NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: I thought to collect a series of one post short stories from various states that give a quick insight into the sometimes overlooked details of our citizens.

As such feel free to post your own stories :tongue:

For that smooth stories only feel, please, only post single post stories here, no bumps or chatter :)
There is now an OOC thread for feedback; it is here (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=586610)

Index by post number:

2- Sarrowquand "Grey apples" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14012034)
3- Ameriganastan "Yes my lord" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14012164)
4- Atleus " " (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14012408)
5- Defense Corporations "Singapore" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14649857)
6- Void Templar "Non, je ne regrette rien…" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14650004)
7- Void Templar "I love the smell of Freedom in the morning " (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14653067)
8- Defense Corporations "Prosperity" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14653171)
9- Sarrowquand "Birth of a bureaucrat" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?p=14699889)
.................................................................................................... ..........................................................................
In the mood for more stories? Try these threads:

Lynion "Chornicles of the Vamperial Kingdom" (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=588910)

Grey Apples

Johnathen Warde is a man who’s lived all his life in Sarrowquand (so am I for that matter). It’s not unusual, most people who live here have lived their whole lives here, even after sixty years of integrating back into the world at large, of opening up our borders and getting involved in other places things are still quite closed. Immigration is discouraged: we wouldn’t be who we are today without it but I guess who we are today isn’t who we were then. At any rate you are likely to have made at least one big move from region to region as in-migration is seen as being a trial of life, a part of growing up.

Johnathen is an apple seller who lives on the island of Renaissance; I came from Renaissance initially but from the other end of the island. At any rate I’d left sometime before he arrived so I didn’t meet him there. I didn’t meet him anyway; I’ve only ever known him through his forms.

I’ve worked as a Grey for some time now. I think I was officially hired eight years ago and I hold the rank of Grey 2,875,230 on the first tier, that’s the lowest of the eight tiers in the bureaucracy other then maybe the conscripts.

It is said that in Sarrowquand you can do anything if you tick the right set of boxes in the right set of forms; that’s more or less true but there’s a flipside to it. The flipside is that you have to fill in forms on just about anything. So I know Johnathen quite well.

In Sarrowquand there is no local government; I hear that’s why the World Assembly has sometimes called us tyrannous. It’s not that every single bureaucrat lives in the province of Grey. A lot of stuff is centralised but for efficiency and safety each province has its own branch of bureaucrats, it’s just that the selection is arbitrary, well not arbitrary; I mean we decide, but the bureaucrats in a province don’t tend to come from the province that they administer.

Take Jonathen. He isn’t a bureaucrat now but he used to be. He worked his two years of conscription like everyone else. In Sarrowquand every citizen works for the bureaus for at least two years as part of finishing their state mandated education. They do the same jobs as the first tier bureaucrats but they have no rank: anyway we’ve done those jobs much longer so we’re the professionals.

Anyway when Johnathen was conscripted he worked in Rowenoak, originating from Grey; he was actually born in the City of Grey; the city of bureaucrats and Rowenoak are about as far away as you can get geographically, though Renaissance is quite far away from Grey as well.

I’ve lived in Grey province for ten years now, since my conscription. I live in Record though. The city is named so as it handles all of the records in Sarrowquand and although I’m a first tier bureaucrat that means that I’m working for one of the most important departments in the bureaucracy; The Bureau of Records.

I first found out about Johnathen eight years ago. There were three candidates for the position of Grey 2,875,230 which rank-wise is a very good rank to get for your first non-conscription posting. It’s several hundred thousand places in and you’re working for the Bureau of Records. The permanent members of the Bureau of Records are in the hundred and twenty thousands, right at the top of the fifth tier; it’s a big department though: there are a lot of records in Sarrowquand.

I’d been working for records for most of my conscription and I’d impressed the sub-director of the department I was in. She said she’d recommend me for the post, that I could go far. The thing about records is that even after eight years in a low tier job if a post in the department’s permanent staff opens up you might get recommended to take their place and advance in rank substantially. It’s potentially a very good job.

Anyway like I was saying Johnathen, who was off in Rowenoak running local affairs at the time, was one of the other candidates. I think his name was put forward because he was born in Grey, Grey; a born bureaucrat, like they say. The other nominee was a girl from records I’d been working with. Elise-something, her second name had to do with bees (I think).

I got the job and Johnathen went off to Renaissance to sell apples. Old honeybee got another position in the Bureau of Records, non-permanent like me, except her rank is Grey 2,890,020 or something that starts 289. I see her sometimes. We got coffee a while back.

After I got the job I looked up the other applicants’ records to see how I was doing. I’ve sort of followed Johnathen’s records since then. He finished up in Rowenoak and moved to Renaissance. The island is famous for its art and less so for its apples. They’re still quite famous though; I find them hard to get in Grey.

Johnathen applied for an artist’s grant when he got to renaissance and the local greys approved it. All artists are assigned second jobs to help keep things going in Sarrowquand, and to get them out of the house a bit, so he was made an apple seller.

In Renaissance apple sellers’ cycle apple carts through the streets, they cycle to wherever is popular and offer people apples. The state pays for the fruit but the apple seller sells it as an idea. It keeps people healthy and it’s nice.

There’s a famous poster of Renaissance in which a crowd of people eating apples in a sunny street, laughing and surrounding an apple seller who’s holding up an apple and telling a joke.

I don’t get a chance to go out much in Record so every now and then I check out Johnathen’s social page on Dominionbook. It has a few things that don’t go into the files; he has a lot of friends. Quite a few who still remember him from Rowenoak, I know a couple of his Renaissance friends from the time that I lived there. I’ve not had a chance to catch up with them since I moved to Grey province: I really should say hi.

Johnathen released his first book this year. I went out to a coffee shop the month it came out and people there were talking about it. I have a copy. I have his book of poetry too. That’s less well known but it’s popular locally and most of his fans have read it. There’s a good one in there about two bicyclists who are unofficially racing along two different paths, to prove which path is better, only the hills are in different places for each of them. He has a play coming out in a week called the apple seller. I emailed Elise about going to see it.

The Sub-coordinator for my division is transferring soon, she’s always liked me, I think that she’s going to recommend me for her job. It was the impression she gave when she invited me over to her apartment for dinner. It would make me Grey 178,500 of the fifth tier. If I get the job I might drop old Johnathen a line, tell him I made it up that next hill, maybe import some apples.

yes,my lord

My name is Samuel Johnson.And i have lived my life for the past ten years by those three words.I am an elite officer in Lord Lowery's secret police force.I remember my life before that psychopath took control.I was 18,and i had just enrolled in the police force.Of course back then,we were real cops.It wasn't two months after i had earned my badge that Lord Zachary was found dead,leaving his only son,and the only surviving member of the royal family,Cody in control.He had set his eyes on us from the start.A few months after he took control of the nation,he established a secret police force,of course funded by tax-payer money.Me and 19 other officers were plucked from our regular jobs and put on his payroll.I remember that day.My best friend Craig hated Lord Lowery.He turned down his offer.He didn't want to work for him.So Lord Lowery shot him.One bullet right through his head.When he asked us again,we all responded with the same three words "yes my lord".The next few months were a nightmare for us and the citizens.He made us take innocent people into custody,shoot a child who stuck his tongue out at him,even burn down a church because he didn't agree with their religion.Each time he gave us these orders we responded with the same three words "yes my lord".10 years it has been now.I've gotten used to the job.After so long,the people don't dare question his methods.But when they do,he sends us.I'm the only surviving member of the original force.some of them vanished without a trace,some killed themselves,and the others...i had to see to them myself.I hope one day,my people will finally rise against him,and return our freedom.I have to go now.a few teenagers spray painted on a gold statue of Lord Lowery.he has commanded me to kill all but one.he wants me to cut his hands off so he never does it again.and as per usual,i responded with those three simple words."yes my lord".

'Its funny. They say everything happens for a purpose that thier is a reason for everything but after what i've witnessed how could I believe such a thing. My father has dissapeared and the Loyal Force is now harrasing my mother not only that but i'm being forced to leave the university. There is something wrong with this country'

Anna Larsen was only 21 years old. Shoulder leagnth wavy brown hair. Dark blue eyes and a slim figure. She use to attend a university in Militaria the capital city. Her father worked for a government news paper. He wrote an article about xenophobia taking hold of the country and how Atleus must be more tolerant. Ofcourse the article was never published. He was fired a day later, harrased and then within weeks dissapeared

Anna was walking down the streets of Militaria with her bags full of her study books and her possesions which she was forced to take off the university grounds. She was also banned from ever returning.

"Anna! Hey I cant believe they did this too you. What are you going to do now?" asked a young man, also 21

"Work in a factory or some shit now" she said bitterly

"You were going to become a great lawyer. Is there anything I can do for you?" He said

"Listen Mike, your nice... Infact the only once still talking to me now. But there is nothing you can do against this god awful system. The Supreme Commander is just that..... Supreme"

Mike stopped and looked quite stunned
He then whispered

"Please dont talk like that.... I dont wanna lose you to them" Mike said

"Just... Just forget it" said Anna storming off

Anna returned to her apartment. Her mother was sobbing before a photograph of her missing husband

"There doing terrible things to him! He's in pain I know it! They are merciless killers!" wailed the mother

Anna had a sleepless night that night. She really didnt fear the government anymore. A couple of weeks ago she would do anything to stay under the radar but now they had stolen her ambition and future. ruined her mother and taken her father.

'My life is gone' was the depressing thought in her head.

She went into her bathroom at nightnight and grabbed a razor blade from her fathers shaver and put it against her wrist and then froze

'I have nothing more to lose. I dont want to let them win... But to sleep forever would be so more easier'

Anna dropped the razor blade and then went back to her bed in tears

......................... The Next Day ................................

Anna woke early and grabbed her most favoured picture of her father.

'8 years of my life have been in fear. I lost my life 8 years ago'

She walked to the busiest part of Militaria. the streets were bustling with people walking to work (The ownership of private vehicles was banned)

She then threw her coat off to reveal a plain white top with the words

"Stop stealing our loved ones!" Which she had writted in vivid

she then held up her fathers photograph and began chanting

"What have you dont with my father! Why do you destroy our family! Why do you destroy Atleus!"

many people close by immediatly didnt want any association with Anna and fled the scene. Other stood back and watched events unfold. Nearby military soldiers ran over to Anna there was a jostle as the Soldiers ripped the photograph of her father from her hands and threw it to the ground then they locked her hands up behind her back

"Why are your tactics so cruel! I have a right to be here!" she screamed

"People! Fight them! They are killing us all!" A soldier punched her in the mouth and then dragged her away to a military truck that was parked in a nearby allyway

.......................................................................................

Anna felt a cold liquid drench her face. A bucket of water was thrown into her face. She was lying in a small chamber amougst 3 other citizens shaking with fear. The Soldiers dragged her down a sterile and cold concrete hallway

"Remove all of your clothes!" demanded a soldier

"No. I wont do anything you ask" she said calmly

The soldier geastured and then 3 other men came from the corners and ripped her dress off her body until she was completely naked. She did not resist instead stood with a passive look in her face staring straight into the eyes of the commanding soldier

"Brand her, shave her head and throw her into a cell" he ordered

The men dragged Anna into another room where with a Large Iron glowing red was prepared to burn into her skin

The men stretched out her arm and the Iron with the symbol of the Militarian government pressed into her arm. She screamed in pain then a Tatoo machine printed the number "809723" into below the burned mark

Next her hair was shaved off completely afterwards she was then thrown into a dark, cold, concrete cell

'No matter what happens I'm going to win, not them. They wont get any satasfaction from me!'

One month passed. The days consisted of her being dunked in water until on the verge of drowning. Her back burnt with many hot irons and being beaten by the soldiers. The soldiers were also allowed thier own way with her.
During her imprisonment she had never seen another prisoner. Then she was dragged into the interogation room

"Why are you doing this?" said said weakly

A man with a pale complection and veyr bony face was opposite her on the otehrside. He wore a smart suite and had slicked back hair

"You are scum. a diseased pariah that has no place in the paradise we are building"

Anna gave a small laugh to herself

"Whats so ammusing?" asked the man

"When are you going to kill me?" she asked changing the subject

"You will be killed I asure you of that but we have to go over a few formalities. Sign these document please" said the man sliding over some papers

"I wont sign anything" she said

"Do you want your mother to die? Do you want to find out what happened to your father?" asked the man

"My father? Is he alive?" she said trying to find the stregnth to lift her head up fully

"He is dead. Now will you sign the papers or not?"

"Only if you tell me what happened to my father"

"he was taken while we was walking home. Went through the same routine your in now and eventually shot and his body dumped far out into the ocean. Now will you sign the papers?"

Anna weakly grabbed the pen and signed her signature. She sat emotionless. Her eyes we beginning to form tears

"Thank you" He said snatching back the papers

"Anna Larsen, you have be charged with Sedition, Treason, and Inciting civil disorder, you are also a relation to a criminal and the penalty for the crimes above is death by firing squad. You will be escorted back to your cell where you will await execution"

Soldiers dragged Anna out of the interogation room and back to her cell

'If only I could leave behind something insightful, something that will help further victims of this system, I wish I could leave behind a message worthy but i cant think of anything'

There was a small chipped of bit of concrete from the decaying cell wall. She grabbed it and began scratching into the wall

"I hope Atleus will change. We will all be in a better place once we leave this earth. Dont ever let them win...." Anna dropped the rock

'If only I could think of something to say'

Just then the doors barged open the the soldiers tied her hands to her back and walked her down the corridors until they stepped outside

The natural light gave Anna a splitting pain in her forehead, it was so bright. But she was glad to see the sky and glad to see thegreat open blue sky

They stood her against a brick wall. there were already dried blood stains and bullet marks all over the wall. Throughout her stay she was still deprived of clothes but it was summer and so she was not so cold now. Then another naked person was escorted out. It was that of a young man no more then 25. He looked like he had it rougher then her. She then felt more comfortable she would not have to face he final moments alone.

"Dont be afraid" she whispered

She closed her eyes and tried to let go of all her fears though she could not help but tense up a bit expecting a painful stab of bullets

There was a large crackle, smoke and gunfire and finally Anna's body lying in blood punctured with bullets as with the young man that was also shot.

Their bodies were then loaded up on a helicopter and taken out far into the ocean and dumped off the Helicopter

"Fired? How? I have been with this university since before you were born! Back when I got tenure, you were still at your mother's breast!" I shouted. "Oh, and who did you get to replace me? Jiang? Her scholarship's horrendous; she hasn't even done a field study, she's -"

"Nobody."

"So, you're sacking the Dean of the Department of History of the New Singapore University, violating tenure at will, and not replacing him?"

"No, we're sacking the entire Department of History, voiding all your contracts. 'In the best interests of social order and the public peace', as the phrase goes." The phrase? My phrase. I dug through private archives, traced that phrase back to its origins on the charter of the International Settlement Defense Committee, wrote the book on it ('Social Order and Public Peace': Colonial Reactions to the Long Crisis). I never expected to see it turned on me.

"How so? How does this apply?" Not that I was expecting an answer. Historically, such clauses were widely abused, voiding everything from labor deals to marriage contracts.

"You're done here. Go." And so, for the last time, I passed through the doors, walked along the mud-brick paths, left via that iron gate.
---
As I walked out, I saw Jiang. Normally, I would be pleased at her glum expression, but the old university politics didn't apply any more. "So, where are you going to go?" I asked.

"Dunno. I don't have many contacts outside the history department, just professors from other departments. You?" Jiang replied.

"I think I'll write a book. I've got contacts with the publishers."

"I bet we've lost our housing," she said.

"I've still got my little apartment near the docks, if you're looking for a place to live." She nodded, and we didn't talk about what had happened for a few days. No - we talked about other things. The weather, and how pretty it was. What I might write my book about. What work she'd do to help support herself - and help support me, too, we realized. But not old things. Not the past.
---
"How dare they!" she suddenly shouted one evening. "History is the story of our peoples - it's our memories, our pasts, our heritage. How do they expect the university - society! - to survive without it?"

"Oh, it'll live. The thing is, for the university - for the Confederacy - history is dangerous. Nobody wants to dig into the past. Nobody wants to discuss why we ended up this way, why the social orders - both colonial and native - failed, and failed for so long. Nobody wants to determine how the Confederacy got to be the government - few even admit it! You know why I have no quotes from individuals' interviews? Nobody is willing to talk."

"Dangerous? How many copies did you sell, again? Nah, they don't care about us. These people," she said, "they don't care about their past any more. It's a shame!"

"It's a shame," I agreed. And it was. Here we go again, back into the same routine rants. And here I thought sharing an apartment again might rekindle that old passion...

The fresh snow from the previous night’s storm laid thick on the ground, covering the ground in a white carpet, interrupted occasionally by streaks of crimson red. In one street, deep in the suburb slums of Karasi, the Peacekeepers were conducting a raid.

“I said get down!” The soldier booted the back of the man’s head, sending him flying out of the doorway face first into the snow, bleeding heavily from the jackboot’s nails. A soldier emerged from the plain grey house, dragging a small boy kicking and screaming behind him. He tossed him down in the snow next to his father then drew his pistol, a M1911 pistol, and flicked off the safety. A number of faces peered out from windows, and a woman screamed inside the house. Under the black faceplate of his helmet, the soldier’s face was hidden, but it was a safe bet he was smiling. He opened his other hand, which held a tattered blue armband bearing a bird emblem. “You know what this is?” The man was silent, head bowed. The soldier growled. “I’ll ask again.” He held the gun to the boys head and cocked it. “You know what it is?” The man looked at his son, then up at the soldier with hate in his eyes.
“You bastards. Don’t you have a soul?!” The soldier smashed the gun across the man’s head.
“No. One more time. What. Is. This?”
“A LPLF armband.” The man spat blood out of his mouth. “You should know. They’ve killed enough of you.”
“Smarmy bastard, isn’t he?” The soldier chuckled, and then kicked the man to the ground, holding his boot on his neck. “These are illegal, fucker. And do you know what the punishment is?” He turned as someone called his name. Another soldier was bringing the man’s wife out, noticeably beaten and bloodied. “Ah. An example. Good.” He brought the gun up and shot a bullet between the woman’s eyes. The soldier holding her let the body drop down next to the boy. “That harlot wife of yours made a mess of my gun.” He wiped the pistol on the man’s hair, before stepping away from the man. He picked the boy up by his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Placing the gun to his head, he shouted “The LPLF and their supporters are here to hurt you! Their heretical ways and blasphemous lies show them to be not only evil, but fools! The Empire protects her citizens, but these… traitors, who side with her enemies, are barely worthy to even be called life. This is what happens to those who betray Her Majesty!” It was when he looked down at the boys face he noticed him grinning. He then noticed the strange, tube shaped lumps under the boy’s shirt.
“Je ne regrette rien.” The boy pressed the detonator hidden in his pocket. Boy, soldier and street all erupted in a ball of flame.

A few minutes later, when the street was silent and charred, a melanholy note sounded from the street's PA system.
Citizens of the Empire... We bring you food... We bring you jobs... We bring you homes... We bring you peace...

The sun glared down on the island of Rykalz, a tropical island and a colony of the Empire. One of the very last colonies to be claimed by the Templars, its defining feature was a giant grey block of stone in the dead centre of the island, the Rykalz prision. The guards stationed here were of two types. The rejects of the Marine Force, soldiers deemed too aggressive to even serve in the kamikaze Death Battallions, and a smattering of elite Crimson Guard marines to keep the others in line. In accordance with doctrine, the barracks quarters was very Spartan, and as such the guards stationed here had to find new ways to entertain themselves. This ranged from sparring to Russian roulette to an altogether different ‘sport’. Luckily, sadism comes naturally to the Templars.

The black burlap sack was ripped off James’ head. He blinked in the sudden light that besieged his eyes before regaining focus. He saw a stretch of forest, an old stone bridge and beyond that… A boat. He blinked and shook his head once or twice to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Sure enough, a small wooden dinghy sat still on the sands of the beach. A small bird, looked like a sparrow, flittered down and landed on the side of it. There was a bang and the bird dropped. The guard behind him reloaded his rifle.
“You see that?” He spoke in heavily accented South Loni accent, not dissimilar to the Russian accent. He lifted a burly, gloved hand and pointed at the boat with all the intelligence of a dead fish.
“Yeah.” A threatening click came from the rifle. “Yes sir.”
“Good.” The guard hefted his rifle onto his shoulder, and took out a hand grenade. “Here’s what I’m gunna do. If you can reach that boat, you’re free to go.” James eyed the grenade nervously.
“The catch?”
“This.” He waved the grenade. “You ready?”
“Do I actually have a choice?”
“Sure. You can try to escape and get away, or you can try to escape and I’ll shoot you.”
“I’ll take the get away option.”
“Smart. Right,” the guard grabbed a hold of the back of Jame’s neck, and he felt the grenade being placed into his back pocket. “ready…” Three seconds passed, which seemed like an eternity to the man. He felt the grip suddenly loosen on his neck, and he took off, sprinting and trying to get the grenade at the same time. “Go!” He ran, the echoing laughter of the guard getting further behind him and the gentle lapping of the waves getting nearer. He struggled for a couple of slow, endless seconds, then suddenly he felt his hand come free, carrying the grenade. He tossed it into the jungle without thinking, and laughed for the first time in years, grinning as he doubled his pace to the boat.
He didn’t notice the slightly disturbed earth in front of him. He trod on it, feeling it only as it was too late. The incendiary landmine detonated, sending a gout of flame up where the man once stood. The living torch ran down towards the beach, screaming, then dropped into the water just short of the boat. He lay still.

Back at the far end of the jungle path, the guard chuckled and took B$50 note from his co-worker.
“I win again, Jacinto.”
“Won’t be as lucky next time.”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.”

The name was a lie, but everyone knew that. Nobody went to Prosperity expecting to get rich. People went to the Confederacy's Antarctic outpost for two reasons - either for the hardship pay - double the rate of mines elsewhere - or for the cold-weather research. Well, three, actually, Nguyen thought. There's also me. He then stepped off the snowmobile, opened the door, walked into his office, looked at the photo of himself, and smiled. Soon enough, he'd be back on that beach.

Nguyen - formally, Nguyen Systems - was officially employed by Colin Systems as an engineer, working on winterizing electronics. He did work on those projects, from time to time. After all, there were some interesting problems to be solved, and it was a nice break from his real job.

His cell rang. Damn - it's Yuri. Not now, Nguyen thought. Not while I'm engineering. He let it ring twice more, then picked it up with a sigh, idly noticing the little puff of air. "Hey, what's up?" Nguyen asked.

"I lost the shipment," Yuri said. He was Nguyen's least-reliable supplier. Unfortunately, he was the only supplier who had been willing to ship down here. At first, anyways. It might be worth looking into someone else.

"The entire shipment? You realize this is the second time this month? Apparently, not only can you not handle your own supply, you can't ship the supply you bought elsewhere!"

"Accidents happen, man. I'll make it up to you."

"You know how much it's worth down in the icebox?"

"I'll buy double for you next month."

"And what do I tell my clients here? They want their product."

"Look, you're not the only guy I supply to -"

"But I'm the only one you - or anyone else - supplies to here. You know the margins I'm getting? I could always get them with someone else. Remember that."

"Fine, I'll buy from another supplier."

"And?"

An audible sigh. "And get the other supplier to ship it this time."

"Thanks. Bye." Nguyen hung up before Yuri could reply. Well, at least that's settled, he thought. And so, the richest man in all Prosperity went back to work.

Birth of a bureaucrat

I was a child and then I grew, my parents filled my forms for me; I followed the path of all children, flowing down a river of few diversions. By college I was filling in the sheets for myself, strange things with alien layouts. I tick the wrong box and for years I am ‘lactose intolerant’ and my attempts to order milk are automatically overridden.

I take the tests to become a citizen of the state and pass. I may now vote and consent and I get better wages: I owe the state two years to become a full citizen.

Now I’m a Conscript Bureaucrat, I fetch coffee, I fetch cream filled donuts that I cannot eat because of my ‘condition’, I organise forms, I process data; I start to know which forms to fetch, which box to tick and where to stamp and sign.

I finish my conscription, I finish university. I’m supposed to be free. I sign the form that says so and I wonder.

I get a job at the Bureaucracy as a clerk. I’m transferable and for a few years I’m moved from role to role learning how people’s choices dominate their lives: A young woman applies for housing, a man asks for a yearly supply of marijuana. I stamp and tick and seal their fate.
I’m permanent staff now, attached to the Bureau of Observation. I read performance reviews and ratings, I look at pay recommendations awaiting Observation’s rubber stamp, I find a likely fabrication and take it to my Team Head.

I’m sitting in a restaurant, the restaurant owner is shouting at his kitchen staff. He seems to hate his chef, I order my food and it is good. I ask around: The chef is sleeping with the owner’s partner; we don’t fire people for that, the chef isn’t incompetent like the forms say. I go back to Observation and the owner is fined for subreption.

I’m chasing a blind one armed wheelchair user down a set of stairs, she turns cocks her shotgun and I’m thrown back, I gasp for breath but the armour I’m wearing has saved me. The soldiers I’m leading have almost caught up but I finger my bruised ribs and pepper her with rubber bullets, she drops the gun and turns to run, I leap the last flight of steps and take her down. She screams she has epilepsy, I shout “and I’m lactose intolerant”.

I get transferred to Records as a Team Head. I’m in charge of editing forms. I open my own records remove my allergy and requisition myself a wheel of cheese. Later someone is rude to me shoving in to me in the street, I overhear their name and later take my revenge by transferring them across the country to a backwater port.

The pile in my in/outbox is stacked high, A form passes over my desk, I cross out the request I’m looking at for funds to buy and maintain a cat, I change it to an iguana.

The Director of Records calls me into her office. She says I’m doing a bang up job. I go back to work. A file is sitting there on my desk, someone’s yearly update. I throw it out the window. They may still exist but for three months they’re in limbo, living of baked beans and relying on friends. I re-open my file; it looks so bland.

The Director comes into my office and tells me that someone in my team has made a number of errors, she says that there was even an error in my own file listing me as lactose tolerant, she’s restored my file and asks me to find any other errors and the source of the mistakes, I discretely dump my latte into my bin before she sees what I’m drinking.

One of my subordinate’s is dropping his belongings into a shoebox, clearing out his desk: After altering a few more documents I left a paper trail pointing him out as the culprit for all of the mistakes. The Director claps my back and tells me I’m a sure thing for a new Sub-director’s position in Record’s and to keep up the good work.

I sit in a spotless modern office attached to one of the archive buildings. I’m Sub-Director of the stacks and I’ve not filled in a form for weeks. My inbox fills until one of my Transferables takes the pile away and brings it back done, my Team-Heads all know what to do, they show initiative and vie for my attention whilst I sit in my office staring at a wall: I miss my latte.

I dream of the stacks on fire, all those forms burning, I wonder again about freedom. Everyday this month I’ve sat in my office for fifteen hours straight just fingering the matches in my pocket. Everyone believes I’m doing so much work, that I’m coming up with the next record revolution.

Its night and I walk into stacks building one; it’s a holiday and everyone’s off at play. I carry a canister of petrol and some explosives I requisitioned. This is the building I’ll burn first, then all the others, until somebody stops me. Deep down I believe I’ll get away with it. I walk deep into the building past rows of scanners. I pull one of the draws open ready to dowse the forms in flammables and see electronics, where are the stacks of paper? The files? The records?

I’d become so detached from it all that I hadn’t realised that all those paper forms were transformed into electronic format, I’d come to think of those sheets as some kind of immortal irresistible force. I’m sitting in the Director’s office watching security footage of me dropping the petrol canister and walking out in a confused daze. She frowns and sends the forms requesting my dismissal to the Bureau of Bureaucracy, the highest level for the greatest failure.

Surprisingly I’m not fired but transferred and demoted. Now I’m permanent staff again, attached forever to the Ministry of Minor Affairs dealing with the utterly trivial, the excruciating minutia.

Out of the blue I get poached. Rather I get hit on the head and wake up in a dimly lit office. A dark blank faced man introduces himself as Grey 88 of the Department Of Ocean Management. He says that I’ve shown a rare potential in everyway, that he’s retiring and that I’m to replace him. He outlines the job and I smile at him whilst he blanks. I think of freedom again.

I sit at a big desk in a nondescript building. I open a pad of blank paper and write down what needs to be done, bad things. I close the pad and open my personal record on my laptop. I hit delete again and again as I disappear. Then I close my laptop and poor myself a glass of milk.