It was already late – ten to midnight – sky dark and bleak with stars unseen. The day had already fled by the time Jord understood that his job prospect as a store clerk was just another pot stuffed to the brim with toxicity and exploitation – worse than the last mansion he had fled.
That morning, he nurtured a small ember of hope. But now – now it was laid to rest, smouldered in a crater of powerless rage and quiet desperation.
His eyes wandered the familiar street he had walked countless times: First for school, then for work. He had left school with bright eyes and brighter dreams, but now – if someone pried deep enough – they’d find them buried alongside his hopes.
How foolish now he felt, thinking that he could plot a path towards a better future. His skin crawled at the thought of grovelling before his old boss, begging to be taken back. Yet, the thought of asking for help was no better. The walls seemed to close in as he weighed his options, each one felt heavier than the last, until the asphalt itself seemed to lunge at him to drown him and all his sorrows with it.
A bout of vertigo hit him. He stopped near a lamppost and took a deep breath. The world, now back on its axis, stood still at last. The breath, however, carried the acrid scent of piss. He didn’t know what to do: whether to weep, to laugh, or perhaps to lose himself and do both at the same time.
He felt drenched in exhaustion and hollowed by emptiness. Still, a step had to be taken, if only to secure a fleeting reprieve from his inner turmoil. Perhaps, if only in thought, a small crime could earn him a quiet day in a local cell: nothing major, something minor, something insignificant, he reasoned. Vandalism, maybe.
He glanced around but found nothing worth defacing, no watchful guard to catch him in the act. Easy targets, like wooden benches, had long been replaced by iron thrones bolted into cobblestone, cold at the touch, rough at the feel, ugly to the eye.
City Hall, with its usual solemnity, had proclaimed through the national gazette that it was for the good of the environment. "Wood rots," they said. But Jord, like most, knew better. Knew it for the excuse it was.
Yet, he tried anyway. His strength proved useless: the chair hadn’t even budged a smidge. Frustration gnawed at him as he turned to the lamppost, but it, too, resisted his efforts. Finally, he yanked out his phone and flung it at the lamp’s glass. It missed. Of course, it missed.
Desperation surged as he tried to climb the lamppost instead, but his weary body betrayed him, sliding down after every futile attempt.
Dejected, he retrieved his phone, checked for damages – there were none – and slipped it back into his pocket. With a heavy sigh, he began his long march home.
Past the shuttered pharmacy, its neon cross dead. Past the abandoned playground, its swings creaking with the weight of forgotten joy. His boots scuffed through pamphlets for a union rally two winters gone, ink smeared, paper torn. Somewhere, glass shattered. Laughter, sharp and mean, reverberated through Jord’s bones. He pulled his coat tighter around himself.
A figure lurched from a doorway, drunk and desperate, reeking of alcohol and defeat. Jord sidestepped, heart hammering, but the man just spat and crumpled against the wall. Now, he clutched his head. ‘Where did it all go wrong?’ The drunk man muttered.
He quickened his pace. Halfway home, he passed the old bus depot, its timetable still advertising routes discontinued years ago. A feral cat yowled from the rafters of a building left to rot in eternal construction.
By the time he reached his block – a row of brownstones hunched like weary old men – the chill had seeped into his marrow. The key rasped in the lock, too loud in the stillness. Inside, the air hung thick with the sour musk of unwashed dishes and resentment. He crept forward, soles grazing the floorboards to mute their groan. Past the hallway light, always left on. Past his parents’ door, its frame leaking a slit of TV light. Past his brother’s room, where muffled snores rumbled like distant waves.
His bedroom door yielded with a whine, once again, he’d forgotten to oil it. A plate of congealed stew waited on the table, its grease haloed under the desk lamp's glare. The sheets, though tucked with military precision, smelled faintly of mothballs and mildew. He shoveled the cold food into his mouth, barely tasting it, then collapsed onto the mattress. Sleep came swift and depthless.
It was well past first light, and nobody stirred to wake him; my own fault, he thought; should’ve seen to set an alarm. He rose and shuffled to the kitchen but was greeted only by blissful silence and the rumbling of outside traffic. He tore off a hunk of stale bread, drizzled it with honey, and washed it down with a mug of milk. My thanks, Uncle Tom, he thought as he chewed, crumbs scattering onto the table.
Munching, He pictured his family's weekly pilgrimage: his father’s work boots polished to a dull shine, his mother’s hands rubbing her grandmother’s ring, Elia standing tall beside them.
They went for the communion of shared breath, not scripture; his mother had told him so years ago, her voice rough from age and grief. The church was a sanctuary, she’d said, and for an hour each Sunday, they could pretend they weren’t mere cogs in Thamburg’s machinery. Just bodies, warm and flawed. For they sang, they fumbled, but most important of all, they became an anchor for each other. And for a moment, the weight of their lives didn’t vanish, it simply shifted.
Jord hadn’t crossed the threshold in years, but Elia still endured. Of course, he did – Elia had mastered the art of folding himself into whatever shape the moment demanded. The hymns dragged now, and the sermons were trite, for they recited the same hollow homilies about patience and piety. Yet Jord's soul ached sometimes, phantom pains where the pew’s wood once pressed into him, where his brother’s elbow would nudge him to stand, to kneel, to perform.
His gaze drifted to the fridge: its door plastered with unpaid bills, a church calendar circling Sundays in red, and reality slammed into him like a punch to the gut. The first order of the morning was to set an agenda, again: To plot a path.
What’s to be done? The question hungered at him like a starved wolf. Those old bastards had taken him for a fool, led him by the nose to abandon the old man's employ. Now, to crawl back? Grovel before his old capo, begging to be reinstated? Or try his luck with the Blackhand? But now he knew no one, and no one in the know knew him. And him – him – to turn backwards and reopen a closed chapter? To disown his promise to Elia? Ha. Unthinkable. He snorted, rose stiffly, and walked outside, closing the door behind him.
The road greeted him with its usual pallor: cracked tarmac, boarded shopfronts, the sour tang of neglect. A neglect that afflicted nearly a quarter of a million souls.
The cobbles beneath Jord’s boots were uneven, their weathered grooves mapping generations of heavy tread by machinery and steps alike. He walked without direction, letting the rhythm of his breath – sharp inhales tinged with the acrid bite of the last distant foundries – sync with his steps. The canal’s murky water timidly licked at moss-slick stones, its surface oiled with manufactured rainbow sheens that shuddered in the wind. A fractured pane in a boarded-up warehouse caught the weak morning light, scattering prism shards across his path. He paused, tracking the dance of fractured colour over old cobblestone. For a moment, the city’s growl – the clatter of goods trains, the sawtooth shouts of hawkers – fuzzed into white noise. His fingers brushed the cold iron of a rusted bollard, its uneven surface grounding him. Breath In, breath out. He walked on, the knot in his chest de-spooling thread by thread.
Then he saw it: a Guard’s manifesto, easily recognized by the blue lilac framing, plastered crookedly on a lamppost, its edges fluttering in the breeze. Better than nothing, he thought and exhaled, peeling the pamphlet free. The ink smudged under his thumb, but the words burned clear:
CITIZENS OF THAMBURG
Times are challenging – but your family deserves safety, dignity, and a place to call home.
THE CITY GUARD OFFERS
- A RESPECTABLE WAGE: (2.5× the median income)
- FULL BENEFITS: Healthcare, pension, and tuition grants for your children
- HOUSING ALLOWANCES: (subsidized apartments in secure, family-friendly districts)
WE STAND BETWEEN ORDER AND CHAOS
While others sow discord, we build. While they cling to selfish agendas, we serve. The Guard isn’t just a job – it’s a calling.
YOUR SERVICE ENSURES
- Safe streets for your children to play.
- Thriving businesses for your spouse to patronize.
- A pension to enjoy grandchildren in your late years.
‘I was starving, my children crying. The Guard gave me a rifle – and a future.’
– Sr. Guardsman V. Harken, Former Dockworker
Report to the Citadel at your leisure. Bring your hands, your loyalty, and your willingness to protect all.
THAMBURG STANDS STRONG WHEN ITS PEOPLE STAND TOGETHER.
He stood frozen, the now-smeared paper cold in his palm. To take it would solve everything – now. But at what cost? What would Elia do? He frantically paced around. His teeth found his thumbnail again, gnawing at its frayed edge.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
A terrible path of violence, once again, unrevealed before him, a path he knew like a mother tongue. His childhood had been far from gentle; the chaos of the past had scorched the republic’s city of its residents, the repercussions incalculable. Even now, he could taste the phantom pangs of hunger, the metallic tang of a muffled baton’s kiss, and the absurd thrill of sprinting from guards with friends who would later vanish in acrylic smoke.
Yet, only Jord’s parents lingered in his mind as they always had: voices sharpened to scalpels, eyes dissecting his every stumble. They tried, he’d remind himself. Their love, a ledger made by rows of labour traded for measly coin, their calloused hands, a testament of their selfless endurance. They’d bent their spine all their life gifting their sons threadbare uniforms and a roof over their heads. But he couldn’t forget their lashings. “Ungrateful,” his father would mutter, knuckles whitening around his belt. “Your brother never–” a refrain that often stung worse than the old man’s cincture.
It was the only choice that made sense to Jord: a pragmatic surrender to the arithmetic of survival. By joining the city guard, Jord would trade his fraying morals for a uniform and a wage packet thick enough to staunch his family’s bleeding coffers. No more skulking in the docks’ shadows, no more rationing the food. The guard’s coin, however tainted, would buy them medicine, silence the landlord’s threats, and give them the comfort of stability that they seldom found. Let Elia’s gaze linger on the uniform; let his father’s jaw tighten at the compromise. Better a son in service to Thamburg’s rot than another corpse in its gutters - even if that very rot delivered Paul’s final rest.
And so, with resolve as hollow as the Mayor’s promises, Jord trudged towards the City’s bureaucratic heart.
The journey spanned an hour, each instant measured by the sound of the slugging, sloshing water. The Citadel fortification, visible from all around the city, loomed ahead, a relic of the Varicritian empire, its breached walls now housing the city’s bureaucratic heart. Two bridges punctuated the route, their arches sagging under the weight of silent histories.
The first bridge bore scars of neglect: potholes patched with asphalt gone brittle, rusted railings. Beyond it lay the confines of the old city, where the streets tightened, the buildings older with their height inflated by the cyclic nature of construction.
The second bridge, though no grander, wore its age with a veneer of care: swept pavements, immaculate lamp posts, graffiti-free walls, and polished surveillance cameras that pivoted like watchful predators.
Here, the Citadel’s shadow stretched long. Its remaining grand walls, pocked with time, framed a compound of steel-clad annexes and flickering LED signage. The air thickened with the static of bureaucracy: permits, quotas, fines. No opulence marked this seat of power, only the sterile efficiency of a system that had long since traded paper for spreadsheets.
The cold heart of the bureaucracy was no stranger to Jord. More than once, he’d scraped too close to the law’s teeth: petty thefts, bar scuffles, nights in cells that stank of ammonia. Thankfully, the clerks’ digital ledgers had missed his worst crimes. But the ghosts lingered: a cautionary notice here, a sergeant’s narrowed glare there. Now, with a prayer to whatever old gods monitored the halls, he trudged forward, gambling that they had misplaced his records.
He walked until the general lobby yawned before Jord, its vaulted ceiling strung with fluorescent lights that buzzed. The air hung thick with the smell of cheap disinfectant. At its end sat one of the clerk’s desk. A desk made of frosted-glass and stainless-steel, its surface empty save for a computer and a stack of papers.
Behind the table hunched a clerk, her face lit by the pale glow of a monitor. A machine-written sign taped to the desk read: ‘ENQUIRIES.’
To her back stretched halls. Jord took a glance and quickly read:
- HALL A: Civil Affairs
- HALL B: Public Infrastructure
- HALL C: Public Records
- HA –
Before he could read the next sign in the hall, the clerk’s voice startled him, making him almost jump like a cat caught off guard.
‘State purpose,’ she said. Her expression was a blend of weariness and detached efficiency. A laminated name tag read “M. Voss” in fading letters. When she spoke, her voice carried the monotone cadence of someone who’d repeated ‘Next in line, please’ ten thousand times.
‘Good morrow. Yes… I wish to enquire about the city guard and their open positions.’
Clerk M. Voss’s fingers clattered over the keys before she spoke. ‘City Guard enquiries? Hall G, subsection A. Application fee’s twenty marks, payable at the Hall of Public Records.’
She scanned the papers in front of her, tapping one with a finger before sliding it across the desk. ‘Sign this one.’
The form came to a stop near his hand, its corners slightly curled – printer’s fault? The clerk stabbed a pen toward the dotted line, her gaze drilling into Jord’s face. He felt it like a weight, hot and expectant, making his skin prickle. Swallowing, he dropped his eyes, locking them on the form as if it held the secrets of the universe.
Behind him, a man coughed, impatient. Jord’s fingers twitched. He snatched the pen and, with stiff, hurried strokes, scrawled his signature beside the date: 25 – 04 – 147.
‘That’s it?’ Jord asked, thumb grazing the calluses webbing his palm.
‘Indeed. Take the form with you,’ she said, pointing at the form with an open palm. ‘Next in line, please.’
Jord hesitated, the weight of indecision tightening his collar. Was the form meant for Public Records or the Guard? With a mental shrug, he tucked the single page into his jacket and trudged toward the City Guard’s hall.
After climbing two flights of stairs and taking a few wrong turns, he found the entrance to the hall. Nothing major, just a sign above the door stating what he already knew.
He opened the door firmly. Inside, he found a small group of people. A quick glance told him there were four – five, counting the clerk. The man behind the desk, Jord noted, had heavy bags under his eyes.
Jord slumped into a seat, took out his phone, and lost himself in a mindless game, drowning out the voices. He waited, thumb jabbing at the screen, until a glance upward revealed only one woman ahead. Sliding the phone into his pocket, he straightened and feigned patience.
The door creaked as the final applicant departed. Jord’s ears rang with the clerk’s voice: ‘Next, please.’
Jord rose and took a seat (there were two) in front of the clerk.
‘Ah, yes. Good morrow. I wish to enquire about the city guard position.’
‘Good morrow. Name and place of residence?’ the clerk asked.
Jord glanced at the clerk’s tag: A. Hargrave.
‘Jord. Jord Whittaker. The Boltworks, number twenty-two.’
Hargrave typed, then paused, eyes flicking across the screen. A pixelated mugshot of Jord flickered on the screen, its reflection caught in the clerk’s wire-framed glasses: Jord at twenty, one eye swollen shut, his split lip crusted with blood.
The charge sheet read in bold: Disorderly Conduct – Public Assembly Without Permit.
The clerk’s chair let out a groan as he leaned back. ‘The ’41 Dock strike,’ Hargrave said, staring into Jord’s eyes. ‘You were detained under First-Warden Veld’s tenure. A messy business.’
Jord shifted in his seat, the steel frame pressing into his spine. ‘What’s that got to do with–’
‘Revenue down twenty-three percent.’ Hargrave cut him off, now slightly leaning forward. The glow of the screen cast a sickly pallor over his face. ‘Pension fund slashed by eight hundred grand marks.’ His voice flattened – the way accountants recite funeral costs. ‘Did the strike help? Did it make you feel better? Did those charlatans fill your head with honor, camaraderie? Did they turn you into a fool of yet?’
‘Honor? Camaraderie?’ Jord’s eyebrows scrunched, his mouth working soundlessly before he sputtered, ‘I–What? You–’ His pulse slammed in his ears.
Then it clicked. His expression twisted. Jord lurched forward, his knuckles white against the desk’s edge. ‘You lot sent the dogs to crack skulls over a fucking–’
‘Language, Mr Whittaker.’ Hargrave tutted, sliding open a drawer with deliberate ease. He retrieved a form and placed it between them, his gaze never wavering.
‘Let’s not dwell on the past.’ A faint smile curled at the edges of his mouth. ‘After all, the City is… forgiving – provided one understands their place on the totem pole.’
Jord stared at the header: FORM 8-C: EMPLOYMENT WAIVER. The text swam with legalese gibberish: renounce past affiliations, relinquish claims of complaint, comply with the public stature.
‘Sign,’ Hargrave said, his tone now light, almost indulgent. ‘And we’ll pretend your little… mishaps over the years never took place.’ He tapped the form, fingers resting there.
A fly buzzed against the window next to him, trapped.
‘Sign, and your record disappears. A clean slate – if you will.’ He leaned back, studying Jord like a mortician keen to sharpen his craft. ‘Or keep brooding over the past. See how well that feeds you.’
Jord stared at the form, his fingers stiff, his breath shallow. And then, as if his hand no longer belonged to him, he signed.
Hargrave’s lips curled into a faint, practised smile – too smooth to be anything but rehearsed. ‘Welcome aboard, Mr Whittaker. May your tenure be long, and your efforts serve the betterment of all.’
With a swift, almost casual motion, he retrieved the signed form, tucking it neatly into a file – as if Jord’s struggle had been nothing more than protocol.
Hargrave flicked a glance at the wall clock, then back to Jord. ‘Report to the Citadel Guard’s department Monday, 07:00 sharp. Building 3, east wing. Present yourself to Officer Lory at reception.’
Jord frowned. ‘Seven? What happens if I’m late?’
Hargrave adjusted his glasses, his expression unreadable. ‘You won’t be late, Mr Whittaker.’ He tapped a finger against the desk, slow and deliberate. ‘Tardiness suggests a lack of discipline, and the Ministry has no room for the undisciplined.’
‘Right,’ Jord muttered, voice tight.
‘You’ll receive your training schedule upon arrival, along with your uniform and a copy of the Guard Code of Conduct. Read it thoroughly.’ Hargrave’s tone sharpened. ‘Failure to adhere to protocol won’t just reflect poorly on you – it will be considered a breach of contract, requiring full repayment of perceived damages.’
Jord clenched his jaw but nodded. ‘Got it.’
Hargrave leaned back. ‘Good. And one more thing – leave whatever romantic notions you have about justice at the door. The Guard doesn’t deal in ideals. We deal in order.’
Jord knew he’d been dismissed, but he wasn’t ready to leave just yet. He wanted to claw something back – just enough to make Hargrave falter.
‘I’m sorry, but–’ (he wasn’t sorry) ‘I still have a form from the receptionist. What should I do with it?’
Hargrave’s fingers drummed against the desk, just once. ‘Submit it at the Hall of Public Records. Alongside the fee.’ A pause, brief, but there. ‘Farewell, Whittaker.’
Jord stood, the moment sinking into him like a stone in deep water. Without another word, he turned and left, leaving the seat vacant for the next victim.
By the time he had submitted the paperwork at the Hall of Public Records and stepped beyond the Citadel’s walls, he felt adrift. The whole process had passed in a daze, each step dragging him further into the trap Hargrave had set. The clerk had cornered him, forcing him to confront the reason he’d never been able to climb the social ladder.
Jord couldn’t decide whether to seethe at the man’s gall or begrudgingly admire his twisted pragmatism. For now, he started trudging home, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of it all.