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The next day at work, Jonathan does not speak to me, nor does he attempt to communicate with me. I can hardly not blame him, though- his violent behaviour is of his fault, and not of mine. I may have aggravated him, but that does not mean I forgive him. As I have said before, I will never forgive him.

The discussion about the priorities of building the wall or the people's shelter has been pushed aside for the moment, replaced by the recent happenings of the death of a soldier. This is a normal thing; soldiers are expected to die and not to live, but this one was murdered. One might argue that soldiers are murdered by other soldiers during war, but this was not war. Well, not exactly.

This wasn't an army, to be more exact. The first step in trying to solve this problem, Malcolm announces, is to enforce the security levels of the city. That is to say, there are now patrols about the city. A hushed murmur arises in the council room.

"I have discussed this with Jonathan, and we are both in agreement that this will be the best, for the moment, in order to ensure that the people are protected. The society is still new to this way of life, we must eliminate fear in order to achieve perfection." The last word rings out in the circular room, like a clear echo, and all murmur aroused by the first sentence, the first declaration of her small speech, ceases. Perfection.

Is it even possible, they must have wondered. Is it possible to achieve perfection with such an imperfect race? Clearly, they thought it was possible, or else Tetrahmon would not have been possible. Not without the resilient and enthusiastic attitude of the scientists, the engineers, the mathematicians, the politicians, that helped achieve what the world is today.

That is what we are told, and that is what we believe, because there is no other truth to turn to. There is no more God to turn to; He has forsaken us all.

I sit in silence in my chair, not quite slouching, but not stiffly either. The news hardly surprises me. After all, it is I and Malcolm who know my father best in this room. It is becoming difficult to resist coming up with something to contradict Jonathan. Ever since he has hit me, I have felt an overbearing need to go against him, to look at him with some form of animosity. It is childish, I know, but it is something I cannot help. Thinking upon it makes me feel like a rowdy teenager. Despite the affairs going on around me, I smile, gazing down at the screen before me. It is empty save for a margin of it, and I have yet to type notes into it. Alas, nothing comes to mind as important. For the first time, I shift uneasily. I should have written something by now; an idea to help improve the situation, I should have said something, as several of the members are discreetly chattering between themselves, thinking of plans. Plans, plans, plans. They are what our society is built upon. That, and frozen corpses.

I drop the smile and hastily type something down, the laser keyboard responsive to my fingerprints. There is little petty discussion this session- it doesn't surprise me. Malcolm also informs us that there is an ongoing search for the person responsible for the murder of the soldier. She makes this sound dramatic, like a film, but nobody falls prey to the romanticism of the situation. We are programmed for Taylorism, nothing else. I rub my nape, the short black hair there prickling the skin of my fingers.