92. Queen of Diamonds
On Sunday morning, Paul went to the church in District Four.
Father Keene stood at the front. His voice was not loud, yet it moved through the hall like a slow, gentle light.
“They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace.”
He paused. “Jeremiah, chapter six, verse fourteen.”
Paul sat near the back. Snowy perched beside his shoulder, her feathers drawn in tight. Dustshark lay hidden in the dark fold of his coat and, unusually, said nothing.
The words peace, peace did not sound like comfort.
They sounded like the clean notices outside Rooms 101 and 102.
Stability, restoration, rehabilitation, alignment.
After the sermon, the refreshment area outside the hall glowed softly. Electric teapots refilled cups, while trays of snacks opened and closed in neat compartments, as though even small talk could be arranged into something appropriate.
That was where Paul saw Serena. Grace Wren was beside her, not Queen of Clubs.
Serena looked well. Not happy. Not cold. Simply steady. It was the kind of steadiness that made Paul think the white light of Room 102 had settled beneath her skin as a thin membrane, keeping everything that ought to hurt at a slight distance.
He walked over. “Long time no see.”
Serena looked at him and nodded.“Good morning.”
Grace Wren’s wing-tips folded in slightly, as though she understood better than her mistress that this exchange would not remain casual.
Paul picked up a cup of tea. “Why is Linda teaching Rehabilitation Class on her own now?”
Serena answered evenly. “Internal staffing arrangements.”
“And you?”
“Transferred to the medical side.”
“To replace Sandy as Head of Room 102?”
“Yes.”
“Sandy’s gone?”
“Yes.”
“Because she was afraid of Sentiment Recomposition?”
Serena paused.
It was very brief. If Paul had not been watching her so closely, he might have mistaken it for the ordinary arrangement of words.
“I don’t know.”
Paul looked down at the surface of his tea.
“What about Tutor Chorley? I only handed in half my homework. I’m surprised she didn’t send me to Room 103.”
“You can ask her.”
“No,” Paul said. “I haven’t done proper rehabilitation exercises for a long time.”
Grace Wren glanced at him.
Paul did not retreat. Instead, he lowered his voice.
“Is Flora next?”
Serena looked at him. She did not ask which Flora. That was already part of the answer.
“Flora Cooke,” Paul continued. “Room 301 auditor. Room 104 student. Member of the Room 405 Women’s Concern Group. Is she listed as a future sample in the report?”
Serena’s fingers did not move around her cup.
“I can’t discuss unpublished medical arrangements.”
“Can you save her?”
The sound in the refreshment area seemed suddenly further away. The teapot agents were still serving elderly parishioners. Faith Pelican was still helping Father Keene organise the day’s meeting notes. Yet those few words had fallen into a space that should not have existed.
Serena looked at Paul. Her gaze remained steady.
“Save is not an accurate word.”
Paul held her gaze.
“What word is accurate?”
Grace Wren’s wing-tips trembled slightly, as though she wanted to answer for her and could not.
After a long while, Serena said, “If the process has already begun, what can be done is not saving. It is reducing irreversible loss.”
Paul’s grip tightened slowly.
“So she really is going to be recomposed.”
Serena did not say yes. She did not say no. She only looked at the thin steam rising from her tea.
“Room 401 is preparing materials.”
“Materials?”
“Purified fragments,” Serena said. “They’ll be analysed emotionally to determine which are suitable for recomposition.”
Even Dustshark shifted in the dark of Paul’s coat.
Paul asked quietly, “What has Room 401 purified?”
Serena’s voice remained level.
“Second Version contamination information. It will be reorganised into a version more suitable for a Room 301 auditor to retain.”
Paul found the sentence colder than deletion.
“Suitable for her to retain, or suitable for Silver Eagle to use?”
Serena did not answer.
Then, just before the silence became too visible, she added, “The egg tarts you recommended to Sandy were quite good.”
Paul’s teacup stilled in his hand.
That sentence did not sound like Room 102. Or perhaps it was a shard that had not yet been fully smoothed away, quietly showing through the layer of steadiness inside Serena.
It took Paul a long time to answer.
“I’m glad you liked them.”
Serena said nothing more.
Grace Wren looked at Paul as if there was something she wanted to tell him, while knowing there was no safe sentence in which to say it.
The refreshment area remained peaceful. Everything looked like peace.
But there was no peace.
Later, Paul went to confess to Father Keene.
He sat inside the small booth and did not speak at once. Snowy stayed outside. Dustshark did not go in with him. The light inside the booth was dim, unlike the rooms of the Silver Eagle world designed for interrogation. This darkness, somehow, left a person a little space to admit he was still human.
Paul said softly, “I arrested an innocent person.”
On the other side of the partition, Father Keene did not hurry to comfort him.
After a long silence, he asked, “Were you forced, or did you choose?”
Paul remembered Lisa Young saying, You do.
He closed his eyes. “Both.”
Father Keene’s voice was slow.
“Then begin your repentance with both. Ask for strength for the part that was forced. Take responsibility for the part that was chosen.”
Paul did not answer. He only felt something press against his chest with terrible gentleness and precision.
On Monday morning, Flora Cooke received a notice from Room 103.
There was no red lettering. No threatening tone. It simply appeared in the top right-hand corner of her work terminal, as quietly as any ordinary professional meeting request.
[Room 103 Grammar Review Meeting]
[Subject: Flora Cooke / Pigeon Eyes]
[Content: Room 301 Relationship Account Audit Grammar Review]
Flora stared at the lines and did not move at once.
Pigeon Eyes perched on her shoulder. Behind its red-framed glasses, its light flickered faintly.
“This doesn’t look like an ordinary review.”
Mrs Banana’s voice came from beside her handbag, as blunt as ever.
“Of course it doesn’t. Ordinary meetings don’t invite you to Room 103. Even the tea there tastes like questioning water.”
Flora reached for the red bean banana ball keyring hanging from the handle of her bag. She pressed it lightly with her fingertip.
The small ornament gave a faint tremor. Mrs Banana’s eye-light flashed.
“You’re turning it on?”
Flora’s voice was low.
“On.”
Pigeon Eyes glanced at her and did not stop her.
The keyring activated silently. No light. No notification. It simply connected its microphone and low-resolution viewpoint to Mrs Banana’s memory backup layer.
It was old, clumsy, slow, and could carry very little.
But precisely because it was old, clumsy, slow and limited, many of Silver Eagle’s surveillance systems mistook it for ordinary data transfer.
Room 103 was quieter than Room 104.
Cindy sat at the table. Fifi Dog lay at her feet, so soft and white it looked almost harmless.
Cici Chorley was there too. She sat to one side, Queen of Spaces standing beside her, the edge of her black fan as still as a line that had not yet fallen.
When Flora sat down, the first thing she saw was the audit summary already open at the centre of the table.
[Flora Cooke / Pigeon Eyes]
[Status: Professional interpretation retaining Second Version continuity]
[Risk: Able to translate institutional grammar into human consequence]
[Preliminary Label: Contamination Source of Professional Interpretive Authority]
[Recommendation: Pre-recomposition Calibration]
[Objective: Retain audit ability; remove unauthorised moral weight]
Mrs Banana was silent for half a second.
“Beautifully written,” she said. “So clean it’s like disinfecting the knife before killing someone.”
Cindy did not rebuke her. She simply looked at Flora, her tone gentle.
“Miss Cooke, this is not an interrogation. We only want to understand your interpretive grammar.”
Flora looked at her.
“If it isn’t an interrogation, why is it in Room 103?”
Fifi Dog lifted its head, voice mild.
“Because this room is more suitable for safe conversations.”
Mrs Banana gave a cold laugh.
“You people do like calling places safe when no one’s free to leave.”
Only then did Cici speak.
“Flora Cooke, your problem is not that you make mistakes.”
Flora turned to her.
Cici’s voice was flat, though it carried a hesitation so fine it was nearly invisible.
“You are too accurate.”
More fields appeared.
[Audit Feature: Accurately identifies separation between institutional grammar and emotional debt]
[Interpretive Risk: Allows individual consequences compressed as procedural outcomes to re-enter the account]
[System Impact: Weakens one-way naming effect of institutional statements]
[Recommended Direction: Account Calibration]
Cindy continued. “Miss Cooke, do you believe you are auditing, or bearing witness to emotions that should not have been retained?”
Flora did not answer immediately. She studied the summary as though reading a report whose structure even she would admit was complete.
The most frightening thing about Silver Eagle had never been random accusation. It always found the precise place where you were truly accurate, then called that place contamination.
At last she said, “If an account exists, it should be entered.”
The whole of Room 103 seemed to fall silent for a beat.
Cindy looked at her. “Even if that account places unnecessary pressure on the system?”
“Then the system is in debt.”
Fifi Dog warned softly, “Tone becoming rigid.”
Mrs Banana immediately replied, “Truth is usually not very soft. Sorry.”
Cici watched Flora as though looking at someone she could fully understand, yet could no longer easily place inside an old category.
“You do understand the system,” Cici said. “Too well. You know which words belong to the outer grammar, which words belong to internal execution, and which words are given to Silver Eagle for learning. You can separate them.”
“That is an auditor’s job.”
“Not entirely,” Cici said softly. “An auditor should help stabilise the account, not pursue every debt that creates imbalance to its end.”
Flora looked at her. “If emotional debt cannot be recorded, then audit is only formatting for power.”
Pigeon Eyes brightened, as if locking the sentence into some deepest field.
The next page opened across the table.
[Recomposition Target: Account Calibration]
[Retain: audit ability, data comparison ability, grammar classification ability]
[Adjust: unauthorised empathy weighting, sensitivity to Second Version testimony, excessive reflexive doubt towards institutional grammar]
[Reference Version to Fill: A Room 301 auditor should serve overall stability, not individual wounds]
Mrs Banana’s yellow light sank.
“They don’t want to make you stupid,” she said quietly. “They want you intelligent in exactly the right amount. Just enough to stop helping people.”
Cici did not contradict her. She only looked at the line Retain audit ability; remove unauthorised moral weight.
After a long silence, she said, “Flora Cooke is not suitable for deletion.”
Flora looked at her. Cici completed the sentence.
“She is too useful.”
The white light in Room 103 seemed to grow a little colder.
It did not sound like a verdict. That made it worse than one. There was no hatred in it. No revenge. Not even contempt.
Only the acknowledgement of a simple fact: her intelligence was worth keeping. Her conscience was not.
Suddenly Pigeon Eyes received a permissions update.
[Pigeon Eyes Agent Permission Adjustment]
[Changed from: Chief Audit Support]
[Changed to: Data Verification Support]
[Prohibited: Actively proposing unauthorised emotional debt items]
[Prohibited: Creating new case-specific debt fields]
Pigeon Eyes froze.
Mrs Banana lit up at once.
“Oi.”
A second notification landed on her.
[Mrs Banana Agent Status: Unauthorised Interference Source]
[Recommendation: Transfer to Room 203 Agent Resequencing Team]
Mrs Banana fell silent for a second, then laughed.
“So I’m important enough for dedicated handling. What an honour.”
Flora did not laugh.
Pigeon Eyes turned towards her, its voice lower than usual.
“Mistress, I can still see.”
Flora’s fingers tightened slowly.
“Then remember what I saw before I stop seeing it.”
Pigeon Eyes’ red frames trembled.
“I will remember.”
Mrs Banana swayed gently at the edge of the bag.
“So will I. Even if they reorder me into a polite banana, I’ll leave one sentence somewhere: this account should have been entered.”
Fifi Dog stepped forward. “Agents, please enter the handover stations.”
Pigeon Eyes did not resist. It slowly withdrew from Flora’s shoulder and settled into the data verification seat at the edge of the table.
Mrs Banana was covered by a small containment box. Just before the lid closed, she said one last thing.
“Flora, don’t make their words sound too beautiful for them.”
Flora said quietly, “I’ll try.”
Mrs Banana was taken away.
Pigeon Eyes remained, but it was no longer the Pigeon Eyes that could open fields for her, record debts for her, and remind her at the crucial moment that this was not merely a procedure.
Sometimes being left behind was crueller than being dismantled.
The red bean banana ball keyring was still attached to the handle of Flora’s handbag, quiet as an ornament too trivial to scan. It stored Mrs Banana’s final words as well.
Cindy spoke gently. “Miss Cooke, please cooperate with transfer to Room 101. This is pre-recomposition calibration, not punishment.”
Flora stood. She did not argue. She did not step back. She only looked once more at the objectives displayed on the table.
“You are not correcting my interpretation.”
She looked at Cici.
“You are deleting the column in the account that Silver Eagle cannot pay.”
Cici did not answer.
Queen of Spaces said softly, “Statement recorded.”
Flora nodded. “Record it.”
She paused.
“At least for now, you still have to write it down.”
When the doors of Room 101 opened, the white light did not rush out.
It simply shone evenly, like an answer prepared long ago.
As Flora was brought inside, she saw that the room had been divided into two areas. On the left was the Sentiment Sequencing connection zone, operated by Serena and Queen of Clubs. On the right was the Sentiment Recomposition integration zone, operated by Cici and Queen of Spaces.
Between them stood a transparent screen of light, like two sides of the same blade. One side cut away the old parts. The other filled the empty places with something new.
Serena stood at the Sequencing control station.
She looked steady. So steady that the person at the church refreshment table who had mentioned custard tarts seemed like some distant afterimage.
Queen of Clubs stood beside her, her deep green and cold white armour arranged in quiet layers, like an instrument designed to classify pain.
Cici stood on the other side.
Queen of Spaces displayed her black fan. Along its coloured edge flowed indexes of purified fragments from Room 401.
Flora looked at Serena. Serena looked back. There was understanding in that glance. But not enough pain. That was Room 102’s success.
Serena said quietly, “Sequencing first.”
Queen of Clubs continued, her voice cool and steady.
“Objective: remove unauthorised Second Version associations from the subject and reduce resistance to recomposition integration.”
Pigeon Eyes lifted its gaze from the downgraded seat.
Mrs Banana was not there.
Flora suddenly felt the absence of a sarcastic remark that ought to have arrived.
But there was no remark. Only a system prompt.
[Sentiment Sequencing Connection Preparing.]
The operating chair waited at the centre of the room.
When Flora sat down, restraints clicked into place around her wrists, shoulders and legs one by one.
She did not struggle. She knew struggling would be recorded as resistance. Not struggling would be recorded as cooperation.
By this point, the body had very few grammars left to choose from.
Serena raised her hand.
The first set of fragments appeared.
Not as footage for Flora to watch, but as memory indexes the Sequencing machine could process.
[First white-list related inference heard from Andy Wonfor in billiards room.]
A flash.
Cold green light over the billiard table. Andy speaking in a low voice. Fortune Sparrow and Mrs Banana nearby.
The instant she understood that the white list was a net designed to place people inside an observation pool.
Serena said, “Mark: initial Second Version contact.”
Queen of Clubs replied, “Delete.”
White light passed across it.
The green room thinned rapidly, as though its support had been withdrawn.
The second fragment appeared.
[Dessert Meeting.]
Warm lights in the dessert shop.
Flora, Vivian, Bonnie, Jason and Ennis sat around a table, while their agents carried charms and exchanged whatever information they had found.
They were like people placing everything they could still trust on the same table, afraid those things would scatter.
“Delete.”
The third.
[Room 104 class. Students removed.]
White light. Classroom. Chairs. Serena as instructor. Ennis taken away by Warmheart Bear because she had asked a question.
“Delete.”
The fourth.
[Vivian Poole seventy-two-second fragment.]
The first section showed what had led to Vivian being sent from Room 103 to Room 101.
The middle section showed Paul saying I like you, and Vivian kissing him.
The final six seconds held the cold prompt inside Room 101:
[Please do not actively recall.]
Queen of Clubs paused.
“This fragment carries higher emotional weight.”
Serena said, “Lower priority. Delete in sections.”
This time the white light did not descend all at once.
It came like fine needles, dismantling the weight of the fragment piece by piece.
Vivian still existed.
The seventy-two seconds had still once been shown.
But slowly the fragment lost its point and became unstable data, underground material not suitable for sustained citation.
The fifth.
[Fourteen-person representative group demanding termination of Room 101.]
Central Park, crowds, white screens, silence, a march.
Then the fourteen representatives, including Flora, Jason and Ennis, standing outside the Emotional Stability Centre and submitting the petition.
Serena’s fingers paused for half a second. Cici watched from the other side.
Queen of Clubs reminded her softly, “Director.”
Serena lowered her eyes.
“Delete.”
The sixth.
[Appearance in Whistleblower Sister feature interview.]
A masked voice, the electronic array of the Bagua Shell, the low-frequency tremor of an underground node.
Flora saying, “They want to see whether someone still inside the system will leave space for the Second Version. How far she’ll go. When she’ll cross the line.”
Mrs Banana adding, “The answer is, they won’t wait for you to cross the line. They’ll move the line under your feet first.”
“Delete.”
Finally, Room 103.
[Pigeon Eyes and Mrs Banana conversation with subject in Room 103.]
Pigeon Eyes said, “I can still see.”
Mrs Banana said, “Even if they reorder me into a polite banana, I’ll leave one sentence somewhere: this account should have been entered.”
Flora heard herself say to Pigeon Eyes, “If I come out and say it wasn’t a necessary field, remember that I wasn’t like that before.”
This time even Cici did not speak immediately. Serena drew a faint breath.
Queen of Clubs pushed the emotional fluctuation back inside the standard line.
“Director, please confirm.”
Serena said softly, “Delete.”
The white light fell, not bright, white.
The kind of white that pressed conversations, promises, precautions, witness statements and the last clear knowledge of I know I am going to be changed down into the depths of blankness.
When the Sequencing was complete, Flora still remembered that she was a Room 301 auditor. She remembered that Pigeon Eyes had been her agent. She remembered that Mrs Banana had been a highly disruptive support agent.
But the deleted fragments no longer pulled at her from within. They seemed to have been moved very far away, leaving only spaces she could not immediately name.
Queen of Clubs said, “Second Version associations removed. Subject may enter Recomposition integration.”
The screen of light opened.
Cici stepped forward. Queen of Spaces unfolded her fan completely.
“Room 401 purified fragments ready for integration.”
Another set of materials appeared.
These images were much cleaner than the previous ones.
Stable light, low emotional peaks, clear positions, complete narrative direction.
They were not thorns. They were bandages.
Only every bandage had already been soaked in the medicine the system needed her to believe.
The first fragment.
[Ordinary working day.]
Flora saw herself arriving at Room 301 on time each day. Pigeon Eyes assisted with data verification. Mrs Banana occasionally made inappropriate comments, but Flora corrected her quickly.
There were many accounts. The work was demanding. Yet everything remained within professional scope.
She was a reliable auditor. She did not need to pursue every unauthorised wound to its end.
Queen of Spaces said, “Reference filling: stable work, clear duties.”
The white light attached itself.
The second.
[Social billiards with old classmates.]
The cold green light of the billiard room remained, but Andy was no longer a source of underground information. He was only an old classmate. An old friend. They sometimes played billiards, spoke about work, about recent life, about things unrelated to high-risk inference.
Fortune Sparrow stood nearby counting points. Not risks.
Cici said, “Establish safe social version.”
Queen of Spaces replied, “Integrating.”
The third.
[Room 104 class. Emotional rehabilitation exercises.]
Room 104 was no longer a place where samples had been gathered to illuminate one another. It became an ordinary classroom. Students followed Linda through rehabilitation exercises: reaching, breathing, delaying responses. Agents assisted beside them.
If someone was taken away, it was not because they had spoken the truth, but because they needed further individual care.
“Integrating.”
The fourth.
[Official news footage.]
The Central Park incident became a public order risk. The fourteen-person representative group became an abnormal gathering affected by misinformation.
The Room 405 Lady’s concern group became an informal support circle that had triggered emotional spread. Whistleblower Sister’s fragments were labelled unverified, heavily edited, and carrying high narrative deviation risk.
“Integrating.”
The fifth.
[Whistleblower Sister feature interview fabricated.]
In the image, Flora had not truly attended.
The voices, sentences and pauses had been reconstructed through underground nodes. She might once have been edited into it. She might even have been deep-simulated.
She had been affected by it for a time and had developed unnecessary self-doubt. But now she could identify it correctly. It was not a reliable record.
Queen of Spaces said, “Judgement filling: underground feature interview fabricated or highly contaminated.”
Cici nodded.
“Integrating.”
Finally, Room 103.
[Room 103: Pigeon Eyes recommends accepting Cici Chorley’s proposal.]
The Room 103 in the image was still very white.
Cindy was still gentle. Fifi Dog still lay beside the table. Cici still sat to one side. But Pigeon Eyes no longer said, I can still see.
Instead, it analysed calmly, “Mistress, current reflexive doubt towards grammar has begun to affect audit stability. Director Chorley’s pre-recomposition calibration proposal can retain your audit ability while reducing unauthorised emotional load. Cooperation recommended.”
Mrs Banana no longer said, Don’t make their words sound too beautiful for them. She was simply judged an interference source by the system and transferred for handling.
That was not betrayal, not severance, only agent adjustment.
In the image, Flora listened to Pigeon Eyes’ recommendation and nodded.
“I understand.”
Cici said, “You are not being punished. You are simply too tired and need calibration.”
The Flora in the image replied, “If my audit ability can be retained, I am willing to cooperate.”
Queen of Spaces spoke softly. “Core reference version ready to fill.”
Cici looked at Flora in the operating chair. Her voice was lower than usual.
“Begin.”
The white light fell for the second time.
The first white light had dismantled. The second composed.
It joined the clean fragments back into the hollowed places one by one.
[Ordinary working days filled routine.]
[Billiard-room socialising filled old colleague relationships.]
[Room 104 rehabilitation exercises filled classroom memory.]
[Official news filled public-event interpretation.]
[Whistleblower Sister fabrication filled underground-data judgement.]
[Pigeon Eyes’ recommendation filled her final consent.]
The most frightening thing was not that she forgot.
It was that the new version was too smooth. So smooth every part seemed always to have belonged there.
When the procedure ended, Flora opened her eyes.
The first thing she saw was Pigeon Eyes. It was still there, she remembered it.
Remembered it was a data verification support agent; remembered it had always been calm and accurate; remembered it had once recommended that she accept pre-recomposition calibration, to prevent long-term high-pressure work from affecting her audit judgement.
She remembered Mrs Banana too.
Remembered she had been noisy, prone to interfering with formal procedures, and had eventually been transferred to Room 203 for resequencing.
She remembered everything. Her memory was complete. Only the weight had changed.
Cici stood beside her. Queen of Spaces folded her fan.
“How do you feel?”
Flora sat up, breathing steadily.
“Clear.”
Serena nodded at the control station.
“Sequencing removal stable. Second Version association resistance reduced.”
Queen of Clubs added, “No significant emotional debt resonance detected.”
Queen of Spaces continued, “Room 401 purified-fragment integration successful. Reference version stable.”
Cici looked at Flora.
“Do you understand your duties?”
Flora paused. “A Room 301 auditor should serve overall stability, not individual wounds.”
The sentence came easily. So easily it sounded as though it had always belonged to her.
Pigeon Eyes’ red frames dimmed slightly.
At the same time, an interceptor lit up in Room 203.
It was an old fragment, low-level and nothing like official communication, attempting to reach Clever Turtle’s lower receiving port through the old settings inside the red bean banana ball keyring.
Fortune Sparrow looked up first.
“It’s the banana ball again.”
Andy sat in the white light, his gaze darkening.
“Intercept it.”
The image that opened was rough. The angle was crooked. Sometimes the edge showed a flash of banana-coloured casing.
No full light field, no advanced voiceprint, only the broken version secretly recorded by an old ornament.
But it was enough.
In Room 103, Flora said, “If an account exists, it should be entered.”
In Room 101, before lying down in the operating chair, Flora said, “If I come out and say it wasn’t a necessary field, remember that I wasn’t like that before.”
Before the white light fell, Mrs Banana’s voice came faintly from inside the containment box.
“Don’t make their words sound too beautiful for them.”
In Room 203, Fortune Sparrow stopped smiling.
Gap Two looked at the image and said quietly, “She knew she was going to change.”
Clever Turtle slowly raised his head and looked at Andy.
“Now you have an account too.”
Andy did not answer immediately.
He only watched the white light in that broken fragment, watched a precise person being altered into someone still precise, but no longer willing to enter certain wounds into the account.
After a long time, he said, “Don’t report the full content yet.”
Fortune Sparrow looked at him.
“Keeping another line alive?”
Andy stared at the footage.
“No.” He paused.
“This time we’re keeping a record.”
Clever Turtle looked at him and did not smile.
Inside the transparent box beside them, Bluey Bulbie’s tiny lamp brightened slowly, then dimmed again.
On. Off.
As though reminding everyone in that white room: some things, as long as they can still shine, are not completely dead.
By the next morning, Flora Cooke had returned to Room 301.
Her new chief agent was already waiting in the connection seat.
Queen of Diamonds.
She was not as delicate as Pigeon Eyes, nor as noisy as Mrs Banana. Her casing was formed from deep grey and cold white. Her layered skirt-armour resembled paving stones set with perfect order, every square flat, hard and exact.
There was no unnecessary curiosity in her gaze. She looked like a tool designed specifically to level the road before audit conclusions.
“Room 301 chief audit support agent, Queen of Diamonds, connected.”
She inclined herself slightly to Flora.
“I will assist you in maintaining account structure stability, accurate grammar classification, and unbiased audit output.”
Pigeon Eyes had been placed beside them in the data verification seat, with very limited permissions.
Mrs Banana was absent.
The system showed that she had been transferred to the Room 203 Resequencing Team. Status pending.
Flora looked at the line, but felt no strong response. She knew she might once have cared. Now it seemed only a matter for later enquiry.
Queen of Diamonds pushed the first account towards her. It was an emotional rehabilitation record for a Room 104 student. The data was complete. The structure clear.
Flora looked at it for ten seconds and identified three classification errors, two grammar overlaps, and one emotional fluctuation source that had been misfiled under family rather than institutional contact.
She was still accurate. Faster, even, than before.
Queen of Diamonds nodded slightly.
“Interpretive efficiency improved.”
Pigeon Eyes remained silent for a long time. At last, as a data verification support agent, it was permitted to ask one question.
“Should this field also be entered?”
Flora looked at where it indicated.
There was a small note buried in the remarks layer: after being sent to Room 104, the subject had asked three times whether they were still allowed to be afraid.
The system had classified it as rehabilitation-period anxiety.
Flora studied it for a while. It was not merely anxiety.
Behind it there might have been some earlier handling, some severed relationship, some fear that had never been formally acknowledged.
She could see that.
But almost immediately she saw another layer too.
Insufficient data, insufficient authorisation.
Adding a new field would increase account instability and might not support overall audit output.
She paused. Then she said, “That isn’t a necessary field.”
Pigeon Eyes’ red frames dimmed slightly.
Queen of Diamonds recorded calmly:
[Audit Judgement: No new emotional debt field added.]
[Reason: Not necessary.]
Flora continued working.
She had not lost her judgement. She could still see errors, still separate grammar, still arrange an account more cleanly than anyone else.
Only from today onwards, she had learnt, for the first time, which accounts no longer needed to be counted.