Sir, There's Talk of a Revolution

Guilty

Black. Black writing. The walls of the Assist's chamber was filled, top to bottom, side to side, with black writing. The white walls had nearly been painted entirely in the gloomy, dark colour. Names, dates, places, notes, theories, evidence. The number of markers she had taken from the Supply was enough to cause concern. She didn't care. What she cared about was getting to the centre of all of it, to find out who it was. Who was the one that was going to take over. She knew it would happen, everything that happened led to the same ending. Someone was inching closer and closer to their dreams, cold and calculated dreams.

Lines from each name - the Assigner, the Supply, the Fixer, even herself - went all over the walls, some even spilling onto the floor or ceiling. Those who told the same story, those who told a different one - each had a line. The circles, the friends, the families - a line. Who was here the longest? The shortest? Little notes about who was angry at who, when, why, who had everything to lose, everything to gain. Everything was documented.

Who had gotten suddenly friendly with her? Suddenly rude? Asked too many questions? Asked everybody the same questions? Sceptical about everything, believing nothing. Who was like that? Who was it? Who was it? Who was it?

She knew it was someone on board. Someone who was in the background, quiet, overlooked, deserving of more. Yes, yes, that was right. It was someone who believed they were going to get what they deserved for so long. So, so long that they couldn't wait any longer. No, they had to jump for it, to hunt, to attack, to kill. Because, as they had learnt from years and years on this ship, that was how you got the things you wanted.

But why now? No, she thought, that wouldn't make any sense. Nobody like that, too eager, too impatient, would wait until now.

So it had to be someone else. Maybe someone who was new. Someone who did not expect to be thrusted into such an evil world where not knowing was death itself. Maybe they understood so much, knew so much, that they went too far. They must believe that violence, the sneaky, hidden in the dark type of attack was not only necessary, it was vital. The only way to survive. No other way. Someone who feared the death that so many on the damned ship had faced that they were willing to do anything for someone else, anyone but them, to be next.

But who could that be? She herself, the Assist theorised, was the last member to join and she knew for sure that she wasn't beating members unidentifiable. Unless, of course, someone had managed to sneak on from the Mother Vessel. What was the likelihood that no one would notice a new member? That members who, for years - ten for some, two for others, five for many - did not recognise a new person on the ship?

No, no. It can't be. She drew a few more lines. There were many things going on before she came. But all by one person? If everybody was a suspect for the exact same reason, the culture, the embracing of such violent, cruel, inhuman behaviour, then who was to say that there was only one member who did all those horrific things?

The Assist held onto her head harshly. She needed to create a whole new section of her web.

She stared at the centre of her work where 'ASSIGNER', 'SUPPLY', 'FIXER' and 'ASSIST' was written. She needed to know how she fit into it all. She may not at all, but she very well could have played a major role without knowing. She wanted to know.

She reflected upon the last few interactions she had with the Supply. Odd. Very odd. She thought back to his distant and cold manner when she first arrived, when he was still the Assigner. Then to his agitated ranting about the old Supply. Then, to his swearing as the new Supply, staring at the key she handed him with such longing and anticipation. Was he capable? Was he really capable of brutal actions against someone he was close with? Someone he was so concerned about? Did he not care anymore now that he occupied a space he desired for so long? Even if the space was his dead friend's? Dead, murdered friend?

Were they even friends? Acquaintances? Colleagues? Strangers who occasionally passed by one another? No. They were more than that, they were friends. They had to be friends.

She drew more lines from his name.

Her hand moved over to the Assigner's name. She sighed. She barely knew anything about the boy.

Perhaps, she began to scribble rapidly, that was the perfect position to be in. Important. Powerful. Influential. Yet, unknown. How did he even become Assigner? No one wanted to talk about it, even the Captain was unwilling to direct the conversation into that direction. Did that mean the boy wasn't his choice? Was he ordered by someone else? On the ship? Someone from outside? He never really liked young, inexperienced members in positions of power.

Then, she realised, why was she there? She was young, inexperienced. No one questioned her, her role, her work. She would have expected it, even prepared for it. Did no one want to become Assist? Was the role of Captain, the highest superiority on the ship, the peak of all member ambition? A position of leadership, to protect and serve his members. Though through a thin veil, of course, divorcing him from his herd. Was that what they wanted? The name, the title? Wasn't the role of Assist the perfect stepping stone to that?

The Assist stood back to assess. For every line she then drew, there was a time she recalled her work was questioned, or warned of the dangers that came with it. The old Supply's warnings of the Captain. The warnings of the Captain himself; the lessons he had supposedly learnt from his time on the ship. The piercing blue eyed Cinderella, the colour of the clear skies, a lame excuse of an Assist - disturbing and sinister - the case study in which the Captain hoped to molde his new Assist. Each version of his story was written; strength, trust, honour.

Her mind began to melt. Was she in any real danger? Was she in the way of the glorious path to Captain? There was no more room on the walls for the thoughts in her head to escape to. They built on top of one another, upon a insecure foundation of fear and paranoia, growing so tall that it could have collapsed at any moment. These thoughts and theories and possibilities, they created such a dreaded feeling within her. Her stomach would churn so painfully, filled with anxiety, that she had no appetite. The flood within her brain prevented her from fulfilling her duties as expected, whether she could not remember her role or simply refused to remember as she sulkily hid in her room was unknown to her colleagues. She could not sleep. She barely communicated with others. When she did, she lied. To everyone, about everything.

In her quest to find answers, at the expense of her deteriorating condition, all she had managed to do was raise suspicion against herself. Whilst she was eagerly searching for the one, she was the one to the members of the mighty ship. The one who was scheming. She, they concluded, was the member who would eventually unmercifully murder the Captain and with the roar like that of the king of the jungle, take his position. Captain of the glorious, marvellous ship, world renowned and well respected. It did not help that she self-isolated.

The longer the Assist kept to herself, the stronger the sentiment towards her by the members.

She was guilty.