Parable of the Retaining Wall & Other Short Stories

The Praetor

As the clocks crept towards nine, Hector adjusted the items on his desk so they sat at perfect right angles, the sun projecting through the full-wall windows at sixty five degrees. Leaning over to one of the glass panes of his corner office, he peered down from his perch, and cast his gaze to the insects which roamed the street below.

A majority were unmistakably Equestrian, but a large portion also appeared to be Plebeians. As his fingers begun to curl and brow furrow, Hector looked away from the people beneath him, and turned back to his neat glass box.

Running his finger down the list, he saw that his first appointment was a consultancy. That was his primary role at the Justice Bureau, but occasionally other tasks were placed before him. They provided a pinch of pepper to an otherwise monochrome broth, but in order to preserve the quality of his services, Hector begun the process of convincing himself that he was excited at the opportunity.

Nine bells rang, and the door opened as Hector tightened his tie and adjusted his smooth, strict hair. His gloved fingers curled up as he saw what had entered, his posture so brittle it could have been shattered with a breath. It took a seat as he smoothed out his hands, moistening his eyes in attempt to preserve some time for panic.

"Hello?" She asked, "I'm here for a consultancy. I'd... like to press charges against somebody."

Smiling and nodding with strained effort, Hector slid his typewriter across his desk so it sat before him. Avoiding eye contact with his client, he placed the application inside the device and lined up the point of contact with the neat boxes that made up the parchment. Hector asked her name.

"Bonnie Murphy," She plainly told him, sitting uncomfortably in her seat. Hector wondered if his discomfort had become contagious. He asked her class.

"Plebeian," She informed him softly. It was as if she didn't want anybody to hear her say it. Somewhat bitterly, Hector resented such an action. As if it wasn't already clear in her demeanour. He asked her what charges she was making.

"Assault," She replied, "Violent crime. What kind of crime would a bashing be?"

Hector told her that it would depend on the content. Finally adjusting to the situation, he allowed himself to look at her without tension. Her dirty common clothes juxtaposed against the serene beauty of the bespoke room that indulged her with its elegance. She probably hadn't been in a room this nice in all her life. Hector continued to type away, allowing his mind to slip into that of a machine. Politely, he inquired who she was charging.

"Julian Faraday," She murmured, even quieter than she had stated her class.

Before so much as a key had been struck, Hector paused at this statement in a sense of disbelief. Julian Faraday, the political and industrial magnate, existed as an image rather than as a person. He had kept a firm wall of glass between himself and the rest of the world, allowing others to see him as he wished to be seen. That was to say, barely at all.

Faraday held so much weight that his ego had grown grotesquely muscled with the burden, while his delicate conscience lay malnourished to its side. Nevertheless, his actions had always been distant and methodical. The bridge between business and straight-up assault seemed tremendous in scope, and the believability of such a voyage would be questionable. That wasn't even mentioning his class.

Patricians didn't commit crime. They made mistakes, of course, but the crime rate for the upper tiers of society was effectively zero. Hector had not heard of a single offence concerning a Patrician pass through the Justice Bureau. Or, at the very least, through his office. After typing in the name, Hector asked the woman to outline what Faraday had allegedly done.

"So, I was out at night, right," She began, "And I was with a couple of girl friends, and later on we were on out way home, but then this guy in a black suit was passin' us by and I kinda nudged him a bit. You know, just sorta like how you'd do if you was passin' by and there ain't enough room on the street. And then he goes all agro and gets upset, and I tell him, 'mister, I don't wanna fight, I just wanna go,' and he punches me in the gut. I fall, bash my head on the sidewalk, and then..."

Bonnie's voice started to grow shaky, and Hector felt an iciness build up inside of him as she attempted to compose herself. There was a raw nature to what she was saying, as if Hector was examining a wound that was yet to heal. Clenching her fists, Bonnie looked up at Hector, and he felt his head grow denser and hotter. Feeling guilt begin to form in his heart, Hector silently agreed to treat this Plebeian kinder than he had intended to. Internally, at least.

"And then..." Bonnie continued, "He started... his feet hit me, you see. He stomped on me, tread on me. Again and again and again and I screamed for help and my friends grabbed 'im, but he shoved them off and stormed away as I was there in the dark street, just wheezin' and... I... I couldn't..."

Her tear-stricken, deep hazel eyes locked onto Hector's as he peered over the typewriter. Hector felt his pity well up within him, and his morality begun to battle against his mind. But, if he was to allow sympathy to dictate over common sense, he would be destroying his own credibility, career and livelihood. Besides, she was a Plebeian. She could just have been wanting money.

This task required analysis and logic, and with a breath, Hector allowed a clean metal wolf to triumph over it's opposite of flesh and bone. Resting his hands on his desk, he looked at the woman with cold, unsympathetic eyes.

"Julian Faraday is a Patrician," Hector informed her, "As such, he has access to the finest attorneys in the nation. His response would undoubtedly be an objection, in order to preserve his image, and as such you would receive nothing. All you would receive would be legal fees you clearly could not afford. I am here to provide a consultancy, and to recommend your further action. My recommendation is to drop all charges. It is the only action viable at this moment, given the current circumstances."

It was as if the woman's very being had shattered before him. Her fragments were in near disbelief at Hector's words, and while he did feel guilt, he knew his words were true. Her mind looped and spun in circles as his advice begun to decipher itself. Until, after a few silent moments, she understood.

With a polite nod, the woman stood up and left the room. With a single motion, the form was stamped with a large 'void,' and placed in a drawer for later disposal. And, with a flick, Hector rung the bell atop his desk. And, like clockwork, in marched his next client.