Dark figures stole through a murky hallway, slipping over a decrepit chair and around crumbling file cabinets.  Five passed in silence, bodies concealed with bulky wrappings.  A group of Night Owls, dissident activists driven underground by their oppressive state.

These particular Night Owls were members of the branch in Central, a city in the American heartland.  They had been summoned by their leader, Gale, to plan for an operation.  They were accustomed to stealth, necessary under the eyes of the CSA.  They were somewhat less adept at situational awareness, as none noticed the man at the far end of the corridor.

The outsider, on the other hand, was worse.  He was squatting in front of a scraggly weed sprouting from the floorboards of an old office foyer, now reduced to a courtyard.  The roof and ceiling collapsed decades ago, leaving nature to reclaim the space.

The man was young, with dark hair that hung in loose curls over his pale forehead.  His face was set with warm brown eyes, alongside features that could best be described as ‘vaguely European’.  He wore a set of beige coveralls, though with the front zipped only halfway up his chest, it was clear work hadn’t brought him into the area.

The district itself, known ironically as the Old City, was the last part of Central to be constructed, although it was the first abandoned.  It only knew a brief flutter of life before the consortium of developers responsible went bankrupt.  Legal ownership of the project passed through several hands, before falling ostensibly under control of the Federal government.  In truth, only nature lay any claim to it.

Nature, and of course an eclectic collection of rogues and wanderers.  The one, last in the line of Night Owls creeping to their secret meeting, had finally noticed the other, a man tapping incessantly on his phone screen as it diligently focused on every single thing in view except the plant in question.

Eventually he sighed, then took the shot blur and all.  He stood, and after swiping through a few menus posted it to a board for amateur naturalists, with the caption, “Sorry for the blur.  Found in a crumbling office,” then put the phone away.

The Night Owl, a young woman known as Angel amongst the shadowy group, but in reality named Lenore Zest, recognized the man from her job at the café.  His name was Arte, assuming he used his real one at the kiosk, and he always ordered the exact same drink, a double tall Americano.  He would sit in their limited collection of chairs for an hour or so, nursing his beverage, and watch the  other customers with mild interest.

Arte always arrived at seven p.m., but never on the same days from week to week.  She assumed he was a night worker who lived nearby, though finding him in the middle of Old City was working wonders on her paranoia.  It seemed unlikely a CSA spy would be wandering about so conspicuously, but the fact he wasn’t so much as covering his face meant he had to be an… unsafe sort of person.

Or, at least, that’s what Angel would have guessed, if not for the fact the man was currently fixated on a pile of leaves, studying it as though it could reveal the hidden mysteries of the cosmos.

“Hey, Angel,” a voice echoed up from a nearby stairwell.  “What’s the holdup?”

“Nothing, sorry,” she whispered back.  She gave Arte one last look, making sure he was still staring at the leaves, then dashed across the intersection and through the door to the level below.  She brushed the leg of a toppled chair on the way, sending a fine layer of rusty dust tumbling to the ground.

Arte continued examining the accumulated pile of arboreal cast-off, nudging it with his fingers while a bemused frown grew on his face.  He stood and looked around, over the crumbling wall to the outside, then in a wide circle around him.  “How did all these leaves get in here?” he muttered.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer forthcoming from the decaying surroundings, save perhaps a rusty crunch as the long abused leg of an old chair fell to the ground behind him.  Arte darted his eyes towards the noise, leaning sideways for a clear view down the hallway.

He squinted a few seconds, then shrugged and walked towards it.  He used his phone as a flashlight, taking every step with the care of a man who’d fallen through one too many floors in his lifetime.  He reached the intersection and studied the area.  His eyes found an open door down the right hand corridor, which he approached after a moment.

Inside he was greeted by a staircase overflowing with clutter and debris.  The path upward was closed off by a pile of concrete, while the other direction was mostly clear.  He descended slowly, testing every step before placing his full weight.  One floor later and he was at the bottom, facing another open door.  Just on the other side of it was a dim lamp sitting on an overturned planter.

He put away his phone and wandered forward.  A chain of similar lights guided him on, until he arrived at an old storeroom.  He paused beside the entrance, head askew as he aimed his ear ahead.  Faint voices emerged from within.

“What are you implying, Gale?” a woman said in a wary tone.

“What I’m saying, Angel, is that the time has come to take a more… proactive approach,” Gale answered.  He had a strong voice, accustomed to command.  “The OLS hasn’t beat one percent in any election in the last decade.”

“The One Law Society isn’t intended to win elections.  They provide the American people a voice of reason in politics.”

“They’re a bunch of old men grousing about the past,” Gale said.  “If we leave everything to them, nothing will ever get done.  It’s long past time we stop talking and start doing.”

“Start doing what?”

Gale let the question hang, looking over the covered faces of his companions, his own grey blue eyes shined though the mask in the dim light of the room.  His next words would determine the fate of the country, or possibly the world.  It was essential to get them right, and even more essential to deliver them with the perfect rhetorical flourish.

Gale slowly drew a breath, preparing to launch into a speech perfectly crafted to push the Night Owls into action.  Before he could let out the first word, he was interrupted by the appearance of a simple looking man in washed out coveralls.

“He makes a good point,” Arte said.  “The last time I overthought a problem, it added hours of otherwise avoidable scrubbing.”

The Night Owls were stunned to silence, each staring at the intruder with various mixtures of perplexity and terror.

Gale, no less surprised but far more accustomed to the unexpected, was the first to act.  He drew a pistol from the holster concealed on his back, aimed it at Arte, then yelled, “Who are you?”

Arte looked Gale up and down, his eyes resting on the weapon.  “Oh, is that a gun?  Bit weird to be carrying one, isn’t it?”

Angel yelped, “Gale, what are you doing?  Put that thing away!”

Gale glanced at her, then to the other Night Owls.  The group was clearly alarmed, but now in equal measure between the intrusion and his own reaction.  He lowered the barrel, but kept the weapon tight in hand.  “This guy could be an Admin.  We can’t let him walk away after this.  He needs to be taken care of.”

“An admin of what?” Arte said.  No one paid him any mind.

“I’m sure he harmless,” Angel said, although in truth she couldn’t shake an uneasy feeling about him.  Not only was he openly wandering an insecure area, but was apparently the sort who plumbed the depths of ruined buildings on a whim.  Still, she didn’t sense anything malicious from him.  She glanced at Arte.  “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes?”

“Who are you?” Gale demanded.  “And what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m Arte,” he answered.  “And I guess I figured you guys could use a hand.  There’s never anything interesting down in the basements.”

“You… want to help?”  Angel said.

“Yeah.  I’ve been at this for years, so I’ve learned a few things about exploring.  Are you guys in a club?  I didn’t realize there was one in the city.”

“A club?”

“You think we’re tourists or something?” Gale scoffed.

Arte hummed.  “I would have said amateur naturalists, but yes, aren’t you?”

“Of course not!”

“Then what are you doing out here?”

“None of your business,” snarled Gale.

Arte frowned and looked off, mumbling, “If it was my business, wouldn’t I already know?”

“Are you smarting off to me!”  He aimed his weapon again.

“Gale, relax!”  Angel said.  “This guy is clearly harmless.  He must have seen me on the way in and been curious.”

“Actually, I heard a noise and thought an animal might have gone downstairs.”  Arte said.  His words echoed to nowhere.

Gale looked around the room.  It was clear the other Night Owls thought he was overreacting, and to be honest, he was.  The intruder was some random punk, with no chance whatsoever to disrupt the plan.  He huffed and put the gun away.  The delay was manageable.  “Whatever,” Gale said.  “This meeting’s been compromised.”  He turned to Angel.  “Since you’re so concerned, you can lead him off.”

“O-okay,” Angel said.  “I’ll report back on the board as soon as possible.”  She turned to Arte.  “Alright, why don’t you come with me.”  Arte shrugged, then followed her out the room.  Once they were a short distance away she relaxed her shoulders and sighed.  “That… got a little crazy, huh?”

“You sound familiar,” Arte said.  “Have we met somewhere?”

“I-I don’t think so,” Angel said, thankful her mask concealed the sudden blush.  “What are the odds of that?”

“Probably depends on where I heard you from, right?”

“Ah, uh, yeah… I guess.”

They arrived at the stairwell and started to climb.  “So, you really weren’t down here looking for plants or animals?” Arte asked.

“N-no,” Angel said.  She thought Arte looked a little disappointed.

“Then why are you out here?” Arte said.  “These buildings are run down, you know.  It’s not safe to wander around in them.”

Angel wanted to say, ‘You’re one to talk,’ but instead she offered, “Look, Arte, it’ll be best for you to forget you saw us.”

Arte hemmed, then said, “Is that possible?”

“Please, Arte, just… just forget it, okay?  Go back to whatever you were up to, and act like this never happened.”

The bemused look on his face was not encouraging, but eventually he said, “Well, okay.  I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.”  They arrived at the edge of the clearing Arte was in earlier, shielded from the afternoon sun by a sliver of old ceiling.  Angel pushed the man into the light, then turned to walk away.  Before stepping off she said, “I won’t see you again, b-but… Arte… stay safe.”

He smiled and said, “Who are you?”

“Le—“she cut herself off with a cough, then laughed.  “Right, right.  I’m nobody.”

“Goodbye, nobody,” Arte said.  Before he could finish his wave Angel vanished into the hallway, blending into the shadow and out of sight.  He sighed and shrugged, then left the courtyard.  Out front he took a quick look around, checked his phone, and turned right, down a street that led to the inhabited parts of Central City.  He didn’t make it more than two blocks before a wave of cars covered in flashing lights and garish blue paint jobs came screeching around a corner and swerving to a stop in front of him.

A dozen men scrambled from the cars and fanned out into a semi-circle.  One of them took the lead, a man known as Chief amongst his colleagues.  He yelled, “Stop where you are!” while pointing a handgun in Arte’s general direction.  He continued, “This is the CPD!”

Arte paused and looked them over.  Each of them, except the one in front, was wearing a dark blue uniform.  They were loaded with an array of odd gadgets, distributed between their belts and bandoleers.  After a second, Arte said, “Hi.  Are you guys here looking for plants?”

They were not looking for plants, except perhaps in the general sense, where they were always on the lookout for an eclectic list of unauthorized flora.  Instead, the men—officers from the Central City Police Department—were looking for none other than Arte himself, or at least a man matching his description.  They followed Chief’s lead, and each drew a weapon of their own, aimed towards the same target.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

“Wow, that’s a lot of guns,” Arte said.  He glanced behind himself, as though expecting to find a mighty army, or at least a dangerous animal.  When nothing materialized, he returned his gaze to the men, and said, “What are the odds this would happen twice in one day?”

“I said, ‘Freeze’!” Chief yelled.  He was an exceptionally burly man, with large bushy eyebrows matched only by his own oversized mustache.  He earned his nickname not from any respect for his rank, nor in admiration for his leadership, but rather because the man was extremely bossy.  “And lay on the ground!”

“Aren’t those two instructions contradictory?”  Arte said, then looked at the road.  “And besides, it’s filthy down there.”

“I told you to get down!”  Chief yelled.  He was slowly approaching, accompanied by a handful of officers.

“I know,” Arte said.  “But what is less clear is why you expect me to do it.”

“Put your hands in the air, and get on the fucking ground.”

“The air?” Arte said.  “Is… is there some special air I don’t know about?”

Chief was about to yell again, but a nearby officer cut in, “Uh, Chief, I think this guy might be retarded.”

“Hey!  That’s rude,” Arte said.  “I’m j—“

A policeman lunged from behind, tackling Arte mid-sentence.  He made a very undignified wail during the descent, and his arms were pinned to his back with a set of metal cuffs before he could regain his composure.  A pair of officers dragged him to his feet, and began shoving him towards a nearby car.

“Am I being kidnapped?” Arte said.  “Just so you know, I don’t have much money.”

“You’re being arrested,” said the man on his right.

“You mean propelled?”

“That’s—what?”

“You said ‘arrested’, but you’re pushing me forward,” Arte said.  “That would be propelled, right?”

“You some kind of smart ass?”

“More confused, really.”

“Well, they’ll sort you out at the station,” the officer said as he forced Arte into the car and slammed the door.  There was another pair of policemen already in the front seat, separated from the rear by a piece of thick plastic.

Arte leaned forward and said, “If you guys aren’t kidnapping me, could you make this quick?  I have a shift later, and I’m coming up on two years never missing a day.  There’s a bonus for that, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said the man behind the wheel.  He pulled away while the officers on the ground went through the routine of documenting a crime scene.

“Doesn’t have to be so rude,” Arte muttered.  The policemen ignored his complaint, and instead drove him out of the Old City and into the heart of downtown Central.  After twenty minutes of travel, they arrived at a squat concrete structure, and Arte was manhandled out of his seat and into the building.  The words, “To Protect and Serve,” were written in bold letters over the door.

Inside they processed him, taking his name and personal effects, then ferried him deeper, depositing him in a dreary room with a huge mirror on one wall.  He was sat down in one of a set of uncomfortable metal chairs around a matching table, then left to sit in solitude.  They gave him the courtesy of un-cuffing his hands, so he was free to lightly rap the table to pass the time.

Eventually, a pair of men burst into the room.  One was none other than Chief, a detective in the department, although not considered a very good one.  The other was a tall man in a black suit, with close cropped hair and a stern, military glare.

“So, Arte,” Chief started, while he read the contents of a manilla folder, “Arte… uh….  You ain’t got a last name or something?” he scoffed.

“I never changed my name?”  Arte said.  “To be honest, I never even thought about it.  Is that a thing people do?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”  Chief said.

“What are you talking about?” Arte answered.

“You mouth off to me one more f—“

“What my associate is inquiring after,” cut in the man in the fine suit, “is your family name.”

“My family called me Arte too.”

“Seig,” Chief said.  “I don’t know why you sent me after this stupid motherfucker, but I am about two fucking seconds from—“

“Quiet,” Seig said.  He returned to Arte.  “Are you saying you only have the one name?”

Arte shrugged.  “Arte is the only thing anyone’s ever called me.  If I’m supposed to have some other name, I don’t know what it is.  I could make one up, if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Seig said.

“Shouldn’t it be on his ID?” Chief asked.

“He didn’t have one on his person.  His only effect was a phone, a nonstandard model your system was unable to access.”

“What’s an ID?” Arte asked.

“No more of your dumb question,” Chief said.  ”You’re here to answer ours.  But first, do you want a lawyer?”  After an awkwardly long moment of silence, Chief snapped, “Well, spit it out!”

“You told me to stop asking questions,” Arte said.  “And I don’t know what a lawyer is.”

Chief glared at him.  “He’s someone to help answer our questions.”

“Oh!  That sounds useful,” Arte said.  “Shouldn’t I then?”

“Only if you’re a criminal scumbag trying to skirt the law,” Chief said.

“And… that would be a bad thing?”

“Yes!”

“Well, okay.  Still, your questions are very confusing,” Arte said.  “I could probably use one of those law dudes anyway.”

Chief hissed, but Seig stepped in and said, “That won’t be necessary.  The detective and I will be more than happy to explain things.”  He glared and Chief.  “Isn’t that right?”

Chief huffed, then shrugged.

“See, everything will be fine,” Seig said.

“Well, alright,” Arte said.  “Just promise to stop yelling at me.”

“Of course.”

“So, what did you want to ask?”

“Finally!” Chief said.  “What were you doing in Old City?”

Arte perked up.  “Oh!  I was collecting pictures for my club!  We trade images of plants and stuff, then figure out what they are.  Everyone’s very interested in what I can find in an abandoned city.”

“Your… club?” Chief said with a frown.  “For taking pictures of rats and weeds?”

“I was skeptical too,” Arte said, still beaming.  “But an app on my phone suggested I give it a try and it turned out super fun.  There’s so much to learn, and the guys in the group are very friendly.”

“Right.  And during your National Geographic adventures did you happen upon any suspicious characters?”

“Well, a bunch of weirdos in blue kidnapped me, but you know more about them than I do.”

“The police are not suspicious characters.”

Arte shrugged.  “News to me.”

“Whatever.  Did you see anyone else?”

“Nope.”  Arte smiled.  “You were the first.”

Chief grinned.  “Ah, so you didn’t happen to meet a group of suspected terrorists?”

Arte gave him a long look, than said, slowly, “What’s a terrorist?  Sounds scary.”

“Quit playing dumb,” Chief snapped.  He drew a photo from his manilla folder and tossed it on the table.  It clearly showed Arte and Angel together in the decaying office.

Arte leaned over, carefully examining its contents.  “Who’s that?” He asked, pointing at Angel.

Chief was briefly taken aback by Arte’s earnest expression, but he grit his teeth and snarled, “That’s what we’re asking you!”

“Well, I don’t know.”  Arte shrugged.  “I never met them.”

Chief stared at him, dumbstruck.  Even Seig was a little stunned by the blatant lie.  Before the detective could properly start frothing at the mouth, Seig stepped in.  “We literally have a picture of you two standing face to face.”

“Obviously,” Arte said.  “What’s your point?”

“It… is an absolute, undeniable fact you’ve met this person.  You can see it right there for yourself.”

“And yet I remember nothing about it.”

“It wasn’t even an hour ago!” Chief said.

“You promised no yelling.”

Chief started to speak, or perhaps hiss would be a more apt description, but Seig waved him down and spoke instead.  “It was, in fact, quite recent.  It seems incredibly unlikely you forgot in such a short amount of time.”

“I suppose I’m really good at it,” Arte said.

Seig took on an amiable tone.  “You realize how an incident like this will reflect on your record, don’t you?  Protecting suspected terrorists?  It could have very… limiting effects on your Safety Score.”

“Screw his fucking Score,” Chief spat.  “Doesn’t this rat know it’s illegal to lie to the police?”

Seig nodded sagely.  “The detective makes a good point.  Obstruction of justice carries a very weighty penalty.”

Both men stared at Arte expectantly.  He held their gaze a few seconds, before saying, “What’s a Safety Score?”

“That’s it you smart ass motherfucker,” Chief yelled.  He grabbed Arte by the collar and pulled him forward.  Before he could make up his mind as to whether he should throw him back or else pin him face first into the table, the detective was yanked away by another pair of hands.  Chief looked up to see none other than the actual Chief of Police holding him.  He sprung to his feet and said, “S-sir!  I—  I was—“

“Can it!” snapped his boss.  “And leave him be.  We’re letting him go.”

“What!” Chief said.  Even Seig was surprised by the announcement.  “I… we can’t just—“

“He’s a Class B.”

The air rushed from the room as everyone absorbed the proclamation, frozen in shock.  Everyone except Arte, who casually looked between each of the suddenly stiff men, then asked, “What’s a Class B?”  After an awkward minute of silence, Arte continued, “Uh, okay…?  Guess I’ll leave.  Can I have my phone back?”

“Your things will be returned at the entrance,” the Chief said.  “I’ll escort you out.”

Arte stood, confusion painted on his face, and followed the Chief out the room.  The other two remained perfectly motionless, not giving so much as a sigh before Arte and his guide were well out of earshot.  The Chief walked at a crisp pace, reluctant to do more than periodically glance back to check Arte was still following.

Meanwhile, Arte struggled to match speed, and eventually had to trot after him.  He asked, “What was that about?”

The Chief shook his head and said, “Just… just leave.”

They continued in silence to the front door, where a young woman approached with Arte’s phone.  She held it delicately, as though the device could emit foul toxins or deadly rays at the slightest pressure.  Arte took it, and the woman scurried from sight before he could put it away.  The Chief gave him a wide berth and motioned towards the entrance.

Arte smiled awkwardly.  “I’d say it was nice meeting you, but it wasn’t.  Have a good day,” he said, then stepped through the door and down the short stairs to the sidewalk below.

He spent a moment looking about, clearly unsure of his location, before pulling out his phone and unlocking the screen.  It rang before he could do anything else.  Arte eyed the device warily, holding it at arms length.  After the third ring, he tentatively swiped up and held the phone to his ear.

“Um… hi?” he said.

“Hello Mr. Bodrum, this is Maribel from Psa Psa.  I’m calling to check in after your incident with the CPD.  … Hello?  Mr. Bodrum?”

“Ah, sorry,” Arte said.  “I think you have the wrong guy.  I mean, I was tangled up with something, so, uh, maybe it’s related to that?”

Maribel laughed.  “No, I’m confident you’re who I’m looking for.  Isn’t this the phone of one Mr. Arte Bodrum?”

“My name is Arte,” he said slowly.  “Though I’ve never heard the name Bodrum before.”

“Our records indicate that’s your last name.  Are they in error?  We can update them now, if you’d like.”

“I… didn’t know I had a last name.”  Arte blushed and scratched the back of his neck.

“Your par—ah, I mean, must not have come up, sorry.  Still, you were registered with Psa Psa under the name Arte Bodrum twenty years ago, with the same phone and contact key you’re using today.  In fact, you can find the records I’m looking at right now in the Psa Psa app.”

“‘Saw Saw’?”

“Yes, it’s spelled p-s-a p-s-a,” Maribel said.  “I believe the icon is a green man wearing a trench coat on a white background, like those old neighborhood watch signs.”

Arte lowered his phone and set it to speaker, then swiped through a few screens.  After tapping around a bit, he lit up and said, “Oh yeah!  I remember this.  It told me to get a job.”

Maribel giggled.  “Yes, it referred you to our Contractor Connect program.  How is your relationship with Crown working out, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“It’s fun.  The city is real pretty at night, and I get to travel all over while no one’s out.  Plus I like tinkering around in food cubes.  Very clever contraptions, I think.”

“Happy to hear it,” Maribel said.  “We’re very proud of our Life Planning service.  I’ll share your sentiments with the team.”

“Sure thing,” Arte said.  He tapped a few more times on his phone.  “Ah… well I be, my name really is Arte Bodrum.”

“Good, you found your records.”

“Wow… there sure is a lot of ‘missing information’ in here.”

“You choose the default data collection option,” Maribel said.  “So that’s only what you’ve told us explicitly, plus your feedback with our programs.  Would you like to change that?”

“No?  I’m fine with whatever’s normal.”

“Sure thing.  Do you have any questions, or would you like to start our discussion about your incident with the CPD.”

“Honestly, I have so many,” Arte said.  “But I don’t want to waste any more of your time.”

“It’s not a waste, Arte,” she said cheerfully.  “It’s my job to help you any way I can.  You can take as long as you like.”

“R-really?”

“Yes, of course.  I could talk you to sleep if you like, then call again tomorrow to continue where we left off.”

Arte blushed.  “W-why exactly do I deserve that kind of service?”

Maribel laughed.  “Well, I don’t know about deserve, but you are enrolled in our Platinum Deluxe plan.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“Our records indicate you enrolled on your eighteenth birthday, when your membership under your parents expired.”

“Oh… that was a while ago.”

“Yep, and you’ve been in good standing ever since.”

“Well, I guess, then, if you don’t mind,” Arte said, “there are a few things I’d like to know.  Promise you won’t yell though.  I made a lot of people angry today for not knowing stuff.”

“Of course I won’t,” Maribel said kindly.  “And I’m sorry you had to deal with that.  What do you need me to explain?”

“Ah, right now?”  Arte laughed.  “It feels like everything, but for starters, what the heck is Psa Psa?  I get that I’m a member, but… a member of what?  It’s nothing I’ve ever heard of.”

“That is surprising,” Maribel said.  “But it seems you’ve lived in a federal city your whole life, so maybe it’s not unusual.  In any case, Psa Psa is more formally known as the Public Safety Alliance Private Social Association.  It is, as the name suggests, a private social association.”

“And what’s a social association?”

“That… is a good question.”  Maribel hummed.  “I guess it’s something I take for granted.  You can think of it as a type of club.  They act as a third party to vouch for your character in business, and mediate any disputes you have.  Psa Psa also bills itself as a ‘full service’ association, so we handle things like vendetta, several types of insurance, and a pretty wide range of other services.”

“Uh… vendetta?”

“It’s like insurance,” Maribel said.  “If, God forbid, someone were to kill or leave you incapacitated, we’d pursue them on your behalf to seek restitution.  It’s one of those things generally recommended to purchase, especially since it isn’t usually that expensive, though it does vary somewhat by location.”

“Oh… I guess that sounds… helpful?” Arte said.  “So… how does that whole ‘federal’ thing you mentioned fit into this?”

“There’s a whole history there,” Maribel said.  “Which, to be honest, I’m not personally very familiar with.  That’s just what we call areas without many associates.”

“Wait… you mean there are people not in an association?  That’s an option?”

“Yes, of course, it’s always voluntary,” Maribel said.  “And I’d wager most of the people you meet day to day aren’t associates either.  I don’t know how it works, but they call themselves citizens.  I think it’s like being in a social association?  But you don’t get to choose, and I’m pretty sure you aren’t allowed to leave.”

Arte hemmed.  “I… I know I’m new to all this, but doesn’t that sound kind of… weird?”

Maribel laughed.  “Ah, yeah, it does seem strange….  Maybe don’t quote me on them.  I usually only interact with citizens through the Treaty Court—a special mediation service between associates and federals—so I’ve never concerned myself with the inner workings.”

“Do you have to do that a lot?”

“Not really.  It’s rare to find associates living with federals.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t say for sure, but the people at the Treaty Court are… difficult to work with, to put it politely, so if everyone’s like that, it makes sense.”

Arte laughed weakly.  “Given what just—“

“Would you mind not standing in front of our building all day?” said a voice behind Arte, who leapt away with a yelp, launching his phone down the sidewalk.  The man who spoke was a dark skinned giant, and he flinched when Arte cried out.  He was also the Chief of Police, who spent the last fifteen minutes anxiously waiting to see if the Class B would leave on his own.

“Ah!  Sorry, sorry,” Arte said as he scrambled to retrieve his phone.  He plucked it off the ground and gave an awkward wave to the Police Chief before scurrying away.

“What was that?  Is something wrong?”  Maribel was yelling over the speaker.

“No, sorry,” Arte said.  “One of those police guys asked me to leave.”

Maribel laughed and sighed with relief.  “You were standing in front of the station?”

Arte blushed.  “I, uh don’t know the way home, and you called before I could check.”

“That’s quite alright.  Why don’t you get your bearings, then we can discuss your incident.”

“Okay, give me a minute.”  Arte swiped and tapped through a few menus, until finding a map and getting his bearings, then started walking.  “Done, I figured it out.  So, you wanted to talk about my, uh, kidnapping?”

Maribel laughed.  “I think ‘imprisonment’ might be more accurate, although they have some other word… starts with an A?”

“Arrest?”

“Yeah, that’s it.  I guess it’s like being trespassed, but from society.”

“Trespassed?”

“Forcibly removed, you know, if you’re causing problems, or whatever.”

Arte hummed.  “Do they take you to a tiny room and yell at you?”

“No.”  Maribel chuckled.  “I mean, who would even pay for that?  What happens after depends significantly on the nature of the problem, as well as who’s in what association.  In general, though, if someone’s being worse than a nuisance they lose Standing and have to do something to earn it back.”

“Something?” Arte said.

“It varies wildly,” Maribel answered.  “There’s hundreds of associations, and some couldn’t be more different from each other.”

“Well, how does Psa Psa handle it?”

“Our response is always tailored to the nature of the offense,” Maribel said  “As an example, if a member were to get drunk and start a fight in a bar, breaking someone’s nose in the process, we might put them through drug and anger counseling, and have them pay damages.”

“What if they don’t want to deal with that?”

“Well, they won’t have Standing with Psa Psa anymore, which can make it hard to interact with most firms, in particular to work for them.  It’s also difficult to find businesses willing to do high stakes transactions, like real estate or investing, with someone who doesn’t have Standing somewhere.”

“Couldn’t they join another association?”  Arte asked.

“Sure,” Maribel said.  “But a lot of them will check new applicants with other companies, and if you’ve got a breach of Standing, at the very least you’ll end up making amends in the other association.  Plus, even if you find some association that won’t check, whoever you hurt—or rather their association—is likely to find you at the new company and file a claim anyway.”

Arte hummed.  “So, how does this stuff relate to whatever those blue people wanted from me?  Am I in trouble with you guys now?”

“No, I don’t think so.”  She laughed.  “You haven’t been participating in any terrorist plots, have you?”

“I, uh, don’t even know what that is.  I can say, at least, I haven’t done anything interesting or scary… ever.  What’s a terror plot thing supposed to be, anyway?”

“I’m… not actually sure.”  She chuckled.  “I think it’s something violent, but beyond that your guess is as good as mine.  I probably should look in to it though, all things considered.”

“Really, why?”

“In case the CPD has follow up questions, or they want to argue your behavior was contrary to your standing.”

Arte sighed.  “You mean I have to talk to the angry mustache man again?”

Maribel laughed.  “No, most likely not.  When dealing with associates, federal investigators are required to conduct interviews through your representative, which in this case would be me.  I mean, unless you want to hire a third party.  I can walk you through the process, if you’d like.”

“That, uh, won’t be necessary,” Arte said.  “I wouldn’t know how to pick one.”

“I can walk you through that too,” Maribel said playfully.

“Maybe later, I gotta rush home to make my next shift.  Is there anything I should do for now?”

“Not really.  Try not to get too far from your phone until we have everything worked out.  I’ll likely contact you in a couple days after the CPD makes a formal request.”

“Alright, sounds easy enough.  You have a good evening then.”

“You too, Arte, and don’t hesitate to call if you have questions.  You can find my contact in the Psa Psa app.”