Tag: Dystopia

Recidivist Phantoms

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It was some 18 months into the AI overhaul, and a pattern began to emerge.

It started with just instances, here or there. There was no great wave. There were just punctuated happenings, miles apart, entirely without relation. Though, over enough time, droplets made up an ocean.

Prison releases in any iteration of society had always been a complicated matter. The statistics were seldom positive on the side of rehabilitation. Worldwide, recidivism was a reality – between 18% and 55% of released prisoners could return within two years. Even in a day and age where western penal systems found themselves creaking with overpopulation, there was no immediate remedy for the complications of life after release.

Irrespective of their sentences, fundamental issues of housing and having any kind of reliable support or income stood in the way for a significant proportion of released individuals. That’s not to say many couldn’t go on to form a stable life, but this was, of course, entirely conditional. Public support was high for businesses hiring ex-offenders, but promising outcomes remained low. Those who could rejoin the workforce knew the barriers they were heading towards.

Barely 15% found themselves back at work within six weeks of release, while a little over 20% received employment after six months. These were the fortunate few, typically with support systems in place for them, and low-wage, low-security work their means of money. Ultimately, the broadest of barriers to life after prison were stigma, mental health complexities and homelessness. Yet, something began to change, to show up, bit by bit, across international probation reports.

***

Jobs were being vacuumed up at light speed as juries became a thing of the past. AI became the replacement for judges and every last piece of visual media’s origins and intentions were entirely unknowable. The most affluent of areas segued into universal basic utopia, while the most deprived areas became enclaves of isolated desperation. The world had become a fully automated riddle. Few roles remained for human beings, yet low-wage, low-security work, deemed befitting of released prisoners, was still available.

Probation officers were also among the remaining jobs, relying on some last human faces to reintegrate other human faces into society upon their release. Curiously, the ex-offenders who managed to gain interviews and employment started to display peculiar trends across their probation reports. Ad-hoc, instantaneous compiling of information meant AI noticed these patterns first. This notice was soon passed on to their human counterparts. Abby Nelson received hers via email the night before her 9:45 am appointment with a Mr. Derek Rogers.

Some months ago, Abby weathered the initial shock of being reposted to the role of a Probation Officer. She did though, with enough experience, acclimate and soon counted herself lucky. Firstly, she had a job. Secondly, she had a job that was solely based around people with acute needs; her role was necessary and desired, and it most certainly should have been carried out by a human being. Abby found herself as much an agony aunt as a useful resource to many of her clients. They were simply trying to get through, consistently trying and applying in hope that a stable job would materialize soon.

She often ruminated on the fact that poor literacy is one the most profound themes of prison populations, and, while it stands as an obstacle to employment prospects, this can also result in remarkably expressive, poetic, and connected speakers. Without the rigidity and constriction of schooled literacy, individuals often found themselves adept as perceptive talkers and listeners. They might not be able to recall the pedantic insides of a peer-reviewed academic textbook, but they could distinguish a lie from the tone of a voice. They knew the threat of manipulation from a pressed syllable. They also recognized a good soul from a bad one, all from the choice of words and their delivery. Abby relied on this fact, and respected it, as she approached any client conversation.

Derek was a success story. Abby had always found him polite and straightforward. His sentence had been four years for, in his own words, “getting up in business that was none of my business.” He didn’t reek of self-loathing or wanton mental health crises as so many releases did. Abby saw his story straight; Derek had fallen for an offer to make quick money in a moment of weakness, and he’d been caught in the act. He accepted his sentence and made no bones about his crime, following a quiet, drama-free sentence: he was released.

Derek’s life story was one of a self-made man, and his life after release continued that motif. Within two months he’d secured a single room flat and began to make a modicum of regular income as a plasterer and plumber. He also kept himself well clear of anything nefarious. With an ex-wife “somewhere out there” and “few friends worth talking to,” Derek was a fifty-something in the process of reintegration and, ultimately, doing incredibly well.

***

Abby and he had been seated for some ten or so minutes before she realized something was off. Derek always sat to face her and was somewhat chatty. He had the slightly grating, chauvinistic habit of calling her “Abby girl.” However, Abby weighed this endearment against every other name prison releases had called her in the past months and decided to recognize its warmth. Today, though, Derek wasn’t chatty. He gazed out and away from Abby and… he looked tired.

“Is everything okay, Derek?” Abby implored, genuinely hoping bad news was not afoot.

Derek shuffled a bit in his chair. He half-muttered under his breath, interrupting himself from responding more than once. He briefly glanced back at Abby and let out a little chuckle before setting himself. His eyes shifted to another corner of the room while he said,

“What is it? This… AI? This, this new world. Photographs, now videos. Vehicles with nobody driving. None of it real. You know, even when you walk down a street full of people – it feels empty. Nobody… talks anymore. Don’t even acknowledge your walking on the same street. It’s quiet but the cars. My last three jobs; I get sent the job on my email, I go to the door, I’m answered by the door bell… I didn’t even see the last three people whose homes I was in. There were no photos on the walls, either. It doesn’t matter where I take a job, it’s the same everywhere I go.”

Derek looked up and out, ruefully, mournfully.

“Is… is… this it? Dead streets. Nobody behind the counter. Talking to a computer. Everything’s a computer program. It feels cold. The whole thing, it’s… it’s… not like people live here anymore. It’s like everybody is scared. Too scared for a greeting. Too scared for even a ‘hello’.”

Derek looked pained. His voice softened. Abby’s throat felt dry.

“A child spat at me.”

His gaze set upon Abby once more. His face stopped moving; his eyes felt hollow. 

“Just a little thing. 5, maybe 7 years old… he – it, didn’t hit me. But… the mother… she moved her kid away from me. Didn’t confront or discipline him. Didn’t make an apology. She grabbed him and moved away… like I was the problem.”

Derek paused.

“That’s not about me. I have no sign on my head. People don’t know I’ve been to prison. They can’t read minds… this is people. People are just scared.”

Derek briefly brought himself back from his thoughts, back to Abby, back to the present. He began with an exhale,

“Abby girl, I may be talking crazy, but… and don’t misunderstand me when I say this… I don’t ever want to… do something stupid again. That’s not what I’m talking about. Don’t misunderstand me. But can you believe me when I say this; I had a dream the other night of being back inside. Do you hear that? This… out here… there’s no society. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think something in me wants to go back.”

Abby sat in silence, looking at the glassy wetness filling Derek’s eyes. This was as honest and intimate an exchange as she’d ever had with a released prisoner. Abby didn’t know where to begin.

The email memo she’d received the night before was as if prophecy:

En masse, successfully reintegrating prison releases were longing to be back in prison.

Ever Be Forgot

Posted on by [email protected]

Ever Be Forgot

The foreboding he felt was palpable. Bad juju, bad mana – no good vibes here. It was the sheer number of them. The closer he got to the designated site, the more cars there were. Road sides had started to look congested about 4-5 miles back.

By the time Eddie Whelan parked his car, there was no further to travel; it was park up or turn back. The winding, thinning country lanes up to the forest were stocked with cars everywhere he looked. This felt enormous. People had travelled a long ways to be here, from all over the country, and so very many.

Deep autumn right on the cusp of winter, when “the fall” has lost its charm. The first flashes of crispy pastel yellows and oranges dissolved into the sludge of dark mud under foot.

“Shit,” Eddie somewhat gasped as nearly an entire shoe was swallowed by mud. The visibility was dismal. There was clearly some form of glow emanating from the depths of the forest. Mainly, he was guided by a mid-distant hollering and the banter of the revelers way ahead of him.

A brief glance back and Eddie’s car was no longer visible in the gloom of later year night. Nevertheless, he kept moving forward, identifying the pines and conifers ahead with his phone torch. It felt eerie; it felt like it couldn’t be trusted. Time, place, setting – everything was off.

His years in the field had taught him he couldn’t really trust any novel environment – that caution, and an unblinking vigilance, were a necessity. But this was a flavor of feral he hadn’t sensed in a good while, maybe since youth. This was Guy Fawkes Night after all:

“Remember, remember the 5th of November.”

A holiday 400 years in antiquity, a staple of national identity.

“Gunpowder, treason, and plot…”

Counter terrorism before it was named, as King and Parliament saved.

“I see no reason, why gunpowder treason…”

Bring fireworks along, lighting bonfires must be done.

“Should ever be forgot.”

An evening of national pride, community, and fun.

Eddie wiped a drip of snot from the tip of his nose. The assaulting British cold emanated from the forest with every step. The winter to come was making its presence known – wrap up as you will, it’s going for your bones.

Wading deeper into the foreground of ominous pines, Eddie felt his entire back stiffen. This was a hell of a time to be out late… anywhere. He’d watched helplessly in recent months as his waistline and appetite for casual cigarette smoking grew. He thought to himself that maybe his job had never been harder.

Current affairs reporting in the 21st century was seldom uplifting. Journos knew the score, just as the general public did. Negativity, cynicism, and the inflammatory were catnip to news consumers. Yet, this was a bad year.

Britain’s social fabric was hemorrhaging. National identity had gone from being something revised, expanded and growing, decade for decade, to something febrile and dangerous. Forging ahead was rejected while screaming for something long gone was the order of the day. Exactly what it meant to be British had become a nationwide obsession. In many corners, it became a green light for vigilantism and worse.

Eddie could hear voices getting louder up ahead. The silhouettes of tree trunks getting steadily clearer. He couldn’t tell if it was his eyes adjusting to darkness or if he was moving towards light. A sharp crunch echoed nearby. Eddie made a snap glance behind. Nothing. Was he being followed?

Arguably the originators of conservatism, Britain had only in the most recent decades used the word “diversity.” The term Britain had always favored was “tolerance.” Yet it was clear in some parts of the country, this had long since faded. The picture was ugly. Violent white crime remained on a steady upward trajectory. Youth crime circled its perennial numbers. Hate crimes were suspiciously falling out of reporting, circulation, or consideration. Streets had become hairy.

Some areas of the country started setting curfews – the most economically deprived areas; typically those neighboring acute densities of immigrant communities. This, commentators called the British Establishment’s greatest failure since the three-day week. The defeat of it reeked. If you can’t make a better society, then survey, control, and cage it. The headlines were clickbait gold. Their message was societal decay.

IS THE BRITISH POLICE A SPENT FORCE?

SERVE AND PROTECT WHO?

OLD BILL OUT TO PASTURE!

The fuse was lit 6 months prior.

Three dark figures stand watching a public park ablaze as a bench and child’s slide go up in flames.
(Image courtesy of Marco Allasio via Pexels)

…

Shrill screaming filled the air. A firework ripped through the sky in a phosphorous tear. A pocket of silence followed before a loud pop of neon green splinters gilded the night sky. Eddie made a slow nervous turn to check behind him. Nothing again. As the airborne metal salts faded, the auburn glow of bonfire swelled ahead of him. At his furthest squint, Eddie could make out people marching towards the blaze. He followed.

The internet being a public space mirrors its real life counterpart: what is unacceptable in broad daylight may well find its private settings, corners, or… forums. Many who gather underground, away from the masses, are easily swayed and influenced by conspiracy and fear-mongering. The results can be disastrous.

Such a disaster imploded in an online forum exclusive to the British Isles. Some snarling, aggrieved, nefarious collection of men had taken it upon themselves to begin surveillance of places of worship and their attendees around their local communities. Blinded by bigotry and fear, they did not see the harassment or encroachment of civil liberties they were committing.

Eddie’s walking slowed when the bonfire was only partially blocked. He was no longer alone. The many, many cars parked up had indeed come to this site for what was an almighty bonfire. He couldn’t make out the entire scale of it because it was… it was as big as a house. And no small house.

Like a snowball rolling down a hill, the more this xenophobic tribe posted, the more the number of posts grew. The more the number of posts swelled, the more fictitious narratives and venomous storytelling were assigned to the innocent parties they preyed upon.

After an escalating 3-month campaign against one such individual, stalked and swatted by a forum frothing from the mouth, one of the very worst hate crimes in the country’s history was committed.

Women were left degraded and on life support. Children, grossly still, with skull fractures and broken bones lay in intensive care. A family and their home marred beyond recognition– all while the father was away and unable to protect. Horrifying, blind hate.

Eddie was no longer alone. A hard slap on the back announced the fact.

“Get in!” barked a scratchy voice leaving a full pudgy face, grinning wildly in giddy solidarity. The reveler marched ahead, unawares Eddie was far from one of his own. Eddie was struck by the heat emanating from the bonfire. This was as much a formidable force as a gathering point. The base of the behemoth bonfire was hardly visible from the dense crowd surrounding. Then, Eddie looked up and stopped walking closer.

…

The intelligence communities, in conjunction with the police, soon found the culprits. Those convicted individuals swore that they knew the truth. They claimed, feverishly, that they had attacked the family of an extremist, a terrorist in waiting, a threat to society. Yet, the intelligence communities found nothing of the sort.

Their “target,” upon interview and background checks of length and depth only intelligence teams could conduct, showed no prior or present links, trails, or anything nefarious to his name. The forum had created a monster that didn’t exist. Innocents lay in hospital beds thanks to imagined enemies – a disaster of both social and epistemic proportions.

Like the blast of a bomb, the harrowing damage rippled further than the site of impact. The perpetrators went in the dock, defiant and convinced of a system trying to suppress their “knowing the truth.” In fact, the sheer lack of evidence against the victim and his family only solidified the convicted individuals’ certainty that they were right to act as they had. Worse still, some corners of the internet and certain tribes of British society celebrated these criminals as martyrs.

When the government concluded its McAndrews Commission Report from the investigation – it was met with muted response. People believed what they believed – many felt that they were receiving the true overview of an evil attack of repugnant racism while others believed it was a government smoke screen avoiding uncomfortable realities.

…

The cacophonous chanting and pervasive roar surrounding Eddie was akin to a football cup final. A crowd in raucous anticipation of a great event. He had hoped his undercover following of the forums would turn out to be a damp squib. He tried not to let his own feelings cloud his expectations, but they must have done so. The enthusiasm of the posting was real, the projected attendance was not understated. The scale of this was intimidating, obscene.

This was a celebration, but one rotten and malignant in nature. Oh, the attendees were citizens, but this wasn’t citizenship. A calendar date to stand against nihilism had been hijacked to salute it. Eddie had craned his neck to look up at the towering effigy slowly catching flame. A giant “Guy Fawkes” wrapped in a huge banner. Printed across the banner: a published family photo of the victims.

Eddie slowly raised his phone, to take photos, to report, to do his job. The shriek of another firework and the heat of the fire felt miles away. His blood ran cold. He was numb – what had his country become.

A huge crowd of people stand in the dark watching a gigantic blaze rage with sparks and flames everywhere. A small tower with a melting weathervane can be seen in contrast against the bright fire.
(Image courtesy of Pixabay via Pexels)

Reclamation

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Emile scowled theatrically at the mirror. His imagination ran wild with unearned pride. That’s how I’ll look, he thought. That’s how I’ll look when I march up to receive that shiny, new badge. He could see it in his mind so clearly. The chrome-laminated card nestled snugly on his uniform, with the burnt bronze lettering spelling it all out: Emile Constance, Floor 738. He imagined the envious looks of his floormates. Floor 452 was by no means undesirable, for it was better than being on, say, Floor 451. It was certainly better than being on something like Floor 302, and infinitely better than the dredges of Floor 94. But part of being on the 400-600 series floors was constantly looking up to the more prestigious denizens of Floor 700 and higher. Sometimes, it felt like there was more shame in remaining on the 400-600 series than it would be to live the miscreant lives near the base of the skyscraper. Those in Emile’s position were expected to eventually replace the residents on Floor 700. But you could not be too mediocre. If you were too mediocre, you risked losing your position on the floor to someone lower who had shown great promise, or even worse. You would have to face the same walls for the rest of your life. One can only handle monotony for so long before he goes insane.

Emile dreaded the thought. He very much wanted to take that position on Floor 738. But the competition was incredibly fierce. At times, Emile doubted himself and his rather well-off position as the Chief Supervisor of the Labor Schedulers. It was he, after all, who approved all the schedules for the laborers on Floors 302-367. Of course, there were others like him, but he was certain that he was among the best when it came to supervising such things. He had hosted every biweekly meeting for the Labor Schedulers of Floor 452 for the past three years. Recently, he made a mandate that the meetings would be held weekly. Despite the gripes and complaints of those under his wing, he knew it was the right decision when he was personally congratulated by an emissary of the Ministry of Labor from Floor 776 via an official letter that came through his cubicle’s designated mail tube. His merit was noticed not only by his colleagues but also by the principals above. It was a great honor to Emile to be recognized in such a way.

Not to mention that he was fiercely loyal to the cause of The Reclaimers. He firmly believed that it was their mission to rebuild what was destroyed and rediscover what was lost. He trusted, as The Reclaimers told them, that every small effort of every floor was necessary to save humanity from extinction, and that they are in it together, all parts of the same body. With his spirit invigorated by existential optimism, he marched out into the sleek, tarnished silver halls of Floor 452. They were not nearly as shiny as the sterile, reflective halls of Floor 702, but they made an impression nonetheless. Emile had the privilege of visiting Floor 702 once. It amazed him to think that he would soon be even above that. 

His navy-gray uniform was impeccable. He noticed both the quality and lack thereof in the many other uniforms that passed by. Normally, he’d follow the sea of people right to his cubicle, but today was a special occasion. He, and a handful of others on Floor 452 would be entering the cafeteria to have an early breakfast and anticipate a new life.

⧫

Sitting at one of the many tables, he looked down at his tray and sighed. Part of him was already manifesting a nostalgic feeling for the tasteless nutrient loaf that he had eaten for the past five years. In a strange way, he would miss it. 

“They say that on 738, Principals get to eat things other than a nutrient loaf.”

Emile was only half listening. He replied something along the lines of an “uh-huh” as he continued to poke at his food, slowly lifting the fork and chewing on the rubbery brown solid.

“Eggs, Emile. Buttered toast. Bacon.” The last word came out of Votsky’s mouth with a spatter of saliva. A little bit of it fell onto Emile’s tray. Disgust crossed his face as he pulled his nutrient loaf farther away from the now-tainted side of the tray.

“You’re only in it for the food,” Emile replied sourly, the disgust remaining on his face.

“Well, aren’t you?” Votsky fired back instantly. “If not the food, then certainly you’re in it for the five-minute hot showers. Here, we only get two minutes, lukewarm. And on Floor 738, they have personal rooms that are 50 square feet instead of 32.” 

Votsky kept rambling on about 738. With contempt, Emile smirked quietly and watched Votsky’s mouth fly open and closed unceasingly. He doesn’t truly respect The Reclaimers and their mission. I’m not like him, he told himself confidently. If I had to stay on Floor 451 forever, I would do it because The Reclaimers know best. He was bold enough to continue this train of thought despite the nagging reminder of his own hypocrisy. After all, just 20 minutes ago, he was fantasizing about the shiny new badge while he practiced the airs of superiority in his bathroom mirror. He pushed the thought away, nodded at something Votsky said, and then finished the last bite of his loaf. That was a wrong move.

“Why are you nodding? Didn’t you hear what I said?” Votsky snapped. When Votsky was rambling, one always ran the risk of unconsciously agreeing to something they weren’t supposed to or answering a rhetorical question. Emile blinked a few times and remained silent. “I asked you what your job was before you came to 452.”

“Oh. I transported artifacts from the Basin,” He lied. It was one of the better occupations for the low-skilled laborers of the 200-300 series floors.

“Is that so?” Votsky replied, the tone walking the line between disbelief and surprise. “I heard that it is a very rewarding job. The Reclaimers care a lot about recovering the past. Still, I doubt that does much in the way of your Merit.”

What did Votsky know about Emile’s Merit? Emile flashed him a hateful look. “As if you would know anything about Merit,” he whispered with venom.

“Oh, I know plenty about Merit,” Votsky retaliated. “When I was on Floor 93, I was one of the Listeners. Did you know that I broke up revolt plans on that floor? The Principals were very happy with me. I even received an award for it. They said that if it weren’t for my Listening, they could’ve brought the whole tower down. But yeah, I guess that’s nothing compared to you picking up boxes full of dirt.” 

Votsky’s taunt almost got the better of Emile. Emile stood up aggressively, slamming his tray on the table. The fork rattled against the metal sheet. In the quiet cafeteria, it drew looks from the handful of other people hoping to get to floor 738. Exhaling deeply, Emile picked up his tray and walked towards the dispensary as if that was what he had planned the entire time and had made the racket only accidentally. The truth was that, for a brief moment, his hand was balled into a fist, ready to move just inches above the table and slam into Votsky’s jaw. He resisted the urge and thanked himself for it.

At that dispensary, he collected himself. He tossed the leftover crumbs. He was thankful that he had eaten most of the nutrient loaf before losing his appetite to anger. He walked back to the table and glared at Votsky.

“I would say good luck, but I genuinely hope you stay on this floor forever. Better yet, I hope you’re sent back down to 93,” Emile said quietly, seething. 

Before Votsky could utter a snarky reply, Emile made her way towards the door, joining a conglomeration waiting for the appearance of the Emissary. The excitement of the small crowd wasn’t like the kind you got from the lower floors, where large groups of laborers would clamor to see who was cut out for management. Emile had seen plenty of those in his teens, and the crowd in front of him was a polar opposite. These people spoke with a pseudo-intellectual air, as if they were critically analyzing who they thought was the best candidate for the position. In their hearts, they all wanted it for themselves but acted as if they truly knew who the Reclaimers would find worthy. This phony brothel unraveling before him was of no interest to Emile. He simply wanted to hear his name called out by the Principal.

A chrome elevator, rising up a concrete building.
(Image courtesy of Sara Kurfeß via Unsplash)

⧫

Emile was devastated. It was as if the Principal had sent daggers straight into his ears, stabbing violently into his brain matter and siphoning his will to live. “Votsky Noel,” the Principal repeated. The beady-eyed, snarky intellectual steadily walked across the cafeteria. It was as if he knew that he would be selected, so he simply sat at his original spot so that the walk to claim his burnt-bronze badge of honor would last unbearably long. Emile could not hide his devastation—he wore it on his face with such embarrassment that he felt his entire body turn hot as the blood flushed his cheeks. 

Votsky did not even grant him a condescending smile. He acted as if Emile had not existed at all, marching up to the Principal and taking his place beside him. And without another word, the Principal left with Votsky. There was no lecture for their inadequacy — no, Emile’s inadequacy. His shame was more humiliating than the scorn of a Principal. Was he even close? Did he even have a chance against the likes of Votsky? Was his story about being a Listener true?

He was a Listener, Emile thought. A Listener. No one talks about their role as a Listener — we only know of their existence through rumor. 

Emile’s disconcerted expression turned into a cruel smile. Votsky had made a fatal error, a severe misjudgement. Perhaps it was not the fact that Votsky was a Listener that was a compromising secret, but what he had discovered. Revolt plans on Floor 93? A truly compromising detail. It would embarrass The Reclaimers.

Later that day, when Emile had returned to his usual post, he stepped into one of his subordinate’s cubicles and tapped her on the shoulder.

“Yes, Mr. Constance?”

“Did you hear that one of our own has been selected to be a Principal today? Votsky Constance. If you see him, be sure to congratulate him.”

“Oh — of course,” she nodded. 

Emile put on a friendly facade. “He deserves it. Did you know that he was a Listener? Said to have stopped a rebellion on Floor 93. No doubt that he is loyal to the cause of the Reclaimers.”

A seemingly innocent comment transfers by word of mouth with ease. It was no more than two hours into the day that the message had spread throughout the floor like a virus. Many congratulated Votsky on his new position and even more congratulated him on having stopped a rebellion on Floor 93. Votsky, wide-eyed and aware of how compromising the detail was, vehemently denied any rebellion had ever taken place. But by that time, it was far too late. Emile had sown a dreadful seed. Thirty minutes later, two men covered head to toe in sleek, black metallic suits threw the door open. They approached Votsky in his cubicle; nightsticks idle in their hands. 

“Are you Votsky Noel?”

Votsky adjusted his glasses nervously, his hands shaking. “Y-yes—”

The confirmation was all it took for one of the guards to slam his nightstick into Votsky’s jaw. He slumped to the ground immediately, shouting in pain as he was then struck again, this time on the back. The guards holstered their nightsticks, hoisted Votsky up by his arms, and dragged him out into the hall.

The last person to have seen Votsky on Floor 452 was Emile. Votsky, his eyes glazed over and welling with tears, glanced curiously at the instrument of his downfall. Constance Emile was standing at the threshold, feigning concern. Votsky knew Emile was responsible. The door closed, leaving a deafening silence in the department of Labor Schedulers.

⧫

Principal Constance of Floor 738 was held in great esteem. Although he had only been on Floor 738 for a few months, he was entrusted with many important duties and had been ruthlessly effective in increasing the floor’s productivity. One day, he was required to go back down to Floor 452 and discipline his successor, who caused a severe dip in efficiency during his short tenure. After all, Emile was irreplaceable. As he descended the tower with an escort of a single guard, he looked down at his burnt-bronze-lettered badge and proudly adjusted it, ensuring it was evenly aligned and free of any blemish. The doors of the elevator opened with a subtle chiming sound, and Principal Constance was greeted by the pale, worn face of a familiar, beady-eyed man. He looked down at the floor with a submissive, defeated gaze, holding a mop and bucket in both hands as he waited for Emile to pass.