Imperial Bureaucracy (Valentin)

[Morin]

Glade 16, 122 following this

Morin was seated upon a marble bench, his eyes closed, resting against the wall behind him. He was in a long hallway, deep in line behind various people coming to the Office of Imperial Revenue. Everyone in here looked annoyed and perturbed, and nervous. Really nervous. He could understand why. No one liked dealing with the OIR. He remembered the administrators from the labor camp fretting about getting a visit from them. They always made sure every copper was accounted for.

Morin learned many things from the camp, but the most important was to always make sure the OIR gets its cut. It was a fact of life. It was easy enough. He had no business to maintain, didn't even have work yet. He was here to file away the deed for his new apartment. And he was enjoying the resting of the long, bureaucratic line. He ignored the impatience of those around him, they were fast paced Gel'Grandal natives. They hated slowing down or stopping for anything.

He smiled, keeping his envelope in his hands, eyes closed, resting but listening, waiting for it to be his turn, to have his name called, to hear what office he'd need to go to. He'd wait. Back in the camp, rest periods were hard to come by. He made sure to always take them when he could. As he sat there, in his thread worn, dirty jacket, his stained slacks which were wrinkled, and his shoes that lacked even a hint of shine, he was pondering what his next move would be.

He had shelter. Now he needed income. He had no desire to join any of the gangs. He was not much of a follower, and team work did not make his dream work. And he preferred to solicit prostitutes, not be one. He'd have to wander the neighborhood, see if he could find something he could make work. Eventually, an assistant came along.

"Morin?"

He looked up. The assistant approached him, "Valentin Valentin will handle your case now. Follow me please." Morin stood up, following the young man down the hall, around a corner, and down another hall. Soon, the assistant opened a door to an office and ushered Morin inside. "Thank you."

Morin stepped inside, approaching the chair that was there for people like him, and sitting upon it. No one was here yet, but he assumed it would be any moment now.

[Valentin]

Morin waited- and waited- and waited.

There are two reasons why a meeting with a government employee begins late. First, while the mighty officials appointed to high office generally have little enough to do, they habitually skimp on the budgets for those who must actually fulfill the promises made in legislature. It is generally true both that too much money is spent on a government agency and that half or less of the necessary staff to meet that agency's quotas have actually been hired. This was not so in the OIR, for the Imperium knew very well the value in keeping its tax collectors well-staffed and watchful.

The second reason is a good, old-fashioned matter of dominance. Valentin did not care, of course, whether private citizens actually afforded him any sort of real respect. What he wanted was to remind them that they had come to disturb the Imperial government with their problems, to convey a sort of low-grade disdain which would keep the people in queue from pushing for any more than the absolute minimum levels of service. Those who persisted through the unspoken barriers such practices erected identified themselves as the types of personalities who might ignore other, more important norms.

So it was that Mr. Valentin appeared in his chair behind the desk several minutes late. And appear he did- if one were to split their gaze between the desk and the room's antique (but, to a practiced eye, rather cheap) grandfather clock, he was missing when the second hand hit the "IV", and present a single tick later.

"Ahem."

Valentin appeared seated, looking downward toward the desk. In his hands were several unremarkable folders, one of which was open to a sheet of property listings. He cleared his throat as he read, a small trick to ensure that the visitor's attention would be drawn to his sudden presence.

"Mr. Morin, is it? Or no, that's your first name."

Morin's file was short. Although it was an obvious cliche, Valentin liked to think of the central bureau's dossiers as a spiderweb- every time an individual within the Imperium made contact with the institutions of the Imperium, they brushed up against a strand of web, and that vibration was recorded. Given enough time, most personal files served as a kind of impressionistic map of their subject, giving the auditor names, family, dates, property, significant dealings, jobs, criminal histories and so on. If he were an artist, Valentin could have selected the file of anyone in the Imperium and created a perfect portrait of their lives from it.

A short file meant that the man had either done relatively little, or done it in places or ways where it was not recorded. By itself, not all that suspicious, but something to keep in mind.

"I understand that you've been bequeathed an interest in a small property?"

[Morin]

Morin didn't hear the man arrived, zoning out while staring at the antique clock. He was under no threat here in this government building, so in a rare moment for him, he let himself relax, let his guard down. So while he was surprised that the man could just be there one moment later, he doubted it was due to anything particularly skillful on his part. More likely Morin was just not paying attention in his relaxation.

The man started with a question that he then answered himself. Typical government type, speaking more than necessary. They were all the same. Talk talk talk, puff the chest, pretend they had power, hiding behind the government and their titles. But Morin suspected that if this man were met in the parking lot, he would be reduced to a blubbering, tearful mess rather quickly. The man did not appear to be the type to throw punches, let alone take them.

Morin assumed he carried a gun. The weaker people always did.

A soft man indeed, was Morin's assumption. Because of course he had to be. He lived in an office. He dealt with paperwork. At the follow up question, Morin answered simply, "Yes." He placed the signed document on Valentin's desk. The names were signed in the correct locations, dated properly, everything on the form was correct and accurate as needed. The paper indicated that the taxes on the property had been paid from the estate of the deceased former owner. The old tear stains formed some slight wrinkling in the paper, where they had soaked in and then dried.

Morin didn't elaborate or say more. Why waste the breath? This was a formality. Paperwork was the unfortunate cost of doing business here. One day, Morin would have to find someone to handle that sort of thing for him. He hadn't the mind nor patience for it. Though he did appreciate the rest he could have within the safety of government walls.

No wonder soft men gravitated to these positions.

[Valentin]

"Fine."

Of all the many words Valentin dealt with in a day, that was perhaps his favorite. It expressed no opinion, approving or otherwise, but simply signaled that there was nothing so objectionable that more time and work would be required, that the matter could move forward. Valentin Valentin did not approve of matters which required extra time and work. People who placed their own time above the Imperium's were, to his mind, criminally selfish.

He did not run his finger down the paper like the clerks did; he could understand the form at a glance. It was a small residential space, well below the size which would trigger any additional audits- the Imperium simply did not care about the wretched homes of rentiers this poor. The markings were clear, but faded differently, as though the conveyancer and witness had signed at different times. That would be illegal, but happily it was none of his business; the OIR did not determine whether a conveyance was proper, just that it was paid correctly.

"The markings are in order, and the tax payment is correct." Valentin sounded surprised by this. Morin had the unmistakable demeanor of a low-life, gutter trash, but it was clear that he was familiar with the legal process somehow. A smart guttersnipe, then. Bad news for the lawmen, but it wasn't his job to make their job easier. It was only his job to ensure that they, and the entire rest of civilization, existed at all.

Almost reluctantly, Valentin Valentin looked up from the documents and at the person they purported to document. Cheap, dirty clothes, hair and skin a distinct mess, but his muscles seemed surprisingly vital. No visible gang signs, but they weren't all stupid enough to wear them into the government building. Just most of them.

So, what kind of a man shows up out of nowhere with a covenant conveying him a living space in Trashtown?

Valentin opened up Morin's largely-blank file and spent a minute writing notes. No employment yet, or at least no business had registered him as an employee recently. No history of investments, no family claims. None of that was illegal, of course, but the OIR did not like what they did not know. A man with no apparent connections was one who could be lying about having no income, after all.

"Fine." He used his favorite word again, "What brings you to Gel'Grandel, Morin?"

[Morin]

Morin was silent as the weak man looked over his document first, approving of its correctness. Then Morin watched the man's eyes fall on his own form. He could feel the scrutiny, and he sat there in a quiet smugness. Letting this well suited man take his fill in of someone he thought to be beneath him. Morin knew better and let that fill him with satisfaction. Morin knew his place in this world. This other man was under the delusion of superiority due to title given to him by the government.

A fool. Anything given can just as easily be taken.

"I have come seeking gainful employment."

Not a man of many words, he was choosing to not elaborate. He knew how little was in his file. It was part of the agreement with the government for the children that were raised in the labor camps. In exchange for years of cheap labor and giving up of one's family and past, they had their past erased fully and were given a new life to live. It was one of those areas that was always argued over by the OIR leadership. Just as Valentin had thought, the OIR did not like what they did not know.

And they had no access to the past lives of the labor camp children. No one did. They were erased in all manners. And from that, Morin was born, a man with no past, no ties, nothing except the smug grin on his face. The man had asked that question of him because he didn't know anything about him. And Morin was sure that it bothered him, even if in a small way.

Morin liked to make people squirm, much like he had made the other children squirm.

[Valentin]

"Fine."

A third fine. That would be enough to trigger a full audit, if it were a monetary fine and not just an expression which happened to use identical phonemes. Those are the kinds of fiscal jokes you risk enjoying if you choose to devote your life to the arcana of bureaucratic taxes.

"We'll start your property file with this document. If you find employment in Gesindelholm-" It would probably be either gang shit or dogshit, in Trashtown, but Valentin prided himself on his neutral demeanor when interacting with the public, even slum trash, "-keep in mind that you're liable for any tax your bosses decide not to withhold. Unless you report them prior to audit.

Anywhere else, the threat of a central government audit of a bunch of unmentionables in a shantytown would have been a laughable notion, much less that the people who scrabbled in the mud might be tempted to turn their own leaders in for amnesty from tax liability. In Gel'grandal, though, it wasn't a joke. OIR had been known to conduct audits in the most cuthroat places, even putting in the effort to locate gang hideouts when their official addresses turned out to be fronts. Everyone in the city still talked about how, decades ago, one of the capital's most distinguished criminals, a man who had evaded civil liability, the police, and even Inquisitorial scrutiny, had publicly declared himself tax-exempt and been found dead three days later.

That reputation really was the reason OIR went to such lengths. In the end, you spent less resources on investigation if the people feared you enough to turn their own in without any extra work.

"If you have no further questions, you can- I'm in a meeting."

In the doorway behind Morin, Valentin's secretary, Albright, had appeared. Albright was every bit the image of a bureaucrat, with a thin, weaselly frame, huge oculars perched upon an aquiline face, and he looked nervous. In truth, Albright always looked nervous, but right now he looked very nervous. The thin man spoke, his voice shaking a bit, raising a rolled-up bit of paper in one hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Valentin, but there's a letter for you from Upstairs." Albright said "upstairs" the way another man might have invoked the name of his god. One of those gods which derived their worship through terror, at any rate.

"Fine." Valentin reached across the space between space and snatched the letter from Albright's hands without moving from behind the desk. "Now leave."

Valentin turned his attention to the paper, his blank expression becoming a scowl as he read the contents. He glared at the paper for a moment, then suddenly snapped his head up at Morin.

"Do you have questions, or are we done here?"