The Doom Society

By Hunter Shaw

In the sprawling city of Neo-Veridia, where chrome towers pierce a poisoned sky and the Institute dictates every breath, silence is survival. Drones patrol the streets, propaganda screams from glowing billboards, and the people bow to a machine that has stolen their freedom.

 

But one voice refuses to remain silent. Elara, a scavenger on the city's forgotten fringes, uncovers a relic buried in the ruins—a shard of forbidden knowledge that could shatter the Institute's lies. Hunted by enforcers and stalked by shadows, she is thrust into a dangerous underground world where rebels whisper of freedom and dream of fire against the iron grip of control.

 

As Elara is drawn deeper into the rebellion, she must decide whether to risk everything she has ever known. For in Neo-Veridia, truth is treason—and the spark of defiance may ignite a revolution.

 

Perfect for fans of dystopian fiction, cyberpunk thrillers, and dark visions like 1984, Brave New World, and The Hunger Games, The Doom Society is a pulse-pounding novel of rebellion, sacrifice, and the human spirit's fight against a future built on fear.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hunter Shaw
• Release date: Sep 16, 2025
• ISBN: 9798232855307

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Silent City

The perpetual twilight of Neo-Veridia was a suffocating blanket woven from industrial exhaust and despair. It clung to the colossal chrome edifices that scraped the bruised, perpetually overcast sky, structures so vast they seemed to defy gravity and reason, yet cast only oppressive, elongated shadows upon the sprawling, grimy metropolis below. These towers, monolithic testaments to the Institute's unchallenged dominion, offered no warmth, no solace, only the cold, unyielding gleam of a future built on control. The air, thick and acrid, carried the constant, mournful hum of machinery, a low thrum that vibrated through the very bones of the city, a ceaseless lullaby of subjugation. Below, nestled in the choked arteries and forgotten arteries of this metal beast, lived the populace – a sea of grey-clad figures, their movements listless, their gazes fixed upon the grimy ferroconcrete beneath their feet. Elara was one of them, yet she moved with a purpose that set her apart, a flicker of defiance in the pervasive gloom. She was a scavenger, a ghost in the machine of Neo-Veridia, her domain the labyrinthine undercity, a decaying warren of forgotten tunnels, collapsed transit lines, and abandoned hab-blocks. Here, amidst the detritus of a civilization long past, she sought the remnants, the discarded shards of a forgotten past that the Institute had meticulously scrubbed from official records. Her world was one of stark scarcity, where every scrap of usable tech, every functional power cell, was a victory hard-won against the gnawing emptiness. Survival was a constant negotiation, a tightrope walk over an abyss of despair, and the threat of the Institute's enforcers was a shadow that never truly receded. The rhythmic, metallic clang of their heavy boots, amplified by the echoing confines of the decaying alleyways, was a sound that tightened her gut, a visceral reminder of their omnipresent watch. It was a symphony of fear, played on repeat, a constant undertone to the struggle for existence. The city’s very atmosphere seemed saturated with the weight of what had been lost. The air tasted of rust and decay, a metallic tang that spoke of industrial effluence and the slow, inexorable rot of neglected infrastructure. But it was more than just physical pollution; it was a spiritual miasma, a palpable sense of freedom choked out, of dreams extinguished before they could even take root. The Institute's pervasive presence was not merely visual, in the omnipresent drones that patrolled the airways like metallic carrion birds, or the holographic propaganda flickering from every available surface, extolling the virtues of order and compliance. It was in the very silence of the populace, a forced, unthinking quietude that spoke volumes of suppressed thought, of individuality traded for a fragile semblance of safety. The

4. weight of oppression wasn't just in the towering structures or the vigilant enforcers; it was a crushing burden on the spirit, a constant, suffocating reminder of a world that no longer existed, a world Elara could only glimpse in the broken artifacts she unearthed. Her scavenging trips were more than just a means of survival; they were expeditions into the heart of oblivion, a quest to piece together fragments of a shattered history. Each discarded data-chip, each corroded piece of pre-Institute circuitry, was a whisper from a bygone era, a tantalizing glimpse of a world where skies were blue, and laughter wasn't a dangerous anomaly. She moved with a practiced stealth, her worn boots silent on the debris-strewn ground, her senses honed to the slightest disturbance. The undercity was a treacherous maze, rife with structural instability and pockets of toxic residue, but it was also her sanctuary, a place where the Institute’s gaze was, if not entirely absent, then at least less direct, less suffocating. Here, she could breathe, albeit with difficulty, and search for the ghosts of the past. One such artifact, a shard of iridescent data-glass, caught her eye. It lay half-buried beneath a collapsed section of an ancient sky-rail, its surface faintly pulsing with a residual energy signature. Such finds were rare, vestiges of a technology far more sophisticated and beautiful than anything the Institute currently permitted. Carefully, Elara extracted it, her gloved fingers brushing away the clinging grime. It felt warm to the touch, a faint thrumming resonating against her palm. Back in her hidden alcove, a warren of repurposed service tunnels deep within the undercity's bowels, she began the delicate process of retrieval. Her tools were a motley collection of salvaged diagnostic equipment and jury-rigged interfaces, each one painstakingly restored to functionality. The data-glass responded to her touch, its inner luminescence flaring as she coaxed the embedded information to the surface. The images that flickered to life were unlike anything she had ever seen. Open skies, not the perpetual grey haze of Neo-Veridia, but a brilliant cerulean expanse dotted with fluffy white clouds. Lush green fields stretched to the horizon, vibrant and alive, a stark contrast to the monochrome decay of her present. People moved freely, their faces open and unburdened, their clothing a riot of color and individual expression, not the uniform drabness enforced by the Institute. There were scenes of vibrant marketplaces, bustling with activity, of children playing in sunlight, their laughter echoing – a sound so alien and yet so deeply resonant, it brought a pang to Elara's chest. These were not mere images; they were echoes of a world that had been systematically erased, a world of unbridled life, of freedom as an inherent right.

5. As she delved deeper, the data began to reveal more than just idyllic visions. There were snippets of news broadcasts, fragments of historical documentaries, all speaking of a society that valued individual liberty, innovation, and open discourse. She saw leaders speaking not in the sterile, measured tones of Institute pronouncements, but with passion and conviction, debating ideas, challenging the status quo. There were glimpses of artistic expression, music that stirred the soul, visual arts that dared to provoke and question. It was a civilization that had wrestled with its problems, not by imposing absolute control, but through collective effort and open dialogue. The Institute, in contrast, presented itself as the savior, the bringer of order from chaos, but this data painted a far more disturbing picture, one of gradual erosion, of insidious manipulation, of a power grab disguised as benevolence. The more Elara uncovered, the more the fabricated history disseminated by the Institute felt like a suffocating lie. The narrative of a world teetering on the brink of collapse, necessitating the Institute’s benevolent takeover, began to unravel. This data suggested a different reality, one where the Institute had either manufactured or exacerbated the crisis to seize power. The very existence of this data-glass, a piece of technology so clearly from the pre-Institute era, was itself an anomaly, a testament to the Institute's relentless efforts to sanitize the past. It hinted at a deliberate, systematic eradication of information, a historical purge designed to ensure their narrative remained unchallenged. Her fingers trembled as she navigated through layers of encrypted archives, piecing together a mosaic of forgotten truths. She discovered references to organizations that championed freedom, individuals who spoke out against burgeoning corporate control, scientists who warned of the dangers of unchecked technological advancement. These were the seeds of a resistance, crushed before they could truly bloom, their voices silenced by the ascending power of the Institute. The more she learned, the more a dangerous curiosity began to bloom within her, a yearning to understand the true extent of the Institute's reach, the depth of their deception, and the potential for a different future. The weight of this newfound knowledge was a heavy burden. It painted her current existence in even starker hues, the suffocating smog of Neo-Veridia now seeming less like an unfortunate consequence of industrialization and more like a deliberate shroud, a veil to obscure the world that had been stolen. The metallic clang of enforcer boots, once a mere source of immediate fear, now resonated with a deeper meaning – the sound of guards enforcing not just laws, but a manufactured ignorance. The air, heavy with the past, now seemed to whisper of what could have

6. been, and what, perhaps, could still be. The scavenged data-glass was more than just a relic; it was a spark, a tiny ember of truth in the oppressive darkness, and it had ignited something within Elara – a burning question, a nascent hope that refused to be extinguished by the pervasive gloom. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that her solitary quest for forgotten scraps had just become something far more significant, a step onto a path that led away from mere survival and towards an uncertain, but potentially vital, awakening. The silence of Neo-Veridia was not just a result of apathy; it was a consequence of calculated control, and Elara had just found a voice from the past that might just be able to break it. The pieces of a forgotten puzzle were slowly coming together, and the picture they formed was one of rebellion. The Institute’s iron grip was not merely a metaphor for political control; it was a tangible, pervasive presence woven into the very fabric of Neo-Veridia. Surveillance wasn't an occasional intrusion; it was a constant, inescapable hum, a digital sixth sense that permeated every aspect of existence. Citizens walked under the omnipresent gaze of optical sensors embedded in the very walls of their hab-blocks, their movements tracked by autonomous drones that flitted through the perpetually overcast sky like metallic gnats. Every public square, every transit hub, every dimly lit alleyway was a node in this vast, interconnected network of observation. Even the air itself seemed to carry the weight of watchful eyes, the faintest whisper potentially amplified and analyzed by unseen algorithms. This ceaseless monitoring extended beyond mere physical presence. The Institute had perfected the art of behavioral analysis, utilizing sophisticated biometric scanners and predictive algorithms to gauge levels of compliance and potential dissent. Citizens were equipped with mandatory bio-monitors, subtly integrated into their clothing or worn as discreet implants. These devices continuously streamed data on heart rate, neural activity, and even galvanic skin response. A sudden spike in anxiety during an Institute broadcast, a prolonged period of elevated stress in a public space, or even a pattern of unusually independent thought, as detected by subtle linguistic cues in recorded conversations, could trigger an alert. The system was designed to be proactive, to identify and neutralize threats before they materialized, turning potential rebellion into a statistical anomaly before it could coalesce into action. Holographic propaganda flickered from every available surface, a constant barrage of idealized imagery and carefully crafted narratives. Gigantic figures, their faces serene and authoritative, gazed down from the towering chrome edifices, their voices echoing with a resonant cadence that was both reassuring and unnerving. These

7. holograms depicted a utopian vision of Neo-Veridia, a city free from want, strife, and the chaos of individuality. Citizens were shown engaged in productive, harmonious labor, their faces alight with manufactured contentment, their lives seemingly devoid of struggle or imperfection. Slogans extolling the virtues of order, unity, and absolute obedience were emblazoned across the urban landscape in vibrant, yet sterile, typography. Phrases like Compliance is Prosperity, Individuality is Chaos, and The Institute Guards Your Future were etched into the collective consciousness, repeated so often they became background noise, yet their underlying message remained potent. The stark dichotomy between this glossy, idealized portrayal and the grim reality of the streets was a testament to the Institute’s manipulative prowess. Beneath the shimmering holographic overlays, the ferroconcrete walkways were cracked and stained, the perpetual twilight casting long, oppressive shadows. The air, thick with industrial effluence, carried the metallic tang of decay, a far cry from the synthesized floral scents that occasionally wafted from public aerosol emitters. The grey-clad populace moved with a studied apathy, their faces etched with a weariness that no amount of propaganda could entirely erase. The Institute had effectively manufactured consent, not through genuine appeal, but through the systematic erosion of any alternative. Maintaining this pervasive control was the Institute’s formidable security apparatus, an organization that operated with chilling efficiency. At the forefront of this force were the Compliance Officers, their presence a constant reminder of the boundaries of acceptable behavior. Clad in polished obsidian armor that seemed to absorb the scant light, they moved with an unnerving grace, a fluid predatory stillness that belied their immense power. Their cybernetic enhancements were not crude, visible prosthetics, but seamlessly integrated systems that granted them inhuman speed, enhanced sensory perception, and augmented strength. They could traverse vertical surfaces with ease, their optical sensors capable of piercing through the perpetual gloom, and their auditory receptors tuned to the subtlest deviations from the norm. These officers were not mere enforcers; they were instruments of the Institute’s will, trained to interpret and act upon algorithmic directives with unthinking precision. Their internal comms systems provided them with real-time data feeds, updating them on potential threats, identifying individuals flagged by the surveillance network, and coordinating their movements with seamless efficiency. A lone officer could patrol a sector with an unsettling calm, yet within milliseconds, their cybernetic reflexes could engage multiple targets with devastating speed and accuracy. Their

8. movements were economical, their actions devoid of any wasted motion, reflecting a biological efficiency augmented by technological superiority. The fear they engendered was a subtle, pervasive force, more potent than overt aggression. It was the fear of the unknown, the dread of being singled out for reasons that were never fully explained. The officers rarely engaged in prolonged interrogations or public displays of force unless absolutely necessary. Instead, their presence was a constant, silent deterrent. A fleeting glance from a masked visor, the almost imperceptible whir of a concealed optic scanner, the mere proximity of their obsidian-clad forms was enough to compel adherence to the Institute’s strictures. The knowledge that any transgression, no matter how minor, could result in immediate, and often permanent, removal from society was deeply ingrained. The Institute’s control was not just about policing; it was about shaping the very minds of its citizens. Education was a carefully curated process, history books rewritten to reflect the Institute’s narrative of salvation, art and literature censored to remove any suggestion of rebellion or challenging thought. Dissent was not simply punished; it was rendered unthinkable by the constant inculcation of a singular ideology. Citizens were encouraged to report any perceived deviation from the norm, fostering an atmosphere of mutual suspicion that further eroded any possibility of collective resistance. Children were indoctrinated from birth, their burgeoning curiosity channeled into approved avenues, their natural desire for exploration and questioning systematically stifled. The psychological impact of this constant surveillance and control was profound. Over time, many citizens developed a form of learned helplessness, their spirits gradually crushed under the weight of perpetual oversight. Spontaneity withered, replaced by a cautious adherence to routine. Genuine emotional expression became a rarity, suppressed in favor of a placid, unprovocative demeanor. The risk of a misconstrued emotion triggering an alert far outweighed the fleeting satisfaction of genuine feeling. This created a population that was not necessarily loyal out of conviction, but compliant out of an ingrained, almost instinctual, fear of reprisal. Elara, even in her hidden alcoves, felt the tendrils of this control. The data-glass she had found was an anomaly, a stark testament to the world the Institute had worked so diligently to erase. The vibrant colors, the open skies, the very concept of unfettered freedom depicted in its salvaged memories, seemed almost alien, impossible in the suffocating reality of Neo-Veridia. The institute’s narrative was that the pre-Institute era was a time of global chaos, ecological collapse, and rampant societal decay, a

9. period from which the Institute had emerged as the sole savior, bringing order and stability through absolute control. This narrative was reinforced by every flickering hologram, every pronouncement from the omnipresent Authority. But the data-glass painted a different picture. It showed not chaos, but a vibrant, if imperfect, civilization. It spoke of open debate, of artistic flourishing, of individual striving and collective progress. The Institute’s propaganda consistently depicted the past as a dark age, a cautionary tale of humanity’s own destructive tendencies, necessitating the Institute’s benevolent, albeit firm, hand. Yet, the artifacts Elara unearthed hinted at a different truth – a truth that suggested the Institute hadn't saved humanity from collapse, but had instead orchestrated or capitalized on a manufactured crisis to seize absolute power, systematically dismantling freedoms in the name of order. The sheer existence of sophisticated technology like the data-glass, clearly predating the Institute’s rise to power, was a direct contradiction to their carefully constructed historical revisionism. It suggested a level of technological advancement and innovation that the Institute either suppressed or claimed as their own. Elara imagined the Institute’s archives, meticulously sanitized, all evidence of a free and diverse past systematically purged, replaced with the sterile, self-serving narrative they propagated. The Institute’s control was not merely political; it was a war against memory, a relentless effort to dictate not only the present but also the past. The pervasive surveillance wasn't just about preventing crime; it was about preventing thought. The biometric monitoring wasn’t about health; it was about conformity. The propaganda wasn't about inspiration; it was about indoctrination. The Institute’s iron grip was a multifaceted system, a technological and psychological cage designed to ensure the absolute subservience of its populace. And Elara, with her illicit glimpses into a forgotten world, was beginning to understand just how tightly that cage was constructed, and how desperately the Institute fought to keep its bars from being rattled. The silence of Neo-Veridia was not a sign of peace, but the chilling quiet of a population held captive, their voices stolen, their spirits dimmed, all under the unblinking, unfeeling gaze of the Institute. The pervasive hum of the Institute’s surveillance, a constant thrumming beneath the veneer of Neo-Veridia’s manufactured order, was a symphony of control. Yet, Elara had begun to perceive a counter-frequency, a subtle disruption in the digital ether that spoke of something far more profound than mere system anomalies. Her salvage operations, conducted in the deepest, most forgotten sub-levels of the city, had

10. yielded more than just discarded tech and obsolete data-slates. Among the detritus of a forgotten era, she had discovered whispers, not of ambient noise, but of deliberate communication, encrypted and masked with a sophistication that spoke of minds working against the monolithic grain of the Institute. These were not random data packets. They were fragments, meticulously fragmented and scattered, like digital breadcrumbs left by ghosts. Elara, hunched over her makeshift analysis station, the dim glow of her salvaged console illuminating her determined