“See? I told you it will be fine,” I tell the man over the noise. “They’re here. Help is here.”
He nods faintly, his eyes closed. I expect them to go to the old man, who has passed out on the seat, exhausted and taking short breaths, a fine layer of sweat covering his skin. But they don’t go to him. They come for me.
And then they take me away.
Juniper screams at them to leave me alone, held back by Art, who doesn’t look much better. As they hold me under the arms and drag me away by the elbow, Juniper screams, “My sister! My sister!” They lead me down the steps of the bus and into their van, the sound of the whistles ringing in my ears.
THIRTEEN
BEFORE I WAS born, there was a great recession in this country; banks folded, the government collapsed, the economy was ravaged, unemployment and emigration soared. People were blindsided by what happened, and the leaders were blamed. The leaders should have known; they should have seen it coming. It was their bad judgment, their bad decisions that led to the country’s collapse. They were evil people; they had destroyed families and homes, and they were to suffer. They were the morally flawed people who had brought about our downfall.
As a result, anyone who made the smallest error in judgment was immediately punished. These people were publicly ridiculed, held up as examples of failure, and forced to resign. They were named and shamed. They weren’t criminals, but they had made bad decisions. Society demanded leaders who would not learn from hindsight—leaders who would not make the mistakes in the first place. No second chances, no sympathy, no explanations allowed nor required. Anybody who had made mistakes in the past couldn’t take leadership roles in the future. And as hundreds of thousands of people marched on the government, it was decided that any person who made any error in judgment was to be rooted out of society entirely. Hindsight would be a thing of the past. Everybody would always—always—look ahead before it was too late, no mistakes made.
Could perfection be bred? Many ways to achieve this were tried and tested, and what the government eventually settled on was Crevan’s Guild and its Flawed brandings. No matter what you do in your life, your Flawed title can never be removed. You hold it till death. You suffer the consequences of your one mistake for the rest of your life. Your punishment serves as a reminder to others to think before they act.
I’m taken to a holding cell in the basement of Highland Castle and guided to a table upon which sits an information pack containing all the information about the Guild that I need to know. It has a chapter dedicated to the rules you must adhere to living as a Flawed. It even has a comprehensive section on the searing of the skin: the process and how to treat your brand afterward. I slam the pack closed and look around.
The holding cells are pleasant; they are newly renovated. There are four total, two on each side of the room, separated by a walkway in the center, each one enclosed by bulletproof and soundproof glass. According to the information pack, the glass represents the transparency of the system, but I feel it is to prepare us for the lack of dignity coming our way and invasion into our lives. Each cell contains a table with four chairs, a single bed, a bathroom with real walls, and some randomly placed chairs should the desire for a holding-cell party take me. Everything is earthy tones, to make us feel like this is the most natural place in the world.
Of the four cells, I am the only occupant. The two opposite me are empty; the one beside me had been occupied—I can tell from the clothes, the items of belongings scattered. I assume this person is in the courtroom now, awaiting his or her fate. The bathroom, thankfully, has solid walls, but it has been made so small that you can barely spend a minute in there before feeling suffocated. It is where I have run to cry, though I may as well have stayed here and done it in full view because my tearstained face and red eyes are a giveaway, and there’s nobody here to see me anyway.
I have not had the opportunity to speak with anyone yet, to analyze, dissect, and discuss what has happened. I was registered at reception by a nice lady in a Whistleblower uniform, who introduced herself as Tina, and then I was brought to this room beneath the Clock Tower, where the Guild has its offices. I know from watching trials on television, seeing Pia on every live report following the accused from the Clock Tower, all the way across the cobblestoned courtyard, to the Guild court, heads down and being hurled abuse by the public, who come to boo and hiss and show their support for the Guild.