Barangay 404

Chapter 1: Welcome to Barangay 404

I've been to a lot of small towns, but this one feels... different.

Barangay San Isidro—no, wait, scratch that. Locals don't call it that. They just call it "Baryo."
Like it's the only one that matters.
No outsiders, no cameras, no reason to come here unless you're lost—or like me, looking for trouble.

The tricycle that brought me here rattled like a dying tin can. The driver, a wiry old guy they called Boyet, didn't talk much.
Except to warn me, "Pagdating mo doon, wag ka basta magtanong-tanong. Lahat ng tao, may pangalang totoo... pero dito, palayaw lang ang gamit. Kung hindi ka tatawag ng palayaw, wala kang kausap."
I laughed. Thought it was just rural quirkiness.
Turns out, Boyet wasn't joking.

The first thing I noticed when we pulled into the barangay proper was how clean everything looked.
Not just tidy — sanitized.
No stray dogs sniffing at garbage piles, no broken bottles by the sari-sari store. Even the basketball court gleamed like someone scrubbed it with bleach.

Kids ran past me, laughing, clutching old smartphones.
One of them yelled, "Gold Star ako ngayon, oy!"
The others groaned and chased him, shouting about streaks and badges like some TikTok challenge.

I didn't know it then, but that was my first glimpse of KapwaConnect, the app that would devour this whole place.

At the barangay hall, I met Kap. Pinong.
He was younger than I expected — late 40s, sharp polo shirt, a politician's smile that never reached his eyes.
His handshake was warm, his tone rehearsed.

"Ah, you must be Nix. The journalist from Manila, tama ba? It's rare to have visitors here," he said, leading me inside.
"San Isidro—our Baryo—has been a pilot community for KapwaConnect. The government calls it digital bayanihan."
He gestured proudly at a big projector screen showing charts and leaderboards filled with usernames like MangKanor77 and MaringQueenBee.

I played along. "Looks like a hit. What's it for?"

Kap. Pinong's grin widened.
"Simple lang! Everyone helps everyone.
You report crimes, gossip, or anything harmful to the community. In return, you earn Good Citizen Points.
Redeemable for groceries, free healthcare, even tuition for your kids."
He pointed at the top name on the leaderboard: "Mang Erning."
"Our very own barangay hero. A model citizen."

As we toured the area, Kap explained how KapwaConnect changed everything:

Barangay cleanups now had perfect attendance.

No more petty theft — criminals were "relocated" after multiple reports.

Even fiestas were better organized.

It sounded too good to be true.
And it looked too good, too — every sari-sari store stocked, every duster-wearing nanay smiling like a TV commercial.

But then I noticed something weird.
Whenever Kap passed, conversations died mid-sentence.
Smiles froze just a second too long.
Like everyone was performing for invisible cameras.

That night, I checked into the only guest room above the barangay hall.
The WiFi password, written neatly on a card, read: "mabuting_kapwa2025."

The hell?

I downloaded the KapwaConnect app, out of curiosity. The interface was cheerful and pastel-colored, with a cute tarsier mascot giving me tips.

At the bottom of the screen, a single line of text pulsed faintly:

"Welcome, new user. Your community score is pending verification."

I frowned. There was no option to log out.

Before I slept, I heard muffled shouting outside.
A man's voice — drunk, angry — yelling about "utang" and "puro kayo sip-sip."
Then a door slammed.
Silence.

By morning, there was no trace of him.
No one mentioned the noise.
When I asked a vendor about it, she just smiled too wide and said,
"Baka na-relocate lang, sir. Good for the community."

I didn't know what relocated meant yet.
But my gut told me it wasn't good.

#MysteriousVillage #Thriller #Mystery #Suspense #DarkFiction #BlackMirrorVibes #SocialExperiment