The Midpoint
Day Forty-Five.
The Eighth Meridian District reached the midpoint of its ninety-day centralized trial.
By Iria's own amendment, this marked a mandatory public referendum—continuation or early dissolution.
The Seventh Terrace District would reach its midpoint three days later.
The city watched both.
Attendance in Eighth Meridian's central plaza exceeded expectations. Even citizens who had rarely spoken before stood shoulder to shoulder beneath structured awnings, sunlight glinting off cleanly aligned infrastructure.
The oversight council presented their report first.
Efficiency gains sustained.
Resource allocation stabilized.
Daylight adaptation timelines ahead of projection.
Crime down.
Supply chains smooth.
Applause followed.
Then came the participation report.
Civic forum attendance: down twenty-seven percent.
Independent proposal submissions: down thirty-four percent.
Policy reversal rate: minimal.
The crowd shifted.
Not unsettled.
Just thinking.
Iria stood among observers rather than at the front. This was not her vote.
It had to belong to them.
A council member addressed the plaza calmly.
"Centralized governance was approved to reduce transitional strain. We ask now whether you wish to continue this structure for the remaining forty-five days."
The voting stones were distributed.
Blake leaned slightly toward Iria.
"They'll continue," he murmured.
"Yes."
The mood was not rebellious.
It was relieved.
But then a familiar voice stepped forward.
Teren Vale.
He had traveled from Seventh Terrace to witness.
No theatrics.
Just presence.
"I won't tell you how to vote," he said, addressing the crowd. "I only ask one question."
Silence settled.
"When this ends—will you remember how to decide together?"
It wasn't an accusation.
It wasn't even opposition.
It was a reminder.
A woman near the front raised her hand. "We're still deciding," she said. "Right now."
"Yes," Teren agreed. "Right now."
The vote proceeded.
Stones dropped into continuation and dissolution urns.
The tally was clear.
Continuation won.
Not overwhelmingly.
But solidly.
Sixty-two percent in favor.
Eighth Meridian would remain centralized.
The result transmitted instantly to the network.
No uproar followed.
No fracture.
Just confirmation.
Blake exhaled quietly. "You expected higher."
"I expected stronger comfort," Iria replied.
"Sixty-two percent isn't strong?"
"It's cautious."
Caution was good.
Caution meant awareness.
That evening, in Seventh Terrace, forum attendance spiked ahead of their own midpoint vote.
Teren's question had traveled faster than data.
When Iria reviewed the network-wide Comparative Transparency Index that night, something subtle had shifted.
Centralized districts still led in efficiency.
But civic engagement decline had slowed.
Even slightly reversed.
People were watching again.
The oversight councils began adjusting tone—inviting public commentary more visibly, hosting Q&A sessions, clarifying the distinction between delegated authority and community mandate.
Not because they were forced.
Because legitimacy required oxygen.
Blake found Iria on the upper terrace once more, city lights scattered below in ordered and uneven clusters alike.
"You were right," he said.
"About what?"
"Friction isn't failure."
She watched Seventh Terrace's plaza filling for its own midpoint assembly in two days.
"No," she said softly. "Friction is memory."
Below, in districts both centralized and decentralized, something intangible had returned.
Not rebellion.
Not fear.
Attention.
And attention, she knew, was the only force capable of balancing comfort without destroying it.
Day Forty-Five had not fractured the city.
It had clarified it.
The experiment was no longer about efficiency versus participation.
It was about whether people could live under structure—
Without surrendering awareness.
The answer, for now,
Remained undecided.