plates of interest

"Plates of Interest"

No one knew exactly when it started. Perhaps it was the unusually warm winter, or the switch to a new type of synthetic creamer in the break rooms. Either way, somewhere in the gray labyrinth of government cubicles stretching across Arizona, Utah, and parts of Nevada, a theory was born.

License plates were speaking.

Not literally, of course—though that would’ve been easier to institutionalize. No, these plates whispered meaning, deeply encoded, clearly intentional messages that only the truly observant could decode. And so, naturally, the observant among the mid-tier clerks and DMV system integrators began keeping lists.

In Arizona, a junior analyst named Gary became convinced that the plate “ZXB-419” was a warning about someone “planning to cross timelines.” He drafted a 19-page memo to Internal Affairs, who—after an unusually long lunch—responded only with “Keep us posted.” So Gary did. He began tracking the vehicle and whoever drove it. Sometimes it was a middle school teacher named Lois. Sometimes it was just parked, empty, in the Safeway lot, clearly in passive surveillance mode.

Meanwhile, in Nevada, a highway technician named Brenda decoded “GOV-023” as a personal insult—Go Observe Victor. She didn’t know any Victors, so she searched DMV databases for anyone named Victor. There were over 6,000. That didn’t deter her. She started with Victor Delgado, age 42, who managed a convenience store in Reno and had once ordered three kinds of chutney online at 3 a.m.—proof of instability.

Brenda followed him. From a reasonable distance, of course. She even borrowed a city drone under the pretext of “pot-hole documentation.” It buzzed daily over Victor’s modest home, sending back grainy footage of him watering succulents.

Then Utah caught the bug. A small circle of Department of Transportation staff became fixated on the belief that certain plates weren’t just messages, but assignments. “HTR-911” was clearly “Handle Target: Ralph, 9/11.” The only Ralph they could identify was an elderly man who lived two towns over and ran a conspiracy blog called “Truth Spaghetti.”

He was exactly the kind of person who would deny being a target.

A shadowy network of “Plate Decoders” emerged. They didn’t communicate openly—just left ambiguous Post-it notes near the coffee machine or slightly rearranged paperclips to indicate mission status. A folder marked “Miscellaneous Car Observations” in a shared drive ballooned to 14 GB of grainy dashcam footage and furious Excel charts titled things like "PLATE TO INTENT HEURISTIC MODEL v23b."

The epicenter—though they didn’t know it—was a man named Stephen Marvin in rural New Mexico. He had no social media, paid cash, and drove a gray 2006 Honda Civic with the plate “YKC-174.”

To the Plate Decoders, this was the Rosetta Stone.

YKC clearly stood for “You Kansas City.” 174? Some thought it referenced coordinates, others a Bible verse. Either way, his anonymity was the final proof of his importance. If Stephen Marvin wasn’t being surveilled already, he should be.

So, they began.

Government sedans idled nearby in shifts. Library computers in five states began passively logging his grocery purchases. Someone stole his trash and published a grainy PDF called “The Art of the Bagel: One Man’s Breakfast, A Nation’s Code.”

Stephen remained unaware of any of this. He lived quietly, read gardening books, and once thought someone was whistling the "X-Files" theme while jogging past his house. But he let it go.

Eventually, a memo reached the upper echelons of some internal review board titled: "License Plate Semiotics and Unauthorized Field Activity in Sectors 4, 7, 9, and 11.”

The summary read: “It has come to our attention that multiple state employees believe license plates contain embedded messages guiding surveillance efforts. This is both absurd and possibly illegal. We are launching a full inquiry into unauthorized covert actions surrounding an individual named Stephen Mallory.”

That memo was sent under clearance code “PLT-777.”

The investigators haven’t been seen since.

And somewhere, in a windowless office, a new file is being opened:
“Marvin Response Doctrine.”