Dara Offen's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Dara Offen stamped the form, then read it again. The paper said twelve names were being relocated for "labor placement." But the destination box was blank, and no return date was listed. Muckrake never moved people without a return date. She had stamped ten thousand forms and never seen one hollowed out like this. Someone was emptying the city quietly, and this sheet proved it. She needed the matching archive record. That record would show where the twelve had really gone. Her supervisor stopped behind her chair. He was a wide man who counted keystamps by ear. He had heard hers go silent too long. "That form finished?" he asked. "Almost." "You've read it three times." She stamped it and slid it into the tray. He did not leave. He pulled a stool to the aisle and sat, watching her hands. Every clerk noticed. Their stamps sped up. Hers had to match. One slow beat now meant reassignment, or worse. Dara worked the stack without pause, but the odd form's archive number burned in her memory. She could not fetch it with him counting. At the shift bell, the crowd from the labor trials spilled past the hall doors. Among them came the old champion, Ezra Moss. Dara knew him the way everyone did. He had won the trials years ago and lost two fingers doing it. Now he cheered every new contest with dead eyes. He drifted to her desk, still wearing his faded sash. "You look scared," he said. "I'm working." "You're watched." He glanced at the supervisor, then at her tray. "I know that look. I wore it in the trials." She kept her voice flat. "I need the archive room. He won't stop counting." Ezra looked at her hands, then at the man on the stool. "Give me a reason to make noise." Dara understood. She dropped her stamp. It cracked loud on the tile. Ezra bent for it and "lost" his balance, spilling a tray of forms across the aisle. Papers scattered. He cursed and grabbed at the mess with his four-fingered hand. The supervisor shot up and shouted for order. Clerks rushed to help. For ten seconds, no one watched Dara. She stood, walked to the archive door, and slipped inside. She found the number, pulled the record, and folded it small against her ribs. When she returned, Ezra was still apologizing, blocking the aisle with his body. She sat and stamped as if she had never moved. The supervisor came back angry. He studied her tray, then her face. He found nothing. "Faster tomorrow," he said, and walked off. Dara breathed. The record pressed cold under her uniform. She had it now, the proof of where the twelve were sent. But the archive logged every pull by clerk number. Hers was already stamped on the empty shelf slot. By morning, someone would know exactly who took it.