Fiction

Wills is waiting.

Wills had seen enough. There had definitely been a spike of some kind and now a whole host of people presenting in clinic with depression. There hadn’t been depression like this since, his eyes monitored a trail of data points, the division.  Not since salaried work was abolished and replaced with the  pursuit of passion. Individuals got depressed, chemically or as a result of trauma, but not in groups. Not waves.

He was expecting a comm-tap. He’d managed to convince Favro to be patient, but Wills knew it was very dangerous to have someone with a cause. The latest data out of the sonamachines would surely have thrown fuel on his fire and now there was all this chatter about a disturbing dream. Every moment that Favro didn’t comm, Wills’ anxiety rose. He was popping fruit-gel balls into his mouth and bursting them between his teeth with a kind of wild chomping, trying hard to read data and not look at the comm screen.

He tried to think logically about how many of the assembly a man like Favro could possibly have contacted. Niobe had confirmed his planner had nothing, no meetings attended before they told him to stand down, but Wills had this niggling worry. A sort of insect-like annoyance, crawling about the edges of his thoughts: it wasn’t Favro who came to him. It was his assistant.

Wills crumbled up the packet of gel balls, smooshing what few remained. Enough waiting. He dumped the whole sticky mess into the garbage chute as he stormed out the door.

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