Matilda Motierre nearly fell out of her office chair when her 93 year old aunt Denichia burst into the room without knocking and screamed: “She’s dead! Your angel of a mother is dead, child!” The holovision behind Matilda was still glistening in the dark room, uninterrupted by the old lady who was just watching it. The Royal Suites on the penthouse floors of the quadrangle complex provided it’s inhabitants with views overlooking the Prime Provost’s office down below. In those teenage years, it was common for girls to engage in frivolous gossip as a form of entertainment, but not Matilda. She possessed a high degree of self awareness when it come to her station, the best friend and chaperone of the Prime Provost’s teenage daughter, therefore she knew that was a past time of commoners and now someone as esteemed as herself. Instead of engaging in this frivolous activity, she would often eavesdrop and scrape information from her surroundings about everything that was going on inside the enormous palatial complex, from the private to the intimate of all those that lived inside of this architectural behemoth, that was also the home and central hub for The Arrangement, the monarchistic ruling body of some 7,000 populated planets.
Matilda quickly unwrapped and maneuvered through the thick white comforters and blankets that adorned her bed as if she was floating on a cloud, and asked “Denichia, what’s going on?”, finding herself having difficulty making sense of what was just said. Denichia collapsed onto a loveseat, breathing heavily with excitement and trying to get a hold of herself. They were conveniently related, despite their cousin-ship being several generations in the past, having the station that Matilda did was an easy way for one’s long lost relatives to find their way into your life, especially if one worked with the office of the Prime Provost.
“Denichia!” Matilda yelled out once again, hoping to get a response. Denichia drew a worried gaze, looking in her cousin’s eyes, slumped into the loveseat “Your angel mother” she quietly let out from her lips, the expression on her face conveying a sense of understanding of the situation that was about to reveal itself, the anguish, terror and hopelessness, that the words themselves failed to do.
“No, no. Not my mother, of all people.” In this moment Matilda, who was otherwise very much in control of her thoughts and emotions, was about to suddenly and violently break down. Right before the spillage had occurred, she came to her senses again, as if someone had pressed a button, and reset her to her usual self. Matilda was raised like this since she was a child, vetted and nurtured by the fine society, to react accordingly for her station, this included keeping her composure intact. She had a strategic mind and would enjoy a sort of controlled chaos, the overpowering resources she had at her disposal as the eyes and ears of the Prime Provost, always engaging in battles and challenges she could win. She had practiced for a moment as real as this, for a possibility like this, for quite a while, against enemies of the state who stood no match compared to what the Prime Provost held. She eventually began to see it as more of a game than a job, a dangerous job at that, but this time it did not feel that way. The seriousness of the situation set in, and she knew she would be called upon by the state, that she would not be allowed to self isolate in bereavement, if she requested it.