The Last Experience Point

Chapter 45: The Turning Point

A domino cannot be blamed for the existence of the one behind it, nor can the domino behind it take responsibility for subsequent dominos farther down the line. Nevertheless, a chain of causal events can only commence when and if the first one falls.

Though it would take almost a century before historians were able to piece together a definitive timeline in what would eventually become known as the Great Human War, it would ultimately be concluded that the entire series of events had begun right here, this very evening, in the 65th floor of a newly renovated office located in the upscale metropolis known as Varda’s Lair that served as the headquarters for the Internet Monitoring Agency.

It was here that Graeme Braxel had just ended a call on his cell phone, in which the best news of his life had been personally delivered to him by a high-ranking member of the People of Virtue. With a whoop and a cheer, Graeme took a victory lap around the office and even entered into a sort of campy dance, shifting his body weight between his left and right foot while springing off of each. Yet, even as he danced and pumped his fist into the air, he had no idea that he was about to be directly responsible for the single-greatest blunder in the IMA’s history—one that would serve as a catalyst that would alter the course of human events for the next thousand years. And all because he’d chosen to leave work fifteen minutes early to celebrate the news of his promotion with his wife.

Giddy and feeling as though his entire life’s efforts had finally borne fruit, he saw no harm in ducking out just a couple of minutes early to meet his wife for drinks before the evening rush of traffic made it impossible for him to come and go. Had he only decided to take a bus instead, then perhaps tomorrow, in the early hours of the afternoon, he wouldn’t find himself stripped not only of his new promotion less than a day after receiving it, but of his current job entirely—as well as any other future employment prospects to be found in Varda’s Lair. Truly, it was incredible what a mere fifteen minutes of time could unravel.

Of course, in his defense, Graeme Braxel had a very good reason to be so jovial. A longtime student of human psychology and the highest-ranking member of the Internet Monitoring Agency, he fancied himself as someone who held a unique insight into what, specifically, made people tick. It was for this reason he had ascended the ranks to achieve a position it was rare for a mere level 1 such as himself to obtain. As far as he was aware, he might very well be the first One in a hundred or more years to hold the title of Chief Censor, and it was a job he had spent the last five years performing with all the seriousness and urgency required of someone given such an important responsibility.

Though there were a great many folk who did not care for or approve of censorship, this was only because they were ignorant and did not know any better. If not for people like Graeme remaining constantly vigilant against the threat of inflammatory information, public order would be impossible to maintain. Thus, he was willing to bear the distaste his title earned him among the general public, who only thought they knew what they wanted as a direct result of having never had to witness the consequences of obtaining it.

Graeme knew that if the wish for an uncensored internet had been granted for even just a week, the people would very quickly beg on their hands and knees for someone like Graeme to come along and save them from themselves. Alas, it was a thankless job, but someone had to be willing to do it for the good of society. And in performing this vital task, Graeme had become so attuned to the behaviors and habits of the common people that he could predict with almost near certainty what information would go viral and what could be safely ignored or dealt with via other means.

He’d also learned something else, too. He’d developed a good sense of what could be useful if spread in just the right way at just the right time. It was a skill for which he had always planned to one day use to rise even higher—to walk on land that few level 1s would ever dare to tread. All he needed to do was wait for the right opportunity to fall on his lap. Once it did, he would use it to propel himself to even greater heights. Until that day came, he would continue to serve as Chief Sensor with the excellence and diligence expected of his position—and he had. For five long years, he had given his job his all, performing far better than any of his predecessors. Then, finally, as though a message from the Gods, the opportunity he’d been waiting for at long last arrived.

Several days ago, when one of his subordinates flagged a post for him by someone shockingly claiming to not only be a member of the Elvish race, but of Elvish royalty nonetheless, Graeme had launched a quick investigation to determine the post’s authenticity. Standard protocol dictated he hide and censor the information at once, then dispatch a team to monitor any chatter and stem the flow of information immediately. It did not matter whether or not this “Kalana Vayra” had been telling the truth or lying, as the real issue was the claim itself: it was the kind of claim that could make waves, true or false—and the entire purpose of his job was to keep the tides calm.

But this time, he had something else in mind. Even knowing how dangerous it was for his career to stick his neck into political matters that were of no concern to a mere level 1 such as himself, Graeme had nevertheless launched an investigation to determine the veracity of the girl’s claims, and once he had been able to verify them with a high degree of confidence, he had shown up uninvited to the office of Abram Gespon, a senior-lieutenant of the People of Virtue and the third-ranking member of the entire guild. He was a man of such power and stature that even standing in his presence had made Graeme’s knees wobble with fear. For having the audacity to simply show up the way that he had, Graeme knew that a termination of his employment could actually be the least horrible thing that could potentially happen to him if things went wrong. Nevertheless, he sensed his opportunity, and he took it.

“What is it?” Abram had asked, seeming affronted that a mere One such as Graeme would dare bother him. The fact he’d even allowed Graeme into his personal office at all was a surprise in and of itself, though to be fair, Graeme had caught him on his way back from lunch and had insisted he be given just five minutes of the man’s time.

“This had better be important,” Abram had warned. “It’s completely inappropriate for you to approach me without an invitation.”

“I completely understand, Gespon the Virtuous,” Graeme had said. “It’s just that I’ve stumbled upon something so…significant that I knew I needed to bring it to you directly.”

The scowl that had popped up onto Abram’s face had been enough to roil Graeme’s stomach. But having already taken such a bold step, there really had not been any option other than to see it through to the end. Even if he had apologized just then and departed, his career if not life would be over for what would be taken as a sign of disrespect from a level 1 towards a superior.

“Who are you again?” Abram had asked, his hands folded on his desk, which had looked cracked and damaged in places. A section of his office window had appeared discolored as though it were brand new.

“I am Chief Censor Graeme Braxel, sir Gespon the Virtuous,” he’d replied.

“And what possible business can the Chief Censor have that requires an audience with me? Do you not have a chain of command?”

“I do, sir Gespon the Virtuous. It’s just that what I had to say would get nowhere through that route.”

“And what is it you have to say? Out with it. My time is too valuable to spend entertaining Ones from the IMA department.”

“O-of course, sir,” Graeme had said, bowing his head. Removing a tan envelope from his suit, he had then asked, “May I…approach?”

“I’m not a judge,” Abram had replied, sounding annoyed. Then he crooked four fingers at him. “Whatever it is, bring it here.”

Graeme had approached the man’s desk, then opened the envelope and removed both a printout of Kalana Vayra’s social media post as well as a forensic analysis that had determined its authenticity. Strangely, Abram had not seemed surprised. It was as though he’d already known that the Elvish girl existed. Then again, would that even really be a shock? The leadership of the guilds were privy to a great deal of information that mere Ones such as himself would never be allowed to access.

“Is this why you disturbed me?” he’d asked. “I’m actually stunned someone at your level wouldn’t know better than to waste my time with something trivial like this.”

“Sir Gespon the Virtuous, may I please explain myself?”

He’d sighed. “You have thirty seconds.”

Graeme, with a sense of dread in his chest, had tamped down on his fear, ignored the queasiness in his belly, and with a level of confidence that had sounded so convincing he’d even fooled his own self, had actually managed to turn those thirty seconds into a victory from what had surely, at least at the time, seemed to be a resounding defeat.

“I’m not here to ask you whether or not I should censor this,” he’d begun. “I’m here because, though I, a mere level 1, acknowledge that I could never be a fraction of what you are, sir Gespon the Virtuous, I must insist that there is one talent I possess in which I have no rival: and it is understanding human social tendencies, specifically as it pertains to the dissemination and spread of information.”

“And?” he’d asked impatiently.

“And if you’ll allow me to do so, Sir Gespon the Virtuous, I not only do not wish to censor this post, which has so far gone mostly unnoticed, but I wish to stealthily promote it: deliberately. And in a way that makes it seems organic.”

At this, Abram had narrowed his eyes, and it had then become impossible for Graeme to read his emotions. With a calm, dispassionate voice, he’d asked, “And why would you want to do that?”

“Because I believe that if the public were to catch wind of this in a way that seems authentic and un-manipulated by the media or the leadership of the guilds, then they will rally behind the war effort and provide a tremendous boost in public support for further actions against the Guild of Gentlemen.”

Abram had leaned forward, his left eyebrow raising. “You must know how risky it is for a One to approach a lieutenant and actually offer political advice or discuss our politics in any capacity at all. Not only is that far, far above your station, Chief Censor, but some would say that it verges on meddling.”

“That’s because it is meddling,” Graeme had said. “Which is why I would willingly stake my life on the advice I’ve given. For me to be here and take a risk like this, it could only be because I am either a mouth-drooling fool or because I’m someone who has such faith in his own ability that he would dare make such a suggestion to one of the most powerful men alive. I would also have to be someone who, if given the opportunity to prove myself, would gladly accept the consequences of failure.”

Abram had nodded at this, and a slight, but noticeable smile had popped up on the bottom-right corner of his lips. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir Gespon the Virtuous.”

Abram had picked up the documents Graeme had handed him, though he’d hardly paid them any real attention. Stuffing them back inside the envelope, Abram had then leaned forward and extended his arm in Graeme’s direction. Nervously, Graeme took the envelope back from him.

“Do it,” he’d said. “I expect at least a five percentage-point increase in public support for the war effort. Any less, and I consider you to be a failure and want you out of my city. You picked your poison, now swallow it. I don’t offer second chances.”

Bowing gratefully, Graeme had hurriedly uttered his thanks and then had made his way out of the office so as not to overstay his welcome. It would not be an exaggeration to state that he had not gotten so much as a single second’s sleep that night or the night after, either. He had stayed up scrolling on his phone and watching with a progressively increasing confidence and optimism that his plan had worked in exactly the way he’d known it would.

Now, several days later, with Kalana Vayra being the number-one trending story worldwide, and the general public broadly supporting not just a traditional, but also a conventional war if necessary against the Guild of Gentlemen, Abram had called Graeme personally to congratulate him for his accomplishment. From tomorrow on, he had announced, Graeme Braxel would soon be inducted into the ranks of the very, very small number of Ones permitted to officially join the political class as an analyst and an advisor. Though he would of course never be allowed to rise high enough to actually join the guild, as that was a birthright unobtainable by a One, he would nevertheless be treated with a certain dignity that would put him ahead of the average man—sort of the halfway point between the nobility class and the commoner. And that was more than good enough for him!

Unfortunately, his newfound stature would only last mere hours before it would all be horrifically yanked away from him just as quickly as it had been bestowed. And why? Because in his haste to crack open a bottle of wine with his beloved, he had left work assuming his assistant would do a final region-by-region area check, performed twice daily, to make sure that the jammers in every region were up and running. It was rare that any would break down, and it was even rarer that any major events would take place during the duration for which one was down. Even still, the jammers were the first—and most significant—line of defense against the distribution of dangerous materials, which was why they were checked twice daily.

Although removing posts from social media was a tried and tested method of stemming the flow of harmful content, it was most effective at stopping the spread of information that was either not being ardently disseminated or had mostly gone unnoticed. It was not, however, an appropriate method of stopping a large number of witnesses from sharing content about the same topic at the same time. For this kind of situation, it was far more effective to launch an area jam, which would temporarily see all hotspots deactivated, Wi-Fi signals interrupted, data-flow through network cables halted, and phone service taken offline.

Not two weeks ago, a member of an adventuring guild had literally castrated a low-ranking but nevertheless respected member of the Children of Order after he’d drunkenly attempted to fondle her breast. This had taken place in public, too. Acting with the speed and wisdom required of the Chief Censor, Graeme had immediately taken action to shut down all connectivity in the area—including even the rather antiquated ground-based phone lines—while simultaneously erasing any mention of this unfortunate “event” on any social media platforms. The result? The phones of witnesses had been confiscated until they could be sufficiently searched, erased, and their users bribed—or if necessary, threatened—into silence.

As Graeme grabbed his hat and his DEHV identification card and hurried out of his office with a big, happy smile on his face, he left a note for his assistant to do the final area check of the day. Tragically, however, he had somehow not been informed that his assistant had already left work ahead of him twenty minutes ago because her son had fallen ill in school. He also hadn’t been informed that her assistant was out sick for the day.

Had he only taken the time to manually inspect the status of the area jammers, he would have seen that one tiny little node had gone red somewhere in the farmlands in Whispery Woods. Specifically, in a place that was mostly desolate aside from a little town called the Den of Ziragoth. Though hardly a place likely to cause any kind of trouble, Graeme would still have taken the minute or two required to dispatch a technician to the area to have the jammer repaired. Especially since, the following morning, his assistant would be taking over as the new interim Chief Censor and would likely not be caught up to speed.

For the rest of his life—which, in all honesty, would not be a very long time—Graeme would wish he could go back to this one moment to fix this one mistake. He would be tortured by the memory of happiness he’d felt as he practically skipped out of his office, only to have it all come crashing down around him when he’d turned on the news around noon the following day. This one little mistake would cost him everything he’d ever worked for.

At the very least, he would not suffer for long, as this would only be the second biggest mistake he’d made in his life. The greatest mistake would turn out to be moving with his wife to Giant’s Fall, a city under the control of the Royal Roses, in a desperate attempt to start his life over.

Heartbroken and ashamed, he would not live long enough to truly appreciate what his only mistake in five years working for the IMA had set in motion: the mistake that started with every channel interrupting their programming to show a video of a seventeen-year-old kid with wavy, jet black hair whose hands and feet were releasing some kind of unnaturally dark smoke.

At least, for tonight, he got to be happy.