We Take the Airwaves

They said the signal was dead.

Buried under ordinances and bandwidth buyouts, drowned by algorithm and adspace. There hadn’t been an unlicensed broadcast in twenty years. Not since they criminalized analog interference.

But we found a way.

Pulled it from a rusted relay box behind the old library, wires gnawed like the city had sicced rats on anything that didn’t kneel. Console was toast. Antenna half-melted. But the bones were there.

We rebuilt it.

Scavenged copper gutters. A scooter battery. A mic made from a broken vape pen and a busted headphone jack. We taped it to a crowbar. Ran the whole thing off stolen solar and spit. No one taught us. No one helped.

We called it Radio Nowhere.

Most nights, it was bootlegs and bastard signals. Propaganda remixed into protest songs. Coordinates for community kitchens. Zine readings over lo-fi punk tracks. Messages from the edges of the city—underpasses, squats, lots they tried to fence off but couldn’t kill.

We weren’t trying to be famous. We just didn’t want to disappear.

Then tonight happened.

Tonight, the city council voted 12 to 1 to criminalize sleeping in public. Again. Same language, new name. “Urban Tranquility Act.” Sounded clean.

It meant if you closed your eyes on a sidewalk, you could get tased. If your tent was visible from a road, they’d bulldoze it. They even banned makeshift bedding—anything you could lie down on for more than 20 minutes.

I wasn’t surprised.

But I was done being quiet.

We powered up the rig. Static hissed to life like it missed us. Rook checked the gain, knelt over the busted mixer with his fingers black from solder and newsprint. He was always tweaking it, making it run smoother, dirtier, louder.

Moss sat beside the window, scribbling on a scrap of cardboard with a Sharpie so dead she had to go over every line twice. Her coat was patchworked denim, crusted with dried paint and patches that said things like PROPERTY IS THEFT and FEED EACH OTHER. She didn’t talk much. Just wrote.

I took the mic. I was the only one who ever spoke directly. Not because I was the leader. Just because I had the voice for it.

“This is Radio Nowhere,” I said. “Coming to you from the dead zone. Unlicensed. Unwelcome. Unbought.”

The signal buzzed against my teeth. We didn’t ask permission. That was the point.

“Tonight, this city made sleeping a crime. Not hurting someone. Not theft. Not vandalism. Sleeping. If you’re poor and tired, you’re now a threat. That’s the news. And the news doesn’t care.”

Rook dropped in a loop—some warped riff that sounded like a rusted train dragging chains. I kept going.

“You wanna know who this law hurts? Moss, who’s squatted five winters without losing a finger. Rook, who built this station out of nothing and still hasn’t been warm since March. Me. You. That kid under the overpass with a milk crate for a pillow. This is who they’re at war with.”

Moss held up her sign.

“THEY ERASE. WE RECORD.”

I nodded. “Words by Moss,” I said. “Broadcast with love.”

She cracked the faintest smile. First one I’d seen all week.

We read her poem next. Voice shaking but proud:

“They outlaw rest So we stay loud. They outlaw dreams So we dream out loud.”

After that, the messages started rolling in.

Old phones buzzed. Our relay server blinked. Kids from the south docks. Rooftop squatters in the North Blocks. Street punks bouncing the signal across meshnets and jury-rigged hotspots. We were being boosted. We were being heard.

And for a second, it felt like the whole city had ears again.

Then someone banged on the door.

We froze.

Rook cut the loop. Moss reached for the breaker.

But it wasn’t CorpSec. It was just a kid. Couldn’t have been more than thirteen. Face streaked with sweat and grime. He wore a trash bag for a coat and socks with holes so big they flapped.

“They’re pinging the signal,” he said. “You’ve got four minutes, maybe five.”

I looked at Rook. He looked at Moss. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.

Four minutes? We could vanish in three. But we weren’t going to.

I turned back to the mic.

“You hear that?” I said. “Four minutes left. Let’s make ’em count.”

Rook loaded the last track. Unity, chewed up and distorted from an old tape loop. Moss grabbed her backup antenna and climbed to the roof with the kid behind her, stringing wire like a lifeline through a broken sky.

I stayed on the mic.

“This is for every kid they tried to sweep like trash. Every tent they slashed. Every blanket they called contraband. We’re still here. You can’t evict the airwaves.”

The song kicked in. Moss shouted the chorus from the rooftop. The kid joined in, hoarse but fearless.

“They can’t kill the signal. They can’t kill the song.”

I let the loop play long. Didn’t fade it. Didn’t sign off.

Just turned off the mic and left it buzzing.

We packed in silence. Left no trace. Just a cardboard sign taped to the wall:

SLEEP IS NOT A CRIME. RADIO NOWHERE. FIND US IN THE STATIC.

By morning, five other pirate signals had gone live. Someone hijacked a bus terminal PA. A public toilet looped our broadcast on a feedback loop. A coffee shop’s digital menu displayed:

STAY LOUD. STAY FREE.

Turns out you don’t need permission to start a revolution.

Just a signal.

And a reason to burn.