The Board exchanges looks. I know these faces. They want to do it clean, no drama. But Abernathy wants to enjoy it.
He leans forward, index finger tracing a line down his tablet. “This is not the first irregularity on your record. You have a history of over-compliance, but no previous insubordination. Your output metrics are in the ninety-ninth percentile, and you have never failed a reconditioning audit. Do you wish to undergo another round?”
“No.”
He waits, expecting me to add more. I do not.
He taps the glass, opening a new file. “The Board will confer. Stand by.”
The room dims as they mute the comms, audio in their favor only. I watch their mouths move, the choreography of committee politics. Two favor my termination, one is undecided, Abernathy is pushing for reconditioning, and the woman from before wants to “set an example.” I could guess which, but it doesn’t matter.
After ninety seconds, they unmute.
But before Abernathy can speak, the door to the left slides open, and my brother walks in.
He’s dressed in Ministry black, gloves on, sleeves crisp, the lines of his coat pressed to knife-sharpness. His hair is a little longer than regulation, and he walks with a limp you wouldn’t notice unless you knew to look for it.
He doesn’t bow. He doesn’t even pause. He moves to my side, then past me, and addresses the Board as if it’s his living room.
“Apologies for the interruption,” he says. “My clearance was delayed at the front desk.”
Abernathy looks like someone just pissed on his shoes. “This is a closed session, Co-Director Harrison.”
Jagger’s smile is small and sharp. “Which is why I’m here.”
The Board shifts, uneasy. Jagger is Ministry of Design, higher on the hierarchy but not usually involved in wet work or its aftermath. He stands with his hands behind his back, shoulders relaxed, every inch of him designed to project boredom.
He flicks a glance at me. “My brother is being considered for reconditioning or termination, yes?”
“Your brother broke protocol,” Abernathy says. “He undermined the Ministry’s chain of custody.”
Jagger holds up a hand. “He did, but only because he was executing an enforcement directive that supercedes your acquisition protocols.”
A pause.
“I have seen no such directive on record,” Abernathy says, voice tight.
“You wouldn’t,” Jagger says. “It’s classified above your clearance. Issued direct from the Director of Enforcement, and relayed through the family line as a test of loyalty.” He says it like it’s gospel.
The woman from before raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying your brother’s actions were… sanctioned?”
Jagger nods, slow and condescending. “It was an internal audit. To identify weaknesses in the asset transfer process.” He turns to me, smile twisting. “I’m sure my brother didn’t expect to be so… efficient.”
Abernathy’s jaw flexes. “You’re making this up.”
Jagger shrugs. “Check with Enforcement. Or don’t. It’s all above your grade.”
The Board is silent. Even the clock stops feeling important.
Jagger faces Abernathy, head tilted. “Anything else?”
Abernathy stares, then closes his file. “We will verify your story. In the interim, the Tribunal grants seventy-two hours reprieve to both Harrisons. Should your statement be false, you’ll both face review.”
Jagger bows, the smallest motion, then turns and gestures for me to follow.
We exit in silence, the glass doors sealing behind us. Jagger waits until the first corner, then leans in, voice barely audible.
“Seventy-two hours,” he says. “That’s all I could buy you. Better figure out how to get your Director on board with your mistake.”
