Loose lips and polite violence
It's a misdirection of intent.
Thereâs a comforting myth baked into most stories about power:
Violence is loud.
It announces itself with shouting. With threats. With clenched fists and dramatic speeches delivered by people who want you to know theyâre the villain.
Youâll notice that Chronicles doesnât work that wayâŚbecause real systems donât either.
In Clockworks City, the most effective violence is polite.
It wears clean cuffs.
It speaks calmly.
It apologizes while tightening the rules around your life.
It offers you a chair before removing your options. It asks you to wait while paperwork is processed. It smiles and nods as your future is quietly dismantled one form at a time.
Politeness isnât the absence of cruelty. Itâs one of its most useful disguises.
Thatâs the function of the Citadel.
On the surface, itâs order incarnateâŚsymmetry, reflective metal, open sky. Anyone can enter. Anyone can request service. The language of access is everywhere. Whatâs less visible is the unspoken condition beneath it: your presence is provisional.
Inside the Citadel, shouting is a mistake. Raised voices draw attention. Attention invites witnesses. Witnesses complicate the record.
The real work happens quietly.
A clerk clears their throat.
A guard adjusts their stance.
A number appears on a screen.
And suddenly suffering becomes transactional.
This is polite violence.
It doesnât bruise knuckles.
It bruises futures.
There is no crime called âknowing too muchâ in Clockworks City. That would sound barbaric. Instead, there are delays. Misfiled documents. Interviews scheduled without mirrors, without witnesses, without clocks. Silence stretched thin until it becomes a pressure point.
People with loose lips arenât punished directly. Theyâre managed.
Isolated.
Redirected.
Buried under process.
And those who learn to stay quiet are praised for their restraint.
This is why silence is mistaken for innocence and noise for guilt.
The system doesnât distribute violence based on danger. It distributes it based on classification.
Which is why Chuck is indulged.
From the outside, he looks harmless: an old, wealthy eccentric with a loud voice, erratic behavior, and a troubling habit of poking armed officers with a cane. Guards laugh. Clerks sigh. Heâs waved through.
That indulgence isnât accidental.
Chuck understands how systems work because he understands how they categorize. He raises his voice so others underestimate his mind. He behaves unpredictably so procedures fail to slot him cleanly. He offends with charm and disarms with absurdity.
When Chuck is loud, itâs because he wants attention pointed away from something else.
He doesnât fight the system. He dances just inside the space it refuses to police.
That isnât luck.
Itâs expertise.
Deloris is treated very differently.
She doesnât shout unless she intends to. She doesnât perform emotional cues to make others comfortable. She sits. She watches. She lets silence stretch until it becomes uncomfortableâand then sharper still.
In interrogation rooms, silence is more dangerous than anger.
Anger gives authority something to react to. A narrative. A justification. Silence forces projection. It makes interrogators fill the gaps themselves. It unsettles people who rely on control.
Deloris understands this.
When she places knowledge on the table and then pulls it just out of reach, sheâs not teasing. Sheâs setting the terms. Sheâs reminding the system that while it commands rooms and uniforms, it doesnât command understanding.
Thatâs why sheâs isolated.
Not publicly punished. Not beaten. Simply removed from witnesses. Reduced to a manageable variable.
Polite violence prefers its victims quiet and unseen.
Nathan and Shamas donât receive that courtesy.
Theyâre easy to classify. One is physically vulnerable. The other looks dangerous. Together, they fit a story the system already knows how to tell.
So the violence directed at them isnât polite.
Itâs efficient.
Theyâre struck because they can be struck. Their pain requires no explanation beyond a checkbox. Their bodies absorb what the system prefers not to examine in itself.
This, too, is by design.
When violence is pricedâŚwhen it becomes a fee instead of a crimeâŚit stops being a moral question. It becomes a budgeting decision. Credits replace conscience. The question shifts from âShould this be done?â to âCan it be charged?â
Clockworks City answers that question enthusiastically.
Justice isnât denied here. Itâs redefined. If you can afford to exit, you exit. If you canât, you remain. The process stays immaculate. The harm stays invisible.
Loose lips are dangerous in this environment not because they reveal secrets, but because they threaten the illusion that none exist.
The city doesnât fear criminals. Criminals are predictable. They make noise. They announce intent. They justify the systemâs existence.
What the city fears are variables.
People who donât behave as expected.
People who donât fit clean categories.
People who understand the machinery well enough to jam it quietly.
Thatâs why politeness is enforced. Why decorum is prized. Why disruptions are smoothed over instead of addressed.
A polite system can commit astonishing acts of violence while insisting it has done nothing wrong.
Most harm doesnât arrive screaming.
It arrives smiling, clipboard in hand, and asks you to wait just a moment longer.
Lets just say,âŚI wouldnât recommend Clockworks City as a vacation destination.
-Jaime
Dang!! I'm going to have to cancel my reservation at the Gnaughty Gnome Anomoly Hotel, and Resort.