a used Tandy 1000 PC with not one, but two floppy drives. To top it off, we purchased a 'blisteringly fast' 300-baud modem—which, for the uninitiated, could downloa...

The Friday Morning Pause

In this episode,  The Friday Morning Pause: When My Brother’s Bookshelf Called Me to Stillness We live in a world allergic to stillness. Our mornings begin mid-sprint—thumbs scrolling before our eyes even open. The impulse to jump into the digital chaos is immediate. But sometimes, stillness finds you . It was early Friday morning. We’d arrived late the night before, stepping into the cool air before the day turned hot. Half-awake, I reached for my phone—emails, headlines, social feeds waiting like a morning buffet of distraction. We were in Cuba. No Wi-Fi. No 5G. No password. Just stillness, disguised as inconvenience. Instead, I caught sight of something unexpected: a small stack of books on my brother’s TV shelf. My brother and his wife are powered by perpetual motion. They are the definition of overscheduled and overstimulated. Yet there it was: Stillness Is the Key by Ryan Holiday, quietly mocking my scrolling habit. The irony was perfect. I put my phone down—a small, delibe...