Victims of Virtue

The air in Blueport carried the crispness of autumn, the faint scent of decaying leaves mixing with the ever-present tang of the river that carved its way through the city. Days had passed since the twin explosions ripped through the factories on the outskirts, and the shockwaves of the event still lingered, though not in the way anyone might have expected.

No lives had been lost—an almost miraculous fact that no one seemed to question too deeply. Yet, the buildings' destruction had left behind a ripple of unease and speculation. Workers displaced from their jobs walked the cobblestone streets with uncertain futures weighing heavily on their shoulders. Meanwhile, a growing number of Blueport's residents whispered of the explosions as an act of rebellion—a message sent to those in power that their grip was not as secure as they believed.

For the first time in years, the people of Blueport dared to hope for change.

But in the shadows, under the quiet directive of Noriko, that hope was already being dismantled.

Inside the precinct in Blueport's city center, Silas paced the length of a dimly lit conference room, his expression a mask of impatience.

"Here's the full list of workers from the destroyed factories," a subordinate said, sliding a folder across the table. "Addresses, job titles, everything we could pull from their records."

Silas opened the folder and flipped through its contents. Names and faces stared back at him, ordinary people whose lives had intersected with the wrong side of history. He paused on one profile: William Venn, age 43, assembly worker. The man's photo was unremarkable, but something about his tired eyes made Silas linger for a moment before turning the page.

Silas snapped the folder shut. His tone was clipped, efficient. "We'll start arrests tonight. Divide the platoon into ten sections and begin with the workers closest to the factory sites."

A faint hesitation from the subordinate drew Silas's attention. "Is there a problem?"

The man shook his head quickly. "No, sir. It's just... some of these people are just workers. They weren't part of the management or decision-making."

Silas's eyes narrowed. "They worked there, didn't they? That's enough. They'll have their chance to speak in custody. Plus, these are directly Noriko's orders. This mission could prove to be greatly important. That isn't… insubordination that I'm hearing, right, Warrant Officer?"

"N-No sir."

Silas nodded. "Go on, get to it."

The subordinate nodded and left the room, leaving Silas alone with the folder. He tapped his fingers against the table, his gaze focused. He was determined to get to the bottom of the terrorism.

A following evening, the streets of Blueport were quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves carried by the autumn breeze. Silas and his team moved methodically, their dark uniforms blending into the shadows.

At one of the many houses, Silas knocked firmly, his team standing to either of his sides. The door opened to reveal William Venn, his face drawn and pale in the faint lamplight spilling from inside. Behind him, the warm glow of the home hinted at a family sitting down for an evening meal.

"Can I help you?"

"Is there a William Venn here by chance?"

"You'd be speaking to him."

"William Venn," Silas said, holding up the warrant. "You're under arrest by order of Director Noriko Tachi."

William's mouth opened, his eyes darting between Silas and the armed agents behind him. "Arrest? For what? I just worked at the factory—I didn't do anything wrong!"

Silas's face was impassive. "You'll have the opportunity to explain yourself during questioning."

William's hands tightened into fists at his sides. "My family's inside. My kids are eating dinner. Can't this wait?"

For a moment, Silas hesitated, his gaze flicking past William to the warm light of the home. He thought he saw a child's shadow on the wall, small and unknowing. Only momentarily did the weight of the warrant in his hand feel heavier than it should.

But then he straightened, his expression hardening. "No. Come with us now, or we'll take you by force."

The man's shoulders slumped, and he allowed himself to be led away, his protests growing quieter with each step.

Silas and his team loaded William into the back of their unit van, the same place they'd placed many of the other workers they'd collected. Once they arrived back at the precinct, they unloaded the prisoners and led them to the interrogation hall.

Trailing Silas, a couple of agents grabbed the handcuffed William and guided him to an interrogation room. They were dressed in black from head to toe and armed with rifles, their faces hidden behind helmets. Each one took hold of William by an arm.

When they arrived, they roughly shoved him into a metal chair at a small table in the center of the room. He sat shackled, his eyes sunken, though his voice remained steady.

The accompanying agents retreated silently to the door, leaving the room without a word. Silas gazed through the one-way window for a moment before turning back to William and making his way to the open chair on the opposite side of the table.

The interrogation room was cold and utilitarian, its walls bare except for faint scuff marks left by years of restless suspects.

"I told you," William said, his voice hoarse, "I don't know anything about the explosions. I just did my job like everyone else."

Silas leaned against the table, arms crossed. "And your job involved assembling commercial antiseptics. I'm sure you're well aware of how toxic their contents can be, especially when set ablaze. How do you think the city feels about that?"

William's jaw tightened as he looked up. "Look—I really don't know how else I can prove my innocence. My family is waiting for me. I know they're confused. You saw us—we were having dinner together."

"Where were you at the time of the explosions?"

William chuckled nervously, staggered. "How am I supposed to know what time they happened? I was probably—I don't know—at home, eating dinner?"

"I'm not playing around."

"And neither am I! Look—that factory was the only thing keeping food on the table for my kids. I'd be fucking stupid to blow it up. And even if I wanted to, I wouldn't even know where to start!"

Silas's lips pressed into a thin line. He pushed himself upright and began pacing the room. "You're not the first to play that card, you know. The one where you try to get me to feel pity." He stopped and turned to face William. "Remind me of your name again?"

"Will—William."

"Right. William." Silas's voice dropped, sharp and pointed. "You've got a family. Tell me, how many kids?"

"Three. Two boys, one girl, in that order."

"Does your daughter know where you worked? What your job was?"

"How is this relevant—?"

"I'm the one asking questions!" Silas slammed a fist onto the table, his sudden shift in demeanor and fierce gaze taking William by surprise.

William's gaze dropped to the floor, and for a long moment, he said nothing.

Silas chuckled darkly before continuing. "You should know, resistance—any resistance—against the Director's authority is not just futile. It's dangerous. Do you know what was found at the scene?"

William shook his head, lips trembling.

"Along with the two toasted factories, there were countless loose sheets of notebook paper, each bearing a selection of quotes. The first one I picked up seemed to be the overarching message. 'The care of human life and happiness, and not their destruction, is the first and only object of good government.'"

Silas leaned forward, the glint of cold amusement in his eyes. "'The care of human life and happiness'—a noble sentiment, I'm sure, but one that wilts under the harsh light of reality. Do you think the safety of millions can be ensured without sacrifices? Do you think peace is achieved by simply 'caring' for people? No. Government is not about kindness. It's about control, stability, and the ability to make decisions others cannot stomach.

I'm sure this quote isn't new, and the original speaker of it may have had the luxury of poetic ideals in his time, but the world we live in doesn't reward such naivety. Sometimes destruction is necessary. A factory must be torn down to build a city. A few lives must be inconvenienced—or ended—to secure the safety of the majority.

These terrorists we're dealing with—they talk of happiness as if it's something that can be freely given. But happiness is not a right; it's a privilege earned through order, discipline, and compliance. And the government's role is not to coddle its citizens but to ensure they follow the rules that keep society intact.

If I could meet these people, I'd tell them that destruction is not the opposite of care—it is sometimes its greatest act. By breaking what is weak, we make space for something stronger to grow.

I'm sure this train of thought mirrors that of the person I'm looking for—the difference being that they believe with all their heart that they are right, whereas I question whether there is such a thing as objective morality to begin with."

Silas removed his handgun from its holster, admiring it in his hand. William's face paled, his eyes wide with fear.

"The point I want to emphasize, though, is that these mystery offenders seem to have failed to consider that their actions have consequences. And whether or not you have anything to do with those explosions, what we know for certain is that your reaction was favorable toward them, based on the information we've received. That, you can't deny.

And as far as I'm concerned, this makes you complicit, whether you want to admit it or not."

Silas let the words hang in the air, his gaze unwavering. He turned the safety off his pistol, slowly aiming it at William.

"You can blame that damned 'Z' insignia, whoever they are."

William swallowed hard. "You're a monster."

Silas smiled, cold and knowing. "I know."

With a sharp, deliberate motion, he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot echoed in the sterile room, harsh and final.

"Take that as a message," he said flatly, holstering the weapon as he turned and walked out. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving the room in silence.