Dusty Dispatch
I don’t mean this in a metaphorical way. The email will tell you that you’re being summoned to the “Box Room” at once. When it does, you drop everything and go. You won’t be given a reason, not after the burden of proof was cut from the school’s new Strategic Plan. My IA may have been sent there last spring because he’d gone camping on Library Walk, but all your email will say is that “they” are awaiting your trial on the charges of “that.”
So the Box Room. I’ve sent the coordinates to your burner phone. It is not the PC theater; many of my agents fail their infiltration missions after chasing the wrong leads towards “the box office.” It’s this mid-century courthouse decked in mahogany, and it will be completely empty. Feel free to poke around, but the hidden intercom won’t trigger until you attempt to leave. The message goes as follows: “They” are the Conduct Council, someone said you had done “that,” and today you will be pleading your case. “Why of course!” you say. You’ll simply defend yourself on something you didn’t know you’d done. Don’t worry. Our hackers have done the math, and the hotphrase that best blends efficiency, sobriety, and plausible deniability is — as calmly as possible — “I didn’t do that.” There’s no need to fight or plead, you’ll just embarrass yourself. Those magic words will be the fastest way to cause the ceiling to open and drop the Box.
They’ll put you in it! They’ll put you in the Box! Back when I was just a rookie and was first done in, it clunked from above and folded me in from below and it got so dark I couldn’t see myself blink. Someone like a judge commenced the court proceedings, then clang, I felt two metal claws pinch the box and clang me onto what I can only guess was the podium. Clang, the Council’s voices fractured into attorneys, the jury, and even other students, probably witnesses, somehow. Anyways, the theatrics were straight out of a legal drama. Everybody was talking around my box space or about my guilt, but nobody ever addressed me directly, not even my own defense attorney. Then again, clang! The thing picked me up and clanged me — upside down this time. Clang, clang, I couldn’t believe it. They dribbled me! And they just might dribble you too.
From here, my guys on the inside are split on what happens. You might get spiked like a volleyball, volleyed like a match point in tennis, or get shuttled down a conveyor belt like you’re in some sort of factory. The sky’s the limit — as if you could see it through the pitch black box. There was even one report that three boxes got summoned together and shuffled around like that one con game, find the lady. My boys must’ve slid in blind circles for hours until finally, someone knocked on one of their roofs and that box was pardoned of all charges. As for the other two, maybe you’ll fill that vacant spot so they can play another round for a second chance to go home. Because that’s the kicker: you’re stuck in the Box until the Council can agree on your verdict.
I know this is too much information in too little time. You’re going to want to understand what’s going on, maybe even get a word in while you’re waiting in that box. But take it from me, each interjection and interruption will crunch you in angles you didn’t know existed. Remember: the Council could’ve easily conducted this trial behind your back, so be grateful that they’re even letting you attend your own proceedings. So don’t kick, don’t scream, don’t weep, and you’ll get let out the Box soon. Did you know that it’s got the same surface area as a Twin XL? I can show you a mockup once my case is dismissed. Or opened, rather, since that’s when they’ll finally let me out.
