The square was a sea of worn faces, all turned toward the raised platform where the Syndicate's local proxy, a man named Rex Aurelian, stood. Rex had a sunbeam smile in a land of perpetual twilight.
"Good people!" he boomed, his voice amplified by a tiny Vitae-powered device. "I bring auspicious news! Thanks to your diligent work, Sector Seven's filtration efficiency has increased by two percent!"
A murmur, half-hopeful, half-skeptical, rippled through the crowd.
"As a reward," Rex announced, "your next ration cycle will include a supplemental half-liter!"
The murmur became a cheer. Sage felt a surge of relief himself. An extra half-liter meant a longer shower, or perhaps he could risk stew instead of boiled grains.
Valentine, beside him, didn't cheer. Her eyes were narrowed, scanning the data on her slate. "Our productivity reports haven't been submitted yet," she muttered. "How does he have the yield calculations?"
From the shadow of the platform, another figure emerged. Regina Altureign, Rex's operations manager. Her face was impassive. She held up a hand, and the crowd quieted.
"The supplemental ration," she stated, her voice flat and clear, "is contingent on the immediate completion of the new conduit inspections in the Northern Tunnel. Work shifts will be extended by one hour daily, effective immediately."
The cheer died. The crowd's mood curdled. Rex's smile didn't falter. "A temporary adjustment! A small step for a great leap forward!"
Sage watched the interplay. Rex, offering the light. Regina, defining the unyielding ground upon which it shone. This was the Syndicate's rhythm: dangle hope, then snap the leash tight.