Chapter Text
Lockwood looked up as the door opened. Barnes entered, a grim irritation set deeply on his face.
“You’ll forgive me for not getting up,” Lockwood said, tugging on the handcuffs that secured his wrists to the metal interrogation table.
He had been caught trespassing on a site Rotwell had shut down. George had wanted to do some experiment there. Lockwood didn’t quite have the details down but he had thought it was a good idea so had gone along with it. And he’d sacrificed himself so George could get away without any charges being levelled against him.
The next stage in Lockwood’s remarkably well thought out plan was to talk his way out of whatever legal trouble he was in.
Barnes dropped a file down in front of Lockwood with a large thump.
“Have you heard about the recent changes to Policy 8?” Barnes asked.
The policies were a series of DEPRAC enforced laws that were specifically designed to help govern the lives of agents and those who worked in the psychical industries. Policy 1 set out employment laws. Policy 2 set out the laws surrounding ghost-locked agents and who had legal rights over their ‘bodies’.
Policy 8 controlled their love lives although love had never really come into it.
With the ever increasing threat of ghosts, DEPRAC had declared that agents needed to become increasingly powerful and that meant agents should only be legally allowed to marry other agents. Which had quickly become agents had to marry people specifically matched to them by DEPRAC agents. Up until two years ago, the moment an agent turned 18 the strength of their abilities was determined and they were matched with their spouse, someone who they had likely never met. The female agents would come to join the agency of the male agents and the couple would be fined harshly if they had not produced a first child within two years of their marriage. Two years ago, the policy had changed to allow sixteen year olds to apply to be entered into the programme. Three weeks ago, the policy had once more changed, this time to allow agents aged 16-18 to be forcibly entered into the programme if they engaged in minor criminal behaviour and the argument could be made that a marriage might bring them back into line.
Lockwood suddenly got the feeling he knew what Barnes was bringing it up.
“You are very much mistaken, inspector, if you believe I will be agreeing to join your matchmaking programme.”
“You don’t get a choice, Lockwood,” Barnes said. “You’re healthy and undeniably powerful.”
“My temperament-” Lockwood began.
“Personality is not a factor in finding a match, which is good news for you,” Barnes told him, opening the folder.
He slid a piece of paper toward Lockwood. It was a form, already half-filled in.
“And as you can see,” Barnes said, tapping a stamp on the top corner that labelled Lockwood a ‘priority’, “as far as the matchmakers are concerned, your recklessness is just another reason why you should be entered in the programme as soon as possible. They’d rather not let such a powerful bloodline wipe itself out.”
“I heard you can offer to do the punishment for your crime rather than be entered into the matchmaking programme.”
“That is something DEPRAC has offered to non-priority agents, yes,” Barnes said. “You don’t get that option.”
He sighed, studying the young man before him.
“This is happening, Lockwood. The higher-ups made changed the rules to catch out people like you. You’ve already been booked into your assessment and if you don’t comply, I will have to have you arrested for being in breach of Policy 8.”
Lockwood’s stomach churned at the thought. Agents who broke the Policies weren’t sent to normal prisons. They were sent to DEPRAC rehabilitation centres where they were forced to work cases at night while their personalities were broken away during the day. Most agents were sentences there for six months and they came out as shadows of their former selves, utterly compliant to the rules of DEPRAC and whichever agency they were sent off to. Breaching Policy 8 would land Lockwood a six month sentence where he’d be released onto the steps of whichever church he would be married at, forced to marry some bride DEPRAC had picked especially to make sure the most interesting parts of him never recovered from being ground down in the rehabilitation centre.
“I don’t want to have to send anyone there, least of all you,” Barnes told him.
Lucy stared at the form on the table in front of her. Her life had fallen apart. Wythburn Mill had taken everything from her. Her friends… Norrie… All gone. And she couldn’t go back to Jacobs. She would rather die than go back to him. Which had really only left her with one option.
If she signed up to the Policy 8 programme, if she agreed to be married off to some young man in another agency, she would be expected to move into whichever agency he worked for. It would be a new life, away from her mother, away from a town that despised and blamed her, away from the people who would never accept her again.
It felt like her only option.
Her mother was on board. If Lucy was married off then she was someone else’s problem. She wouldn’t have to face being related to the town disappointment.
“Put yourself down as taller,” her mother snapped over Lucy’s shoulder. “Add five centimetres. Boys don’t like girls that are that short.”
“He’s not going to be making the decision though, is he? It’s DEPRAC and they can have me arrested for lying on these forms,” Lucy replied, trying to keep her voice level.
It wasn’t the first time she had seen a voluntary sign up form. Jacobs had liked to hand them out to the boys, hoping once might decide to just get it over with, marry and bring a new agent to Jacobs’ group. It was a mindset Lucy hated herself for getting used to. So many agency heads saw their agents as property to be traded, that boys were best because their marriages brought in new agents while girls got taken out when they married.
“It’s my assessment that matters anyway,” Lucy said.
Her assessment was the next day. There was no point in waiting. And once she was given her grade, DEPRAC would look for those of similar grade to match her with. The glossy leaflet that had come with the form had needlessly explained all the grading. All people fell into one of five levels. Level 1 was the most sensitive. Level 5 was where the majority of the population fell, those with no sensitivity at all. Within each of the levels were gradings A-C, with A being the top of a level and C being the bottom. Because a person’s level of sensitivity changed throughout their life, the assessment would determine what level they had been at their peak sensitivity and the most sensitive would be married off quickly, expected to churn out children at a rate of knots.
Lucy only hoped her future husband was kind and patient and didn’t look at her like the people of her town did.
“I still can’t believe Barnes is making you do this,” George said.
Lockwood looked around at the gaggle of 18 year olds who populated the enormous waiting room. Several dozen people sat above on plastic seats, occasionally being called from the room by people in pristine white lab coats who escorted young agents off to one of the numerous assessment rooms.
The nervous energy of the many agents hung in the room like a cloud. Most had come with their agency heads who were making sure that their agent didn’t do the scandalous thing and attempt to run.
The head of his own agency, Lockwood had brought George who had taken a break in his penning of very strongly worded letters of complaint to the match-making department of DEPRAC.
“It had to happen eventually,” Lockwood said.
The truth was he had known what the new changes would likely cause the moment he had read about them in the morning paper. He’d mourned for the year and a half he’d thought he would have until DEPRAC frogmarched him down the aisle. But he couldn’t exactly react with shock and horror. He had known his entire life that DEPRAC would be the ones finding the future Mrs Lockwood, had told himself that there were probably lots of happy couples as a product of Policy 8. He’d been furious, of course, that Barnes had gone above his head, kicked several pieces of furniture, but that had dried up into acceptance pretty quickly.
What else could he do?
If he ran, he lost everything. If he resisted, he lost everything. And if he caused too much of a fuss George would no doubt be implicated in something and then they’d been both forced into joining the programme early.
“There have been dozens of papers showing that there is no link between agents marrying early and the child having more powerful abilities,” George continued.
“But the earlier agents marry, the more children they can produce,” Lockwood reminded him. “And Barnes seems to think I’m set to get myself killed before my eighteenth birthday.”
George arched an eyebrow, biting back his murmurs of agreement.
A white coated man appeared at the front of the room, scanning the people nearby.
“Anthony J. Lockwood?” he called.
Lockwood got to his feet, moving toward the man.
“Good luck!” George called after him.
Lucy felt a chill pass through her as she moved out of the waiting area to follow the white coated woman who had collected her. The doors shutting made things worse. The corridor was suddenly silent, the chatter from the waiting room disappearing immediately.
Sound proofing, Lucy realised.
She followed after the woman, hearing nothing but the woman’s high heels chipping at the hard flooring. They passed door after door, all labelled with numbers, signs on the front as occupied.
Lucy didn’t know much about what the assessment actually was. No one talked about it. It was against Policy. What she did know was that she would leave the assessment centre that day with an ID card bearing her name, details and level and that some DEPRAC pen-pusher would end up with her file on his desk and a list of names of boys who had graded similarly.
Agents typically were level 3 or better, with most being around level 3A or 2C. Lucy supposed she would be able to get into level 2. Almost all of the Fittes agents were level 2 and being placed in there would open her up to joining their agency even if it was through marriage. Level 1s were incredibly rare and level 1As were almost entirely unheard of.
In fact, despite Level 1A being assigned to everyone who could achieve beyond a certain score in the tests, there was only one confirmed 1A: Marissa Fittes herself.
The woman came to a very abrupt stop beside a door labelled 24. She checked her clipboard once more before nodded, the sour expression on her face never changed. She opened the door up for Lucy, and gestured for her to step inside the gloomy room. Lucy did as she was told, chest tightening as she took in the room beyond. It was a small room, barely lit by a rim of lights around the floor. Two men in dark DEPRAC uniforms were inside, along with a metal chair with leather straps. On one wall was a large mirror that Lucy assumed was really a two-way mirror.
One of the men clamped his hand down on Lucy’s shoulder, using it to guide her toward the seat. She sat down as she was told to, frowning as the men peeled back the straps to secure her wrists.
“I’m a volunteer,” she said, warily.
“Standard procedure,” the man said in a gruff voice. "It's dangerous if you bolt."
"Why would I bolt?" Lucy asked, still not putting her wrists anywhere near the straps.
The men growled impatiently. Lucy was roughly grabbed, her wrists forced down to the armrests. Leather straps were secured tightly around her wrists even as she tried to struggle free.
"Why would I bolt?" she asked again.
The men disappeared behind her, the headrest of the chair keeping her from seeing. She strained against the straps, twisting desperately. Panic formed a tight ball in her chest.
"What are you doing?" Lucy asked.
The men returned, pressing cold sensors to her forehead that stuck themselves into place. When four were secured in a row, the wires trailing down Lucy’s cheeks, the men stepped away. They moved to the doorway, stepping out of the room. They shut the door and Lucy heard it click loudly as it locked.
Eyes wide, she stared at the mirror before her. She tried to look past her terrified reflection, staring at the people she knew were in the room beyond, watching her.
"I am not going to bolt. Just let me out of these things," Lucy pleaded.
There was a pause. For a moment, Lucy tricked herself into thinking the door was about to be unlocked. But the clicking that filled the air didn’t come from the door.
Instead, it came from above.
And then came the whine of a motor. Lucy watched as a panel in the ceiling slid away, a square section sliding down toward her. Lucy’s stomach dropped as she realised the walls of the tube were made of glass - silver-glass. She watched as it continued to descend, stopping so the item inside was level with her eyes.
“Inside the tube is an artificial relic that emits psychical energy,” a nasally voice declared through a hidden speaker system. “In a few seconds, the silver-glass panels will be raised. You will be in no danger of attack from a visitor. However, we will be able to monitor your mind’s reactions to the item and be able to assign you a grade.”
Lucy swallowed thickly but forced herself to nod. She told herself it was necessary. She needed to do it to earn herself a new life away from her mother, a life where she could start fresh.
She tried to relax herself, squirming about in the uncomfortable seat.
“I’m ready,” she said after a few moments.
A mechanism whined as the glass sheets began to be lifted away from the item. Immediately, Lucy felt it. It was like a wave of pressure had exploded from the item. She felt pinned into the seat, unable to speak or breathe or think. Her ears rang. Her skin crawled. Her eyes burnt.
A scream was ripped from her throat.