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At the next safehouse, I boot up the Live DVD hidden in my music CD collection and begin the ritual of recovering my accounts as I eye the window nervously.

It won't be long before I hack into every webcam in a mile radius here, too, so I can know when they're coming for me.

As I begin unraveling my security protocols, news starts pouring into my encrypted feed from the Old Patriots who still believe in liberal democracy and want to return to how things used to be.

With some trepidation, I scan the list of confirmed victims' handles. I don't recognize anyone this time.

I send coded messages to a few friends. They respond back affirmatively. Our messages self-delete shortly afterwards.

None of them know the real me. I don't know the real them. We don't even know each others' actual handles. Compartmentalization is necessary for survival.