Committee: Episode 2. By Roy Smith

Albert Johnson peered down at the crowd as it gathered beneath his window on the eighth floor of the Freedom Centre for Treatment and Bodily Harmony. He wondered what they were doing? There had been a fair amount of unrest in recent years and he guessed that of late, any number of things could have upset the typically agitated classes. The Stutters had them confined at the back of the car park, gathered around a small bonfire and surrounded by a team of Civic safety professionals who judiciously prevented any advance towards the hospital with the latest in city defence equipment. The protesters were ringed by a thick black cable that projected a bubble surrounding them and preventing any unwanted damage or injuries. Albert had read that the bubble created a frequency known to sooth and create a general feeling of well being; pretty soon even the most determined would eventually succumb to inner peace and lose interest in whatever it was that had so riled them in the first place. Some of them were already sitting down and he was sure one had fallen asleep. It was pathetic, these people were never satisfied. Science and progressive government had cured most serious diseases, ended virtually all war and hunger and removed most hardship from the reach of all but the least civilized of the population. They lived in general wealth and plenty with all the time in the world to dedicate to whatever petty interests and intrigues that they saw fit. Yet they still chose to fight against the very society that allowed for such a privileged existence. It made him sick to see their ignorance paraded through the spotless streets he'd spent his youth fighting to defend. All that the government asked was for general obedience to the 'statutes of morality'. Statutes that were so entrenched in the good of the people that he could barely imagine what objections so many found with them. He reached over to the decanter and poured himself a glass of 30 year old whisky. He'd never understand.

* * *

Jeanette was excited. This was her first protest and everything about it was terrifying and amazing at the same time. Mike had persuaded her to come along and told her what to expect. She had been suspicious of the red and blue pills he'd insisted she take, but was now grateful for their stimulant effect as the bubble prison hummed its seductive lullaby. Several people had fallen to the ground after only minutes after the Stutters managed to enclose the group. They had kept spread out and danced erratically from their various meeting points coming together only at a distance to avoid early capture, but once the hospital was in sight they had formed a little too quickly in her opinion. The plan - or what she knew of it - had been to take over the reception of the hospital and wait for the media to  come and have no choice but to broadcast their presence. The official channels were always reluctant to report this sort of thing, but RealiTV broadcasting was constant from most public places. Any commotion would soon be picked up by their network of newsvid hackers and automatically spammed to as many screens as could be found. It always got out in the end and as fast as the government tried to shut them down they built new networks to spread the word. She hoped they would be seen from the car park, but knew the impact would be severely weakened by the less than desirable location they'd ended up with.

"To hell with you all", she screamed at the top of her lungs as she threw herself further into the manic dance that kept her blood flowing.

* * *

Statute Protection Sergeant 4 of the west and central district thought about the argument he'd been having with his wife that morning. She was sick of the late nights and secrecy that necessarily protected their lives. She wanted normality - whatever that meant - and a husband with a normal job. She wanted to talk and move freely, for their son to be able to know what his father did and where he went, instead of the constant stream of authorized lies the family were coached to regurgitate. Each morning they would wake and gather around their living room screen to watch the day's briefing. It would tell the story of the Willard family, their family, but not them. It would explain a facsimile of the previous day's events in recap, close and nearly the same as it actually happened with some minor deviations and editorial reinforcing of patriarchal authority. Of course the part of Ben Willard, Sergeant of the 'Stutters', as his wife taunted him, was complete fiction. His day slipped into their existence backed up by details and features manufactured by head office to support the family's security, privacy and normality - whatever that meant.

Susan Willard had never taken their unique situation particularly seriously and teased Ben from the beginning about his exciting life in retail strategy test-marketing and how his mundane character was continuously portrayed as the hero of their little story. But the gentle teasing had turned to resentment and mistrust as Peter grew up. She would explain she could laugh off the lies when she knew them for lies, but Peter just saw another day in the life of his father. He would be up and ready to watch the recap with anticipation and glowed with pride as the voice over announced clips of his father joking with colleagues and dealing with the 'challenges' of the the modern workplace with characteristic ease. It was all he knew, and she knew he loved it. The argument had ended as usual with grudging acceptance and a silent hug that felt so brittle. Ben had sat at the table staring into nothing, as Susan had left to do something else.

It wasn't as if he loved the situation any more than she did, but she had to understand it was necessary. It was only to protect themselves, and everyone in his line of work - from the bottom to top - had to abide by the rules. People had died. The Police Secrecy Act was all that kept them from the attentions of people like the dancing idiots he was currently safety managing. He watched emotionless through his tinted visor, then through the shimmering bubble that contained them. Unfortunately, the bubble had caught a couple of vehicles, a park bench and a small memorial statue within it's circumference. This was a popular protester strategy to bluff the Stutters into thinking twice before using the bubble shield. Government orders dictated that protest should be allowed, but heavily contained and managed with clear attention to civic cost and damages. The cars and bench had become platforms, smashed and battered, whilst that statue wore a ridiculous hat and a drooping red moustache. Not for the first time he wondered what it was like inside the bubble. Of course he'd experienced it in training, but what was it like in a real protest. He watched them dance and shout and trash, waving banners that would only appeared censored on any main stream news and looking for all purposes more alive than anyone he knew. Certainly more alive than he felt. On holiday, lost in thought, he would sometimes struggle to separate his life from the glossy tales on the recap that his son would replay repeatedly, hungry for more and never quite satisfied with the man sitting in the arm chair next to him.

He wondered what the protesters wanted. He was never properly informed and avoided looking for information that would only confuse and cause disturbance, as recommended in his training, but the question still hung over him tickling at what remained of his curiosity. He hoped it would end soon. It took five men to operate the bubble once it was stationed and relief wasn't scheduled for some hours.

* * *

As Albert Johnson crashed through the window on the eighth floor of the Freedom Centre for Treatment and Bodily Harmony he wondered who had pushed him. His heart exploded in shock from seeing the height and fall in front of him, saving him from any awareness of the far messier fate in store for the rest of his body. In a moment the protest and officers surrounding it came to a standstill, they watched in silence as hospital staff struggled to scrape pieces of the former Public Health Director from between two cars. Minutes later the news crews arrived with cameras and teams of eager reporters. Naturally the protesters went wild, screaming and cheering to grab attention. And that's when things turned nasty.

Committee: Episode 1