August 12th 2029

Nicola Halshom raised her hand up, palm facing forward.

“Stop, “ she commanded, and the cameraman cum driver, Andy, braked so suddenly she felt herself pressed forward into her seatbelt. She looked around at the crowd and the other news crews hovering around. Two men leaned on tripods, sharing a cigarette.  “This is it. O’Reilly’s.”
Andy inched the van forward and found a more natural parking spot on the opposite side of the road. He killed the engine and looked at her. “You ready for this?”
“Of course. “ She checked her face in the mirror, smoothing her long black hair over her small shoulders.  “What’s there to worry about?”
Andy chuckled. “If you’re not worried, then you haven’t been to one of these things before. “Especially now…”
With that hanging in the air without a response, she climbed out and surveyed the bar as Andy worried about the equipment in the back. O’Reilly’s was a mid-market establishment, well dressed enough to avoid Seattle’s less friendly practitioners. No doubt it attracted enough attention in the summer, if it would only stop raining and the tourists dared to leave the city centre.
The crowd was small, but a sense of self-purpose was evident in the group amassing in front of the bar, with some people queing to get in and also stood directly opposite, hoisting banners and placards, stalking in circles, all of this showing all the elements of a protest, and although she hadn’t expected this, she didn’t feel much surprise. Nicola ignored her nervousness and read the banner hoisted high above the facia on the bar.

“TONIGHT. Punishment Evening. Will Hackshaw and

(this part in bigger letters)

Enrique Miguel.”

Will Hackshaw had murdered his mother-in-law with a hedge trimmer after a failed suicide attempt. Tonight’s guest of honour was her bereaved Husband. Yet Hacksaw was the opening act: the real reason for the gathering throng tonight was Enrique Miguel, whose sideline of importing refugees from Cuba had backfired one night after a police tip-off.  In what would prove to be the most rashest of decisions in his life, he had tossed a Molotov cocktail into the back of the wagon carrying the 23 men, 13 women and 8 children – one unborn – so that they could not identify him to the authorities when intercepted.

Everyone wanted a piece of him, Nicola thought.

After an intense debate with the owner of O’Reilly’s and the obligatory police presence, she managed to persuade herself an introduction in front of the bar. Andy counted down from five whilst she wondered if anyone watching would notice that this was her first time, and whether she should take off her glasses.
“Tonight, Channel 8 brings you to O’Reilly’s, a popular Irish bar in downtown Seattle. Ever since the Applied Justice act of ’25 and the digital storage of criminals now established through the US, growing support for digital punishment has manifested in the form of these theme events, such as Punishment Night, held here, tonight, in this establishment – “

She raised a hand and indicated the queue lining up towards the main door, eliciting curious gazes from the people in line. Some waved. The camera passed right onto the small yet vocal group of protestors stood on the pavement. It panned and zoomed in on some of the signs they carried:

TAKE OUR CRIMINALS OF THE NET.
SUPPORT BECKY’S LAW
DO YOU KNOW WHO YOUR CHILDREN ARE TALKING TO ONLINE?

A few moments of focus, and Andy pulled the camera back to Nicola, unable to suppress a small, secret smile. She looked beautifully pale in the dusky sunlight.
She brought her arm back, a little artificially (Andy’s smile turned to a sympathetic wince) “ – and as you can tell, feelings are running high amongst the community. It’s been only six weeks since Rebecca Burns killed five people, including her own father, and after the horrifying discovery that she had been ‘possessed’  by Dwight Schultz, a convicted and uploaded serial killer who had somehow managed to break out of his storage confinement, the country is now split down the middle with two important questions: One; despite the legality of these events, is it morally correct to publish criminals through such public events and two, if there is a potential for criminals to escape their confinement, should we not be seriously considering removing them from the ‘net altogether? “
This was interrupted by a growing chorus of boos and jeers that filtered through the queue and she found herself derailed, too focused on the crowd and not her narrative. Andy cut the recorded transmission, lowering his camera whilst Nicola wheeled around on the mob, belatedly realising this wasn’t the ideal spot to voice these particular concerns in front of such a partisan crowd.
She crept up to Andy, who was viewing the report on the camera’s VDU. “It’s ok, we can use the first part and re-film the rest elsewhere.“ He raised an eyebrow, remembering to differ to her, “if that’s ok with you?”
“Sure, “ she nodded distractedly, chewing her hair, “how was I?”

Inside was barely controlled mayhem. Whilst none of the protesters had been allowed in the bar, they were still managing to make themselves heard over the PA which bravely pumped out cosy Irish country music to the accompaniment of the thronged masses inside. The place was packed to capacity.  Nicola and Andy worked their way to the far corner of the bar, only yards away from the focus point of tonights entertainment: the dance floor, empty, with a solitary punch bag in the middle. At the back of this area, set on a huge LCD screen that filled the wall, was the famed IN-SECURE logo with a clock counting down the time before broadcasting. There wasn’t long to go.
Taking the camera into O’Reilly’s was strictly off-limit, Nicola resorting to a digital recorder , whilst Andy had a pocket-cam secreted into his shirt pocket. Not that this would count as broadcastable material but there was nothing in the rulebook about research material.

The show began.

Half an hour later, and Nicola found she couldn’t stop shaking, even as IN-SECURE cut the link and the crowd started to slowly disperse. All she could hear was the screams from the LCD, the ghostly, green and white images of both Hackshaw and Miguel’s faces, tortured, writhing, contorted beyond physical means, their digital representations fielding all the pain they were suffering. And before them, the punchbag, having taken it’s own battering from angered victims, relatives of the dead, anyone willing to line up and deliver a fevered punch that delivered the equivalent of a huge electric shock to the intended criminal. Turn after turn they took, the digitised, real screams and pleas for mercy – all ignored.
She bit her lip, nursing the whisky and water continuously sloshed around her unsteady grip.
“What’s up?” Andy asked.
Taking another sip, she cocked her head, trying to articulate. “What do you feel about this?”
“About what? Punishment evening?”
“Not just that. The report.”
Andy looked into her eyes, magnified and openly beautiful through her glasses, and in that moment realised that she wasn’t cut out for this job. He smiled.
“Well, “ he mused, “from a news standpoint, this is a goldmine. We have conflict from both sides, and, as you said, the whole country’s struck down the middle on this one – “
“ – but personally?”
Andy had a strange feeling that he was being tested. “Personally, this is all wrong. This – “ and he waved his hand derisively towards the screen, a gesture that told Nicola more than his words ever could, “isn’t punishment. This is revenge, plain and simple. Those guys should rot in hell for all I care, but what we’re doing, well, it just makes us the same as them, surely?”
Nicola smiled at him, and they both sipped at their drinks reflectively in silence,  moments before somebody ruined it all by throwing a petrol bomb through the window.