(no subject)
Title: The Agents of the Prefecture.
Genre: Sci-Fi / Legal Drama
Rating: Teen to adult
Warnings: Mature themes.
Summary: From Cyrus H. Curtis;
"There are two kinds of men who never amount to much: those who cannot do what they are told, and those who can do nothing else."
It’s two hours and forty seven minutes to the beginning of our trial. For a moment, it’s two hours and forty seven exactly, then it’s two hours and forty six minutes and fifty seconds, then forty five seconds, then forty seconds, then thirty five. The moment I mentally record one time the next is already here and I’m wrong again, and there is a deep seated dissatisfaction I feel with myself for being wrong on something so specific. So I stop counting and busy myself with staring at the wall of my cell.
There are no imperfections in the wall, just a perfect flat surface in pale grey. Nothing moves in it, nothing resists, nothing falls out of order. I could say out loud that this was a flat grey wall, and in the stating of it, it would become no less true. I glance towards the door, still locked. The hatch set into it, still locked. No sound of footprints, no hint of guards at the door, so I indulge myself. I say it aloud.
“In front of the twenty seventh Agent of the Prefecture, previously appointed to District L of the seventeenth division, there is a flat grey wall.”
I look at the wall. It’s still flat and grey, and I feel a rush of pleasure to see it there. Even my uncertainty over my current title doesn’t dilute the reassurance at having found a maintaining constant. I keep my eyes fixed reverently on the wall, admiring the way it neither tilts nor creases, turning ever so slightly to observe where one surface meets the next, the precision of the ninety degree angle of the corner, the complexity of form where the two edges of the walls climb to meet the ceiling, unified above me. Perhaps the best bit is the knowledge that this is no asymmetrical trick, that this same unit of perfection is mirrored below it, and across from it, and repeated eight times in total around the room.
Eight times.
I count the corners.
Eight.
The satisfaction that I felt at observing the wall is amplified by this additional certainty, and although the two things are not directly related, I already feel better about our trial. Our trial. That makes me feel better too. I am being tried as a unit of the first thirty agents of the Prefecture for crimes against humanity, for being an essential accessory to the regime of the former ruling corporate government , for spending X years in breach of the protocols and principals established by the date of the 2070 global inalienable rights act, XX counts of conspiracy to murder, war profiteering, global conspiratorial fraud.
In my case X is 27.
In my case XX is 29.
I feel a small thrill of pride at the second figure. Less than three failures a year which were irreparable, and this was out of on average 2198 workers passing through my division every financial year, and so few of them were perfect. Sometimes, when I’m been waiting for the lights in my cell to go out? I mentally analyse where the people who we helped to strive for improvement through the evaluation process would be best suited to serve the building of a new society. I think some of mine must be important now. So many of them were so very nearly good enough, and their flaws were so fixable! Only 8% of the shortfalls required surgery, and the ratio of successfully improved workers to those for whom nothing could be done was so favourable! I’m certain that they should be instrumental in the work that will have to be done now that the revolution is over. Probably some of them are writing legislations, or acts of new government, I reason that the majority of them are out there working as doctors and lawyers, others must be the secretaries of those doctors and lawyers, and the remainder carries the bags for the secretaries of the doctors and lawyers. Each one working hard to the very fullest of his potential. They were all so very ambitious.
I lean down and slip off my sandals. It is one hour and thirty two minutes until our trial begins. I make the conscious effort not to be too specific, because I’ll just start counting again, and the dissatisfaction will return. Carefully, I lower myself to the floor and push my legs into the lotus position. I know that some of the agents of the prefecture have accepted legal representation external to themselves. It’s noble of them, to dare working with a lawyer, to enable some young worker to fulfil his or her new role, to function in his new position in an important way. Most of us refused. Having a lawyer would only give us the temptation to breach confidentiality. Everything we want to say, we can say for ourselves. In the Lotus position, I stare at the wall. Not letting my eyes roam to the corners anymore, but rather just allowing the even grey surface before me to completely fill my field of vision. This is like meditation, but easier. Our minds are less cluttered than other peoples. More ordered. More compartmentalized. Thinking of nothing is easy. So I don’t wait for the next two hours, five minutes and thirteen seconds to pass, so much as I just sit and think of nothing, as it slowly approaches.
The latch on my cell door clatters open, I’ve had the same guard for the last seven months, but he speaks to me rarely. He’s older than me, and his hair is beginning to streak with the first hints of grey at the side. He probably looks tired, but I think he looks respectful. Dignified. His voice is slightly hoarse as he calls into the cell,
“Stand up, face against the wall and put your hands behind your back.” I comply quickly, and continue to stare at the wall as I hear the locks on the door clatter open and his footsteps coming up behind me. When I was first being moved into this cell, I remember him tightening the cuffs hard enough that they bit into my muscle and left red bands on my skin. This time he’s more careful, they’re not loose, but no more uncomfortable than I would reason that handcuffs should be. He takes my shoulder and walks me away from the wall, then stops, frowning. I mirror his expression, frowning back. He looks down. I look down. Then he reaches toward the floor and picks up my sandals, and I can’t mimic this because of the handcuffs, so I just watch him and try not to feel jealous.
“You been doing handstands again?” He asks, walking around behind me. Sometimes I do handstands on my bed, and when I do this I take my shoes off. I’m oddly pleased that he’s noticed. I feel him take one of my ankles and pull my foot up off the floor behind me, “I was doing Yoga.” I reply, feeling him pushing the sandal over my foot, then he lets it drop. I shift my weight across onto my shooed foot, and lift the still bare one up a little, trying to be accommodating. He takes my ankle and a moment later I feel my second sandal pushing on. He doesn’t continue the conversation though, so I stare out the door, observing other guards and other agents of the Prefecture being led through the corridor. I watch as the new uniforms of plastic sandals and knee length gowns in weird, irregular colours slip past my door. We’re not allowed suits or ties or shoes with laces anymore, but we’re still instantly recognisable. Still like brothers.
My second sandal falls off again, and I frown. My guard sighs, and puts my foot down. Then picks up my sandal. Then takes my ankle again. Then pulls my foot up again. Then puts the sandal on wrong. Then drops it. Then puts my foot down again. This is taking a perplexingly long time. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so, as a New Guard appears at the door of my cell. He’s younger than the one I know, and his uniform’s slightly different. There’s an insigna on his lapel, but I don’t recognise it. He completely ignores me, glaring instead at my guard, “You wanna hurry it the fuck up? The transport’s waiting for them.” It suddenly seems easy for my guard to get the sandal on. I drop my foot to the floor as he replies to the newcomer, “I’ve got him. Get yourself back to the van.” New Guard departs sullenly, and I feel a hand on my shoulder, steering me forward.
We walk down the corridor together. A few meters ahead of us I can see New Guard pacing deliberately slowly, like he doesn’t quite trust that I’m going to make it to the transport without his oversight. We’re nearly at the end of the corridor when, out of the blue, my guard mutters quietly, “My son’s a lawyer you know. You’re the twenty seventh, right?” I turn my head a little, to show him my expression. So that he knows that while I am happy to reply, I am also confused by his behaviour, “Yes, brother, I’m the twenty seventh.” After a second, something occurs to me, and I ask, “What district was your son in?”. Now he shows me that he’s confused by my behaviour, but he knows I don’t have time to explain it, so he just tells me. I show him that I am made very happy by his answer.
By now we’ve reached the door, and New Guard is reaching for the front of my gown, preparing to move me into the prisoner transport van. My guard doesn’t say goodbye., but in the second before New Guard grabs hold of me, the hand he’s had on my shoulder all this time tightens, like he’s not certain that he wants to let go. He does though, and I get in the back of the van without resistance.
It’s dark in the van, and it’s quiet. Companionable almost. None of us need to say anything, so none of us do. We just sit together, admiring the lines of the windows through the gloom. Considering the quality of the seats. We think of nothing. I can feel a slight flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but I ignore it. I know what the outcome will be. We all know what the outcome will be, and that is supposed to free us. To be certain of your future is better than to have a hope that might go unfulfilled. It’s safer. Healthier. The Agents of the Prefecture live our entire lives in states of certainty. It keeps us honest. I like being kept honest.
The doors of the van swing open, and immediately the quiet twilight is bisected. Light and sound invade our senses without abate. A discordant, guttural chorus of the voices of those who hate us echoes through the air, loud enough that I can feel the vibrations of it resonating up through my bones. The sound of camera shutters clatters away softly somewhere below the voices of the crowd, and lights flash from the mass of people in a rippling irregularity. Like reflective butterflies catching the sun and blinding me for a split second, before the next wing flutters down and the flash is gone, or moved, attacking from some fresh, untested angle.
I mean to stand carefully, but instead find myself pulled forward. New Guard drags me a few feet, before taking up his position behind me, and steering me onward from there. There’s a sign being held up a little to the back of the crowd, declaring exactly what penalty the author believes we deserve for our obedience. I hear a woman’s voice rise over the mass, repeating a question about the present welfare of her son. Her voice is high pitched, shrieking, alive with righteous indignation. I don’t feel guilty, but I don’t enjoy the sound either.
There’s a sudden surge of excitement at the mouth of the court, I estimate it to be sixteen meters from where we are now. The crowd heaves towards some unseen point of focus, a new wave of agitation and anger enlightened by whoever has just left the building.
Taking advantage of this distraction, New Guard increases our pace, hoping perhaps, to get us inside and away from the cameras before the interest in whoever’s just come out abates. I comply wordlessly, hurrying when hurried and edging where edged. I estimate that we covered about ten meters in this way when New Guard stops. I don’t count on him stopping, so I don’t, and I’m two steps away when his fingers slip away from my shoulder, leaving a damp patch on my gown where the sweat from his palm had soaked into the sky blue fabric. A chill catches it, and I turn to look back towards him, surprised by the feeling of vulnerability his absence instils in me. My hands are still locked behind my back, I’m surrounded by the people who hate me, and deprived of my suit and shoes I feel naked. I’m not afraid, that isn’t the right way to explain it. Not afraid, but abandoned. I can take the hostility, I know things are different now, I understand that these people despise us, and I know that they’re going to kill us. We’re going to sit in that court, listen to the lawyers, give the testimony, be found guilty, and be executed for our obedience. All that stands between this moment and the moment of my death is procedure, and through procedure we are made free.
The thought of being deprived of that pristine, clinical death is what gives me this crawling sickness in my stomach.
I can see New Guard standing frozen in place, his eyes fixed immovably on whatever attracted the attention of the crowd. His expression is strange, something between disgust and amazement moulding his features into an almost sympathetic visage. I turn to follow his gaze, but it seems the moment I do is the moment he returns to his senses and grabs hold of my arms to steer me back to our intended route. His grip is tighter than before. Bruising, even. I should feel curious as to what it is he saw. To what is riling up the gathered onlookers, but I don’t. All I feel is satisfaction at being restored to order. At being adopted into his grip, once more. A gob of something hot and wet hits the side of my face, just below my eye. I don’t flinch. Just keep my eyes set straight ahead as someone’s spit rolls down my cheek, leaving a thick wet track across my skin. We’re nearly there now, only have to brave the last few feet, walk through the epicentre of the storm, past whatever caught the eye of New Guard and the ire of the people, and then we’ll be there at last. In the embrace of the court proceedings. The beginning of the end at last.
A figure steps into our path, blocking the way. He is taller than me, and wider as well. Staring directly ahead, I find myself facing a pure white shirt and a red tie, with a golden pin clasped across it. They look expensive. I admire them while I have the chance. These aren’t mass produced off the rack clothes. Someone had measured and tailored them to the body in front of me. The man is broad chested, but the buttons don’t pull on the jacket. I imagine my silhouette against his being invisible. Seamless. Swallowed up by the bulk of a larger and more important entity. When I feel his hand on my cheek, I look up. His thumb grazes across the saliva, wiping it away in a strangely paternal gesture, and New Guard hangs back. The lifetime of trust that this man has earned stayed with people, even after everything fell apart. He was the CEO. The Godfather. He wrote the first instruction manuals and he built the world that we couldn’t even hold together.
My knees feel weak, already I can feel myself stooping slightly before him, unable to believe that he’s touching me. With the spit wiped away, his hand on my face becomes less a thing of function, and more of reassurance. It’s like being touched by a father, or kindly male teacher of some description. The cameras flash, and my knees do fail me at last. I fall down to my knees, my eyes still locked adoringly onto him. Around us I can hear the outrage of the crowd at seeing this, and at last New Guard drags me up onto my feet and away from the CEO. Every moment of my intricate personal drama is captured, caged, and frozen in time by the journalistic discharge of the masses. The steps fall away from beneath my feet. My ankles and toes crushed and battered against the stone steps as New Guard physically hauls me through the doors of the court.
When we’re far enough away from the doors and the mob and the CEO, he shows me that he was scared.
I don’t know what of.
Genre: Sci-Fi / Legal Drama
Rating: Teen to adult
Warnings: Mature themes.
Summary: From Cyrus H. Curtis;
"There are two kinds of men who never amount to much: those who cannot do what they are told, and those who can do nothing else."
It’s two hours and forty seven minutes to the beginning of our trial. For a moment, it’s two hours and forty seven exactly, then it’s two hours and forty six minutes and fifty seconds, then forty five seconds, then forty seconds, then thirty five. The moment I mentally record one time the next is already here and I’m wrong again, and there is a deep seated dissatisfaction I feel with myself for being wrong on something so specific. So I stop counting and busy myself with staring at the wall of my cell.
There are no imperfections in the wall, just a perfect flat surface in pale grey. Nothing moves in it, nothing resists, nothing falls out of order. I could say out loud that this was a flat grey wall, and in the stating of it, it would become no less true. I glance towards the door, still locked. The hatch set into it, still locked. No sound of footprints, no hint of guards at the door, so I indulge myself. I say it aloud.
“In front of the twenty seventh Agent of the Prefecture, previously appointed to District L of the seventeenth division, there is a flat grey wall.”
I look at the wall. It’s still flat and grey, and I feel a rush of pleasure to see it there. Even my uncertainty over my current title doesn’t dilute the reassurance at having found a maintaining constant. I keep my eyes fixed reverently on the wall, admiring the way it neither tilts nor creases, turning ever so slightly to observe where one surface meets the next, the precision of the ninety degree angle of the corner, the complexity of form where the two edges of the walls climb to meet the ceiling, unified above me. Perhaps the best bit is the knowledge that this is no asymmetrical trick, that this same unit of perfection is mirrored below it, and across from it, and repeated eight times in total around the room.
Eight times.
I count the corners.
Eight.
The satisfaction that I felt at observing the wall is amplified by this additional certainty, and although the two things are not directly related, I already feel better about our trial. Our trial. That makes me feel better too. I am being tried as a unit of the first thirty agents of the Prefecture for crimes against humanity, for being an essential accessory to the regime of the former ruling corporate government , for spending X years in breach of the protocols and principals established by the date of the 2070 global inalienable rights act, XX counts of conspiracy to murder, war profiteering, global conspiratorial fraud.
In my case X is 27.
In my case XX is 29.
I feel a small thrill of pride at the second figure. Less than three failures a year which were irreparable, and this was out of on average 2198 workers passing through my division every financial year, and so few of them were perfect. Sometimes, when I’m been waiting for the lights in my cell to go out? I mentally analyse where the people who we helped to strive for improvement through the evaluation process would be best suited to serve the building of a new society. I think some of mine must be important now. So many of them were so very nearly good enough, and their flaws were so fixable! Only 8% of the shortfalls required surgery, and the ratio of successfully improved workers to those for whom nothing could be done was so favourable! I’m certain that they should be instrumental in the work that will have to be done now that the revolution is over. Probably some of them are writing legislations, or acts of new government, I reason that the majority of them are out there working as doctors and lawyers, others must be the secretaries of those doctors and lawyers, and the remainder carries the bags for the secretaries of the doctors and lawyers. Each one working hard to the very fullest of his potential. They were all so very ambitious.
I lean down and slip off my sandals. It is one hour and thirty two minutes until our trial begins. I make the conscious effort not to be too specific, because I’ll just start counting again, and the dissatisfaction will return. Carefully, I lower myself to the floor and push my legs into the lotus position. I know that some of the agents of the prefecture have accepted legal representation external to themselves. It’s noble of them, to dare working with a lawyer, to enable some young worker to fulfil his or her new role, to function in his new position in an important way. Most of us refused. Having a lawyer would only give us the temptation to breach confidentiality. Everything we want to say, we can say for ourselves. In the Lotus position, I stare at the wall. Not letting my eyes roam to the corners anymore, but rather just allowing the even grey surface before me to completely fill my field of vision. This is like meditation, but easier. Our minds are less cluttered than other peoples. More ordered. More compartmentalized. Thinking of nothing is easy. So I don’t wait for the next two hours, five minutes and thirteen seconds to pass, so much as I just sit and think of nothing, as it slowly approaches.
The latch on my cell door clatters open, I’ve had the same guard for the last seven months, but he speaks to me rarely. He’s older than me, and his hair is beginning to streak with the first hints of grey at the side. He probably looks tired, but I think he looks respectful. Dignified. His voice is slightly hoarse as he calls into the cell,
“Stand up, face against the wall and put your hands behind your back.” I comply quickly, and continue to stare at the wall as I hear the locks on the door clatter open and his footsteps coming up behind me. When I was first being moved into this cell, I remember him tightening the cuffs hard enough that they bit into my muscle and left red bands on my skin. This time he’s more careful, they’re not loose, but no more uncomfortable than I would reason that handcuffs should be. He takes my shoulder and walks me away from the wall, then stops, frowning. I mirror his expression, frowning back. He looks down. I look down. Then he reaches toward the floor and picks up my sandals, and I can’t mimic this because of the handcuffs, so I just watch him and try not to feel jealous.
“You been doing handstands again?” He asks, walking around behind me. Sometimes I do handstands on my bed, and when I do this I take my shoes off. I’m oddly pleased that he’s noticed. I feel him take one of my ankles and pull my foot up off the floor behind me, “I was doing Yoga.” I reply, feeling him pushing the sandal over my foot, then he lets it drop. I shift my weight across onto my shooed foot, and lift the still bare one up a little, trying to be accommodating. He takes my ankle and a moment later I feel my second sandal pushing on. He doesn’t continue the conversation though, so I stare out the door, observing other guards and other agents of the Prefecture being led through the corridor. I watch as the new uniforms of plastic sandals and knee length gowns in weird, irregular colours slip past my door. We’re not allowed suits or ties or shoes with laces anymore, but we’re still instantly recognisable. Still like brothers.
My second sandal falls off again, and I frown. My guard sighs, and puts my foot down. Then picks up my sandal. Then takes my ankle again. Then pulls my foot up again. Then puts the sandal on wrong. Then drops it. Then puts my foot down again. This is taking a perplexingly long time. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so, as a New Guard appears at the door of my cell. He’s younger than the one I know, and his uniform’s slightly different. There’s an insigna on his lapel, but I don’t recognise it. He completely ignores me, glaring instead at my guard, “You wanna hurry it the fuck up? The transport’s waiting for them.” It suddenly seems easy for my guard to get the sandal on. I drop my foot to the floor as he replies to the newcomer, “I’ve got him. Get yourself back to the van.” New Guard departs sullenly, and I feel a hand on my shoulder, steering me forward.
We walk down the corridor together. A few meters ahead of us I can see New Guard pacing deliberately slowly, like he doesn’t quite trust that I’m going to make it to the transport without his oversight. We’re nearly at the end of the corridor when, out of the blue, my guard mutters quietly, “My son’s a lawyer you know. You’re the twenty seventh, right?” I turn my head a little, to show him my expression. So that he knows that while I am happy to reply, I am also confused by his behaviour, “Yes, brother, I’m the twenty seventh.” After a second, something occurs to me, and I ask, “What district was your son in?”. Now he shows me that he’s confused by my behaviour, but he knows I don’t have time to explain it, so he just tells me. I show him that I am made very happy by his answer.
By now we’ve reached the door, and New Guard is reaching for the front of my gown, preparing to move me into the prisoner transport van. My guard doesn’t say goodbye., but in the second before New Guard grabs hold of me, the hand he’s had on my shoulder all this time tightens, like he’s not certain that he wants to let go. He does though, and I get in the back of the van without resistance.
It’s dark in the van, and it’s quiet. Companionable almost. None of us need to say anything, so none of us do. We just sit together, admiring the lines of the windows through the gloom. Considering the quality of the seats. We think of nothing. I can feel a slight flutter of anxiety in my stomach, but I ignore it. I know what the outcome will be. We all know what the outcome will be, and that is supposed to free us. To be certain of your future is better than to have a hope that might go unfulfilled. It’s safer. Healthier. The Agents of the Prefecture live our entire lives in states of certainty. It keeps us honest. I like being kept honest.
The doors of the van swing open, and immediately the quiet twilight is bisected. Light and sound invade our senses without abate. A discordant, guttural chorus of the voices of those who hate us echoes through the air, loud enough that I can feel the vibrations of it resonating up through my bones. The sound of camera shutters clatters away softly somewhere below the voices of the crowd, and lights flash from the mass of people in a rippling irregularity. Like reflective butterflies catching the sun and blinding me for a split second, before the next wing flutters down and the flash is gone, or moved, attacking from some fresh, untested angle.
I mean to stand carefully, but instead find myself pulled forward. New Guard drags me a few feet, before taking up his position behind me, and steering me onward from there. There’s a sign being held up a little to the back of the crowd, declaring exactly what penalty the author believes we deserve for our obedience. I hear a woman’s voice rise over the mass, repeating a question about the present welfare of her son. Her voice is high pitched, shrieking, alive with righteous indignation. I don’t feel guilty, but I don’t enjoy the sound either.
There’s a sudden surge of excitement at the mouth of the court, I estimate it to be sixteen meters from where we are now. The crowd heaves towards some unseen point of focus, a new wave of agitation and anger enlightened by whoever has just left the building.
Taking advantage of this distraction, New Guard increases our pace, hoping perhaps, to get us inside and away from the cameras before the interest in whoever’s just come out abates. I comply wordlessly, hurrying when hurried and edging where edged. I estimate that we covered about ten meters in this way when New Guard stops. I don’t count on him stopping, so I don’t, and I’m two steps away when his fingers slip away from my shoulder, leaving a damp patch on my gown where the sweat from his palm had soaked into the sky blue fabric. A chill catches it, and I turn to look back towards him, surprised by the feeling of vulnerability his absence instils in me. My hands are still locked behind my back, I’m surrounded by the people who hate me, and deprived of my suit and shoes I feel naked. I’m not afraid, that isn’t the right way to explain it. Not afraid, but abandoned. I can take the hostility, I know things are different now, I understand that these people despise us, and I know that they’re going to kill us. We’re going to sit in that court, listen to the lawyers, give the testimony, be found guilty, and be executed for our obedience. All that stands between this moment and the moment of my death is procedure, and through procedure we are made free.
The thought of being deprived of that pristine, clinical death is what gives me this crawling sickness in my stomach.
I can see New Guard standing frozen in place, his eyes fixed immovably on whatever attracted the attention of the crowd. His expression is strange, something between disgust and amazement moulding his features into an almost sympathetic visage. I turn to follow his gaze, but it seems the moment I do is the moment he returns to his senses and grabs hold of my arms to steer me back to our intended route. His grip is tighter than before. Bruising, even. I should feel curious as to what it is he saw. To what is riling up the gathered onlookers, but I don’t. All I feel is satisfaction at being restored to order. At being adopted into his grip, once more. A gob of something hot and wet hits the side of my face, just below my eye. I don’t flinch. Just keep my eyes set straight ahead as someone’s spit rolls down my cheek, leaving a thick wet track across my skin. We’re nearly there now, only have to brave the last few feet, walk through the epicentre of the storm, past whatever caught the eye of New Guard and the ire of the people, and then we’ll be there at last. In the embrace of the court proceedings. The beginning of the end at last.
A figure steps into our path, blocking the way. He is taller than me, and wider as well. Staring directly ahead, I find myself facing a pure white shirt and a red tie, with a golden pin clasped across it. They look expensive. I admire them while I have the chance. These aren’t mass produced off the rack clothes. Someone had measured and tailored them to the body in front of me. The man is broad chested, but the buttons don’t pull on the jacket. I imagine my silhouette against his being invisible. Seamless. Swallowed up by the bulk of a larger and more important entity. When I feel his hand on my cheek, I look up. His thumb grazes across the saliva, wiping it away in a strangely paternal gesture, and New Guard hangs back. The lifetime of trust that this man has earned stayed with people, even after everything fell apart. He was the CEO. The Godfather. He wrote the first instruction manuals and he built the world that we couldn’t even hold together.
My knees feel weak, already I can feel myself stooping slightly before him, unable to believe that he’s touching me. With the spit wiped away, his hand on my face becomes less a thing of function, and more of reassurance. It’s like being touched by a father, or kindly male teacher of some description. The cameras flash, and my knees do fail me at last. I fall down to my knees, my eyes still locked adoringly onto him. Around us I can hear the outrage of the crowd at seeing this, and at last New Guard drags me up onto my feet and away from the CEO. Every moment of my intricate personal drama is captured, caged, and frozen in time by the journalistic discharge of the masses. The steps fall away from beneath my feet. My ankles and toes crushed and battered against the stone steps as New Guard physically hauls me through the doors of the court.
When we’re far enough away from the doors and the mob and the CEO, he shows me that he was scared.
I don’t know what of.