"Can I help you," a small woman with black hair sits behind her large desk, filling out some paperwork.
"No no, but thanks for asking."
Walking past, I pivot back around.
"Well actually, I have but one request since you so politely asked." Dawdling back over to her desk, I bend over, placing both my palms on her desk looking into her brown eyes.
"Could you forward all future documentation regarding the salt-mines from Giana or her assistant to me and only me, directly?"
"Oh, why?"
"I feel the mines are of utmost importance to the economy of this town and thus, I believe it should remain a focus of my attention fitting enough for one in the role of vice-leader." gesturing openly, I copy Jiord's mannerisms from my memory.
Pretty please.
"This, can be done."
Thank you. Thank you. Someone needs to graze that fat cow.
"Also, tell Nelson that I have a proposition for him in documentation if he's interested."
"He's currently busy."
"Just tell him, when he has time, to look it over," I wave my hand dismissively, "I think it would pique his interest."
"...Ok then."
"Could you also give me directions to the filing room?"
"Down the hallway you just came from," She points, "the last room on the right, opposite Nelson's office at the end."
"Thank you. Jan was it?"
"That would be my name!" She stiffly responds, looking back down to finish her paperwork.
So dry.
Turning around, I walk back from whence I came.
Left foot, right shoulder, hip swivel—I've got my walk down pat now,
I feel so cool.
---
After walking for about a minute, I spot two opposing doors.
On the left the door sits in plain brown, mounted on an iron hinge and polished with a glossy finish.
Opposing it on the other side of the corridor, lies a set of double doors.
Each one stands slightly larger than the entrance for Nelson's office, while also containing several carvings, intricate designs that match the doors subtle shape; curving to a point that connects where the panels meet.
Approaching, my palms feel the coldness of the black frame.
Oh baby, you're gonna feed me so good. I just know it.
Rubbing my hands together, I place each of my hands against their respective door.
Open.
Groaning against my effort, the doors loudly part revealing what's behind.
Stepping into this open space, my shoulders fall back and my posture straightens.
Shelves upon shelves of multicoloured folders loom above—each stuffed with coffee-coloured parchment, clearly baked for too long under the white sun.
Curling up, they sleep within these wooden burrows. Half-starved, too lazy to move now, they are my perfect prey.
The town, it's all built around this very room, like a house of cards, just waiting to be knocked over and pocketed by me.
I grin viciously, taking another step inside before the room turns dark. Not the kind of dark where you can't see, but the kind where you can't breathe.
What?
A faint patter of footsteps scampers across the room, too small, too quiet to be that of a human.
Rodent, go mince yourself, this is my space.
Chasing the sound from across the room, I weave between the arrangement of shelves and cabinets, finally managing to corner it against a wall.
Approaching this small creature, its black fur and wispy appearance make it hard to distinguish from inside the room's impenetrable shadow.
"Do you have any last words."
Silence.
The creature stares at me with those beady eyes that shine in the dark..
"Do you have any last words." it repeats back, mimicking my voice.
Cracking my knuckles, I slam my fists against each other.
"I asked first!"
". . ."
"Listen here grub, I asked you a question, be polite and wait for me to beat you." Standing over this creature, I point down at it to further articulate my point.
"Be polite... Wait for me to catch you." It parrots back.
Reaching down to pick it up, it suddenly leaps into my shadow dispersing into dust.
What a prick, at least say goodbye before you leave.
Shaking my head, I step aside to walk away before something touches my shoulder.
"What is it!"
Smacking my shoulder and spinning around, I reach out and grab what was feeling my arm.
A rope.
Hanging above where the creature was, it seems to connect above to some contraption.
Where were you before, ropey and why are you also getting in my way.
Letting out a slight frown, I look around. The room, it stays the same, not even making a single peep.
When in Rome.
My grip tightens around the rope, then, I pull.
Above, a curtain parts, its rope whines and then, light falls.
Shining beams trickle through the concealment of stained glass, a mosaic depicting biblical scenes, glows, both faded and cracked with age.
Amber, crimson, dark-green and the central purple now colour the surrounding floor.
"Woah."
"Woah." a faint gasp comes from below.
Looking down, I see a familiar sight.
The creature. Talking. In my voice. From my shadow. Pawing at the edge of colour.
Should I be worried?
But something about her feels... familiar.
"What are you?" I ask again, quieter.
Peeking out from my shadow her head blinks slowly. Doesn't answer. No. Just jumps out and starts sniffing me.
Fine. Mystery for later. At least this one seems helpful.
Reaching my leg, the shroud licks at its paw, slowly materialising into a cat in front of me.
A cat that speaks? Why do you speak to me, cat?
Yawning lazily, it lets out another "Moah," in the sound of my voice.
"Dude, what do you want?"
"Want, you." It mews back, pawing at my leg.
Right, ok. I guess I've been adopted for the second time this week.
Brushing up against my leg, she sticks out her pink tongue and then purrs whilst biting it gently.
Squatting down, my hand ruffles behind her ears.
"How about I call you... Mute?"
Her coarse tongue licks at the underside of my hand.
You like it huh.
"Moah."
Turning her neck, she begins to trot away.
Wait for me.
Leading the way, she sniffs at the scattered dust motes with her wet nose.
I only follow.
Walking through the aisles of folders, and taking note of their labelled arrangement, I gain an appreciation of the meticulous organisation used to arrange the information.
Section A is labelled first, then B and so on to the end of the aisle.
Crossing the room, I continue accompanying Mute until eventually, she stops, curling up to sit on the floor.
F section. This was the letter of all those entries.
Walking to the end of the shelf, I pick up the last folder filed in green and open its pages.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Medium Priority]
Investigation of Agricultural yield of domestic crops.
Unable to silence the light purring of my feline follower, I concentrate on the pages contents:
Moongrass is under-performing compared to previous months listed here. I wonder why...
Investigation (pending).
Interesting.
Flipping through, I read the added addendum.
'Recent protests from the farmer union are the expected cause, however, due to crop rotations and the recent change in water sourcing, further analysis is required to be definitive with this conclusion.'
Well there goes that question. Protests, this is getting Interesting. I wonder what moongrass has to do with this.
'Due to the shortage of local supply, further seasonal budgets must be allocated to transport of Moongrass Yonkfeed to supplement this deficiency. Recommended merchants are as follows:
- Folges family and sons: Cheap but lower quality, slow transport, high order volume.
- Sovereign ascent - Farming: Medium produce, fastest transport available, won't travel past Mouribound into the quarantine zone.
- Plum: High quality, no transport, expected lower volume needed due to higher mana content. Pairing with the cheap transport options makes the price efficiency worthy of consideration.
Studying this brief summary, I delve deeper into the merchant's specifics.
'Sovereign ascent - Farming.
Being a subsidiary of the famous 'Sovereign' merchant family, this company deals with higher graded produce. Run by the title-holder Grant's third-nephew and operates with the best price to performance for medium rated commercial-grade produce in large quantities.
Due to the group's large scale, security and trust in their ability to deliver products is high. However, the quarantine is not within their operational scope."
Not under operational scope! What a lousy excuse to not deliver food to us people that need it. Sickness or not, we are willing and able customers. You don't capitalism well enough and for this inexperience you lose my vote of confidence.
Plus, I don't like your attitude nepo boy.
Finishing up my brief review of the document, I pick up another few reports to read through.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
'[Highest Priority]
Transit log for convict duty.'
This is it.
'2314: Returned. 0197: Returned. 1470: Deceased. 2001: Missing. 0122: Returned. 1164: Returned. 1721: Missing. 2311: Deceased. 1914: Returned. 1717: Returned. 1512: Reclaimed. 0021: Returned. 1215: Missing. 1109: Returned. 2001: Returned.'
More people are missing than I thought.
So many.
How do they report someone missing anyway? Do they have to find the body first? No, it says deceased here too, so that must mean they found the body first or they died in camp for that to be written.
I don't know if it's better to be missing or deceased here, either way his body went missing too.
Scratching my chin, I hold the sheet up to the light until something catches my gaze.
1470: Replaced.
2001: Replaced.
Flipping back to the previous page, I confirm this classification.
1721: Replaced.
My forehead grows tight.
My vision narrows on these few words.
2311: Replaced.
….: Replaced.
….: Replaced.
….: Replaced.
Replaced…
My hand trembles. I drop the paper.
Gliding through the air, it skims across the stone floor before resting still.
My body freezes, watching where it landed with caution.
Replaced, substituted or maybe even terminated upon review.
How is the adult population maintained like this, growth is almost nonexistent but the same goes for decline. It is almost like there is a specific number that is kept as a target, if number goes over, people go poof, and if it goes under, then people are replaced.
A soft treading sounds claws its way closer, disturbing my train of thought.
Looking at the source, I watch Mute's wet nose press into the paper's edge—sniffing, biting at the dead thing.
Gyet…
It's not safe here, meowser. That wording. Those numbers. Too inhumane. Too clean. Curiosity feeds, but also... Kills.
The timing's too irregular. They don't send them in monthly shipments or keep the admissions standardised, predictable.
Detached, that may be—but better than this.
From what I've gathered these people aren't stupid.
Scattered, random and anomalous but always replenishing upon disappearance or death.
Like they were never people at all. Just positions to be filled.
What could be the significance of this population cap?
I need more info. Anything to prove me otherwise. Some cherry picked dataset or cultural traditions that I'm missing.
Maybe to prevent another revolution. I can see some reasoning but please.
Please.
"Hey Mute, stop playing with that thing. I said it's dangerous." She continues carrying the paper around in her mouth as she chews it loudly.
Rushing over, I chase at her black tail before managing to tug the report out of her small mouth.
You never learn your lesson, do you? You need to learn to be more careful, you only have 9 lives to waste.
Shaking my head, I realign the damp paper against its folder and attempt to turn over the page. This act only causes the folded and chewed corner to stick to my finger.
Pinching and pulling the sheet, I sigh as it bends into my palm.
I know it doesn't matter much in the end, or, there isn't anything I can do about it. Either way somethings very fishy. How they replace them and all, this is eerily reminiscent of..
Don't think about that, this already makes me feel sick, I don't need to puke too.
Just give me something to prove otherwise.
Licking my finger, I finally am able to detach my finger and turn over the page:
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Highest Priority]
Monthly Output of Convict Duty
Hazaar. Finally, something not directly morbid, but indirectly instead.
Tracing the page with a trembling finger, over-the worn creases and fading ink, my eyes gloss over all that can be read.
50 metric tonnes—Jiord wasn't lying.
My throat gags.
Maybe I should stop for a moment.
Closing the folder, I meander around the splintered shelves of oak.
Black, black, blacky, black.
Hooking all these black folders, I reel them in, piling them around my man-sized but vacant plot I've just claimed adjacent to mute, prepared for future squatting.
Mark my words, I will bring the warmth of a campfire and the love of home to this lonely stone-slabbed floor. After all, a hunter always cherishes their hunting grounds.
Turning, I trace back to outside the room where Jan was previously located.
Right foot, left hand, left shoulder in front.
Why am I even doing this?
The swagger in my stride collapses. My once energetic dynamo sputters to a sluggish dawdle.
Dawdling over to her office, I press her bell.
Then again.
And again.
"Jan... Janny, I have a couple of questions for you, please pay attention." I call out.
"What?!"
"First, can you provide me with a piece of paper, the largest one available in stock?
Can you also describe to me why there's a discrepancy in the personnel reported?
There's a few that aren't on transit, aren't dead or missing, they fall under the distinction of being 'reclaimed' and don't appear in the next convict census?
Same for the plague-masters they're not mentioned anywhere in the reports, please explain?"
Breathing out for a second she responds.
"That's the beast cores. If a convict obtains one, they can relinquish it to the Heavenly Protection Board. This also releases them from the obligation pact of their convict duty.
About the plague-masters; they don't have to report to our documentation, as they are higher entities sent from the protection-board.
Now regarding your paper, the biggest size we have in office is in that drawer. We used it for spare maps and routing paths towards the burning piles. Something has to direct the prunes where to go."
Standing up, she bends over to a low draw beneath her hip, handing me what seems to be an A3 sized piece of paper.
"Do you have any of that special coloured ink too, the stamping ones?"
"Anything else?" She huffs.
"Actually, now you mention it, yes: A ruler, two paperweights, two of those bound books, empty, that heap of that parchment over there, four quills and a thank you to you Jan!" I hold my hands in praying motion, staring at her with pleading eyes.
"Ew, stop that. I don't want to see that ever again."
"I won't stop, not until you graciously help me, thanks."
After a few minutes of holding this face, another hourly chime rings throughout the office and she manages to push forward the various items requested, walking away as she shakes her head.
She's such a hard worker and knowledgeable lady. I'm so glad I could help her, help me. She truly deserves a reward from someone. It's sad to see her get so annoyed, but I guess that's the culture in this settlement.
Overburdened.
Overworked.
Workload.
Taking my luggage, I fold it inside my robe and trudge back.