Chapter 19: Drinking in Silence, Speaking in Fire
The bar was tucked between two concrete blocks on the edge of the residential fringe—just far enough from the central towers that no one important would overhear, but close enough that the taps never ran dry. The lights were dim, the wood-panel walls soaked in years of quiet discontent. No music played. Only the clink of glasses and low murmurs of conversation filled the air, the sort of place where people went to speak truths they couldn't risk in daylight.
Chris and Mark sat in a booth at the back, two mugs deep already, the condensation from their glasses tracing lazy paths down their fingers. Mark leaned back, his face flushed, his smile looser than Chris had seen in months. But there was something brittle underneath it, like glass under pressure.
"God, I needed this," Mark muttered, rolling the mug between his palms. "For once, I can actually say what I want. No filters. No bowing. No watching every damn word like it might get me blacklisted."
Chris gave a low chuckle, nursing his drink. The familiar weight of Mark's frustration was oddly comforting after the sterile precision of IP Oversight. "Feels almost like we're back in Commonwealth cities. Just two mates talking, not a care in the world."
Mark's laugh came out harsh. "If we were back in Southern Commonwealth, this wouldn't even count as risky. Just banter after work. But here?" His voice dipped, the brittle smile fading. He stared into the beer foam like it might hold answers. "Here, being yourself gets you nothing but silence."
Chris stayed quiet, recognizing the edge in Mark's voice. He'd heard it building for months—the slow grind of bureaucratic rejection wearing down someone who'd come to the Republic with genuine hope.
"I followed the rules," Mark pressed, his voice rising slightly. The words carried the weight of months of suppressed anger. "I signed the forms. I picked a House—the River, because they offered the best terms for someone like me. Paid the bloody taxes. Registered everything properly. Even tried to learn their cultural protocols, bought books about proper etiquette, attended their information sessions."
He took a long pull of beer, his hands trembling slightly. "And still—no updates for my pod certification, no access to support networks, no responses to my applications. Just silence. Three months of perfect silence while I watch House-connected customers get their certifications approved in days."
Chris tilted his mug, studying Mark's face. The frustration was deeper than he'd realized, cutting into something fundamental about Mark's sense of self-worth. "Which House again? The River?"
"River," Mark spat, the word carrying bitter disgust. "Five percent tax rate—lowest on the list. They dangled housing assistance and technical support, made it sound like they actually wanted Commonwealth immigrants. Said my logistics background would be 'valuable' to their transport networks."
His laugh was sharp and joyless. "Turned out 'valuable' meant 'useful for moving cargo' and nothing else. They took my application fees, cashed my tax payments, then filed me away somewhere to be forgotten. I couldn't give a shit about their grand plans or political speeches. I just want to enjoy my games in peace and feel like I'm not committing some cultural crime by existing here."
At a nearby table, a group of four men stirred. They'd been sitting quietly, nursing their drinks with the careful attention of people who'd worked hard for every credit. But now, with Mark's voice carrying across the dimly lit space, their shoulders straightened. One muttered something under his breath, another tapped his glass sharply against the table. The largest of them—a man with a thick jaw and the emblem of the House of the Flame tattooed around his wrist—stood and began to approach.
Mark didn't notice, lost in his own grievances. "They talk about loyalty and belonging, but how can anyone be loyal to a system that treats them like a filing error? I've been patient for three months. Three months of being told to wait while they 'review my cultural integration assessment' and 'evaluate my commitment to House values.'"
Chris saw the group moving and felt the weight of risk settle in his chest. One flagged report here, one surveillance notation, and his new position at IP Oversight could vanish before he'd learned enough to protect himself.
The Flame man jabbed his finger at Mark, beer-heavy breath washing over their table. "You sit here crying about fucking video games while we're breaking our backs twelve hours a day so the Republic doesn't collapse into chaos. Our wives scrub floors and clean waste systems so your precious entertainment stays functional. You think we do this for fun?"
His voice rose, drawing attention from other tables. "We bleed so our Houses don't fall, and if our Houses fall, the whole Republic goes with it. You don't understand that, do you, foreigner? You don't know what it costs to keep this place running."
Mark's cheeks burned red, alcohol and months of rejection fuelling his response. "I'm not asking for charity! I paid my fees, followed your procedures, tried to learn your customs despite getting no help—"
"Customs?" The Flame man's voice cracked with derision. "You want to know about customs? Try working sixteen-hour shifts in the foundries while your kids go hungry because some bureaucrat decided your family doesn't deserve food assistance this month. Try watching your father die because the medical review board thinks his treatment isn't 'cost-effective' for someone his age."
He leaned closer, his companions moving to flank him. "You came here voluntarily, looking for a better life. We were born into this struggle. Don't lecture us about fairness when you've never had to choose between feeding your children and paying House taxes."
Chris lunged forward, trying to defuse the situation before it exploded. "He's not trying to dismiss your struggles—"
But Mark was already past reason, months of suppressed fury finally finding a target. "So I'm supposed to be grateful for being ignored? Grateful that I get to pay taxes for services I can't access, fees for applications that disappear into bureaucratic black holes?"
The Flame man swung first, his fist connecting with Mark's shoulder hard enough to send him stumbling. Beer sprayed across the table, glasses shattered against the floor. Mark caught himself against the wall, then came back swinging wildly.
Chris grabbed the man's arm, trying to pull him back from Mark. "Stop this! There's no need—"
Someone else slammed into Chris from the side, an elbow catching his ribs. His shirt tore down the back, fabric scraping skin raw. He gasped, throwing blind punches as bodies pressed around him.
Glass exploded somewhere nearby—a mug smashed against the wall, spraying fragments across the floor. The smell of spilled beer mixed with sweat and the metallic taste of blood. Someone coughed wetly. Another voice laughed, ugly and high.
Mark landed a wild elbow that sent one man staggering into a table, but another Flame worker grabbed him and drove him shoulder-first into the booth's edge. Mark grunted—raw, pained—and Chris caught a glimpse of the old scar across his back tearing open, skin wet with fresh blood.
And then—
A piercing mechanical chime cut through the chaos like a blade through silk.
The entire bar froze as if a switch had been thrown.
Three enforcers pushed through the crowd like a machine cutting through resistance. Boots heavy on the wooden floor, faces carved from stone. One bore the cobalt-threaded emblem of the House of the Sky. The other two wore Department grey—one Sky, one Flame.
"Enough," the lead enforcer said, his voice flat but sharp enough to cut the room in half.
The crowd separated immediately, the Flame workers backing away with sudden wariness. The casual violence that had erupted moments before evaporated under the weight of official authority.
IDs were scanned with mechanical efficiency. The handheld scanner beeped coldly as it processed each man's information. "General branch. House of the Flame," the device announced with clinical detachment.
Peter Vang, the Sky enforcer, looked them over with barely disguised contempt. His emblem caught the bar's dim lighting as he spoke with the measured authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience.
"You're not tribunal officers. You're not House judges. You're civilians in a public establishment. Freedom of expression is guaranteed by law. People can voice complaints, even if those complaints offend you. That doesn't give you the right to assault them."
One Flame man clenched his jaw, but Peter stepped closer, his voice hardening. "You don't like what they said? Too bad. Until they threaten violence or incite illegal activity, you keep your hands to yourself. That's law, not suggestion."
Silence fell heavy across the bar. Then William Fang, the Flame representative in Department grey, stepped forward. His voice carried the weight of institutional disappointment—not anger, but something colder.
"You idiots dragged the House of the Flame's reputation through mud tonight. You think this was defending honour? Protecting dignity?" His gaze swept across his House-mates with cutting precision. "This was embarrassment. You made fools of every worker who's spent years proving we deserve respect and advancement."
He gestured toward the broken glass, the overturned furniture, the blood on the floor. "The Republic doesn't need your fists to defend it. It needs citizens who can control themselves when challenged, who can represent their Houses with dignity instead of drunken violence."
One of the Flame workers lowered his head, hands trembling with shame.
Peter finally turned to Chris and Mark, his scanner ready. "Names."
Chris wiped blood from his split lip, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Chris Xiong. Department of IP Oversight. Recently transferred from Wall Pod maintenance." He paused, meeting Peter's eyes. "My residential registration might still be processing through the system."
The younger enforcer's stylus moved efficiently across his tablet. "Address?"
"Building A, northern district apartments, unit 412, Sector 8B."
"Logged."
Mark straightened despite the pain radiating from his reopened scar. "Mark Berry. Eastern District apartments, building B, unit 211. Eagle Logistics, cargo coordination."
The stylus clicked against the tablet. "Logged."
Peter's expression remained neutral as he reviewed the information. "You're not being detained. Security footage shows you were defending yourselves after being assaulted. The Flame workers will pay for damages and medical expenses if needed."
He gestured toward the door with mechanical precision. "You can leave. Keep your heads down and avoid situations like this in the future."
Mark opened his mouth, still hot with alcohol and adrenaline, but Chris jabbed an elbow into his ribs to shut him up. Some situations were won by knowing when to stay silent.
The enforcers left as efficiently as they'd arrived, their presence vanishing like steam. William Fang lingered a moment longer, his gaze a silent blade across the backs of his ashamed House-mates, then followed the others into the night.
When the door shut, Chris finally let out the breath he'd been holding. His ribs throbbed where he'd been hit, his torn shirt hung in tatters, but they were free to go. Mark pressed a hand to his bleeding back, pain and alcohol making his movements unsteady.
The Republic didn't need fists to maintain control. It had something far more effective: the certainty that official authority was absolute, inescapable, and backed by systems too complex for individuals to challenge.
"Come on," Chris said quietly, helping Mark toward the exit. "Let's get you cleaned up."
As they stepped into the night air, both men carried the weight of lessons learned. The Republic's peace wasn't built on violence—it was built on the understanding that violence, when it came, would be official, measured, and final.
Behind them, the bar slowly returned to its normal rhythm. Workers cleaned up the broken glass, replaced the damaged furniture, and pretended the evening's violence had been an aberration rather than a glimpse of the pressures building beneath the Republic's orderly surface.
The system had held. Order had been restored. And in the morning, the machine would continue its smooth operation, powered by the certainty that individual frustrations could always be contained before they threatened the larger structure.
But as Chris helped Mark through the empty streets, both men understood that containing pressure was not the same as relieving it. Somewhere in the Republic's carefully managed society, other frustrations were building, other breaking points were approaching.
The question was whether the system's control mechanisms would prove sufficient when those breaking points were finally reached.