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Can you believe it? It's the return of the story! It's still not up to my standards, and it's running away with itself. Let's hope it doesn't get too long, or you all will be yelling at me for a conclusion.

Tattle-Tale
Part 2


Pallid beige hallways belied the tension heavily apparent in the hallways of the Conservatory. I was following the cannonball with legs that was my guide. The Admittance Men rarely spoke aloud to Transfer-Mediates such as me, and this particular fellow was no different than the rest of them. I didn’t mind, even though I was wary of his presence. Admittance men held more influence than the general public really knew. In fact they acted as our own police force and seemed to hold more power than Corporate Law itself. But like most people say, “No one is above the law.”

After a brief stint inside an elevator, a few short, sterile hallways, and a non-descript, locked door, we reached my destiny: a freshly carpeted and freshly-painted room with no mirrors or windows. Brushed aluminum legs supported a narrow, armless leather chair placed in the middle of the space. The indigo seat was obviously meant for me, but as is policy, I wasn’t to take my seat until beckoned to do so. My Admittance Man left without a sound, closed the door, and I was left to peruse my surroundings more carefully.

Rooms such as these were numerous since civilian meetings with Bloodhounds were quite frequent. Employee meetings, however, were rare. I found myself in the unique situation of actually sweating. Climate control was rampant throughout; even the most scant droplets were a rare sight.

Waiting.

Waiting.

“Knock Knock!”

A lean man with a slender face and dark complexion calmly opened the door, and motioned for me to take my seat.

“’Morning. I trust I haven’t kept you standing.”

“No, sir. I actually like to stand, I feel lazy being seated.” If there was anything Bloodhounds detested, it was a sloth.

“Hmph. Well I see that you’ve been shorn recently. I take it you anticipated our conversation?”

“As well as I could.”

“Fine. Comfortable?”

“Slightly. I don’t believe my job is to be comfortable.”

“Fine.”

He was trying to confuse me with small talk before revealing his point. Most Bloodhounds were known for their conversational techniques. Not that many ever recounted the full events of a conversation with a Bloodhound. It was a testament to their skill that no one could actually remember what they had talked about.

“Where’d you purchase that suit? I believe I own one quite like it.” Not unusual, we were all uniformly attired; whether we did it consciously was another matter entirely.

“Off of Williams and 15th, where we all get our suits.” My tongue-in-cheek reply was not amusing as he moved around the chair to stand behind my back.

“Williams, I believe you actually live very close to that corner, as your records state.” He was again, beating around the bush. “Do you know a lot of your neighbors?”

“Policy dictates I remain solitary for long periods of time.” True. “People come to my door, but only to deliver my mail.” False. Lying wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but white lies were harmless.

“Truthfully, please don’t toy with me.”

An annoyed sigh escaped my lips, “My neighbors do come over occasionally. They ask whether or not I can housesit, watch their cat, whatever. I do happen to try and be a decent person in my spare time.”

“Honorable.”

“May we go on? I do have a job to return to.”

"This is your job. Any conversation is good for business.” He was right of course. “So please, reiterate your position within the Corporation, please.”

“I’m a mid-level Transfer-Mediate, specializing in the Urban Sector.”

“And what are your duties?”

“As a Transfer-Mediate, I facilitate the implementation of new Corporate Technologies within public domain.”

“Where in your job description does it state that you are allowed to exceed the boundaries of your position.”

“Nowhere. My position is permanent unless altered by yourself or those with Corporate Leeway.”

“Whether you know it or not, you’ve violated your mandate, Transfer-Mediate.”

Ants crawled down my throat, my heart was replaced with a hummingbird, and the skin on my palms became soaked sponges. He’d been using small talk to set me at ease, but this statement was orchestrated to demolish my relaxation. My mind stretched itself attempting to remember an instance where I may have neglected my mandate. The sallow look in the Bloodhound’s eyes told me the answer was not only forthcoming, but also unpleasant.