Lucy has had better days, and Tuesday is shaping up to be a shit show. First, waiting for her in her inbox, there was a reminder of an overdue report she was supposed to submit on Friday. 'It is what it is,' that is Lucy's mantra when she screws things up, and she says it again to herself as she reads the next message, the one asking her why she didn't reply with her comments on the figures from the beta trial—the trial that she knows was just for show anyway, the results were already decided ahead of time. It isn't like she is faking her way through this job, as some of her staff might believe, it is just that she has been in this scene long enough to decide her own priorities. That is what makes her a good manager, and, in the end, makes her a successful businesswoman. She can see through the bullshit and focus on the important stuff. As for the rest, well, it is what it is.

But the next series of emails cause her to pause. Normally, she would take the follow-up action items from the kangaroo court of the discipline committee and file it under 'it is what it is': minutes of the meeting, call for comments, terms of reference for the committee, RFP for the EAP, more suggestions for TLAs (three letter acronyms)—those kind of things. Today, however, she is looking at a draft of a document that, it is proposed, will be sent out to all employees of Alpha International Incorporated. The Blue Pages, as it is referred, will publicize the crimes and sentencing verdicts of those brought before the discipline committee or those charged under executive order. The names, departments, employee ID number, details of the accusations, findings of the investigators, summary of the disciplinary action taken would be disclosed to all in a bulk email communication, posted on the internal company website, and displayed on staff area information boards. And as Lucy stares at the document, she sees the placeholder icon of the blank outline of a head, the one that is beckoning for the upload of the picture of the accused's face. Public shaming, or public execution, is what it is.

Lucy's desk is a clutter of papers, and diving through them, she surfaces with a pen. She scribbles the employee numbers of each of the seventeen employees, from all of Alpha's North American offices, who will make the first instalment of the rogues gallery called the Blue Pages. She is trying to remember if they discussed the Blue Pages at the meeting yesterday, but can't recall. She may have drifted, a little bit. Lucy skims through the minutes, and there is no mention of this part of the disciplinary process. And as she reads further, Lucy notices that there is also no mention of Pompey, the IT guy who got busted for running the Alpha Ghetto chatroom. There is, and it is no surprise, a lengthy indictment of Claude Measures, whose case was not discussed, except for the brief mention of it by Lucy.

Logging into the HR section of the server, Lucy accesses the first few employees named on the list. Sure enough, the mandatory employee ID photo, just like the one that hangs from Lucy's name tag, is displayed. She is looking at the image of a man, just a normal guy somewhere in—she checks his data—Indiana, and imagines how his world will change once his photo is plastered throughout his plant, or the local newspaper picks up on the story that this circuit technician had been reprimanded for suspected use of illegal drugs at work. Who knows what the real story is, but this poor sucker is going to pay dearly. This is not right. A travesty, is what it is.

She picks up the phone and calls Pompey. He picks up.

"Hey Pippin, it's Lucy Lumalabas. I see you are still working here."

Pompey laughs and adds, "For now. What's up?"

"Well, I am going through the sentencing decisions from the discipline committee and I see that your name doesn't appear here, nor does it appear in the minutes. Yet you were on the docket. We talked about you. I remember that clearly."

"So?"

"So, I was wondering how it is that you were disappeared like that."

"Let's just say that I struck a plea bargain."

Lucy thinks back to the meeting. Escalus? She can't see someone at that level getting involved in this. He has got things far more important to worry about. Lord? No way, he would want him hung. Fryer?

"What do you mean Pippin?"

"My occupation is a mystery. Don't say anything, but I agreed to help them out by setting up the site where they will publicly air out the dirty laundry of the underbelly of Alpha."

"You mean the Blue Pages?"

"Yes."

"So, let me get this straight. Your penance for facilitating public debauchery is to build the gallows from where your colleagues will hang. To me, they both weigh pretty much the same."

"Well, perhaps I can do some good here."

Perhaps you can, Lucy thinks as she says good bye and hangs up the phone. Fryer must be behind this. She turns to her keyboard and enters Fryer's name in the message window. The directory lists him as [email protected]. Everyone else at Alpha has the first initial of the first name and the surname for an email address. Odd.

In the subject line she writes, "Claude Measures".

Lucy has not spoken to Isabella since Friday, when Lucy suggested that she try to reach out to Angelo Lord, and last heard from her in the bcc emails between Angelo and Isabella, the ones where Lucy had chimed in with her advice to Isabella. She has not heard anymore about Claude's fate, nor has she seen much of her new tenant lately, the girl who knows no one in this town.

Mr. Fryer:

I was wondering if there has been any further news regarding Mr. Measures. I did not sees him mentioned in the minutes from yesterday's meeting. Please let me know if there has been any progress on this file. Just trying to play my role on the team. - Lucy

She thinks more about Pompey's role as the assistant executioner. He would have back-end access to all employee's files, all their personal data. He could, conceivably, reassign personalities, make people disappear, rewrite history. What a wonderful part to play.

***

It is later in the afternoon, after her sector meeting, that Lucy returns to her desk, coffee in hand, sits down and reads the email from Fryer.

Lucy:

I appreciate your concern, and I understand that you know Claude's sister personally. I do advise that you do not get involved in this matter, so as to not jeopardize any progress that is being made. Suffice it to say that there is some hope. Mr. Lord will, with the stroke of his pen, reveal his justice. We shall hear officially tomorrow.

- Fryer.

Lucy knows that Fryer is in deep. There is no way that someone with that much, she tries to find the right word–compassion, perhaps–is merely a Human Resources officer. Not that a HR guy isn't important, it just seems as though Fryer was cut from a different cloth.

She is contemplating acknowledging Fryer's email with a thank you when a message appears from Pompey. There is an attachment, a compressed email message, from none other than Angelo Lord. She double clicks and the text appears before her.

Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claude Measures be terminated by four o'clock this afternoon, as well as the thief Barnardine. For my satisfaction, send me the shot of Claude's head posted on the Blue Page, by five. Do not fail at your assignment, as you will answer to me at your peril.

-AL

Lucy highlights the text, copies, and hits a reply to Fryer's earlier message. She pastes the message and adds the line, What do you say to this? Lucy hits send.

She looks at the clock. It is three-fifteen. Fryer's reply is addressed to Pompey, copied to Lucy:

Mr. Pompey,

I appreciate that you brought this to Ms. Lumalabas's attention, and that she forwarded it to me. I am going to have to rely on your good faith here, hopefully in return for the kindness which I showed you in arranging your transfer to your current position.

I am asking that you hold off on executing Measure's termination for the moment. Tell me, who is this Bernardine who is to be fired this afternoon?

-Fryer

Once again, Lucy is the audience as the email dialogue begins to fly. She sits back, sipping her coffee, and watches the drama play out before her.

Pompey: Some Bohemian artist type from Creative. Milked what he could from the company for nine years, stole the rest.

Fryer: Why wasn't he fired before now?

Pompey: Apparently he has lots of friends who wrote reprieves on his behalf. They never could pin anything on him. He fought it the entire time, but now, with the recent cuts to the art department, he is redundant.

Fryer: I authorize you to use Bernardine's photo on Measure's poster. Send that to Angelo.

Pompey: What if Lord has seen them both?

Fryer: Then photoshop a beard, or shave his head. Make him look like Measures.

Pompey: With all due respect Mr. Fryer, I don't feel comfortable about doing this. What if Lord discovers that I have disobeyed his command? He will eat me alive.

Lucy wants to jump in. She wants to type, in capital letters, with exclamation points and emojis, she wants to yell at Pompey to listen to Fryer! Listen to the man! Hell, she can just call him. She picks up the phone and begins to dial when the dialogue resumes.

Fryer: If I were to tell you that I know how to get in contact with Vincent Duke, and that Duke still owns the majority of the shares in Alpha, and that I could vouch for your actions here today, that if anything went sideways, I could get you a pardon from Vincent Duke, would that make you feel better about following my instructions?

Pompey: Why would I believe that?

Fryer: I have a handwritten message from Duke himself, telling me that he will be coming by the Mountain View offices in a few days. Look at the attached screenshot, you'll see his note.

Pompey: Yes, that appears authentic. I recognize the signature.

Fryer: Then listen carefully, and do as I say. Angelo Lord knows nothing of this, in fact, he will be getting word soon that Duke is in a Buddhist monastery in Tibet. Don't ask me about how I know this. Have your guys draw up the documents on Claude Measures, and get it to Angelo Lord before five.

Lucy stares at her screen in amazement. And she thought she bent the rules, now and then. She scrolls back to reread the conversation, to try to make sense of what she just read. But as she is about to reach the top of the email thread, her computer freezes and a small, rectangular window appears, along with the Alpha logo and the words, "Sorry, Alpha Office Mail has stopped working. Please restart program." Her computer doesn't allow her to click 'cancel. Only 'restart' is functioning. And it is no surprise, that when the program has reloaded, there is no record of the conversation between Pompey and Fryer.