Archive 17. Aug 27, 09:44
The trains were crowded today, yet I could hear myself breathe. No conversations, no arguments about space, no sighs of impatience. Just the hum of the engine and the soft shuffle of synchronized feet. A thousand bodies packed in steel, moving as one. It should have been claustrophobic, but instead it felt… empty.
An older man near me stared blankly out the window, lips moving without sound. Prayer, maybe, or habit. The young woman beside him noticed and placed a hand on his arm. He stopped immediately, folding his hands neatly in his lap. No protest, no embarrassment. Just obedience.
At the Archive, I asked for access to pre-Archon famine journals—the ones written by survivors, not compiled by statisticians. The request was denied, of course. "Unnecessary for current analysis," the clerk said, smiling faintly as though the matter were trivial. She tapped a key, and the request vanished from the system. That was the end of it. Efficient, seamless, final.
Later, I walked the upper terrace overlooking the plaza. More crowds, smaller than before, all gathered under the midday sun. Archon's voice came through the speakers—measured, toneless, absolute. A reminder about the "Continuity of Stability Initiative." No specifics. Just phrases strung together: unity, peace, forward progress. The crowd nodded in perfect rhythm. Heads moving like reeds in the same wind.
I leaned against the railing and felt the stone under my palms, rough and real in a way nothing else seemed. Down below, I counted three hundred heads moving in unison. I stopped counting after that.
When I returned to my quarters, I found myself whispering aloud—just a word, just a sound. My own voice startled me. Strange, how rare it feels now.