The Collector

by Luna, David

  Neil dusts himself off as falling ash sprinkles down, surviving his second explosion of the day. He and the squad of SEOs check in on one another. Scratches, bruises, and torn uniforms, but no major injuries.

  Neil yanks Brock upright, who sulks from the Brigade’s failed martyr attempt. The SEOs naturally part and form a line while Neil escorts his prisoner through. Most of them glare at Brock, while others nod their head and acknowledge Neil’s good work.

  After so many of their fellow SEOs and Collectors have been killed, and with the weight of Wade’s Breach of Contract still lingering in the Agency’s shadow, the Agency needed this victory. The SEOs needed this victory. Neil needed this victory. For the first time ever since the Brigade’s inception, they finally have a member of the opposition in custody.

  ******

  Under The Sea

  I propose a new Sector to be built underneath the Bay. Think about it, within the confines of the Wall we’re limited for space, but there is no Wall out in the Bay! While expanding the city won’t help with the water shortage, at least it’ll give us more room. It sounds ambitious, but this city is full of ambitious people, right?

  I admit this wasn’t my idea. I stopped off at the library again today. They just got more book donations!

  -Quado

  14

  Neil stands on the cliff overlooking the city by the bay. After his hard fought victory, he soaks in the view to remind himself all that he is fighting for. Though his mind should be preoccupied replaying the events that unfolded just hours ago – delivering Brock to the Agency and celebrating with his colleagues – Neil can’t help but wonder what Inna would say at the sight of his arm wrapped in gauze again. Leon’s grazing bullet shredded his 3-stripe arm badge, something she’s already repaired once yet he can’t seem to keep intact. Would she quip how at least her wagon wasn’t destroyed in this particular run-in with the Brigade? Would she make a joke about her hard work fixing his uniform gone to waste? Or even worse, would she even care? He recalls their interaction at the gala, awkward and unexpected, and they didn’t exactly clarify whether they were on good terms or not.

  Neil’s gaze naturally shifts to the landfill as he holds the Dream Catcher in hand, the same pendant he tried to give Inna back at the Bayou Sector before their unexpected first kiss, intended to filter out the bad and leave only the good. The webbing shows its first sign of age, matching its musty smell, as a few stray strands begin to come undone.

  “Compassion makes us weak.” Slayter’s words replay in his mind, followed by a wide range of disturbing thoughts. Is he weak? Is he losing the ability to stomach the job, the same thing that happened to his rookie Wade? He’s been doing this job for years, why is he suddenly having these types of doubts? As Mazer so elegantly reminded him while they conversed on the balcony back at Headquarters, he knew what he was signing up for just like each and every volunteer who signs up to sell their life.

  As Neil watches a SectorLink tram transport people out of the Downtown Sector, his eyes land on the processing facility where black smoke continues to infest the air. Yes, he knew what he was signing up for. He remembers what drove him to that decision in the first place. The teasing he experienced in reform school. All the other young boys branding his brother a coward for selling himself to the Agency and abandoning Neil as an orphan. He lost count the number of black eyes he endured from fighting to defend his brother’s honor. It was during one of these fights where he and Mazer first encountered one another. While visiting the reform school, it was Mazer who pulled Neil aside, still in that young development age – malleable, influenceable – and implanted the idea that there is no better way to uphold his brother’s honor than to join the Academy. It was the first of many times that Mazer told him he saw potential from him to become a Collector. As far as Neil knows, he is the only one Mazer has ever taken under his wing like that. Mazer became a father figure to him, having lost his own child at a young age, and the Agency became Neil’s home. He never once doubted the system, and even now he doesn’t doubt it. It’s necessary. And it’s quite simple really. There are too many people in the city for the resources available, so people need to go. What better and more humane method to solve this issue than to ask for volunteers? Things could have been much more barbaric if it was mandatory or if people were chosen from a lottery and forced to die against their will, but the Agency doesn’t operate like that. Yes, the volunteer aspect is the way to go, and he’s heard it is this opportunity of choice that separates their city from some of the others in the surrounding region. He acknowledges that it’s morbid, but without it the people could not survive. Even now with all that they’ve done, there is still so much pain and suffering in the valley below. The Agency is just trying to minimize that suffering.

  So it is not a doubt in the system that currently plagues Neil. It is more of a burden, something he never felt before. The burden of transporting one to their death. The burden of punishing Breachers who try to cheat the system, yet at the end of the day are just trying to survive another day – exactly what he and the Agency are doing on a fundamental level. And then there is another burden he never realized before: the burden of giving up the right to an assigned partner and the right to the ability to feel. Up until now it is like he’s been living in a haze, and only recently – since he first crossed paths with Inna, since he’s first heard that angelic melody traveling in the air – has that haze started to lift. It isn’t just because Inna is beautiful that he feels this way. He’s a Collector after all. Pockets of gorgeous women throw themselves at him on a nightly basis. Groupies. Fan girls. Even the Agency sends him authorized call girls in order to satisfy his primal needs, though he never really gets to know them, or desires to, before they are rotated out. There is something more to Inna than just her looks. There is her innocence. Her ability to see beauty and humanity in things others wouldn’t give a second glance to. It’s her song…that sweet melody…

  Neil shakes his head to snap out of these thoughts. He doesn’t like them. He doesn’t like the feelings they bring either. Believe it or not, life was easier when he didn’t feel anything at all. He knows it’s ironic, but it’s the truth.

  To his relief, his PDA buzzes with an incoming text that interrupts his clouded mind. It’s from Mazer, “URGENT! Report to HQ.”

  A new assignment couldn’t have come soon enough.

  Neil crosses through the bullpen towards Mazer back at Agency Headquarters, with Raymond and Garrison waiting next to him outside the evaluation room. Garrison jokingly hoots and hollers at Neil’s recent rise in status, but Neil brushes him off.

  Through the one-sided observation glass they watch on as Brock, secured to a chair with his hands bound, ignores Slayter looming over him and bombarding him with questions. Brock’s scabbed face makes him barely recognizable from his photo still pinned above the bulletin board.

  “That nose has seen better days,” Garrison quips.

  “Is he talking?” Neil wonders.

  “He will,” Mazer states without hesitation.

  The four men watch as Slayter backhands Brock, unfazed, continuing to stare forward seemingly right at them. Brock knows he’s caught. He knows there is no chance of being let go. So therefore he knows there is absolutely no benefit to divulging any information.

  “And if he doesn’t?” Neil asks, recognizing this could turn into a long and brutal session.

  Just then the screams of a protesting woman interrupt from across the bullpen. “Let me go. Let us go!” the voice shrieks.

  Neil looks to see two more Collectors, Cecil and Dale, dragging in Brock’s wife and child against their will.

  “Then that’d be unfortunate for them,” Mazer warns.

  Inside the evaluation room, more of an interrogation room these days, Slayter backhands Brock again. “I can do this all day,” he taunts.

  “You and me both, brother,” Brock fires back, spitting blood. He remains utterly defiant until t
he door opens and Cecil presents Brock’s wife and child.

  “The real question is, can they?” Slayter asks ominously. Brock jolts forward in concern as Slayter yanks the new visitors inside and slams the door, no doubt willing to go the distance in order to get information.

  Neil turns away, the only Collector not wanting to watch the torturous events unfold through the window. Instead he spots Mazer heading for his office. He follows and slips in to find Mazer sipping water from a reserve stash behind his desk to unwind.

  “People should be proud to see us in these uniforms, not afraid,” Neil says.

  “We’re all cogs in the machine, Neil. I’m getting pressure from above,” Mazer justifies. “We need to stop the Brigade.”

  Neil plops down in a chair. “Any word on the next batch of recruits? We should show them their scare tactics aren’t working.”

  “You think you deserve another rookie?” Mazer asks dumbfounded.

  “I know a guard at one of the gates. Zack. He won’t be another Wade,” Neil assures.

  “You’re already partnered with Slayter.”

  “Slayter twists protocol to justify what he wants,” Neil says.

  “Look, Patrick is a great Collector. He’s earned his name by being the best at what he does. The numbers don’t lie.” Mazer refers to the bar graphs pinned to the wall. A line signifies the city’s carrying capacity (100%), while each subsequent vertical bar shrinks – 273%, 271%, 267% – the population reducing over the years.

  “I guess numbers are all that count,” Neil laments.

  “Neil, think back to that boy you once were. The boy I found in reform school. Do you remember why you were always fighting?” Mazer asks, trying to motivate Neil and remind him why they do what they do.

  “I’ll never forget,” Neil responds without hesitation. He knows his brother wasn’t a coward who took the easy way out.

  “I need to be sure I have that same boy on my team,” Mazer urges. “The boy who’d do anything to defend his brother’s honor.” Mazer pulls out an Agency stamped form from his desk drawer. It’s Neil’s most recent weekly psychological evaluation. The last box on the bottom of the form is marked: PASS. However, a handwritten note is added beneath the assessment, presumably by the Agency Psychologist. It reads, WITH RESERVATIONS.

  “How are you holding up?” Mazer inquires. “Pursuing the Brigade. With Wade. All of it.”

  Neil furrows his brow. If he were to speak his mind, he’d say it is obvious he’s holding up just fine. He just captured and delivered Brock, didn’t he? But that’s if he were to speak his mind. Instead, he remains quiet.

  “It’s not like we can teach this at the Academy,” Mazer continues. “Are you taking advantage of the services the Agency offers?”

  Neil continues to remain silent, unsure why Mazer is asking him any of this. As he searches for the correct response, debating between a simple “I’m fine” versus prodding with questions of his own regarding rumors of the hidden transfer tunnels and rumors of Sage being assisted by someone within the Agency, Garrison interrupts from the doorway.

  “Slayter got a name,” he announces. Both Mazer and Neil perk up. “Neil, you’re gonna love it,” Garrison continues, “Claims it’s the guy who tipped them off about your truck.”

  “Who was it?” Neil asks.

  “Some guy from the slums. Name is Damian.”

  Neil’s eyes narrow. “I want this one,” he demands, bolting to his feet.

  Mazer smiles like a proud father. Going against every written protocol in regards to Collectors and their mental health qualifications, and going against his own better judgment, Mazer discards the evaluation form without Neil ever seeing it. Perhaps he does it because Neil’s clear determination to go after Damian diminished any and all doubts. Perhaps he does it because he is merely running low on Collectors these days. Or perhaps he does it because he hand-selected Neil and took him under his wing, and no penal code or protocol can truly suppress Mazer’s own fatherly instincts. Whatever the reason behind his choice, even Mazer is susceptible to one of mankind’s fundamental human emotions: compassion.

  “I’m glad that boy in you still exists,” he gloats.

  Neil rides shotgun reading directions from his PDA while Slayter speeds through Sector A, the landscape littered with crumbling brick buildings and the processing facility on the horizon. They pass town square and the dilapidated Octovio Helms statue, then after a couple more blocks, Neil glimpses the restricted Public Access TV Station Quado resides in. Wherever Neil is directing them, it’s deep within the sector.

  “You sure he’ll be here?” Slayter asks. “This is a far way from the slums.”

  “He’s always here. He’s a drunk who beats on women,” Neil says, a tint of vengeful anger in his voice.

  “You know this guy or something?”

  “He’s got a reputation,” Neil responds. He glances to the worn Dream Catcher before pocketing it. “He deserves what he’s going to get.”

  “Finally…,” Slayter smiles, “you’re learning.”

  Neil and Slayter bail out of the utility truck in front of a partially lit sign for Marty’s Tavern, the two men on a mission. Slayter squints at the sun just above the horizon, not even at mid-day yet.

  The tavern isn’t particularly fancy or particularly crowded at this hour, just the obvious handful of regulars. Damian is one of them, here so often that half of the makeshift award plaques near the dart board have his name scribbled on them. Currently he plays cards with three goons at the center table, rising when he spots Neil descending the wooden stairs.

  “You should really stop traveling alone. Wouldn’t want something to happen to you aga—” he stops once he sees Slayter lumbering down the stairs behind Neil, recognizing the hulking legend. Neil nods to confirm it’s him. Damian changes his tune. “I didn’t think Collectors were allowed to drink?”

  Slayter storms towards him. “We just need to ask you a few questions,” he says, before WHAM! He bashes Damian’s head into the table, chugging the rest of Damian’s drink before hitting him with the mug.

  The three goons rise, but back off once they spot Neil threatening with his shock baton.

  Slayter lifts Damian and punches him in the stomach, then restrains both arms behind his back. “Neil, here,” he shouts. “Make an example of him.”

  Neil leans in close to examine Damian bleeding from his nose.

  “I know about you and that slut,” Damian threatens. Neil’s face turns cold. Damian tries to turn back to Slayter, “Has Neil told you about his girlfri—” when suddenly, CRACK! Neil rears back and breaks Damian’s ribs with the butt of the shock baton to shut him up. Slayter catches him and holds him upright, leaving him open for more. WHAM! This time Damian falls, but Neil stays on top of him, clobbering him again.

  The other patrons watch in horror as Neil loses it. WHAM! THWACK! THWACK! WHAM! Damian cowers in the fetal position as Neil completely unloads, Damian’s blood splattering across his face.

  Two more hits before Neil drops his weapon and steps aside for Slayter. He sits at the table, eyes wide, snapping out of whatever came over him. It was absolutely ruthless and reminiscent of Slayter’s violent outbursts.

  ZAP! Slayter lives up to his reputation as he shocks Damian’s defenseless body with a bolt of electricity, without mercy. He presses the edge of his boot against Damian’s throat and prods him again with the electrodes, smiling through his clinched teeth as Damian’s body convulses. Slayter circles his wounded prey, relishing in the moment like the predator he is, then spits on Damian and shocks him for a third time, this time directly in the neck. Foam gurgles from Damian’s mouth as his body goes limp.

  Neil continues to catch his breath at the table as he replays Slayter’s words from earlier to justify his actions, “You break penal code or aid someone breaking code. You die.”

  And that’s exactly what happened to Damian for assisting the Brigade.


  With the sun teetering on the opposite edge of the horizon, Inna’s silhouette sifts through a mound of trash at the landfill. She rises when she spots Neil approaching, two black shadows in front of the setting sun.

  She touches the gauze covering his arm badge, his grazed wound not even a full day old, as he whispers to her, presumably informing her of the news. Instead of a dance of joy or a hug like he expected – Damian no longer a threat in her life – Inna instead breaks into tears and pushes Neil away.

  “You ruined it!” she cries. “You ruined it! How could you?”

  Neil can’t get a word out as he tries to console her.

  “You ruined it!” she shouts again, hitting him. Neil bear hugs her to keep her flailing arms under control.

  “Inna, calm down. I did it for you,” he explains.

  She finally pauses to catch her breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she mouths between hyperventilating breaths. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  “He assisted the Brigade, not you. You won’t be punished for his actions,” Neil says, still oblivious to her worries.

  “No, Neil, don’t you get it? This isn’t about what Damian did. It’s about what I did,” she says. Neil stares at her, not following her thought process. Never would he guess the next statement coming from her mouth.

  “I’m a volunteer!” she reveals.

  ******

  Anger Management

  Do SEOs have to undergo regular psychological evaluations? If not, they really should! I saw an SEO go off on a woman today for no reason, unless you call brushing your fingers through your partner’s hair a crime. I mean, they’re assigned partners, right? How is that a public display of affection?

  -Quado

  15

  I’m a volunteer. Those are three words Neil has never heard from someone he actually knew. Three words he never thought he would hear Inna ever say. His eyes go wide, demanding a million answers. “Why? Since when?”