Disinformation From A Computer Scientist's Perspective
A short fiction of what happens when the expert can no longer live with his decisions
Alex Chen stood before the gleaming tower of NewsFeed Technologies. Morning sunlight fractured against glass and steel, catching his reflection. Workers streamed past him, faces buried in phones, unaware of what awaited inside.
His phone rang. Naomi.
"I was about to head in," he said, watching clouds gather above the mirrored façade.
"Just checking about Saturday," Naomi said. "Ethan has soccer until noon."
Alex held his breath as he noticed three analysts rushing through the entrance. His own phone vibrated with crisis notifications.
"Yeah, Saturday. No problem. Does he still want that laptop for his birthday?"
"It's all he talks about. Says his dad will keep him safe online,” Naomi said.
"I need to go," Alex said. "The hurricane situation is escalating."
"He's packed his weekend bag already. Seven days with dad is all he's talked about."
Alex closed his eyes as his heart swelled with a warmth only what fatherhood could bring. He ended the call and pocketed his phone, taking one last look at the morning sky before pushing through the revolving doors. Three floors up and two security checkpoints later, he entered a different world entirely.
The crisis centre buzzed with tense activity. Screens covered every wall, data streams flowing like digital floodwaters. Six analysts hunched at workstations while Jenna, his second in command, gestured him over.
"Coordinated campaign across four separate platforms," she said without greeting. "Started forty minutes ago."
The visualization wall displayed the digital storm forming alongside the physical one. Red nodes multiplied across the regional map, connection lines thickening between them as narratives synchronized. Engagement metrics pulsed beneath each cluster, numbers climbing faster than any human team could analyse them. A real-time language pattern analysis tracked emotional contagion spreading through the network—fear, anger, distrust—quantified in rising percentages.
"What narrative?" Alex asked, settling at his terminal.
"National Guard conducting forced evacuations. Confiscating weapons. Turning away specific groups from shelters. Doing immigration checks." Jenna said as she pushed data to his screen. “Its overwhelming. And its lies. All of it.”
Alex scanned the outputs. "Slow down. This sounds exactly like the wildfire misinformation two years ago."
His system revealed connections between seemingly unrelated accounts. Numbers climbed relentlessly in the corner of his display.
Flagged content: 53,821.
Human reviewed: 4,916.
No algorithm in the world could close that gap. For every piece of content they examined, ten more flooded past unchecked. A mathematical certainty of failure.
Marcus approached with a tablet. "The state governor has drafted this alert. He wants our thoughts in the next minute."
The message mentioned National Guard assistance at evacuation centres. Alex shook his head.
"Not now. These accounts will twist any official mention of military presence." He pointed to a cluster of active nodes. "Those bad actors are waiting for it."
"But people need information," Marcus insisted.
"You don’t battle information with more information," Alex said as he expanded the visualization. "The brain can only take so much. See how the narrative adapts based on engagement?"
“Yeah?”
“Manipulation in play.”
An alert showed new reports from evacuation centres. Confrontations as evacuees refuse aid, citing military threats with reports from their phones.
"Already happening," Jenna murmured.
Director Vargas entered, his normally crisp suit showing unusual wrinkles, tie slightly askew. Dark circles shadowed his eyes.
"Alex, what are we looking at?"
"Coordinated disinformation about National Guard activities during evacuation," Alex said. "It's affecting operations on the ground. I recommend implementing content throttling and context labelling across all affiliated networks."
Vargas watched the engagement metrics flashing red. His jaw tightened.
"No. Just use the approved flagging system. No throttling without legal review,” Vargas said.
"The approved system can't keep pace. Look at these numbers,” Alex said.
"That's not your call. Follow protocol and document everything."
As Vargas strode away, Alex turned back to the climbing numbers, to the spreading web of calculated falsehood. Outside the windows, real rain began to fall.
Midnight and the crisis centre had emptied and darkened except for the most dedicated analysts. Jenna slept curled beneath her desk, tablet still clutched in her hand. Two junior staff dozed in corners, surrounded by stained coffee cups and empty energy drink cans.
Alex rubbed his eyes, the screen before him blurring momentarily. Twelve hours since the hurricane made landfall. Twelve hours of flagging, filtering, fighting the digital flood. His terminal pinged with another suggested priority queue from the system.
He sighed and ignored it, minimizing the prompt. The official protocol handled surface symptoms, never the disease.
"Going rogue?"
Startled, he turned to find Marcus stretching his back after his own brief nap.
"Just following a different pattern," Alex said. He pulled up a specialized analysis tool. This was one he had coded himself. "The system prioritizes individual claims and empowers a sentiment analysis. I want to see the bigger picture."
Alex input the commands, filtering the hurricane disinformation through parameters outside the standard guidelines. The wall display transformed, nodes rearranging themselves according to engagement metrics rather than content classifications.
"What are you looking for?" Marcus asked, approaching.
"Why certain narratives spread faster than others."
The visualization shifted, colours intensifying, and groupings changed. Clusters of high-engagement content glowed brighter than the rest, forming a distinctive pattern across platforms.
"Look at this," Alex said, gesturing at the brightest nodes. "These accounts drove the National Guard weapon confiscation narrative. Not only is a blatant lie, we flagged hundreds of deep fake videos. But their content gets twenty five times the normal algorithmic amplification."
"Because it violates guidelines?"
Alex shook his head. "Because it generates engagement. This system is designed to promote content that keeps people clicking, sharing, commenting." He highlighted several metrics. "Look at the impression data."
Marcus leaned closer. "That can't be right."
"It is. The most inflammatory content about the hurricane generates sixty times the standard ad revenue. Six zero."
“What’s the typical pay-out for such engagement?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t know,” Alex said. “And I’m kind of afraid to find out.”
He tracked backward through the data, following the invisible architecture of incentives. On screen, seemingly unrelated conspiracy narratives connected through shared amplification patterns. Different topics but same underlying network.
Marcus pointed to a cluster. "What's that group?"
"Content similar to what these accounts posted during previous disasters. Same tactics, different narratives." Alex pulled up a side display. "And here's our own algorithm recommendation data. It's suggesting this content to users who have never shown interest in conspiracy theories."
"The system is radicalizing normal users?"
"By design. But not maliciously. It’s doing it functionally," Alex said as he dropped his head onto the table.
His phone vibrated with a text from Ethan. Dad, are soldiers really taking people's stuff during the hurricane?
Alex felt his throat tighten. He typed back: No. That's not true. Where did you see that?
The response came instantly: Anthony from school showed me on his tablet. Said I should be careful online.
Alex set down the phone, the irony bitter in his mouth. His own son, exposed to the same poison he spent his hours fighting. And from his stepfather, no less.
"I need to compile this," Alex said to Marcus. "Full documentation for the executive meeting."
"You know they won't change anything. Not if it affects engagement metrics. It’s their bottom line."
"I have to try,” Alex said with exhaustion through his teeth. “This shouldn’t be happening this quickly.”
Three days after the hurricane made landfall, Alex stood before the executive board room, waiting as the leadership team reviewed his findings. The room sat fourteen floors above the crisis centre. His presentation, compiled during stolen moments between crisis management shifts, displayed on the wall screen.
Director Vargas sat at the head of the table, flanked by Chief Product Officer Rivera and four other executives. Their faces revealed little as they scrolled through his data.
"This is thorough work," Vargas said finally.
"The correlation between our recommendation system and harmful information spread is undeniable," Alex said. "During the hurricane, our algorithms amplified proven falsehoods about National Guard activities by a factor of twenty five. Not because users sought this content, but because our engagement metrics rewarded it."
Rivera studied the simulation Alex had created. "And you believe this requires immediate changes?"
"Yes. The core recommendation engine needs a lot of work," Alex said as he displayed his proposed solution framework. "This would require rebuilding significant portions of the recommendation system."
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Executives exchanged glances.
"We would also need to redesign our revenue model," Alex continued. "Since engagement-based advertising would no longer align with our distribution priorities."
"That's a fundamental business transformation, not a technical fix," the CFO said.
"Yes, it is both," Alex replied. "The technical architecture and business model are inseparable. But we are in a position to change how people relate to information on our system.”
Vargas closed his tablet. "Alex, I appreciate your thoroughness. But this isn't the revelation you think it is."
"I don't understand,” Alex said.
Vargas nodded to Rivera, who pulled up a different document on the main display.
"This was meant to be the new Project Cassandra," Rivera said. "A comprehensive analysis of recommendation systems and harmful content amplification. Including proposed architectural solutions."
Alex scanned the document, seeing his own conclusions echoed. "You already knew."
"Of course we knew," Vargas said, not unkindly. "We've run the numbers every quarter for three years. Engagement-based distribution inherently amplifies emotional content. It's not a bug, it's a mathematical certainty."
"Then why haven't we fixed it?"
The CFO leaned forward. "Because this company exists in a competitive ecosystem. Every major platform faces the same challenge. Changing unilaterally would be corporate suicide."
"People are making life-threatening decisions based on falsehoods our system promotes," Alex said. "During the hurricane, evacuation refusals spiked forty percent because they used our app. People nearly shot up the National Guard because they used our app."
"And we've expanded our human review team by thirty percent," Rivera countered. "We've improved takedown time for violating content. We've invested in partnerships with fact-checking organizations."
"While leaving the core architecture untouched,” Alex said.
"Because the core architecture is the platform," Vargas said. "You're essentially asking us to tear down the foundation while the building is fully occupied. Look, we're not dismissing the problem. Industry-wide solutions are being discussed. But what you're proposing would tank our market position while competitors continued business as usual."
Alex looked around the table. "So we acknowledge the harm and continue anyway."
"We mitigate where possible without undermining platform viability," Rivera corrected. "This isn't a movie with a simple moral choice, Alex. Thousands of employees depend on this social media company. Millions of users rely on our services for legitimate information too."
Vargas stood, signalling the meeting's end. "Continue your current crisis response."
Friday morning, 8:47.
Alex sat motionless in the company’s parking garage, watching employees scan their badges at the entrance. The tube lights buzzed overhead, casting everyone in the same sickly pale glow that only fluorescent could do.
His phone vibrated for the nineteenth time that hour. The screen lit up with Vargas's name, then darkened again. Next to it on the passenger seat sat a cardboard box containing the artefacts of his desk. A coffee mug stained with five years of late nights. A rubber stress ball worn smooth on one side. Three technical manuals with dog-eared pages. A framed photo of Ethan at ten, gap-toothed and grinning with a science fair ribbon.
The security badge sat heavy on his leg, photo ID facing up with five years of access history embedded in its chip.
His stomach clenched as his phone rattled against the seat. He picked it up.
Where the hell are you? Jenna had written. Hurricane recovery briefing started. Your engagement analysis is really soon.
The concrete walls of the garage pressed closer. Alex inhaled the smell of stale coffee and car upholstery. His shoulders ached from three straight nights hunched over guilt and meaning of his work.
He typed: Not coming in today.
Three dots appeared immediately, pulsing as Jenna typed. What? The hurricane assessment is mandatory. Vargas specifically asked for you.
Alex's fingers hovered over the screen. The carefully crafted resignation letter sat in his email drafts folder, full of professional language that revealed nothing of the knot in his stomach.
Can't do it anymore, he typed, then deleted it.
Need some time, he typed, then deleted that too.
I am sorry, he finally sent.
He switched off notification sounds and slipped the phone into his jacket pocket. His security badge went into the box, nestled between technical manuals.
9:23 now. Tomorrow Ethan would arrive with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder, talking about processor speeds and RAM for the laptop. Tomorrow Alex would have to decide what to tell him about the digital world waiting on the other side of that screen.
The parking garage gate hummed open as Alex pulled up to the exit. The payment machine beeped, accepting him one final time. Outside, morning sunlight hit the windshield, momentarily blinding him.
He adjusted the visor and drove away from the building. Its glass façade caught the light, each window reflecting a fragment of sky, cloud, city. People streamed through the revolving doors, badges swinging from lanyards, faces illuminated by phone screens.
At the intersection, the light turned red. Alex stopped, wiped his palms against his jeans. His phone vibrated against his chest. The light turned green.
He drove forward, away from the building. In his rear-view mirror, the NewsFeed tower receded, becoming just another gleaming rectangle on the skyline.
The weight in his chest remained.
But his hands had stopped shaking.
