"Can I help you," a small woman sitting behind a large desk asks, filling out paperwork.
"No, but thanks for asking."
Then I remember.
"Wait, one request actually. Could you forward all future documentation regarding the salt-mines from Giana or her assistant, to medirectly?"
"Oh, why?"
"I feel the mines are of utmost importance to the economy of this town and thus believe it should be a priority of my attention." I gesture my indexes towards her.
Pretty please.
"Will do."
Thank you.
"Also, tell Nelson that I have a proposition for him in documentation if he's interested."
"He's currently too busy."
"Just tell him when he has time, to look it over."
"..."
"Could you also give me directions to the filing room?"
"Down the hallway you just came from, the last room on the right, opposite the Nelson's office at the end office."
"Thank you. Jan was it?"
"That would be my name!" She responds without even looking up from her paperwork.
I turn around and return the way I came from.
Left foot, right hand, right shoulder to my front, pop out my entire shoulder, swivel with the hips and take another step with the right.
I've got this style down pat, I must look so cool to anyone watching me, I feel jealous.
I approach the door and turn the handle as slowly as I can.
"Oh baby, you're gonna feed me good right now."
Open.
What greets me makes my shoulders fall back and my posture straighten. I step quietly into the space.
Shelves upon shelves of organised, multicoloured folders loom above—each stuffed with coffee-coloured parchment, baked too long under the auburn sun.
Now they hide away, here, happy, but forgotten. Saturated they are, fed fat with Vitamin D enough to last them the rest of their papered lives within this vacant room; Half-starved files burrow in. A sheltered prey.
The town, it's all built on this room. A real house of cardboard, waiting to be blown over and consumed by me.
I grin viciously.
Hehehe -How villainous!
It's dark. The faint rustling of paper proves it. For something lives here still—a satisfied creature emerges from my shadow, one who makes no sound nor complaint, save for the soft purring of its own affirmed existence. This creature looks up with that hungry gaze I've come to expect.
A rope hangs beside the door. We pull.
Light filters through the moulded sepulchre of glass; a mosaic, depicting events seemingly biblical in nature, but long worn by the egress of decayed utility— the room's shadows tint black with shaded colour.
My vision blurs brown with sunburnt eyes. We watch as the curtain, once drawn now coils loosely around; its batten—beaten and frayed.
My shadow paws at the scattered moths of dusted motes, shed from the ruggard furry coat as if leading the way in.
I follow.
Section A is first.
I cross over, following the room to my target designation.
F section - This is it.
Reaching the end of the shelf, I pick at a folder. Newly filed in green but already dyeing with fade, waiting to be read.
"Investigation of Agricultural yield of domestic crops"
Unable to silence the curious mewing of my feline follower, I focus on the numbers:
Moongrass is under-performing compared to previous months. I wonder why...
"Investigation (pending)."
Well there goes that question, What do we even do with moongrass?
"Due to the shortage of local supply, further seasonal budgets must be allocated to transport of Yonk feed 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.
- Plum: High quality, no transport, expected lower volume needed due to higher mana content. Pairing with the cheap transport options makes the price worth consideration.
I read the brief introduction.
"Sovereign ascent - Farming: Offshoot of famous merchant family background, usually deals with high end products. Run by the title-holder Grant's third-nephew and operates with the best price to performance for medium-grade produce.
Due to the group's large scale, security and trust 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 boy. Third nephew; more like Grant jr the third, I bet your dad even fucked your mother to get you to be this mentally re—
Oh a black report, I like black, I wonder what this means.
Picking up the black report cover I read.
"Transit log for convicts.
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.
I lightly skin the substance until something of rancid flavour latches my tongue.
"1470: Replaced."
I freeze.
"2001: Replaced."
The reading words whisper warnings—eyes dragging back into empty sockets.
"1721: Replaced."
Tight is my forehead. My vision narrows.
"2311: Replaced."
My teeth chatter silent.
"….: Replaced."
"….: Replaced."
"….: Replaced."
Replaced…
My hand trembles, and I drop.
The report glides through the air, skimming the stone before resting still.
…
Soft treading claws its way closer. A wet nose presses to 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. Usually, well-documented prison systems, like the ones where I'm from, keep admissions standardised, predictable.
Detached, maybe — but better than this.
Scattered, random but always replenishing. Whatever could be the reason? Do not many ascenders cause crimes? Or maybe it's related to the number of bodies that need man-power.
I need more info. Anything to convince me that they're not just replacing them when they die.
Hey Mute, stop playing with that. It's dangerous.
Quickly I rush over, chasing at my shadow, tugging the report out of her mouth.
You never learn your lesson do you, how many times has it been now, ten times you've died already. You need to learn to be more careful.
Realigning the paper against the folder I try to turn the page, my finger sticking to the folded corner.
I pinch and pull the sheet but it only folds over my hand.
I know it doesn't matter much in the end, how they replace them and all, but this reminds me… this makes me feel sick in my stomach.
Just give me some hope, I beg!
I lick my finger and finally flip over the page.
"Monthly Output of Convict Duty"
Hazaar.
Finally, something not directly morbid, but indirectly morbid.
I trace the page with a trembling finger, over-worn crease and receding ink, both of which I read over, eyes eating light with crunching vision.
50 metric tonnes — Jiord wasn't lying. That's too many.
I gag.
I guess I should stop for this moment.
I close the folder. My feet retrace previous walks around the splintered shelves of oak. I hook, reeling out all the available blackened folders, piling them around my man-sized but vacant plot. Prepared for future squat.
Mark my words, I will bring the warmth of campfire and the love of home to this lonely stone-slabbed floor. After all, a hunter always cherishes their hunting grounds.
I turn and walk back.
Right foot, left hand, left shoulder in front, push out my shoulder broad, twist the hips, squeeze the butt and take another slow step with the right.
Why am I even doing this? It's no longer fun.
The swag in my stride collapses. Once energetic dynamo sputters to sluggish dawdle.
Reaching Jan's office, I speak.
"Janny, I have a couple of questions. 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 census?"
"That's the beast cores. If a convict obtains one, they have to relinquish it to the Heavenly Protection Board. This also releases them from the obligation pact of their convict duty.
As for 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."
She stands up and bends over to a low draw beneath her, handing me what seems to be an A3 piece of paper.
"Do you have any of that special coloured ink too, the stamping ones?"
"Anything else?" She huffs.
"Actually, yes now you mention it: A ruler, two paperweights, two of those binded books, empty, that heap of that parchment over there, four quills and a thank you to you Jan!" I clasp my hands together.
After minutes another chime rings throughout the office, she pushes forward the various items and then walks away shaking her head.
She's such a hard worker and knowledgeable too, I'm so glad I could help her, help me. She truly deserves a reward. 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 in my robe and drudge away with it.