First published: October 28th, 2022

"Tori Osaka, from the Tokyo Tribune," a petite, pink-haired woman states, straightening her dull mustard shirt as she arises from her seat.

Various buzzes reverberate across the expansive, well-lit conference hall of VisMed HQ, rows of foldable seats occupied by the forty-or-so reporters selected for this week's briefing. Black-clad officers, from the kingdom's sole peacekeeping agency, Praesidio, stand in attention, at each corner of the hexagonal room.

This week's briefing, held two days before its usual date, is about the sudden death of Mr. Anatoly Golubev, a major contributor to the kingdom's developments since its creation twenty-five years ago. The Sovereign may have united what was left of Asia during the rhinococcus epidemic, but it was Golubev who regulated the checks and balances of the Vistorian Council and its agencies.

A front-row reporter repeatedly clicks on the green button present at the bottom right corner of his long, slim transcriber, an older version of the one possessed by everyone else in this room. A broad smile flashes across his face when an upbeat tone chimes from it, the long-awaited first sign of initiation.

The rest of his peers, all chosen out of the 11, 532 media outlets across Vistoria and the globe, fix their gazes on the pink-haired reporter; hopeful for the upcoming pre-briefing question to poke the physician who's at the other end of the room. This is the only time they can ask a question out-of-script.

The Tokyo Tribune's newest recruit, twenty-year-old Tori Osaka, scratches the itchy back of her right palm, when she notices the twenty hovering drones, each the size of a football, direct their 6K camera lenses at her. She places her red lightstick, the round screen on one end displaying her company's name, on the long, narrow table before her.

"We-we've seen quite a few famous personalities, who after marrying an advisor or official, renounce their successful careers for their arduous post-marital responsibilities."

All the reporters lean back at once, another golden opportunity wasted...

Tori squints her almond-shaped eyes, to see the blue-clad blonde standing behind the podium and on the raised platform before her, "So the citizens of Vistoria are curious as to whether you'll continue as a Professor of Anesthesiology, after your marriage to the Crown Prince next May."

Alison, who stands behind the podium, intertwined fingers resting on its polished, gray surface, casts a constricted grin, "That's a good question, reporter Osaka." She exhales slowly, brushing the platinum ring on her left ring finger, "But I'll answer your question after I fill in on tonight's agenda."

Tori nods, trying not to flush in embarrassment as she resumes her seat. She drops her head, in an attempt to shield herself from the glares of her disappointed seniors, seated a few seats on her far left. Wrong timing, she muses, softly tapping her foot on the table leg. But editor Suzuki will kill me if I don't get a piece on the royal wedding by midnight.

The other newbie reporter, from the Crimson Times and seated in the same row, frowns as she watches her embarrassed peer, she's right in asking that question. It's Vistoria's first royal wedding. She shifts her gaze to the physician, but everyone's more curious as to why the crown prince chose a commoner over powerful suitors from the other four empires when he's....unassertive?

Alison taps her micro-mic, a small gray button attached to her left golden collar, as a white screen replaces the smooth top of the podium.

"An eminent civil rights activist and philanthropist, Mr. Anatoly Golubev, was admitted to VisMed Headquarters last Tuesday, after suffering a major car crash near his Starlight residence in Lhasa (laa-saa)," Alison reads from the screen. "There were no problems during his three consecutive surgeries, but he didn't regain consciousness post-op." She pauses, raising her gaze to the group of reporters.

"An undetected cardiac arrest this evening, was the cause of his unfortunate demise."

Alison, for a moment, looks overhead the seated mob, at the wide windows displaying directors of VisMed, advisors from the Vistorian Council, as well as officials from the Novosibirsk (noh-voh-suh-byusk) province; the latter being friends of the late activist.

She narrows her gaze to the tallest of the group: a five-foot-nine man dressed in the same navy blue overalls as her. The color of his lapels are platinum instead of gold, signifying the highest rank amongst the physicians of VisMed.

The Council's leading advisor in Healthcare, and VisMed's Chief of Anaesthesiology, Dr. Kabir Nowzud, crosses his arms; returning his protegee's gaze with a slight nod.

Okay. This is gonna be fun. Alison muses, taking in a deep breath to push down her unnecessary endorphins. "While preparing for post-mortem procedures, we found what turned out to be crucial evidence in the ongoing case of Province of Shillong versus Casper Enterprises."

The reporters straighten their backs, some tapping a few buttons on their transcribers to read what it just recorded. The front-row reporter almost spits out the water he was drinking from his bottle, it can't be true. Sir Golubev spent an entire decade in making the Council remove their oppressive authority over the indigenous folks.

Alison internally snickers as she watches the reporters' reactions - agape mouths, scratching heads or chins, reading what their transcribers recorded for the hundredth time - while placing her hands in her pockets. This happens all the time, and yet, they're still unprepared. She glances at the window, pressing her lips as she sees the Novosibirsk officials grin with glee.

When will my time come?

The numerous transcriber beeps redirect Alison back to her irritating bi-weekly chore.

"We have submitted this evidence to Praesideo's Criminal Investigation Unit," she says, sensing the door behind, on her left, slowly slide open. "And, we, as in VisMed, will cooperate with the CIU, regarding matters of the late Mr. Golubev."

And my job here's done. Alison covers her mic, when she sighs, stepping away from the podium. She looks at the lady who enters the conference room, through the open door. Now, get me out, Danie.

Dressed in a black checkered suit, thirty-five-year-old Danie Mostafa (daa-ni moos-ta-fa) , eyes the swarm of reporters, who are immersed in the information their transcribers display, before turning to her boss and tapping her wristwatch. She shifts her gaze when several lightsticks raise and point to the beige ceiling.

"We're really short on time here," Danie responds, in her thick Arabic accent, gesturing to the reporters to lower their representative lightsticks. "And questions related to the case will be answered by the CIU in their conference next Wednesday, that is, on the 4th of Dec, 1900 GMT."

Tori stands up, biting her tongue as she raises her red lightstick, peeking at the two Praesidian officers through the corner of her eyes. She doesn't want to face the consequences of disturbing the standard peaceful decorum of such conferences again.

"Ah yes," Alison realizes, pulling a stray blonde strand, that managed to come out of her tight bun, behind her ear. "Could you please repeat the last part of your question?"

Tori nods, "Will you continue as an anaesthesiologist, after your marriage to the Crown Prince?"

Why would I break my back and self-esteem working here, while I have power over the whole kingdom?

"I will try to maintain balance between my career, and the responsibilities assigned to me once I become the Royal Official of the Lhasa Province," Alison answers, gaze shifting to the window.

No, she whines, when her Chief raises his right index finger. Ah, he said no questions.

Her assistant, Danie, steps up on the one-foot-platform, "You guys can ask only one question, which should relate to either VisMed or Dr. Colrich."

Alison grits her teeth as she places her hands on the podium surface. She doesn't remember any answers to the scripted questionnaire she read over before this briefing. To be exact, something else was, and currently is, on her mind.

I still have time, she muses, when her gaze falls on the podium screen, displaying "Fri, Nov 29th 2052, 19:54 GMT" on its top right edge. She takes in a deep breath, her eyes wavering between the thirty-five raised lightsticks. Now, which one had the easiest question?