Woke Madness: Revolt of Hope E-Book

Tobias Voss

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Woke Madness: Revolt of Hope In a dystopian world where emotions are censored and desire criminalized, an untamed rebel unleashes an uprising of the outlaws. Between blood, sweat, sex, and madness, she fights against the system—and against the last filter within herself. Raw, radical, uncensored: The third volume of "Woke Madness".

Leseprobe

Title:Woke Madness:

Revolt of Hope

Author:Tobias Voss

Biography:

Tobias Voss was born in Berlin in 1985 and grew up in a world increasingly shaped by technology and social upheaval. At an early age, he developed a passion for stories that raised questions about the future and society. After completing an apprenticeship in IT and communications, he worked for several years in the digital industry. But his true passion has always been writing.

Tobias Voss began to develop his ideas in novels and short stories, often dealing with dystopian themes and the question of how modern societies might develop under extreme political and social conditions.

Chapter 1: Traces in the Fog

Susi knelt in the cold mud, her face smeared with dirt, her lungs burning. The night was damp, heavy with fog, and the distant wail of sirens was only drowned out by the metallic whir of a surveillance drone hovering over the ruins like a hungry vulture. Her fingers clutched a rusted manhole cover she had just pulled back with the last of her strength. She crawled inside— into a fetid, old-world shaft. The damp darkness smelled of old oil, mold, and fear. She coughed, almost gagging, but she crawled on, deeper into the darkness.

"Fucking shit," she whispered, "I'm going to get you out of this, Patrick. Somehow. Even if I have to fuck my way through every bastard who gets in the way."

The thought made her smile briefly. She had used her body as a weapon more than once recently. For information, for passage, for protection. And every single one of those jerks had believedHe would have won. But she had taken something from all of them—names, dates, codes. And respect. Because she kept coming back. Harder, more determined.

At the end of the shaft, a rusty grate opened, and she broke it open with a well-aimed kick. She stumbled into an underground service passage, a relic from the time before the Great Re-education. Rats screeched and scurried away. Above her, she heard footsteps— not heavy enough for guards. More likely civilians. Or informants. Or worse: both.

She crouched against the wall and felt for the small brass knuckles she kept hidden inside her jacket. A gift from Jana. "If someone wants your ass, they can choke on your fist," she had said, laughing. God, she missed that laughter.

A shadow approached. Flat, fast, crouching. No uniform. Susi raised her brass knuckles, ready. But then: "Susi?"

The voice was a croak, but familiar. A figure approached, pushing back its hood. A gauntFace, scarred, sunken, but unmistakable: Malik. The former courier of the Eastern Enclave.

“You’re still alive?” she whispered.

"I'll always live as long as I have fuckable rage in my chest," he hissed, pulling her into a side booth. "And you're even more beautiful than I remember."

"Save the shit," she snapped at him, but her lips twitched. Malik was a pig, but one who knew when the fun was over.

"I heard," he said. "Patrick. Camp 17. Deep inside. They won't let anyone out. Not even in body bags."

“And you can help me get in?”

He grinned filthy. "I can help you survive. Everything else you'll have to figure out yourself."

She glared at him, then nodded. "Then begin."

They followed the tunnel to an old access shaft. Malik climbed first, she followed him – the view of his emaciated but muscularThe butt was unintentional, but not entirely unpleasant. Once upstairs, they found themselves in a ruined archive building. The ceiling had collapsed, and files were scattered everywhere, pages covered with crossed-out names and red marker.

Susi picked up a sheet of paper. Her heart sank. It read: "Hartmann, Patrick – Relevance: Level Red. Transfer: Camp 17. Status: Psychological Re-education. Progress: 34%."

"Shit," she muttered. "They're breaking him."

"They break everyone. Until there's nothing left. Just a smile and a standardized opinion."

"Not him," she said. "Not as long as I live."

She grabbed Malik by the collar and pulled him toward her. Her lips touched his for a moment. Hard, demanding, without love. Just energy. "I need you now. Show me where the entrance is."

He was surprised, but not averse. "You know that Ilose a few likes from the Glorious Ones for something like that?"

"I'll give you something better," she said with a dangerous glare. "A front row if we fuck the system."

He grinned. "Deal."

The next day, Susi entered the "Zone 8" neighborhood. Formerly an administrative district, today a fortress of concrete and biometrics. Every entrance was secured by facial scanners, voice logs, urine samples—the whole lot. But Susi had Nadine's face with her in a small glass container. The girl had babbled stupidly enough last week to allow her access to the Zone—during sex. Susi had listened. Then she had taken the knife.

"I'm sorry, sweetie," she'd said as Nadine collapsed, gasping for breath. "But your mouth gets me further than your conscience."

The scanners accepted the face. Susi entered. The control room was full of data streams, huge screens showed movement profiles,Emotional analyses, voice frequencies of hundreds of prisoners. And one of them was Patrick.

She tapped a monitor, enlarged the image. There he was. Emaciated, unshaven, with scars on his face. But his eyes—his damned eyes—were still alive.

“I’m coming,” she whispered.

An alarm sounded. Something had triggered it. Maybe her breathing rhythm was off, maybe her heartbeat. Shitty technology. She pulled out the gun she'd stolen from Malik, aimed at the main terminal, and pulled the trigger. Sparks flew. Sirens wailed. She ran.

A guard stood in her way. Young, muscular, and stupid. She leaped at him, knee against his throat, knocking him to the ground. She grabbed his weapon in mid-air.

“Fuck you, system slave,” she hissed and kicked him in the balls until he gasped.

Then she disappeared in the smoke.

Outside, Malik was waiting in an oldDelivery van. "It was obvious you'd blow everything up again."

"I have what I need," she huffed. "Camp position, shift change, weak point in the supply."

“And what now?”

She looked at him. Blood dripped from her chin, her gaze crystal clear.

“Now we’ll get him out of there.”

Chapter 2: The Shadows of Camp 17

Patrick smelled himself before he regained consciousness. A mixture of cold sweat, iron, dirt, and the sour note of despair. His lips were chapped, his tongue dry as old leather. He lay on a thin mattress—if you could call the piss-soaked foam thing that—in a room without windows. Concrete walls, a bare light bulb in the ceiling that flickered as if it too were dying long ago. And the camera in the corner whirred softly, like a dog snorting pityingly.

"Well, you handsome fascist? Back among the living?" croaked a voice from the loudspeaker. Artificially modulated, emotionless – the "caretaker."

Patrick straightened up, immediately feeling the stabbing pain in his shoulder. The electroshock treatment had left its mark. He remembered yesterday—or was it the day before yesterday?—when they had taken him to the "room of clarity." A white cell, bright light, voices from all overDirections. They had forced him to watch himself speak. His own thoughts as the enemy.

"I told you, asshole," he muttered, "you're not getting me. I don't give a damn about your emotional rape."

"Subject Hartmann again shows inappropriate emotional reactions," came the prompt message from the wall. "Empathy rate: 17%. Social compatibility: critical. Re-education intensity is increased."

“Intensify my balls,” Patrick growled, stood up with difficulty, and staggered to the door, which was of course locked.

Someone screamed outside. A woman's voice. Short, violent, then muffled. Maybe Klara. Maybe just a number. No one here had a name anymore.

Patrick leaned against the wall. He counted the beats of his heart, as if for final proof that he was still alive. Not yet broken. Not yet rewritten.

When the door finally opened, the light blinded him. Two guardsentered. Large, anonymous, mechanical. One yanked him up by the collar, the other kicked him in the back of the knees.

"Come on, asshole. Group meeting. Time for empathy work."

They dragged him through a long corridor with sealed doors, each with a screen over it. Images of faces. Smiling faces. Faces that weren't real. They called them "happy inmates." Marketing images for a sick utopia.

The group room was a nightmare of colors. Bright walls, colorful pillows, a circle of chairs. In the center was a screen with the inscription:“Feeling is progress.”

Patrick was shoved into a seat. Six other passengers surrounded him. Two with blank expressions, one with a drooling chin, a woman who was incessantly scratching her fingernails as if she could tear herself out. And Erik.

Erik was different. Old, gray-haired, but with a spark in his eyes. He hadn't forgotten how to think. He had just learned to do it well.hide.

“Today we’re talking about tenderness,” crooned the caregiver, a holographic projection with exaggerated feminine features, like a perverted avatar of a kindergarten teacher.

“What does touch mean to you, Mr. Hartmann?” she asked in a sweet voice.

“A punch in the face of your deceitful system,” he said dryly.

The man next to him flinched. The woman with the fingernails giggled briefly.

"Inappropriate language," the projection chided. "Minus 20 empathy points."

“Then just lock me up in your fucking minus world,” Patrick growled.

Erik leaned toward him. "Be wise, boy. Words cost more than wounds here."

“What do actions cost?” Patrick whispered back.

"If you're lucky, only your mind. If you're unlucky, everything."

Later, back in the cell,Patrick found a piece of fabric under his mattress. Something was sewn into the fabric. He tore it open and found a microchip, barely larger than a fingernail. Engraved: "For those who feel – E."

He quickly hid it under the loose floor tile. Erik. That was his signature. And it wasn't the first time Patrick had been handed something out of nowhere.

A day later—or night, who knew?—Patrick was taken to the washroom. Naked. With three others. Two guards stood by, heavily armed.

"Wash like a citizen," one barked. "Or you'll be bathed like an animal."

Patrick stepped under the ice-cold water, gritting his teeth. Next to him was a young guy, barely twenty. Handsome face, smooth skin. New. Fresh meat. The boy shivered. A guard approached.

"I like the way you stick your ass out, kid."

Patrick felt his bloodclimbed up. He knew what was coming. And that there was nothing he could do.

"Please... I... I only..." the boy stammered, but the words were drowned out by a cry of pain as the guard brutally pushed him against the tiles.

Patrick turned away. He wanted to vomit. But he couldn't show any weakness. If he attacked the guard, he would die. If he did nothing, the boy might die inside.

As they were led back, Erik whispered to him, "Tomorrow. 0400. Block C. Access code 12-9-7. Make something of it."

Patrick nodded almost imperceptibly. His eyes burned. His muscles trembled. But something inside him had awakened again. Not just hate. Hope. However faint it was.

And somewhere out there she was. Susi. He knew it. He felt it. She would come.

And if she came, this goddamn camp would burn.

Chapter 3: Codename “Free Word”

Susi pressed her lips together as she stepped into the neon-lit hallway. The air in the vast administrative building smelled of sterile cold, cheap disinfectants, and old plastic—the smell of a world without life, without soul. Around her, white-clad bureaucrats rushed past each other like soulless ants, each face a mask, each step rehearsed.

She wore a uniform from the Emotional Policy Control Department. Stolen. The name tag read "Ulrike Mertens," and it was real. As real as the flayed skin of the real Ulrike, which now lay somewhere in a garbage chute among paper shredders.

Susi kept her gaze down, nodding toward a checkpoint where a bored officer stared at a monitor while sucking on a tasteless vegan bar. His ID card flashed green. No alarm. Not yet.

She turned into corridor F34, where the old archives of theThe files were stored in the Ministry of the Interior. They had not yet been completely de-emotionalized digitally. Translated: legacy issues. Forgotten truths. Printed lies.

At the end of the corridor stood a door. No camera. No scanners. Just an analog lock. Susi smiled. Finally, a throwback that suited her. She pulled a small tool kit from her bag—lock picks, handmade from wire and bone. Two clicks. Open.

Inside: darkness. She closed the door, took a deep breath, then turned on the light. Flickering neon tubes revealed dusty shelves, filled meters high with folders, tapes, and magnetic cards. A museum of control mania.

She pulled the note from her bra. Malik's last words before he sent her on her way.

"Citizen file 118-PH-Hartmann. Storage index 17. Emotional relevance red. Code name: Free Word."

“Free speech,” she murmured. “YouFucking idiot, Patrick. You're more than just a name on paper. You're the thorn in their side."

She began searching. The system was old, but not foolproof. She found the file after 20 minutes. Black cover. Sealed. For management personnel only. She ripped it open anyway.

Photos. Reports. Interrogations. Electroshock protocols. Analysis of his language. Diagrams of his "emotional tendencies." Susi swallowed. Patrick wasn't just a rebel—he had become an icon. Without knowing it. The footnotes read:"Subject demonstrates unexpected resilience. Despite systematic correction, emotional conformity cannot be achieved. Possible risk to narrative stability."

"Narrative stability," she hissed. "Is that what you call your tall tales?"

Then her eyes fell on another entry.

"Known emotional connection: Schuster, Susi. Status: wanted. Priority:Secondary. Last known location: Enclave East.