shiver (FEATURED) | ✓

o18

vance

I wish I had never talked to Segway. I wish I hadn't seen his vulnerability, because now, it's all my fault.

The file lies at the center of the table, surrounded by chattering thoughts; questions waiting to be asked and answered, queries and theories. I've taken a look at it. I'm the only one who's touched it. I didn't think I'd be able to open it, finger the pages as I skim-read through it in an attempt to pick out the useful information, whatever that was. But I did it. I did it, and now, it is because of my curiosity that some terrible things will befall even the kindest and most innocent of people.

Then again, the innocent lambs are the ones we slaughter.

I haven't told Adamík yet. He doesn't know what I've seen, what I've done...

At last, Malcolm breaks the buzzing chatter in the room, eliminating the whispers. "Vance," she says, and I look up at her, trying to stay calm. It sounds as though she's accusing me of something- of what, though? Before I can say something, she speaks. "Yesterday morning, Vance went and interviewed NW-60. Or, at least, he tried to. NW-60, as you are all aware, is the soldier who was with NW-78 on the day and at the time he died."

Nobody says a word.

Malcolm continues. "We will show you the results of his investigation - and the recording of the interview itself. Jakerrlos, if you would." Sometimes I forget she's talking to my father when she calls him by his surname. If I could, I wouldn't associate myself with him. I'd change my name, change the jawline I got from him, change the colour of my eyes.

I watch as Jonathan rises from his seat and produces the voice recording I had given him yesterday.

My conversation with NW-60 is magnified to the point where it fills up the room with heavily pronounced syllables, difficult words, wheezed breathing, with the sound of panic. I don't want to listen to it again. Not again, not again. No. 

Segway's voice breaks, twists itself around my throat. No blood, no blood, no blood- I close my eyes, aware that Adamík and Jonathan's gazes have both come to rest upon me. 

The sound itself is enough to place me back into the Bureau ward. I can feel Segway's hand, still cinched around my wrist, and every word that comes from the recording, making the air around me heavy with this cacophony of a madman's confession, kicking up a sharp staccato underneath my ribs.

Oh, dear Lord, Segway? No, not Segway, but NW-60.

Segway. I am ill! I must be ill.

"The killings must have been the work of a man who has lost all sanity," Malcolm, after a long moment, announces, once the recording ceases. "There was only one person present at the site other than NW-78. And that was NW-60. Therefore, NW-60 must have been responsible for NW-78's death."

The staccato of my heartbeat ceases. "But- the girl?"

"What girl?" Snaps Jonathan. He, much like the remainder of the council, doesn't see anything false or questionable in Malcolm's statement. 

In this world, blue may be the colour of the sky, but if Malcolm decrees, in a public hearing, or in an official statement, that the colour of the sky is purple, then the colour of the sky is purple, and that is that. Because Malcolm is perfect, anything she says is equally faultless.

Thus, if said so, the sky is purple, and the clouds are blue.

Clouds. Ugly, irrational things that poets in the ancient world used to draw inspiration from. In Tetrahmon, a plain, clear sky is what is valued, because it presents us with no faults, no fluctuating, unpredictable patterns.

This time, however, Malcolm is not perfect. "The girl. The girl NW-60 mentioned. The girl with no blood."

"She is irrelevant. She is the impossible construction of a sick man's mind. She is non-existent." Malcolm speaks so coolly, that I am bordering on the edge of believing her.

How I got hold of the file in the first place is just as irrelevant as the girl, because this is what Malcolm says, and therefore, it must be true.

▿

"You cannot do this to him. I will not allow it."

"And who are you to oppose this?" Jonathan's demeanour is calm, despite everything, as he dries his hands off. "Just because you hold a position among the seven doesn't mean you decide what happens. Although-" here, he smiles grimly. "If you would like to oppose Malcolm again, the next meeting, feel free to. I would not recommend it, however."

"It is not right!" I seethe.

Jonathan scoffs. "You are too much of a humanitarian, Vance. With perfection comes sacrifice of the imperfect, and NW-60 is an imperfection. It is a rule, it is a must. Know your place, son, lest you wish to become an imperfection, too." 

At this point, I know he won't strike me again, like he did a few days ago. Last time, it was more of a petty, outspoken problem between the two of us - now, his voice is hushed, but stern, an attempt to push me back in line.

"A little nick up there, in your complicated mind, a little... programming issue, a problem. Keep your head low, and your mouth shut, Vance. As much as you think I dislike you, you must trust me on this. Trust me, because I am Malcolm's right hand. I am the state's right hand, and therefore, you can trust me."

I must trust him.

I must trust Malcolm, I must trust the state.

And I must cleanse myself of imperfection and illness, before I, too, become a glitch in the system.

hello, lovelies! thank you for sticking with me so far. I'm really sorry this chapter is so suckish and short ~ this one really was a pain to write, because I've been so unmotivated and uninspired the entire week, so I struggled through this one.

I've already got good (hopefully) ideas for the next chapter, so hopefully you'll stay with me 'till then!

- sarah xx