A flock of waxwings are perched on the branches of a tree that rises and twists towards the blue sky as if stretching after a long pleasant slumber. They preen, hop, and I'm watching them, lying back in my chair with my head cradled by the perfectly designed backrest.

I sigh deeply. This unsettling peace still seems like a lovely break.

"So." My mother starts again. She's trying to be more 'present.'

I pull my sunglasses down and peek over the rim at her. My parents are sitting at the table, resting after their game by solving crosswords in silence. The jar of iced tea leaves water stains on the cream-coloured cloth, a lazily tossed bouquet spills flowers from a nearby table, and my phone has been silent since early morning. Too silent.

"So?" I urge with an encouraging smile.

"When are we meeting him?" she asks, leaning back in her chair, and draping one leg over the other.

I tilt my head to get a clearer view of her face. "Who?"

"Oh, you know. Wayne. Your special friend." She smiles and her dimple becomes more prominent. "Or should I say partner?"

"Friend is fine." I laugh softly. "And why would you guys meet him? It's not that serious."

"I'm just curious," She says, fidgeting with the little book of puzzles on her knee. "He's—um—how do I put it? Well, he's not your type."

"You mean he's not the type you approve of." My dad cuts in.

"Mum. It's not a big deal," I reassure her, but she's not listening to me. She glares at my father and he raises his palms in mock defeat, returning to his crossword.

"As I was saying," She continues. "I believe you don't approve of mega corporations and Wayne works for one. 'Works' is a light term. He lobbies for one—"

"He's the head of public relations—"

"I know what that's code for, honey. Do you know how many lobbyists end up in politics? All of them. And I've even heard that he's quite the serial dater."

I lift my eyebrows in surprise. I wonder who's been gossiping. Our world is too small for comfort.

"Marie, what's 20 down?" Dad interrupts.

"Epsilon," She quickly replies and continues. "I just think it would be nice to have him over. I mean, is he even right for you?"

"He's fine." I shrug.

"Fine?" Dad prods, joining the conversation abruptly the way he does. 

I inhale sharply, feeling slightly cornered. I don't want them to be suspicious of anything.

"I mean, he's great. He's smart and ambitious—"

"Are you his employer?" Dad reprimands. "What is he really like?"

"He's—he's...kind," I finally manage to say. I reach forward and grab my glass of iced tea. Letting the perspiration on its surface drip freely onto my jeans, I fidget with the decorative straw. "Sure, we have our differences but he always acts in good faith, and I like talking to him. He keeps finding new ways to surprise me, and I think I could get used to having dinner with him."

I push my sunglasses back up to the bridge of my nose, embarrassed by my own words. Dad seems pleased enough and returns to his crossword with an approving smile. On the contrary, Mom chews on her lower lip with an indecipherable emotion masking her face.

"That's lovely, hun. Marie, what's 11 across?" Dad speaks before she can.

Her parted lips, move hesitantly as she replies, "Befell." 

Then, she turns her attention back towards me. "No matter how nice he is, you shouldn't feel like you have to do anything you don't want to," She says, slowly and carefully.

My heart warms, my face breaking into a smile. I'm touched that she remembers the rocky journey I had while trying to date during my university days.

"Mom, he knows I'm ace," I reply. 

She nods thoughtfully and finally returns to her crossword.

"I'd like to meet him too," Dad says, closing his book and tossing it onto the table. He never finishes a puzzle. "We went for a drink after work last night and bumped into Carole. She said she was at the donor convention that Sara Egerton had hosted—"

"Of course, she was—" Mom mutters under her breath. 

"—Carole saw Wayne there too." Dad continues. "Apparently, he's good friends with Ms. Egerton. Did you know about that?"

In my peripheral vision, I can see my mother's lips part in shock. I don't know if I should play dumb to keep them from worrying or tell them the truth.

"I know that he's on good terms with Councilwoman Kerry, so I can see how he may know Sara too," I slowly explain. "He helped me get that exclusive that the Reverent ran yesterday. It was great, Kerry finally addressed the issue."

"Addressed it?" Mom scoffs as she writes in her book. "She just did a lap for her own image."

"Sure, but Kerry didn't lie," Dad replies, uncomfortably. "She did introduce that welfare scheme and lifted that many people above the poverty line. I looked it up after Carole's vitriolic anti-ONA rant last night. You know, I couldn't have said anything then but today I saw a colleague write such an awful thing on his ATOM page..."

His voice drifts into the distance when I notice my phone light up with a message.

Instinctively, I reach for it. The message shoots a bolt of current through me; straightening my spine, bringing the surrealness of the morning to a sharp halt. I scan the club's garden, the terracotta path, and the other outdoor tables around us for a familiar face. With an excuse about an emergency at work, I rush towards the washroom I was being called to.

The door swings open to reveal Martin leaning against the wash basin, fixing the collars of his shirt in the mirror. I lock the door behind me and walk over to him.

"I liked your plan. Better yet, it worked." Martin turns to look at me. A soft echo reverberates in the room due to it's grand size.

"Did it? She buried you in statistics," I reply in a worried tone of voice.

"Isn't that interesting?" he wears a knowing smile. "There is a shift in tactic. With Jeremiah, AFD tried a negative campaign. Now even when we're going after Kerry personally, she refuses to do the same. Our negative campaign against them shows how they put the voters at risk whereas the negative campaign against Jeremiah only points out his personal failings. As a voter, what would you be more concerned about?"

I nod in agreement, sitting down on the pearl-coloured marble extension of the washbasin.

"Kerry has the advantage of taking credit for the 'work' she's done." Martin continues. "Our advantage is that the details of her work are public information. All we have to do is pick it apart."

"Hm. So what can I do?" I ask politely.

"I need you to obtain some records for me as fast as you can," He answers with his jaw firm. 

Use my connection at the welfare unit that handles Bex's policies? I could do that with an easily believable excuse.

"You trust me, then?" I grin, unable to resist the urge to push his buttons.

He pinches his lips together and looks away. Still, there is a smile somewhere that reaches his eyes. "Shut up," He mutters. "You're one of us now. Emir told me about your conversation."

"Right." My face falls. I stare at the hollow of the sink, and ask hesitantly, "Martin. Did you help him with Hart?"

"You could say so. I hid it." Martin nods. "Emir had turned my agency down, so I was pleasantly surprised to receive a call from him. He confessed and I knew he was the candidate I had always wanted. You could say I'm guilty too." 

Gesturing towards the door, he adds, "If this is all too much for you, you can still leave."

Water drips from one of the copper-coloured faucets into the basin, periodically, exaggerating the quiet.

"I'll call my friend at the agency." I reply curtly, jumping off the counter.

Martin doesn't respond, but he smiles wide enough for me to catch a glimpse of the metal ring piercing through his upper lip frenulum. 

I wonder if it hurts, but I don't ask.

                                                                                 -------

Martin uncaps the digital pen with his teeth and writes on the canvas covering one of the walls in his office. The room is filled with manila folders, tablets, and paperback books with worn spines. This all feels so new. Despite watching speeches my whole career, I've never witnessed the making of one. Only his assistant and Cherry stay with us. Martin scribbles, "200,000 less people under the poverty line."

Our biggest hurdle was tackling this line. It was spreading around like wildfire, without any context or deeper examination.

"You could explain that the line itself is flawed. The methodology doesn't account for a lot of poor people," Cherry comments, sitting casually in his office chair.

"You're correct but we can't use phrases like that for your rally speech. It has to be simple, impactful, easy to regurgitate," He lists off, snapping his fingers.

"Can't argue with that." Cherry replies. Her blonde hair is much shorter now. The soft bob sways from one side to another as she swivels the office chair, to and fro. "I need a chant. I need the audience to respond."

"Uh-huh," He mutters absent-mindedly. He flicks his wrist and an old note appears as a heading in his usual scrawly handwriting:

MESSAGE: This government should be held equally culpable for the crimes of these corporate giants

He begins to scribble around it. "Motivating a crowd is your forte, Cherry. Do you really need my help with that?"

Kerry is a LIAR. Has not done anything to stop Orion from fucking over others. (Two examples) (An ex-Orion employee to speak before her)

I rise from the sofa placed next to his table. "Well, technically, she hasn't lied. Can you really frame it like that?"

"Of course." He smirks. "Tell me about the parameters again."

Before I begin, Martin's assistant steps forward to pull up several graphs on the screen.

"So, you are placed either over or below the poverty line on the basis of your pre-tax income adjusted for family size, location and inflation," I explain without stopping for breath. "However, our definition of the line, the threshold income, is from the last survey which was years ago—"

"No." Martin interrupts me. "It doesn't matter if the line is outdated. That's not something I can turn into a headline. Anything else?"

"Well," I stutter. My hand, which was confidently holding up the file that I had acquired from my friend, falls limp against my body. I toss it on to the couch. "Bex has seen two epidemics during Kerry's time. Still, while measuring poverty, sudden large medical expenses are not taken into account.

A lot of poor, even bankrupt, people should have been able to apply for this scheme but were disqualified because technically their pre-tax income was above the line."

Martin's assistant raises his hand to get our attention. "We cannot bring up the epidemics. She managed to localize both."

"But the hospital staff were horribly overworked and were not compensated for months after that," I argue.

My words hang in the balance as Martin quietly contemplates the situation. Paper rustles as Cherry, in a world of her own, flips through the file I had tossed.

"No." Martin finally sighs. His delicate pointy nose twitching in annoyance. "We cannot let her take credit for more things. Not a chance."

I groan softly, tugging at my bangs. We look at each other, for a moment, hoping for a break-through. Cherry snaps the file close and drops it onto the table. A soft thud echoes in the room.

"None of the applicants who were chosen were receiving disability allowances. Surprise, surprise," She snidely remarks. 

We seem obviously confused as we turn to look at her, with our stiff shoulders and pinched eyebrows. She pauses for a moment before elaborating.

"I was in school. My mum couldn't take too many shifts. We had to apply for benefits because of my dad's disability. It immediately disqualified us from Westside's poverty alleviation schemes. The scheme is biased towards people who already have a job."

Something clicks.

"Now that you've said it..." I mutter. Walking closer to the screen, I zoom in on a particular graph. "I thought it was strange too."

I direct everyone's attention towards a list of benefits—'disability, housing, retirement, etc.' "The red bars indicate the two-hundred thousand who received help from Kerry's program. The blue ones representing the rest of the applicants." 

The red bars are several units shorter than the blue ones in every case. 

I can sense Cherry rise from her seat. She comes closer, stopping right beside me, to get a better look. Her fingers fidget with her necklace as she studies the figure. 

Martin bites his lower lip, his eyes aglow with inspiration.

"Now this is what I was looking for." He whispers. "We'll take it from here."

                                                                   ------

The lighting in the bar is dim. The air, slightly foggy, diffuses the orange glow of the lamps. It's so thick with ash and expensive cologne, I could taste it. I squint my eyes as I navigate my way through the crowd. When I spot Chloe, relief floods me.

Shouldering past drunk men hollering at the football match with beetroot red faces, I grab the bar stool next to her and sit down.

The bartender eyes me carefully as he refills her glass. A Negroni on the rocks, like always. I grab her drink before she can.

"Hey!" She turns, her eyes wide with shock. "Oh. It's you. What are you doing here?"

"You called me." I laugh nervously.

"Oh, I don't remember," She mumbles. "Can I have my drink back?"

"No." I say firmly. "I'm obviously cutting you off." I look at her with worry. "Chloe, what happened? Weren't you working today?"

She leans forward, crossing her arms on the counter. I take a gulp of her drink and cough at the harsh taste. Not my poison.

"I took off early. Told Lea to take over my segment," She replies, slurring a syllable or two.

"Why?"

"I received a tip." She smiles, precociously. "There was a speedy request for a gathering permit at the bridge. Councilman Young's bridge."

"Wait, Zac is also holding a rally this evening?" I frown. My heart sinks. He'll definitely undercut the importance of Cherry's rally tonight.

Chloe laughs. It's a clumsy, drunken chuckle and her cheeks blush pink. 

She leans closer to me. "No, Lu. Why would I table my report for that? ONA requested the permit."

My mouth falls agape. They'll give that speech on his bridge? 

My eyes flit over to the match playing on the large screen, fixed on one end of the bar. 

Chloe takes her drink back when I'm caught off guard. With the rim of the glass pressed against her maroon lips, she says, "Wait for it. Half-time is in two minutes."

Once she's taken a sip, I coax it away from her and empty it into the used glass next to me.

"Let's go home," I say.

"Not yet." She stands up abruptly. I try to follow her as she weaves through the crowd but unlike her, I'm too sober to shove and elbow without a care.

I watch her as she approaches the manager. After a brief conversation and some resistance from the group standing next to her, she starts to walk back towards me; triumphantly.

Behind her, the screen flickers and cuts to black. Groans and complaints ripple through the group sat nearby. Chloe raises both her hands to flip them off. I push forward to grab her by the arm and bring her next to me.

"Stop that," I say, snorting at her uninhibited state. I can tell she's about to retort with a clever quip but her smile stiffens at the sound of the river.

My head turns to the source, so does Chloe's. The bustling bar floor seems to still. Nothing moves except the black gushing currents on the screen.

The floodlights, mounted onto the stage, illuminate the heads of the large excited crowd. They cheer, they hush, they ever-so-slightly lean forward to hear what she has to say. Cherry's hair is a golden crown against the purple skies. The sound of the waves against the bridge adds to the enthralling scene.

"Who built this bridge?" she asks, throwing her hands in the air.

"We did!" They chant back.

"You did!" She replies, matching their rigor. Her smile remains, her voice softens. "Now, I want to tell you about someone. First row, right there. Can we get a spotlight on him? Thank you."

The burly man, glowing under the spotlight, waves to the crowd.

The lighting in the bar appears to dim as well.

"That's James Omond," Cherry continues, reverting back to her gentle, firm tone. "He worked here, on this bridge, for two months until a malfunctioning crane damaged his knee beyond repair. Remember, James built this bridge. Not Councilman Young." She pauses. The crowd waits for her to continue.

"You see, mobility aids, medicines, and accessible transportation are all expensive things and he's still struggling to find work. James is a good man, an honest man. He deserves a good life. Now, according to Councilwoman Kerry—I don't know if you caught her speech yesterday—" The crowd breaks into murmurs with a few loud confirmations.

A couple, sitting at the counter, dip their heads closer to whisper to each other.

"She said that, in her first week sitting in the council, she started a welfare scheme that helped provide jobs and lift many people above the poverty line. So, I looked into it. I had to. You would imagine that if a man like James walked into the welfare bureau in Bex, they would help him right away. Wouldn't you?"

The river's mist rises in the distance.

A deadly hush falls over us all.

"But that's not what they were doing there. You see, they were taking people who were close enough—almost on the poverty line, and giving them a little nudge to push them over it. Handing them a temp job, a part-time offer guarding the power plant, or something else. James, with his knee, would not have been considered for the scheme."

Heads tilt upwards. The graph I had built, with a few stylistic modifications, floats onto the sky. The holographic image is captivating, convincing, outrageous.

"Clearly, there were many other people who were too poor, too old, too homeless, too down on their luck, to be considered." Cherry's voice quivers, as it begins to rise again. 

She raises her hand to point at the graph floating above her. "The AFD does not want to help you. Councilman Young does not want to help you. He'll take credit for a bridge, he did not build. He won't show up for those who have.

Where was he when Nutrien hurt your kids? All those food aids pouring in right now are a bribe. He is telling you to forget about it, exactly the way he does.

They're good at doing that—looking away. Councilwoman Kerry does it all the time. She looks the other way when a corporation threatens your job. She looks the other way when you can't help her achieve a good statistic.

And if they're playing a numbers game, we will respond with numbers. We have to vote these people out. For James, for the people who built this bridge, and for ourselves."

------

i tried very hard. i'm sorry if this chapter is all over the place! another edit might fix it.

also, if the ONA doesn't make you squirm sometimes, i'm doing something wrong.