The first letter that he received about his role in the department came as a surprise to put it mildly. At first he felt scared that there was someone outside of the familiar people that he had always dealt with who knew of the existence of the department; then his fear intensified as he questioned why, our of all the people who had worked there he had been singled out for this missive.
Fear turned to anger and he wanted to start pointing fingers – someone had to have been asleep on the job to have let this happen, didn’t they? If everyone was doing what they were supposed to then there would have been no wiggle room for some bastard to have slipped this in under the wire.
He wasn’t active anymore – the department was less active than it had been before; at least he so believed … he wasn’t really connected up to them anymore. But it was a case of – once a fiction man, always a fiction man. He knew about scapegoating – he had written targetted pieces based on briefs for years, and they had been successful; had triggered countless necessary hate crimes. Was this one of those groups rising, phoenix-like, out of the ashes to claim revenge? He wondered. Why did they even care anymore? Wasn’t the control total now? It seemed like it – enough that this amount of worry had been, for him at least, as someone on the inside, something alien.
What good would it do them? What influence did they think he might have on anyone? On anything? He had been employed because he was a good writer – nothing else – but as an entity he meant little to nothing. They might have to search a little to find someone with his particular skill-set, but it wasn’t the end of the world for them if one of him or his team shuffled off the mortal coil.
He sat down to write a complaint to someone. Who? His network’s handler. Would it help? Maybe. Maybe not.