d o n ' t ◦ e v e r ◦ t h i n k

[mortal yet]

d o n ' t e v e r t h i n k


The year is 2021. The majority of the modern world has been assimilated into the police state known as the New Republic, the totalitarian successor of the dictatorship established by the National Socialist German Workers' Party in 1933, of which the Republic Council is the collective head. The New Republic has been headquartered in the City of Integrity, located on the east edge of the former United States of America, since the North American takeover in 1952. Intercontinental trade and travel are limited with the intent to diffuse Republic residents and resources as evenly as possible.


The Republic Council functions out of the City of Integrity National Bureau and is comprised of the Heads of seven primary branches: Administration, Commerce, Education, Legislature, Media, Public Affairs, and the Treasury. The thin spread of power allows for the semblance of need for public input, and so the ruse of politics has become an integral part of Republic civilian life nationwide. The Council makes no decision of which the people don't approve; the people are rarely ever audibly opposed.


All persons, lifestyles, belief systems, and political ideologies that are controversial to the mission of the New Republic have been largely eradicated from the mind of the populace since the rise of the Republic Council. Bouts of insurrection, such as the most recent occurrence in the early 2000s, are often swiftly ended via the cooperation of state and society. It is the shared objective of all branches of the Council and the people of the New Republic to find and manage any remaining nonconformities.


-------


The Republic Council has caught wind of a new resistant entity roaming the streets of the City of Integrity, rumors of which have yet to be confirmed by Republic operatives. The Council intends to use the upcoming 2021 Second Quarter Republic Rally to solidify national loyalty, while Head Administrator Leander Edwin Brahms and his forces mean to gather intelligence on the matter via random screenings held throughout the course of the Rally. Meanwhile, Head Administrator Brahms' adopted daughter, Romy Brahms, prepares to accompany a selection of distinguished citizens and the Council Heads on stage for the main event.




-------


This is a roleplay reserved for GoodJobDino and mortal yet. Should you find yourself here, please enjoy but refrain from posting.
​

 

[mortal yet]

“I can feel their eyes are watching


in case I lose myself again.


Sometimes I think I'm happy here.


Sometimes I still pretend.”

Nine Inch Nails
​

•••••••

​

Propped in front of a live screen was not ever where she wanted to be.


Expectations waited on those television faces, in the eyes of all those people. You had to smile just so, and keep your eyes bright.


She knew just how to do it, of course. It was easy to give everything the Council wanted of you once you learned how. After that, it was easy to figure out how to enjoy it. She thought she'd gotten quite good at it, acting, over the years. The Council had found use in her knack for it, and for that she was proud. But she never could shake the feeling of inadequacy whenever all those eyes were trained on her, hungry to hear her stretched salvation story one more time. There were greater stories to be told, somewhere. Real ones.


She could have been ready in thirty minutes if she wanted, but instead she took the extra time she'd spared herself and sidled along through the early morning. The home she knew was empty, save for her, those specks of dust that fluttered freely through sunbeams waking to pierce the window panes, and the watchful red eyes of her uncle's closed-circuit cameras hidden in every corner. One of the best inventions to come out of our forefather's era, he often fondly repeated. She'd grown comfortable with their silent, blinking scrutiny a long time ago.


She decided to skip breakfast, against her better judgment. The thought of the impending Rally left her too anxious to bother with food. Instead, she sat on a stool before the kitchen isle, still clothed in her pajamas and cloaked in a blanket, short hair still a mess and grey eyes still asleep, and stared idly at the flashing of a muted television screen.


She could see the twist of the anchorwoman's microphone wires beneath the thin, hanging fabric of her blouse, and the lie that hid in the crinkle of her smile as she soundlessly spoke.


What flaws would the lens find in her?


Disturbed by the thought, she abandoned the kitchen for her bathroom and fretted over herself until her time at home ran out.

•••••••

​

The streets were choking with cars. The whole city was flooding to the great garden in which the Rallies were hosted during the warmer months, like blood to a giddy gut. It was one of the most anticipated days of the year, and required all of her uncle's Administrative forces to manage. Knowing well the cold joy with which he always took such a challenge, she was glad he had not been home when she woke up. Lord knew she didn't need that sort of agitation.


She remained tense in the driver's seat of the car awarded to her by the Council on her eighteenth birthday as she drove, silent. She turned away from the congestion that pooled in the roots of the cityscape before her and onto the road leading toward the underground system reserved for Council personnel, offered her Bureau ID card to the armed Administrative Officer at the gate, and headed quietly for the tunnels when she was let through. Thanks to her access to them, she could reach the gardens in a fraction of the time it would take anyone else--and she could do it in solitude.


She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and sighed. This was so much easier when I was little.


The trepidation ebbed, somewhat, when she arrived and remembered just how much was meant to go on for the entirety of the Rally. The program created by the Council Heads would be projected on every operating TV in the nation until the Rally was over, sure, but most cities were bound to have a plethora of other things going on in the meantime. As she stepped free of the shadows of the personnel parking garage and into the quickly warming air, she could already smell sweet carnival foods and hear the buzz of hundreds of people gathering. She could already picture the rides, the games, the kiosks and the dancing. She'd almost forgotten how fun the Rallies could be. She realized that she had forgotten every Council program that had ever aired while she attended--at least, until her name, and then her face, and then her voice, became a part of the great conversation.


It won't be so bad, she managed to quip in her own mind, but the humor didn't reach her face. She beheld the stage waiting in the heart of the garden and knew suddenly that she was being watched from every angle.

•••••••

​

"Ladies and gentlemen, Romy Brahms."


Though the TV had been playing Council-approved Rally content since the early morning, it wasn't until early afternoon that the live segment, the crux of the whole event, was ready to be broadcast to the whole of the New Republic. The Council Heads sat gathered behind a conference table on a stage made to look like only the finest and most reputable of Bureau offices, and to their right sat a handful of chosen guests in a neat line of chairs, some of which had already been introduced.


Leslie Oaks, the Head of Media, had explained to Romy once why they used a talkshow-esque format year after year. It makes it more relatable, he'd said. She still didn't know what he meant.


She'd been seated with poised, patient interest as the Heads each took their turn speaking into the camera lens and to one another, keeping her legs crisply crossed beneath the hem of her pencil skirt. Before the stage sat and stood thousands of silent listeners. It was the one part of the Rally that mandated the attendance of citizens all across the New Republic. Romy could imagine thousands more congregations just like this one sprinkled across the continent, looking at her now as she was called, and among them countless Administrative Officers roving at the behest of the Administrative Branch's suspicion. Something had had them spooked for a good few weeks, and rumors of the cause flew faint but fast around the Bureau, but Romy had been too preoccupied with her upcoming presentation of self to care to pay attention.


Applause erupted at the sound of the introduction. Romy sucked in a breath, breathed out a smile, and stood.


It was Beverly McGregor, the Head of Education, who had ushered all attention onto her. "We're all very pleased to have you here with us for the 2021 Second Quarter Rally," the wrinkling woman smiled with a special fondness for Romy's presence, which the crowd would easily attribute to their personal and public affiliation while she attended college.


Romy hid her understanding of the pure theatrics of that expression with a humble dip of the head and a giggle that echoed sweetly into her microphone.


"Although I'm sure no one is more pleased than Mr. Brahms," the woman added, to which the crowd willingly gave their affectionate reponse. Two seats beyond her, the mouth of one Council Head curved into a smile.


"I'm sure you're right about that, Mrs. McGregor," the smiling man replied, succinct yet sincere. His words, unlike the former's, sent a wave of truer modesty over her. She didn't think he was lying.


Beverly McGregor leaned against the table. "Have a seat, dear, now that we've embarrassed you for the hundredth time, and tell us again about yourself for anyone who may have forgotten. What mark has the New Republic made on you here in our City of Integrity?"


Romy sat, cleared her throat, and began, "Well, Mrs. McGregor, I think I can say in all honesty that I owe everything I am to the Head of the Administrative Branch, to my Uncle Leander Brahms. He saved my life."


She should've eaten breakfast.

•••••••

​

 

[GoodJobDino]

"I just can't get wise


to those tragical lies


though I now know the facts


they still cut like an axe"

Richard Hell

​

Soft violin music drones and drifts through the dark room from an older but reliable stereo. The track ends, a small whirring sound is made as the small LED display goes from track 12 to 1. Rising horns slowly fill the air. Light peaks in through the closed blinds, striped streaks illuminating a small table with a half full ashtray, a glass of clear liquid, and a bow laying unused over a stained and worn violin. The floor creaked as Percival rose from the single chair and walked over to pause the music. He checked the watch on his right hand and whispers to himself, "it's time".


As if by his command, an alarm began to sound. Distant at first, then growing ever louder as more and more alarms chimed in. One was placed and standing proudly in the air just down the street from his apartment building. Loud as it was, it could not muffle the sounds of the tenants above, hurrying and scuffling under their tables and other meager shelters. These drills were always practiced on a rally day. Even if it was still early, and the event wasn't for a few more hours, it was very important that "citizens not forget the constant threat of enemy attack!" Percy found little joy in knowing better than the scared denizens around him. He imagined himself standing, amidst a crowd of kneeling heads and broken backs. Before heading downstairs to prepare the restaurant for the coming lunch.

---

​

The rush and sale of specials had ended. He had sent his most reliable workers home for the evening so they could enjoy the rally. For hours already, pre-rally specials and propaganda had been running non stop on every channel. How the New Republic came to save it's people and consequently rose to total domination and power. Wiping down the last of the tables, he hid his scowls from passing neighbors. Always making sure to give a polite smile and wave. Even he would be heading down to the rally point in the gardens. His apartment was within comfortable walking distance which helped him avoid the thick traffic. He locked the doors and went to the back, picking up 4 beer bottles out of a small cooler on the way. In the back, he opened and emptied the bottles contents into a sink, running it down the drain with a stream of warm water.


As he was grabbing his black jacket, and zipping it up, he walked back to the dining room and grabbed a remote for the television which still buzzed with activity. It seemed now was the time for the annual "story of the miracle child" as Percy liked to call it. She began to speak, and with a small zzt!, the TV flashed off. Percy walked back and out of the quiet restaurant, closed the door behind him and heard the locking mechanism latch. Then disappeared into the crowd. Just another day.

 

[mortal yet]

“I can feel their eyes are watching


in case I lose myself again.


Sometimes I think I'm happy here.


Sometimes I still pretend.”

Nine Inch Nails
​

•••••••

​

When Romy was dismissed from the stage to the tune of the crowd's applause, she took the stage left staircase and fell into the arms of a giggling young woman whose presence Romy had looked forward to the moment she'd seen her waving from off-stage. Brooke Hersch, of a similar age to Romy and tied to the Council by blood to a lesser degree, had been one of the first to befriend the re-imagined Romy Brahms with her uncle Leander's full support. Romy had made many more connections since then for sake of recreation, education, and career, but throughout the years Brooke had remained one of the few Romy believed to be genuine.


"What are you doing here?" Romy hissed, grinning, against the quieting crowd which, though it was now hidden from view by the heavy hanging curtains that hid the backstage from view, could still be disrupted if they became too loud. "I didn't know they'd let you in."


"Your uncle authorized me this morning," Brooke said as she broke their embrace. She flashed an I.D. card hooked to her shirt pocket for good measure. "But I was a little late. Sorry I didn't get to see you off." She ran her fingers through her sandy hair in apology, but her smile was infinitely more enthusiastic than Romy's. "Well, how do you feel?"


"Like I just recited my boring life story for the hundredth time with the whole world as my captive audience," she quipped sheepishly. Brooke laughed.


"Don't worry," Brooke said devilishly. "It was only the whole country. And don't say things like that," she added, momentarily sobering and offering a squeeze to Romy's shoulder. "People love to hear about you. I know I did. Your story inspires a lot of people, you know that."


Romy smiled humbly. But, not wanting to return to such a somber state of mind so soon, she grabbed Brooke's arm, pulled her coat from the nearby coat rack, and said as she tugged her through backstage, "Come on. I deserve some rally food."

•••••••

​

With the hardest part of her day over, Romy found it much easier to enjoy the festivities of the Rally, and to overlook the presence of the stage. Now she was just another citizen, a peer, not a personality, and just as entitled to experiencing the day as anyone else. She and Brooke found the rest of their friends soon enough, or perhaps they found her, ultimately eager for the amnesty that was rewarded nearly anyone who accompanied Romy Brahms, and on such an important day. Among other perks, her relationship to the Head Administrator and to the Council offered her the sorts of privileges that few others would ever know. Due to the constant reminders given to her by her friends over the years, she had learned to be thankful for her good fortune.


Romy and her friends spent some good hours together in the midst of the rally affairs, enjoying food, rides, the browsing of kiosks, and the sort of gossip that was typical of a group of twenty-somethings. Romy had stayed arm-in-arm with Brooke during most of the evening to convince herself and her friends of her entertainment, but in truth she had tired of the conversation, and become aware of an ache in her feet, some time ago. The preoccupations of her friends, charming and playful as they were, never quite could capture her in the same way, but what else was she to do but to try to act otherwise? These were the ones she had known for so long, the ones who'd earned and maintained her uncle's approval, the ones that loved her attention.


"Romy!" Three of her troupe, one of whom was Brooke, trilled in unison for her regard.


"Oh, sorry guys," she said, shaking off her reverie. She took their teasing jests with a chuckle, but before they could spirit her away to the next attraction and no doubt try to pry news of any of her own attractions out of her in the process, she excused herself for the restroom. "I'll catch up in a minute," she assured the girls when they offered to accompany her, and stuck her tongue out at the fellows who offered the same thing as she retreated. Between hours of their liveliness and the buzz of the rally, she wanted just a few moments to breathe.


Romy weaved unnoticeably through the throng, deft despite the dull ache brought on by her high heels. Without her entourage to distract her, she could focus on the event at large--what was taking place on stage as surmised by the overhead speakers, around what attractions the people clustered most heavily, what the administrative officers might have been up to. That's right, she thought. Uncle Lee's got them doing attendant screenings. She wondered how many had already taken place, how many she had not noticed in the midst of her lively afternoon. She thought they must be being held just out of sight of the public eye, for if she knew the Administration's personality at all then she knew they were a swift, stern bunch at the best of times, and not very good at keeping the mood light. She would indeed have seen their work if it had been done in plain sight, now that she thought about it. She shuddered, glad it hadn't been so.


She found herself blocked from the bathrooms by a line of women who had made it to the little building before she had. She really only wanted to wash her hands, and maybe check her makeup, and so debated the worth of waiting her turn. Spooked by a fantastical thought of being needed unexpectedly for more Council matters without knowing that her mascara had smeared or her blouse had been stained, she took a steady stance in line.


It took Romy a long moment to discern a different sort of �sound amidst the hum of rally activity. It was clipped, brusque, and faintly indicative of the very thing she had just decided she was glad not to have witnessed. She was almost to the doorway by then, and struggled to choose between keeping her place and indulging her often-quelled curiosity. What's the harm in investigating? she asked herself, not yet fully realizing that she had already made a decision. It's probably not even that. And, if it turned out it was what she thought, then she supposed she could use the opportunity to catch herself up on whatever her uncle had deemed such interrogative action appropriate for, since she had neglected to do so by more orthodox means. It was only a matter of time before somebody at the Bureau asked her opinion on the reason behind the screenings.


She stepped from the line and headed vaguely toward the back of the bathroom building. Her destination became more apparent as the sound she followed clarified.


What she found behind the bathroom made her stomach twist, and she opened her mouth before she could think.


"Hey! You can't do that to him!"

•••••••

​

 

[GoodJobDino]

Out back, as the door shut and locked behind him, Percy dumped the now empty bottles into one of the 3 bins in the alley. It was black but marked with a green smiling face and yellow triangle made of arrows to signify it was specifically for recycling. Taking a second to get used to the noisy river of people chattering, he brushed his sleeve and gazed up to the rooftops and high windows around him, as though looking for spying eyes. A brief hole opens in the crowd and he joins their scuttle towards the square.


He moves slowly to the center of the thick pack, and around him are all smiles, children on shoulders, and laughter. Shirts, hats, flags, and streamers emblazoned and flaring with the flag and its colors. The nations cheerleaders, marching hand in hand. As the alley ended, the sea of people opened up onto the streets, loudspeakers booming overhead, broadcasting the end of Romy's story. An eruption of applause as she left the stage and the councils new face for the year returned to the microphone. Addressing the crowd and pressing their energy higher. Even Percy had to admit it was impressive, while he stood at the back of the crowd, doing as best he could to keep distance from them. He was just here to keep up appearances.


Unfortunately, even his best try couldn't raise a smile. It seemed the most he could muster at taming his scowl, was instead appearing very tired. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. Faces he did not want to recognize.

---

​

The afternoon seemed to drag on, as the sun grew higher, he grew hotter beneath his jacket. After some ice cream he had actually even been able to feint appearing jovial amidst the people. Waving hello and shaking hands with neighbors. All the while unable to shake the sensation of being watched. A needle in the hay, trying to hide from a metal detector. Percy released a long held sigh, "Yeah... that's enough I think" he whispers to himself, and begins to head in the direction of home.


"Percival Liam Everette, is that you?"


The smooth young voice came from maybe a couple feet behind him, and he refused to turn. Whether you're on the streets, or a young boy at home, all it ever means when someone uses your full name is trouble. It wasn't until he turned a corner that he picked up his pace, hands in his pockets, trying not to make a scene. A sense of... creeping, crawling up his spine. Another corner. He passes by a line of people waiting for a public restroom, and only then looks back. Catching his breath, clearing his head. He watches for just a few more moments, and in relief goes to wipe his brow of sweat and run a hand thru his short hair when it's caught mid way. Quickly, he spins to the large man grappling his arm, Percy's other hand instinctively balled into a fist, he hesitates.


"Now, now Percival," This voice was more gruff than the one earlier. And it came from beneath the movement of a thick mustache. "You don't want to go hitting a pal do you?" And the man flashed a badge from his jacket pocket.


Percy straightened up and let loose his fist. "Sure... 'friend'" Eying the man up and down he thinks, could I take him? Yeah I could-


His thoughts are interrupted by the close approach of another man from behind him, and the return of that smoother younger voice. "In a hurry Perc? We just want a word."


With the turn of just his neck, Percy glanced over at indeed a younger fellow. Maybe easily a decade younger than himself. Raising an eyebrow, he made no effort to hide himself sizing up the young man. "Just a word, eh? Hm..." He scratched his head and turned back to the older bigger man before him, "not interested. Sorry." He pocketed his hands, and walked past, making sure not to brush the large gentleman as he did so, no telling what they might consider "assault" these days. Almost expectantly, Percy found his arm being grabbed again, and being led down the small alley they nabbed him by.


"It's Rally Day Percival, and there are whispers of trouble. So we're rounding up any and all... trouble makers. Just come quietly now." The large man removed a pair of cuffs from his other pocket and handed them to the younger man who approached.


"Come on, you guys watch me enough. Any trouble you are worried about has nothing to do with me and you know it." He went to walk by again and was pushed back by the larger of the two men, who then pulled a small rod from his waist that extended into a longer stick.


"Now Perc, make it easy and we won't say you resisted too much." With a snide nasty grin the young man grabbed one of Percy's wrists and went to clap iron around it. The larger man close behind.


"Bullsh-" Was all that came out of Percy's mouth before he landed a blow on the young man's face. Knocking him to the ground. For a large man, he came surprisingly swiftly with a kick to Percy's stomach. Percy collapsed, grasping, air seeming to escape from him. And again, before he seemed to have time to react, the large man was bringing the club down at Percy's shoulder and back, while Percy tried his best not to cry out and gain some footing.


"You... shit!" The young man cried getting up and brushing some blood from beneath his nose.

 

[mortal yet]

“I can feel their eyes are watching


in case I lose myself again.


Sometimes I think I'm happy here.


Sometimes I still pretend.”

Nine Inch Nails
​

•••••••

​

She rued the words that sprung from her mouth the moment she parted her lips. They felt dangerous, and endless.


Three casually-dressed figures were staged before her in some nameless passageway overlooked in the assembling of the Rally, their doings disturbed by her sudden intrusion. Two of them hovered over the third who struggled to rise from his knees and their proximity. She couldn't see him very well, whoever he was. The faces of the other two, by contrast, were unobstructed, and they stared mercilessly.


Romy fumbled for her purse and held to her identification badge like a chaplet the moment they made to move, and was sheltered suddenly in the amnesty provided her by the little laminate card. The chagrin of the two was visible in rolls of their eyes and the stiffness of their shoulders, and felt palpable against her sweaty skin. It was a decidedly undignified introduction.


“What’s… What’s going on here?” she called, now that she’d established her affiliation. Since she had taken herself this far, she supposed she could save the most face if she kept along with it—perhaps hers and the other man’s both.


The two who stood didn’t answer right away but looked her up and down, trying to gauge her rank, and in that instant Romy caught the flash of their badges at their belts. The letters C.I.P.D. were faint from her distance, but unmistakable. She struggled to decide whether the police would have been given permission to do… whatever this looked to be. What reason would her uncle have for…?


"Miss Brahms?” the younger of the two questioned suddenly, disarmed by his own revelation. “Romy Brahms?" The bigger man beside him chuffed his incredulity when he caught on, and Romy resisted the urge to roll her own eyes in turn. She knew she should have changed her clothes.


“…Yes,” she answered stiffly. “I was just around the corner, and I heard… What’s going on here?” She said it more sternly this time, refusing to allow her curiosity to become the felon of the situation.


With an ease that almost suggested practice, the two officers set out on a team effort the two halves of which Romy struggled to ingest simultaneously. The larger man remained close to the downed other and procured a radio from the back of his belt. She could hear no more than the quiet buzz of his voice as the younger man stepped forward to conveniently drown him out.


“Miss Brahms,” he said as he moved, lightening his voice and lifting his arms from his belt to convey a forced sense of cordiality. He didn’t seem to want to be the one to have to deal with her. She wondered if he was always the one left to do the talking.


“I’m Officer O’Connor, and that’s my partner, Officer Fenton. Can I just say that you did an incredible job of speaking on stage earlier?"


There was a hint of old Bostonian to his voice, one of an increasingly few number of remnants of the pre-Republic United States left to be found in 2021. It covered the impatience behind his diplomatic advance like a collar covers a dog's muzzle.


She smiled, but only faintly, and the officer resumed. "I assure you, Miss Brahms, we have the situation under control. The man behind us,” he explained, yet without giving her the berth to see the other two to whom he referred, “was caught stealing from a nearby vendor. Officer Fenton and I happened to be nearby and apprehended him before he got too far. Not before,” he added with a hint of aggressive amusement, “he put up a fight, that is.” The smile he flashed drew the blood at his nose along with it. "Must've thought he was hot shit until Fenton got to him."


O'Connor cleared his throat, and began again more professionally. “The Rallies come with a lot of potential for trouble, unfortunately. Guys like these need to know that they're not the only ones ready to get rough." Romy nodded absently, unsatisfied with the meager explanation given her but unsure of how or why to question it. “What did he stea—”


“Administrator Brahms is en route with Unit Three,” Fenton’s voice interrupted from the belly of the alleyway. The words felt heavy, but not unexpected, as they reached her ears. Of course Leander Brahms would want to be personally a part of any criminal case, especially today. She was suddenly and unceremoniously forgotten in the excitement brought on by Fenton's words and left in the wake of O'Connor's eager mutterings as he receded to help hoist their battered captive to his feet.


Romy had seen much of her uncle's career in all the years she had been raised by him, and she was loath to admit that it still jarred her when she let it. The lengths he took to deal with even the pettiest of crimes was unyielding at best and disconcerting at worst, but it was that adamancy that had launched his career into the success that it was today. And she was grateful for the safety he provided to the whole of the New Republic. She just... didn't think she liked seeing how it came about so intimately.


An uncommon sound piqued her attention from its reverie, and she looked into the alleyway hesitantly to see what procedure of the officers had elicited it. She blanched when her eyes registered two things: one being the big Fenton curdled on the floor at the background of her line of sight, and the second being the figure who quickly dwarfed the other two as he sped quickly into her foreground. She barely had time to think as the figure barreled into her shoulder, throwing her from her precarious balance atop aching, swollen feet. She could discern only one thing as she tumbled, like a log being felled in slow motion: The desperate face she saw pass by her was neither Fenton's nor O'Connor's.


"Damnit, Fenton!" she heard O'Connor howl when her backside hit the concrete. It seemed to her almost comically ill-timed, for by then the man they had caught was surely already lost in the crowd around the corner. Fenton, who now writhed on the ground from some injury unknown to her, gave an angry, muffled reply:


"Where the hell were you? I thought you had his arm!"


"We don't have any goddamn time for this," O'Connor growled, but whatever steps he made to take were overshadowed by the subtle sounds of another's stepping softly up behind her.


"Officers O'Connor and Fenton. How do you do? And... Romy?"


The alleyway went silent. All three pairs of eyes that remained were trained on the one who spoke at the mouth of the alley, unblinking, waiting. Still dressed in his Rally ensemble as she was in hers, the figure of Head Administrator Leander Brahms stood with a quiet regality, and a question in his light eyes. Not a one was particularly keen on answering it.


"Hi, Uncle Lee," she greeted, the first after him to say anything though it wasn't saying much. It sounded sheepish, for she had said it from her place on the hard ground.


"My dear," Leander said, "I don't think the floor is a very good place for a young woman in high heels. Here, let's get you up." Few members of Unit Three began to litter the mouth of the alley as Romy took her uncle's outstretched hand, stood, and dusted herself shyly off. Only when he deemed her firmly on her feet again did he return his attention to the larger circumstance. "Officers, where is the man I was told you apprehended?"


By then, Fenton was also rising stiffly from his knees, and O'Connor was once again remembering the blood that dribbled from his nose. It was not the best way to present oneself to one's superior.


"The suspect was... less cooperative than we predicted," came O'Connor's reluctant response. He'd procured a napkin from his person and busied himself with wiping his upper lip clean. "No weapons that we knew of, but he took down Fenton pretty quick."


Fenton glared at his partner as he stood, and added a gruff, "He took a left at the end of the alley. Hit the girl on his way out."


A small dispatch of Unit Three sidled off in the direction given them, and Leander's face grew subtly more somber. "That is not news I like to hear, gentlemen," he stated. "Particularly when my niece was so close at hand." He glanced sidelong at Romy beside him, and though his words came more softly, they were ever focused. "Can you tell me anything else about what happened?"


An image of the face she saw flash by her returned to her mind's eye, but there was no memory of any stolen item, any weapon, or much of anything at all that would condemn the man as the criminal everyone else saw him to be. In a surge of gusto that was not common to her at all, she shook her head and said, "I never got a good look at him. I... ran into the arrest by accident, just before he got away."


If she was wrong, and there was something dangerous about him, she was more than certain they had their citizens records to rely on. Her testimony would have done little good, even if she had given it.


Still, Romy felt somehow a part of the mess that had become of an otherwise clean effort, and thoroughly dirtied by the unspoken complexity of it. Yet for the meantime her uncle seemed content to let her involvement in the matter rest. A small crowd of Rally attendees had begun to amass at a safe distance as Leander continued to quietly question O'Connor and Fenton. She gave in to the pain in her feet and leaned against the wall to remove her heels as she waited for the ordeal and her night to end; she watched with a quiet discomfort at the shadowed scene before her and wished suddenly to be back with her friends, in a world of innocence and harmlessness.

•••••••

​