(the black book)
The day was low, people tried finish their last works and move home, if what they had could even be called home. Some had a bed, some mattress, some individual apartments, like he did. Some fought for it, some were protected by patrols. The silent, invisible machinery of this village was as old as the world – corruption was everywhere, the question was, when the one who steal will run out of favours to give, when the one who was useful will turn into problem. Time after time someone was sent outside. It was punishment that scared the weak ones and the strong ones, because it was a pure chance, touch of luck that could turn an adventure into the capital punishment. It was fear of death that kept this village going. Time after time snitches appeared, hoping for some bonuses, and they got them, and that only encouraged the culture of shadows and whispers. The need to align with the winning party was the key in every system, it always upholding kings, presidents and dictators.
But every system has the doubtful, silent resistance, thieves and unworthy who hide their true faces. Most of them never made it through the gate. Some did. Suspicion never left Lincoln’s mind. He had promised his loyalty to the system and got a guarantee for his family, when (not if, he could not even think about the idea they are not alive), they come, and Lincoln could not risk it. Sometimes, in his dreams he could hear his father ranting how civilization never learned from history, could hear his little sister reading Dante out loud and could see his mother making cheese cake. She always made cheesecakes for his birthdays.
He had never missed any cheesecake the way he missed it now. Because cheesecake meant safety, it meant home, it meant days when there was nothing to worry about, only which actress to take with him to Academy Awards or Cannes, only worry about whether he needs a new house or a car or a suit or not. Those were the easy times, when the worst thing in his life was a bad plot twist or a bad quality tracing shot. Then his biggest obstacle from nature was uneven ground for dolly. Now basically everything tried to kill them, even those walls once could break down and destroy them, because they – they were nothing. Just a puny, little human beings.
Lincoln needed to do everything to stop the system from breaking. Find the root of doubt and destroy it before it sees sunlight. Only then the healthy part of this society will flourish. However, it is hard to know that the seed under the surface is rotten, just need to look for the little signs. Like a word that slips. Like a sentence that seems fake. Like an extra though given when something is asked. It was a puzzle, and every piece was either a lead or imagination.
For people around here, he was a director. So the fact that he walked around with notebook was nothing strange. Sometimes he actually did a sketch a scene or mark down ideas for a scene or even remembered a song he would put in a movie when one of his characters died, but most of the time he just wrote details about people, their words and actions, put together profiles of each and every habitant of this village.
He was the puppeteer, and today he decided to check how the puppet nr 21 is doing. Number 21 was an interesting picture – came to this town with medical supplies, and with a story about his past that Lincoln was not buying. Through the interviews he conducted he usually felt a lie, but this time it was a notion, but he was not entirely sure about what exactly.
So he decided to get to know nr. 21 a bit better. Like, normal people would take them out for a chat, drink a coffee or go to the restaurant in the holiday evening. Lincoln was not the type. He was the “always around type”, randomly showing up while the target is close by, suddenly he is everywhere in his subjects life, he knows his routine, his friends, the tone of his voice and how it changes in different situations. Every detail, that is so important for one of his films, now is so important for his work here, for the governor, for the future of this village.
It was the day three of his surveillance. He was standing around five meters away from Lestan, with an open notebook, sketching the scene, at least, it seemed so.
@lestanjager