Chapter Text
The apartment door slammed behind Bonnibel, causing much more of a ruckus than intended. She was rushing out of the building, which was rather unusual for her, but there was an emergency down at the data collection building, requiring all workers to come in. Bonnibel hated her job, but she didn't exactly have a choice in the matter. When she was younger, the girl dreamed of being a biologist, and now she works as a data collection scientist for the government. All jobs were government-regulated now, even cashiers and trash collectors. Therefore, rendering Bonnibel's job the same level of significance as every other one. She remembers when she was young, there used to be opportunities for people to pursue careers that had nothing to do with politics or the maintenance of the city, but now everyone belonged to the system. The Central Syndicate, which is the administration that controls the city, bans all petitioning from citizens; any slander against the syndicate is strictly prohibited. Bonnibel has her thoughts about the functionality of the system.
There was a large crowd outside of the data collection building, with officers barring the murmuring civilians off. Bonnibel had to squeeze past dozens of people, which only furthered her frustration. She was bothered by the unknown, and having to shove through a crowd of people was not making the situation better. As she bustled through, she eventually reached a set of fences that were being used as barricades.
"Hold it right there, Ms." an officer spoke as he interrupted her path. Bonnibel looked up at the rather large man and sighed. She rustled around in her bag that she'd been carrying on her shoulder until she eventually pulled out her worker ID badge, showing she was a collections scientist. The man snatched the badge out of Bonnibel's hands, which would have warranted a scoff had the man not been looming over Bonnibel. The man let out a sound reminiscent of a "Hmph" as he handed the badge back to Bonnibel and stepped off to the side. Bonnibel brushed past the barricade and hurried herself into the building.
Once inside, Bonnibel quickly found her way into the staff room, which is where her co-workers gathered. Bonnibel found her locker, hastily shoved her bag inside, and grabbed her white, long coat. As she walked over to her group of co-workers, she threw on her lab coat. Bonnibel wasn't one to converse much with her peers, but she did have an interest in listening to the others. She stood on the outskirts of the semi-circle that had formed in the room to tune into the whispering.
"Well, I heard it's a six-year-old boy," one of her female co-workers gossiped, Bonnibel still unsure of what the emergency was
"I heard that his parents found the hole and made him," another one chimed in. Bonnibel felt her curiosity mix with frustration as everyone already seemed aware of the situation.
"Wait, what's going on?" someone finally asked, allowing Bonnibel to sigh in relief
"You haven't heard? A family was caught trying to escape the city. As punishment, they're taking their child and putting them through the Rebirth process now, and the kid isn't even thirteen," someone explained sorely.
"But the parents aren't going to be Reborn?" a man asked who'd just caught the tail-end of the conversation.
"No, they're making them watch, as a reminder of the rules," the first girl replied
Bonnibel couldn't hear any more about it, but she understood why they were all called in now. Bonnibel's job is to collect and file away all data on cases assigned to her before people go through the rebirth process. This data includes their family members, their birthday, their key personality traits, etc. Essentially, she must build an entire profile for people before they're Reborn. Being Reborn was the worst-case scenario in Bonnibel's mind. It consisted of having all previous experiences and memories wiped, being assigned a specific job within the system, and being given the key personality traits to perform the job dutifully. Reborn citizens were flawless in the Syndicate's eyes, which was all that mattered to them. People were allowed to live lives after being reborn, but all the people who've gone through the process didn't know they had a life before becoming a "specter," as they're called by the non-reborn. Bonnibel was incredibly lucky that she was already in existence when the new world was being shaped; otherwise, she would have been forced to become a specter. All children born after the Central Syndicate came about must be reborn at the age of thirteen, along with any citizen who is caught rebelling or breaking the law.
There was a high-pitched ringing that came through the PA before the screeching voice that Bonnibel dreads every day spoke. The man cleared his throat loudly into the PA before speaking, "Would all data collectors please find themselves in the Assignment room at 1:00 p.m. sharp? AGAIN, would all DATA collectors find themselves in the ASSIGNMENT room at 1:00 p.m. sharp? Hm," and with that, the clattering of the speaker went silent. Bonnibel dropped her shoulders, feeling shrouded in despair. The assignment process was one of Bonnibels' least favorite parts of her job. She and her coworkers were lined up in a moisture-laden room and were assigned two to three cases per day. It wouldn't be so bad if Bonnibel didn't always get the worst cases; it felt like she had perpetual bad luck surrounding the whole ordeal. She anticipated getting the worst of it. She theorized it might be personal, considering her boss hates her and has a smug grin plastered on his face every time he hands her her case files. Bonnibel slid her coat sleeve up to reveal the time on her wrist, and it read 12:52 p.m., which didn't give her much time to get to the Assignment room.
Once inside, Bonnibel found her place, which was between one of her female coworkers and one of her male coworkers. She always noted that they'd bat their eyes at each other as if Bonnibel wasn't standing in the middle; she'd learned to roll with it. There was nearly an even mix of non-reborn members and specters in society. Specters were made to be fulfilled with their new lives and not question their lives before, although they were aware of the rebirthing process. It's just another aspect the syndicate added to make sure they got their way. There was a clear way to tell who was a specter and who wasn't; all specters, once reborn, get a tattoo on their right wrist of the Syndicate symbol, which is just a simple triangle to signify the Syndicate's strength. Bonnibel found it hard to engage in conversation with the specters, as they were all brainwashed with heavy political propaganda. Bonnibel found herself slouching as she waited for her boss to arrive. This assignment process was special, as only one person would receive this case, yet they all still had to show up for it. It was Saturday, and while all government buildings were typically closed on weekends, special circumstances occasionally meant Bonnie was required to come in during her off hours.
As soon as Bonnibel started to daydream, her incessantly annoying boss arrived in the room. He walked in cockily, with a slight annoyance appearing on his face. He held the file in his hands and pattered the folder in between his palms. He paced back and forth in front of the assembly line of data collectors, eyeing each one up and down. Bonnibel tried to avoid making eye contact while still standing tall and presenting herself respectfully. She was wishing with every fiber in her being that she wouldn't get assigned to this case. Everyone already had a bias against Bonnibel as she was always given the worst cases, and she knew if she was given this one, no one would look at her the same, especially if it was such a young child. She held a steady breath, trying everything in her power not to draw attention to herself, hoping her boss might forget she exists just for a brief moment.
The man cleared his throat once again before his voice pierced the silence of the room, "ONE of you will receive this folder in my hands," he continued to pace back and forth, now placing his hands behind his back, "And when you do, you will read the case study to the rest of the room," he stopped dead center and faced the assembly line. Bonnibel knew he was going to call the assigned person forward next. This happened once before, when she'd first been assigned this job, "Ms. Burke, please step forward." Bonnibel remained neutral, although she was seething inside.
She took the folder from the man's hands as he held it out in front of him with the same sinister grin he always wore, "Thank you, Mr. Citron, Sir," Bonnibel found herself returning to her spot and opening the case folder.
" Ms. Burke, would you read aloud the case you'll be taking on later this evening, as a reminder to all why the rules are STRICTLY enforced," He said, sticking his nose up in the air. She wished she could say no, throw the folder in the air, and make a quick dash out of there, but it'd only result in the one thing she didn't want.
"Yes, Sir," Bonnibel cleared her throat slightly so she could project better for her peers, the case stated, "The Trunks family was detained on Friday evening for attempting to escape the Central Syndicate. It is noted in Section 1, segment 2.3 of the Central Syndicate's Charter that any attempt at leaving the city is verboten and calls for immediate rebirth. Let it also be stated that any contact with the outcast beasts of the badlands calls for immediate detainment and potential rebirth. It is not known if the Trunks were in contact with any sentient creatures of the barren world. A reminder that you are protected from the vermin of the Old World in Central Syndicate, nothing can happen to you here," once Bonnibel was past the propaganda spiel listed in nearly every case file, she was able to read about the kid she'd be profiling, "Mrs. Trunks (45), Mr. P-Trunks (39), and their son Sunny P-Trunks (5 1/2) are the culprits. Mrs. Trunks found a hole on the outskirts of town and chiseled away at it over many evenings until it was large enough for their son Sunny to fit through. They attest to only wanting their son to escape, saying they had no intention of escaping themselves. The Syndicate finds all three accounts guilty and, as a consequence, will begin the rebirthing process for Sunny P-Trunks 7 and 1/2 years early. Mrs. Trunks and Mr. P-Trunks will attend the rebirthing process, which should reinforce the rules, therefore deeming rebirth for the two adults unnecessary. A profile must be made for Sunny P-Trunks before 6:30 P.M.," Bonnibel finished, hearing a few small gasps throughout the entirety of her reading. Bonnibel couldn't believe the situation, but she was mostly numb to these scenarios, although she knew just how horrible they were.
Bonnibel closed the folder slowly and straightened out her posture, waiting for dismissal. She knew she needed to prepare for the profiling; this case was going to take a toll on her psyche. Mr. Citron smiled and nodded his head in Bonnibel's direction, "Thank you, Ms. Burke. And before I dismiss you all, remember, the Syndicate is concerned about YOU. You are dismissed," and with his finishing touch of indoctrination, he spun on his heel and left the room. Bonnibel immediately rushed to her office to start preparing for Sunny. She'd profiled many 13-year-olds, as that was who experienced most of the Rebirth process. While crime was rampant in the city, the suicide rates were higher. Oftentimes, people would kill themselves before they allowed the Syndicate to turn them into specters, but the children had no choice, it was something every family had to prepare for. Bonnibel found it hard to profile the young teenagers, as a lot of them pleaded with her, and she knew she couldn't help them. Her office was set up so that the candidates would feel somewhat comfortable sharing their details, making the process easier for them. However, it wasn't equipped for five-year-olds. She found some old dusty crayons and a few pieces of paper and set them on a blank spot on her desk. She didn't know how she was going to approach this, but she also knew she had absolutely no choice. Bonnibel sat in her swivel chair and slouched down, letting out a long, tremulous sigh. She peered up at the clock on the wall; it read 6:20 P.M. She knew he'd be here any minute. Bonnibel gathered herself and thought once more about how she'd break the news gently to a five-year-old little boy that he wouldn't remember his mother, or father after tonight.