Squatting down, I unpack all my utensils and begin graphing a line in blue—first, the convict population, recorded monthly for the last fifty years.
Interestingly, the line stays flat, almost completely so. For a population graph, this is unnerving to say the least. And whenever someone does decide to die or even go missing, within a window of three weeks, a replacement is always sent.
Let's unpack further.
Compiling additional data, I graph it onto my A3 sheet.
Over these last fifty years there have been precisely two and only two population spikes—each nearly doubling the average population before suddenly dropping back down within a seven year period.
The last time this occurred... Around ten years ago.
Though searching through the appropriate logs, and reviewing the standout inquiries as to why is this seems to be the case, I only came across two events that could possibly align.
'The One thousand and twenty-ninth war on the Northern Demons', and the 'One thousand and thirtieth war on the Northern Demons'.
It almost fit, more corpses to burn, more refugees seeking asylum. Population growth and corpse allocations as a result, It all seemingly makes sense... Almost.
But these numbers, they precede the war by seven years.
Maybe it is logistically justifiable if they were emptying local penitentiaries in preparation for some immigration boom, but seven years, that seems specific, arbitrary even, twice!
Refugees and residents turn up missing and/or turn up dead in a short period of time. The houses ride to war.
Something..
Dipping my quill in yellow ink I add a new data point to the legend.
Convict population by recorded ethnicity.
70%
Seventy percent northern! And it's not even close.
That many refugees branded as convicts. No wonder this camps reek of alcohol—this place has no asylum rights, no citizenship, just bodies to burn and labour to harvest.
I laugh.
I don't mean to, but what else can I do?
Even if I'd written this as a joke, it wouldn't be this blatant.
This all looks so fucking primitive.
Sighing, I pinch my temples and breathe for a second.
If I were to look at these numbers without context, it would be right to conclude targeted systematic ethno-crimes are being committed against these people.
Hell, even with the context this looks bad.
No, Daddy Sky Palace is a benevolent overlord—he would never disparage people by their given race.
Hehe, that's right, he disparages by all people unequally equally.
Picking up my quill, I re-plot once more, but this time, identifying quantities by sex and ethnicity in the colours green and red respectively.
Finishing up, I slowly place the quill down against the stone floor, looking to see if the door's closed.
BAAAA!
Blood sprays on the page.
How could it get so bad? 65% of convicts are women and their children, you monsters.
This reeks, and it only gets worse from here.
Grabbing another piece of A3 paper, I start my new graph anew.
Reported convict birth rates over a 50 year period, measured in monthly entries.
Fuckers, thinking they can hide their atrocities by not separating the convicts and the residents into their separate categorises.
Useless.
Cross-referencing these mothers by their given numbers, and comparing that to the convict census data reported, I plot.
Have I made a mistake? No… no. It just doesn't tell me much. I'm missing something—the interval, the average time between arrivals and births.
Reaching out for my abacus, I rearrange the stones.
Carry the three subtract the four yes yes.
No. I've made a mistake, this number is too small, I will be more thorough next time.
Licking my finger, I fluff up the quill and dip it in more ink.
Times the four and divide that by the total.
Move, ball and count. The number is...
My mouth opens.
Closes.
No sound.
Then a squeak.
"Five…"
"Five months!!!"
What do you mean five months?
Pregnant women here on average give birth within five months of arrival.
But, that's impossible, pregnancy takes nine months.
I stare down at the report. Then up, into the rows of hollow shelves.
Why?
Just—why.
These are human beings too.
Now I need to know. What felony was committed? And where are these reported children? This is important information to have here, if a murder is admitted it be necessary for us to know that.
Please, just be a bunch of ruffians or something.
Just
Please.
Sitting on the floor, the ink pools around ready to drown me at any passing moment.
Mute padding over causes ripples in the nearby pond, sniffing around she presses her cold nose against my palm.
Her purr is soft and so is her fur.
"I know. I know. We can't save them all."
Grabbing at her, I cradle her in my arms.
But we'll save all who we can.
I nod.
We'll find Jimson's body, then... then we'll figure out the rest.
---
Barely forcing myself back up after fifteen minutes, I scavenge through my pile of black folders, one more, then another.
Nothing?When in doubt, Just ask Jan.
Dragging myself up and over to her office, a new face sits in her chair.
"Where is Jan my beloved? And, who are you!?"
"Sevinstine," she says, tapping a stack of papers without looking up either. "Jan had to help Nelson with something. He warned me about you though."
"Ah. You're the person who interviewed the people about the bodies, right?"
She looks up. "That would be me."
"Good. Nice handwriting by the way, very easy to read. Now, give me access to the reported crimes of convicted convicts?"
Her smile is thin. "That report's sealed. Clearance level: higher administrative officers only for privacy reasons."
"I am the vice-admin here." Raising my voice, I hold my hands to my hips.
"How comical." She responds dryly.
"Just, hand it over."
"I've heard about you," she says, finger pointing over at me. "It's just… seeing you in person, you don't seem like much."
Her eyes look upward meeting my gaze, as her neck remains perfectly angled and still.
The key slides across the counter.
"Grey folder. End of the rows, behind the locked cabinets, make sure to lock it once your done."
Taking the key, I turn around and make faces behind my back.
Think I don't understand the subtext, calling me unqualified. How shallow is your world-view? What have you done to change this utter shit sham of a dump.
Retreating back into my room, I finish muttering to myself and go looking for this cabinet.
Bending over, I find a metal box on the lowest levels hidden behind some folders.
The metal creaks as the key fits within. Inside, two grey folders.
Dragging out this new info, I tally up the reported crimes of these women, by name.
- Moral correction.
- Anti-orthodoxy sentiment.
- Suspected Demon.
Some, don't even try to hide their motives.
- Suspected infidelity.
- Adultery.
- Lewd conduct.
- Indecent exposure.
- Immorality.
- Unchaste behavior.
- Deviancy.
- Prostitution.
The list only goes on.
Why do you have to take advantage of the situation like this? Don't you people follow the bible of god, I guess you only treat the people you care for well, the rest can go drop like good ol' pile of yonk-shit.
Turning the page, I now, tally up the crimes against man.
- Anti-social behavior.
- Sodomy.
- Anti-orthodoxy sentiment.
- Suspected Demon.
- Public nuisance.
- Vagrancy.
- Prohibiting potential.
- Loitering.
- Social Discomfort.
Loitering?
After rubbing my face for a little bit, my chin leans on my hand turning it numb.
Another folder, another list of doodoo fart crimes.
Reaching out, I grab the other file, dragging it back through the pool of ink.
Disease reports?
Yawning, I flick through barely reading this new heading.
"Inquiry of response to mitigate and understand the disease of De'sin."
I lean forward, blinking.
"Observations of the infections symptoms are as follows:
"First stage: Mild fatigue or discomfort in upper right abdomen."
"Second stage: Fever, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, loss of appetite, weight loss, Fatigue."
"Third stage: Yellow skin, yellow eyes, inflated stomach, confusion."
"Fourth stage: Bruising, swelling of skin, soft and wet to the touch, flesh appears to slag inward. Purple silk-web patterns emerge beneath the skin and worst of all evaporation of fat and muscle."
"It takes approximately seven years on average, to reach the fourth stage of visible symptoms, with vast ranges of unexpected death frequently occurring too. With limited diagnosis available, all that is currently known is that residents who stay inside camp, survive longer, living for a reported period of 15 years longer compared to convicts.
Proposal:
Request heavenly sky palace for their research through the heavenly protection board, increase not only the availability of 'mana crystals' to monitor changes regarding potential new patients but also invest in facilities to find a cure.
Thanks for this report... Nelson, well that's a surprise, at least someone cares.
That being said...
This data is like, totally unusable.
How do I know? You ask. Yes that's right Mute, you remembered. This is a sign of alcohol abuse, and is probably not De'sin.
This report shows a lacking consideration for control in these conclusions. What is the disease vs what is just hepatitis or liver cirrhosis; you see it often in struggling communities, I suppose they don't have much of that information here.
I'm no scientist, unfortunately I don't know enough to help people. But I suspect that whatever it is, this isn't it.
This is a step in a good direction, but why is everything I read in this room so despair-inducing?
Standing up, I drag myself towards the exit.
Heading towards the doors, I eventually reach their cold embrace, only accompanied by the dreary resonance of the church bell's striking and the overcast clouds diluting the colourful floor with the afternoon shade.
I rub my eyes and reach out, fully intent to turn the bronze handle.
But instead the door opens for me, behind which a small but welcome face lights up and stares at me.
Timothy?!