Mrs. Higgins was buried. Her desk had disappeared under a white avalanche of paper. The snakes under her hairnet were hissing in agitation.
"I can't process this!" she wailed. "I need a signature for the ghost-shoelace report!"
The door to the inner office slammed open.
Dean Marrow stormed out. He was wearing his usual pristine white suit, but his tie was crooked, and there was a frantic energy in his eyes.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, his voice booming like thunder. "Why is there a line?"
"Compliance, sir!" I chirped from my bench.
Marrow whipped his head around to look at me. I gave him a little wave.
"We're just following the new safety protocols," I said, my voice dripping with innocence. "Rule 417. We wouldn't want anyunauthorized chaos, would we? You were very clear about the need for strict oversight."
Marrow stared at me. He looked at the line of students, all looking helpfully obedient. He looked at the mountain of paperwork.
He opened his mouth to yell. He wanted to scream. He wanted to void-blast us all into oblivion.
But he couldn't.
We were following the rules. His rules.
If he punished us for following the rules, he undermined his own authority. He broke the facade of "Law and Order" he used to justify his control.
He turned a shade of purple usually reserved for bruised plums.
"Process them," he snarled at Mrs. Higgins.
"But sir?—"
"PROCESS THEM!" Marrow roared. He turned on his heel, retreated into his office, and slammed the door so hard the glass pane rattled.
"One point to the Bureaucracy," I whispered.
"It's working," Ivy whispered, sliding onto the bench next to me.
She was wearing a trench coat, dark sunglasses, and a silk headscarf. She looked less like a spy and more like a celebrity trying to avoid paparazzi while simultaneously begging to be photographed.
"He's furious," I confirmed. "I can feel the static coming off him. It's tasting like burnt ozone. He's hungry, but he can't eat paperwork."
"Phase Two?" Ivy asked, pulling a compact mirror out of her pocket to check her lipstick.
"Phase Two," I nodded.
Phase Two was the "Excessive Politeness" campaign.
If Marrow wanted his "Enforcers" to be the campus police, we would treat them with the utmost, suffocating respect.
Across the quad, Stone walked up to a patrol of zombie-Enforcers. They were led by a brute named Krell—a reanimated gargoyle in a suit that fit him like a sausage casing.
"Officer Krell," Stone said, stepping into his path with a military clip. "A moment of your time."
Krell grunted. "Move along, student."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," Stone said, pulling out a clipboard. "I've noticed a safety violation."
He pointed at Krell's feet.
