Chapter 2.
"The grand political unrest in Tatterstown escalated two days ago when a faction of the rebels, largely speculated though yet to be confirmed, assassinated an influential figure in regional politics, Mr. Kein Josefstein, in a vulnerable moment as he was inspecting the newly inaugurated industrial complex, shortly following the inauguration ceremony. The perpetrators used a long-range sniper rifle to initiate the attack, after which, a large armed band disguised with balaclavas ambushed the scene with indiscriminate rampage. There were casualties from the side of the ambushers, although the police have told the press that no obvious clue has been traced yet. Chief Inspector Nana Clavicle assured, however, that swift justice was inbound. Our sources from the region notified that the authority has imposed heavy crackdown to ensure public safety. The general citizens are in widespread panic from...". Warm beams of the sun fell on the newspaper as this account of political violence took an excursion inside my mind. I was seated on the veranda, on this lovely morning. The cup, with only a quarter of its content- espresso- consumed, was nearing being cold but its companion, the cigarette, was rather quickly over. I might have been heavier and more frequent with the puffs as this concerning news overtook me. It wasn’t this bad when we were there just two months ago. Sure, there were some instances of public dissatisfaction with the government, albeit in secrecy, and rumours of brewing upheavals. The government had consistently iterated that everything was under control. "There's no reason to worry, our flourishing state affairs, booming economy, remarkable civil conduct have led to external interference out of envy and spite. But our operatives are tenaciously devoted to all the necessary countermeasures. Citizens of Tatterstown, rest assured and please continue upholding the principles that make our city so exemplary", Home Minister Carmen Horseshoe addressed the subjects in a press briefing. Some may had continued to be under the hypnosis, some had put on the expected compliant act in fear of the security of their family. "Cease your shameless lies!", I suppose, was the internal reaction of others. Despite heavy surveillance, the seeds of dissatisfaction continued to grow under the sunless deluge of hidden gatherings and activism. I remember that just about three months ago, my friend from university had shown up at our house— Frank Kinkstahl, who I had not seen or heard from since convocation. In the evening, I was stressed in my study room, trying to optimise the new marketing plans for the corporation. When the bell rang, it took me in a mixture of slight surprise and minute annoyance. My wife and son were home, and I was not expecting anyone at this hour. Upon opening the door, I had seen a figure: a tall, bearded man, dressed in rather modest clothes, sunburns apparent on his complexion. "Excuse me, were you looking for someone?" "Yes, you. May I come in?", my surprise had spiked from how naturally he had said that, devoid of hesitance. Without a word, I had broadened the door and motioned him to come inside. His steps were neither spaced nor closed— gestalt of calm confidence. His trenchcoat, though showing signs of wear, was a solemn dark grey. Furrowing past his hat were unruly yet graceful curls. He did not ask for any permission to get himself seated on the sofa in the living room, I was the second to take a seat. For a while, he stared at me with an unwavering gaze. Then said, in an equally unwavering tone: "You know, in the lion's den, ants hardly hold any power, more often than not, the ants would escape the lion's gaze altogether, being miniscule to its grand frame, unless they are being particularly bothersome to it. Even if, by some arcane means, the ants were to concretely hold an apparition-like, formidable chimeric beast, made of their own assembly and resilience, it would perish upon the first contact with the lion's claws. Far away, in the jungles of South America, there is this species called bullet ant. They are called such because of their bites being akin to bullet piercings and the pain that ensues. Would 9mm be enough to fell a lion? Unlikely. The situation has thus left an astringent consequence upon the other organisms within the bounds of the lion. With the arsenal at hand being insufficient to put the lion down, the den's walls must be made to cave in". There was a pause. Seconds passed before I knew he was through with his statement. From the very first sentence I guessed, no, I knew for certain, where the tide was going. Should I reply something in allegory?... No, that would assure him that his borderline brash behaviour was being appreciated, or even worse, facilitated. I can't immediately dismiss him either, I don't have the dishonesty to act like I'm oblivious to the current state of our city; the chances of him being a performative agent sent to snitch out potential defiance was scant as among the citizens in Tatterstown, I must rank up high among the model ones; with swift actions desperately required, the authority could not possibly afford wasting resources on testing model citizens... "Interesting proposition. Firstly, who are you? And why are you telling me all this?"
