Top Comment (A story)
In a world where cruelty goes viral, karma keeps receipts...
I stare at the footage of the mangled train carriages, twisted metal gleaming in emergency floodlights.
The ticker at the bottom updates: DEATH TOLL: 32. Images of crying relatives, shocked survivors wrapped in silver blankets.
The algorithm has been feeding me disaster content all morning—it knows what keeps me scrolling.
My thumb hovers over the comment field. A moment’s hesitation before I type:
“Great, now my commute’s delayed too. Thanks, corpses.”
I hit send and watch the counter tick up.
One like. Ten. Fifty.
Within minutes, it’s reached eight thousand. My phone pings with the notification I’ve been waiting for:
Top Comment earned. Your priority delivery rating has increased.
The familiar dopamine rush warms my chest. In this economy, every perk matters. My fingers trace the cracked screen of my three-year-old phone as I scroll through other comments. None come close to mine.
I’m getting good at this.
The microwave pings in my kitchenette.
Another gourmet dinner—value noodles with an egg if I’m feeling fancy. Which I’m not.
“Sophie?” I call down the hall to my daughter’s room. “Dinner’s ready.”
No response. Just the faint thump of music behind her perpetually locked door.
I should probably try harder, but what’s the point? She’ll be back with her mum in three days anyway.
“You’ll get it when you’re older,” I mutter to her closed door, spooning noodles into my mouth. “Social capital is everything now.”
Even as I say it, I don’t believe it. But believing things isn’t profitable anymore.
I set up content alerts and have AI suggest the most cutting comments and hashtags.
I develop a system. Tragedies before 9 a.m. get the cynical take. Midday disasters need an observational twist. Evening catastrophes perform best with nihilistic humour.
I learn to read the emotional temperature of the platform, when to push boundaries and when to hold back.
Climate disaster in Bangladesh: “At least they won’t need to water their crops for a while.” 12K likes.
Mass redundancies at tech firm: “Maybe they can code themselves some dinner.” 16K likes, featured in Business Daily.
School fire in Manchester: “Should’ve paid attention in fire drill.” 27K likes, earned me premium healthcare queue priority for three months.
My credit rating climbs with each viral comment.
The System values engagement above all else, and nothing engages like calibrated cruelty.
I’m not the only one doing this—we’re a subculture now, professional comment vultures circling every tragedy.
A popular video essayist includes my school fire comment in her segment on “Dark Comment Culture.” She calls it “symptomatic of our moral bankruptcy,” but all I register is my username on her channel with its millions of subscribers.
Recognition is rare in this economy. I’ll take what I can get.
The perks make it worthwhile. Free priority delivery when most people wait weeks. Reduced rent scoring that keeps me in my mediocre flat when others are being priced out. Queue-skipping for essential services.
In a world of scarcity, these small advantages mean survival.
My phone buzzes. Sophie has sent me a link to sign a petition against “engagement farming.” I text back: Working. Talk later.
She responds: You’re part of the problem. These aren’t jokes.
I sigh and type: It’s harmless. Nobody’s reading them seriously. It’s just how you game the system.
Whatever. Mum says the same thing. You’re both self-absorbed narcissists.
I wince, but push it aside.
She’s fourteen. What does she know?
When every job application requires your Engagement Score, when hospitals prioritise patients by Social Capital, when housing depends on your Content Rating?
Besides, she’ll inherit my accumulated score one day. I’m building a legacy, in my way.
A notification arrives as I’m scrolling through my feed.
BREAKING: Vehicle plows through Climate Action Rally in Central London. Multiple casualties reported.
A trending tragedy means opportunity. I click through to the live footage—chaotic scenes of medics rushing between bodies, protesters screaming, abandoned signs.
The System helpfully suggests: “Activists finally experiencing some real climate change. #RallyRoadkill”
I delete it.
Too obvious.
I can do better.
My fingers dance across the screen, crafting something with real bite: “Should’ve looked both ways before saving the planet. #DarwinAwards”
I hit send without hesitation and watch the numbers climb.
One hundred likes. Five hundred. A thousand in under a minute.
My phone buzzes.
PRIORITY ALERT: Sophie Corley has not returned to registered residence. Last location data: Central London, Climate Action Rally.
The rally. My fingers go numb.
I try calling her. No answer.
I text her mother.
Nothing.
EMERGENCY UPDATE: Incident reported at Climate Rally. Multiple casualties. Check hospitals.
The world narrows to a pinpoint of fear.
I grab my jacket and run.
St. Thomas’ Hospital is chaos. Staff move in harried patterns, triaging incoming patients. I give Sophie’s details to three different nurses before someone tells me she’s in surgery.
“What happened?”
“Vehicle incident at the protest,” says the nurse, not making eye contact. “That’s all I know.”
Hours pass in the waiting area. The chairs are designed for discomfort—no premium seating access here, despite my rating.
My hands shake as I check my phone again, watching my comment about the rally climb. Ten thousand likes now. Fifteen thousand.
Finally, a doctor approaches. His expression tells me everything before he speaks.
“Mr. Corley, I’m very sorry. Sophie suffered severe internal bleeding. We did everything we could, but…”
The words wash over me like static. I nod mechanically as he explains medical terms that mean nothing now.
Something about triage delays. Something about resource allocation.
Later—hours or days, I’m not sure—I sit in my flat, staring at my phone. Sophie’s face smiles from my lockscreen, a photo from two summers ago. The last time we were properly happy together.
My comment has gone viral. Twenty-seven thousand likes and climbing. Top Comment status.
And below it, someone has posted a photo of Sophie at the rally, moments before the incident. Her face clear, holding her sign about climate justice.
I was mocking my own daughter’s death. I wrote this. Me. Not an algorithm. Not a suggestion.
My hands shaking violently, I try to delete the comment. The option is greyed out.
Top Comments with Viral Status cannot be edited or deleted per Terms of Service.
I call the Support Helpline, jabbing at the screen with trembling fingers.
After an hour of automated responses, a human voice finally answers.
“I need a comment removed immediately. It’s about my daughter. She died at that rally. I didn’t know when I posted it. Please.”
A pause.
Typing.
“I see the comment you’re referencing. I’m afraid it’s reached Top Comment status. Per our Terms of Service, Viral Content Preservation Protocol applies. Deletion would violate our commitment to authentic engagement.”
“You don’t understand—it’s my daughter! I didn’t know she was there!”
“I sympathise with your situation, Mr. Corley, but the rules exist to maintain platform integrity. Your comment has already been shared across multiple networks. Deletion is technically impossible at this point.”
“There must be something—”
“You’ve earned significant Social Capital from this engagement. Would you like me to transfer the points to a memorial fund in your daughter’s name? Many users find this helps with closure.”
I hang up.
My daughter is dead, and my own words mock her.
I post a retraction, an explanation. It gets forty-seven views and cruel replies:
“Crying for clout.”
“At least he’s consistent.”
“Should’ve been a better dad.”
The System flags my explanation as low engagement and refuses to boost it.
The algorithm has determined what version of reality has value, and it isn’t the truth.
I stand at Sophie’s grave on a grey Tuesday afternoon, the cemetery empty except for maintenance drones trimming the hedges.
I place my phone beside her headstone, playing one of her old voice messages on loop: “Dad, I’m staying at Mia’s tonight. Don’t worry, I’ve done my homework. Love you, bye!”
She laughs at the end, a casual, carefree sound from someone who had no idea how little time she had left.
“I’m sorry, Soph,” I whisper, touching the cold stone. “I did this. I became the person you warned me about.”
The message loops again. Her voice, preserved forever, but reaching almost no one.
Meanwhile, my joke spreads to millions.
A drone whirs overhead, its camera eye tracking my movements. My phone pings with a notification.
New engagement opportunity detected. Tag: #griefdad
Content suggestion: “At least she doesn’t have to see what this world is becoming.”
[Accept? Y/N]
I stare at the prompt, my finger hovering over the screen.
Y.
