Midnight Law

by Geanna Culbertson

  “It still doesn’t work,” argued the rebel leader named Elias. “The final realm budget we decide on cannot finance the protagonist schools in any way.”

  The Godmother Supreme rolled her eyes again. It was the eighth time since this morning. I’d been counting.

  Apart from introducing myself, I hadn’t said a single word during the first few hours of my first day at the peace talks. I wasn’t sure how SJ could be so optimistic about a resolution when it seemed like the participants here only liked hearing themselves talk.

  I always believed that fairness was simple; it was merely a matter of treating everyone like human beings. Stir in a little compassion and some common sense and you were good to go. I was quickly learning that most people didn’t live with this notion in their hearts, especially if those hearts had been deeply hurt by the actions of others whom they had to continue dealing with face to face. Well-meaning teenagers couldn’t make adult grudges disappear.

  “Be reasonable, Elias,” Debbie said. “We are only saying eight percent of kingdom taxes should be allocated there. That’s a significant decrease from the previous fourteen percent.”

  “You’re missing the point,” said a rebel girl named Sydney with a flat face and a ponytail. “Even SJ acknowledged that if commons don’t attend protagonist schools, they shouldn’t have to fund them.”

  “Logically, that was a good point,” remarked Ambassador Susannah Marberg. “But ten percent of taxes go to public transportation and not all people take the bus or the magic train. By your logic, only people who use those services should pay for them. How can a world operate on that kind of thinking? How can we rely on individuals to construct the roads only they use, maintain the hospitals where they’ve been treated, or pay for their own school systems, DMV workers, even sanitation departments? I realize you rebels have no understanding of how to run kingdoms, but I have been an ambassador for years, and let me tell you, it doesn’t work that way. People pay taxes for the greater good, and those of us in charge have the responsibility of deciding how to best allocate the funds.”

  “Yeah, you have the responsibility, but no one keeps you in check,” said the rebel named Tim. Why the heck was this dude wearing a scarf in August? “That’s how common people end up losing their hard-earned money to serve others under the pretense of ‘the greater good’.”

  “It is for the greater good,” Debbie insisted.

  “Really?” Elias replied, planting her hands on the desk and standing. “Because last I checked, the average person still has trouble affording healthcare. Public schools don’t have proper funding to hire teachers, run good programs, and even stay open for the entire year. The list goes on from there. The taxes you people inflict take a third of each of our paychecks. Every week. Forever. Where is all that money going? Shouldn’t that be enough funding to run this realm properly? The answer—it is. Which means the people in charge of distributing it aren’t doing so wisely.” She sat down.

  “I would watch yourself, Elias,” the Godmother Supreme said, her eyes sharper than her dagger-esque choker necklace. “Those are dangerous accusations.”

  Silence hung in the air.

  “I am going to make a suggestion . . .” said Ambassador Shewd of Dobb carefully. “For the sake of this one topic, what if we adopted the rebel’s position?”

  “How do you mean?” Pietro asked, looking serious.

  “Lady Agnue’s and Lord Channing’s are private schools. Maybe they should be privately funded. All the royal children go there. What if it was up to each student to pay a tuition?”

  Gordon raised his hand. “Lady Agnue’s and Lord Channing’s are made up of about eighty percent common protagonists. All royal children go there, but they’re a small percentage of our overall class size. Students like Javier and Jason could never afford to attend some place that poshy on their own.” He gestured to me. “Both of them grew up on farms with single parents. If protagonist students need to pay tuition, only the rich will become main characters, and we can all agree that’s messed up.”

  We sat in silence for another lull. What I wouldn’t give for a siege of invaders to break down the door right now. Dealing with those problems would be easier, and at least I could contribute. SJ had pitched me as some great, worthy replacement for Javier, and I was sitting here like a lost lamb.

  The Godmother Supreme started to open her mouth, but SJ spoke first. “I think we should take a break. Let us move into a recess for lunch. It is important that we reflect on the arguments that have been presented before coming to a final decision. Without proper reflection, we may not speak with as much respect or wisdom.”

  No one protested. Everybody started packing up their bags and briefcases as if SJ’s word was law. Maybe it was around here. I saw her glance at Lenore. The Godmother Supreme gave her a subtle nod of approval. What was that about?

  “So, what do you think?” Gordon asked me, standing and leaning against the desk.

  “It’s a lot.” I sighed. “Is it this intense every day?”

  “One time Daisy turned Elias into a pumpkin and SJ barely prevented a war,” Marie said. “So we have had worse days. I actually feel like things went better than normal this morning. If we could get past the issue of protagonist schools, then perhaps we could hit a good stride.”

  “It seems like they’re a big cause of the rift here,” I responded.

  “The issue is not the schools,” SJ said. “It is protagonist selection. The schools are just the dandelion head atop the problem. Protagonist selection is the weed growing underneath.”

  “SJ,” Lenore called from the door. She stood with Debbie and Daisy. “Come.”

  SJ nodded. “I will convene with you all later,” she told us before joining the Godmother Supreme. The foursome exited and I threw a thumb in their direction as I addressed my friends.

  “What’s up with that?”

  “Not sure,” Divya said, popping up next to Marie. “A few nights ago, SJ had dinner with the Godmother Supreme. Now she meets with the Godmothers during all our breaks.”

  I frowned. “That’s chummy, considering our past interactions with Lenore. The woman’s pastime is taking shots at Crisa.”

  My friends went silent. I’d mentioned the name we were trying to avoid.

  Gordon cleared his throat. “Uh, Jason, the rebels have a makeshift cafeteria set up in an adjacent room. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “What about Pietro?” I glanced around the room. “Wait, he was here a second ago. Did you guys see him leave? Should we wait for him?”

  “He’s probably checking in with Evette,” Divya said. “He does that during most of our breaks. They need to touch base about wedding stuff a lot.”

  “Aw, marriage,” Gordon mused. “The end of personal time and the beginning of lifelong discussions about flowers and color schemes.”

  “Aw, marriage,” Marie countered. “The institution that will elude my brother unless he finds a hot deaf girl that cannot hear the dumb things he says.”

  Divya grinned. I kind of did too. Gordon was a knothead in the most likeable way.

  We filed out and grabbed some sandwiches from the cafeteria set up in the next room. It was a grand hall like a throne room, but pretty bare. I had a feeling there’d once been tapestries and kingdom flags covering these walls, but since the rebels seized the building, they had removed all royal décor. Any evidence that there had ever been a King Mason or Queen Livry was wiped away. Now there were plain walls, plain floors, and high, barren ceilings.

  The ambassadors and rebels from the peace talks were lunching as well. I observed how once they got their food they purposefully sat at faraway, separate tables to prevent further interaction with each other.

  It was funny; I thought as you grew in age you were supposed to grow up in behavior. Sadly, it seemed many people never fully left behind the high-school-clique parts of themselves. Maybe that was the reason no one could find common ground in the peace talks. Most people we
re so set in their ways. Most people sought to be understood but never to understand.

  I glanced around at the division.

  Understanding . . .

  I stared off blankly as I processed the different consequences of my idea. Then I decided. If this place was like school, maybe a teenage kind of remedy was necessary.

  “This is going to seem weird, but trust me,” I said to my friends as they sat down at our own table.

  “What do you mean?” Marie asked.

  I picked up my tray and walked across the commissary to where Elias, Tim, and Sydney ate. “Can I join you?” I asked. They seemed shocked and suspicious.

  “Why?” Tim asked.

  “Why not?”

  No one else answered, so Elias waved her hand and I sat across from them at the table. I started eating like normal. The trio glanced at me warily, as if waiting for me to launch an attack. Much to their surprise, after a few bites I casually looked up and gestured with a chip at them. “So, when you were kids, what did you guys want to be when you grew up?”

  “What?” Sydney asked, puzzled.

  “I wanted to be a doctor,” I mused, eating the chip. “I wanted to help people. To make their lives better. I’ve changed a lot and I’m pretty sure that dream is not going to pan out, but there are a million ways to help people, so I think I can find another career that fits the bill.”

  Silence. Then Tim spoke.

  “A tailor,” he said. “I know young boys aren’t supposed to love sewing, but I’ve always liked it and am very good at it. I make all my own scarves you know. I’m pretty proud of that.”

  Ohhhh. Now that makes sense.

  I glanced at the girls. “What about you?”

  “A baker,” Sydney admitted begrudgingly. “I like cake. Cake makes people happy.”

  “An ambassador,” Elias weighed in flatly. “To my home kingdom of Ebi.”

  “Cool.” I nodded and kept eating. A couple more bites and swallows passed before I readdressed my company. “Why aren’t you any of those things?”

  Sydney pushed a green bean around on her tray. “Sometimes you want things and work hard and the world doesn’t cut you any slack. People with power and money keep using the power and money to grow. They can be whatever they want. People who don’t have that need to fight for every scrap and then most of the time need to give up their dreams in favor of realism.”

  “That’s probably true,” I said. “But everybody knows that life isn’t fair. Isn’t that like an established thing? If something matters enough to you—cake or otherwise—you don’t have to let that piece of yourself go completely. Sometimes you just need to adapt it.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Elias said. “You’re a protagonist.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” I replied. “Going to Lord Channing’s gave me a lot of different skills. I can fight and hunt. I can whistle and climb. I can best monsters and dance at parties. But I didn’t ask for any of that. This was the hand I was dealt. And the reason I’m not going to be a doctor isn’t because the Author took that choice away when I got dealt my hand, it’s because I wasn’t passionate about medicine anymore.” I shrugged. “I took a first aid class at school and realized needles weren’t my thing. But if being a doctor did matter enough to me, then I would still go to protagonist school, but when I graduate I’d try to get into medical school. People with power may tell me what to do, but that doesn’t mean I can’t play their game and my own at the same time. Be two characters that make one person.”

  “Did you come over here to give us a motivational speech?” Tim asked condescendingly. He seemed to regret opening up about his childhood dream job and crossed his arms. “Because I’m not paying the speaking fee.”

  “I’m just thinking out loud here,” I said casually. “The title of protagonist or common, or any archetypal brand doesn’t have to affect your core. Being born with a designation you don’t like is no different than being born with a bad knee or a learning disability or a terrible family. Your lot in life doesn’t have to define you forever. Being a protagonist versus a common shouldn’t matter in the end. No archetype is immune to the unfair world. We all forge on despite that.”

  After a long beat of silence I looked up from my food. Sydney and Tim didn’t seem happy, but their eyes focused on Elias to see how she’d respond. She studied me as she thoughtfullly chewed her salad. That meant what I had said wasn’t being instantly rejected—good.

  Eventually Elias put her fork down. “Your opinions aren’t objective, Jason. You have to hear how preachy you sound. The fact is that some people have it easier. Being a protagonist may not have been what you wanted, but it is still a better lot than we got. You have more range of opportunity.”

  “I’m not arguing that,” I said seriously, resting my arms on the table and meeting her direct gaze. “And I’m sorry if it sounded like I’m preaching to you; I genuinely mean no disrespect to any crud you’ve gone through. I’m only saying that since we can’t control the life we’re born into, maybe it’s more productive to accept that and move forward with what we have to work with.”

  I sighed and looked to the three rebels. “Life is messed up. A lot of people suck. And we all spend more time getting punched in the face by the world than we do being supported by it. You’ve had less opportunity than I have because I’m a protagonist; it’s true. But I’d bet being murdered by villains or saving people regularly isn’t something you have to deal with, and that’s a part of my day-to-day. I’m not trying to compare my problems to yours, but I am saying I have problems too. We all do. Which is why I don’t think being named a protagonist, a common, or any other class distinction is an end all, be all excuse. Life is rough for all of us in some way. And protagonist is just a word. Look at SJ. Look at Pietro, Gordon, and Marie. They’re great people because of the choices they make in the face of a world that throws them curveballs. They’re not great because they got lucky with their archetype and will stride along on a blessed path forever. Being a protagonist doesn’t matter.”

  I stopped. I felt like the gears in my brain froze for a second before starting up again at high speed. I stared off as I thought my idea through.

  “Being a protagonist doesn’t matter,” I repeated.

  The rebels blinked at me.

  “Sorry, I gotta go,” I said. “Thanks for letting me eat with you all. See you back in the meeting.”

  I put away my tray and headed straight for the door of the commissary. My friends shot me curious looks as I passed them, but I needed to find SJ and Lenore. I wandered around the first floor of the castle asking people for directions until I wound up in a small, enclosed courtyard garden. SJ, Lenore, Debbie, and Daisy looked up as I walked toward them.

  “Mr. Sharp,” Lenore said. “Can we help you?”

  “I think I can help you,” I said. “But you’re going to hate it.”

  “What is it, Jason?” SJ asked.

  “Protagonist selection,” I declared. “We all know that it’s a bunch of bull, that Liza our quote ‘Author,’ doesn’t decide fates, she just sees the future. The rebels don’t know that and they don’t need to know that. But given the truth, why not simply pull out the weed by the roots? This is killing our world at the core. Let’s get rid of it.”

  “I’m sorry, get rid of what?” Lenore asked.

  “Protagonist selection,” I said. “It’s a sham anyway. SJ, Pietro, Gordon, and Marie are living proof that it doesn’t make a person any less or more valuable in character; their choices have made them who they are. Liza’s protagonist books are the source of what’s dividing our realm. If we shut that down, then people would all be equal in archetype status. Whoever we grow up to be would rest solely upon us as individuals.”

  “Um, Jason, it’s a noble idea,” Debbie said carefully. “But the realm has been run this way for a long time. We can’t simply throw out the playbook for how the world works.”

  “Why not?” I said. “Throw it out. Set fire to it. Burn
the dumb thing to dust. It obviously isn’t working. We need a better way to do things and that’s not going to happen if we keep clinging to ideals of a world that only sort of stays afloat.”

  “You must be joking,” Daisy said.

  “Mr. Sharp,” Lenore intervened, her tone a bit patronizing. “I commend your passion and idealism, but your idea is lacking one basic consideration. Getting rid of protagonist selection would mean there would be no more main characters.”

  “What if people simply lived as the main characters of their own life stories?” I proposed earnestly. “They wouldn’t be able to blame failure or credit success on archetype. They’d have to accept responsibility for their own destinies and define themselves”

  “You want everyone to feel equal, but people are never equal, Mr. Sharp,” Lenore said.

  “We’re all born equal,” I countered. “Yeah, people and circumstance influence how you grow up, but in terms of overall life turnout, our character should be completely on us. That’s what I’m saying.”

  The Godmother Supreme studied me with an incredulous expression.

  “Come on, Lenore,” I said. “Do the right thing.”

  Her face turned into a glower. “Mr. Sharp, your dear friend Crisanta Knight has never shown respect for me. That includes choosing to refer to me so casually. I would advise that if you do not want to have the same kind of relationship, you temper your speech and tone.”

  I paused.

  That was fair. A lot of us referred to the Godmother Supreme as Lenore because that’s what Crisa called her. But Lena Lenore was the head of the Fairy Godmothers. She was kind of a witch at times, but she had earned her position all those decades ago, and that meant she was due at least some respect. Then again, I didn’t know if she was living up to the position now. Maybe that’s why Crisa chose not to show her any entitled respect.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “And I don’t mean this to be offensive—more of an observation—but it’s hard to respect you, Lenore. Fairy Godmothers are supposed to help people. That’s the essence of the role. Yet, in all the time my friends and I have known you, we’ve seen you care more about maintaining order and squashing outliers than providing assistance. We’ve had to face a lot of obstacles you could have helped with. We’ve faced a lot of obstacles you added to the mix. I would like to respect you, but I feel like respect has to be earned . . . right?”