Patrolling the streets of Heller, I've learned never to take anything for granted. There's a dagger in every smile, and every huddle of friends talking in a hallway might be partisans planning rebellion against our government. That's where I come in, you see: I'm a detective. Alan Graham, detective. Imagine that. Well, nobody officially made me a detective—I'm actually the treasurer—but since I saw nobody else stepping up to the plate I gave myself a promotion. Alan Graham, treasurer, by day; Alan Graham, detective, by night. Ain't that cool?

I was at my desk in Ms. Denham's AP Chemistry class when on my smartwatch, I received a text from one of my street informants: "Poster across from Liu was removed. Skulduggery is afoot." My heartbeat slowed, and my foot stilled. After that last black mark on my career, I could not let this go—I could not let the people lose faith in me. I gathered my bags and ran out the classroom—Ms. Denham yelled at me something about our chemistry lab, but there was something more important than science afoot: treason. I should have shouted that line back to her—it would have been so clever—but I was silent. Gosh, I can be so witty at times.

January was a harsh mistress, and her air was biting as I raced from her classroom to the scene of the crime. Campus was empty, almost hauntingly so, and the shady characters who were ditching class looked at me warily. Little did they know that a tactical genius was in their midst. Then again, some of their paranoia (it could not have been a sign of intelligence) has to have been that ability to appraise a person at first glance and detect precocious ability. Even though I looked just like them in my suit and fedora, they could tell. I could feel it in my bones, just as I could feel that I was already stumbling across something portentous.

I surveyed the scene of the crime: the blank concrete wall between the restrooms. There was nothing at all. It was a blank canvas that once had a Caravaggio on it, an empty chalkboard that Einstein had once written on. But now, it was erased, and all our work was for naught. I felt a dull pain in my chest.

Their target had been a poster reminding students they were being watched, in a literary fashion to pay homage to the teacher whose classroom rested opposite: the eyes of TJ Eckleburg loomed over the central courtyard, where students walked in silhouette. "GOD SEES EVERYTHING," the text read. It was a lovely poster, perhaps one of the best we had, and all the English teachers tutted approvingly when one morning it appeared; they clustered around it like pigeons for a few minutes to drink their morning coffee before they disappeared to their usual haunts. But now it was gone, probably a pile of ashes like last time. God was dead, and the Epsilons had killed him.

It was Ms. Liu's free period, and I invited myself in. Ms. Liu was not someone I would say was my closest ally, but she too wanted the streets clean and thus begrudgingly humored my rare inquiries. I would like to think that after what happened last year, she respected my courage in the face of adversity—my quick thinking, especially. Some have questioned if my running inside her classroom instead of confronting the bullies head-on was truly the mark of a hero, but I view it as a necessary evil to prove the validity of our movement. Like the burning of the Reichstag before World War II.

"What brings you here, Alan? Shouldn't you be in class?" Ms. Liu asked, stirring her tea.

Ms. Liu was one of the more popular teachers at Heller, and her room was a hub for gossip. Students loitering before class outside her door let their loose lips run amok, and just like TJ Eckleburg, Ms. Liu saw everything. Not that she'd just volunteer that information without being convinced with rhetorical argument.

"Crime, that's what," I retorted, shaking my fist. "A pox on our morality. Have you seen the poster outside?"

"The TJ Eckleburg poster? I love it—sometimes I've even thought about taking it for my classroom. As much as I speculate about Ms. Caulfield's motivation for adding propaganda poster creation to the art curriculum, you can't deny it's produced effective results—all in coordination with your lovely leadership team, of course. So what's the issue?"

I could tell she was not following my insinuations and their obvious implications. That's understandable, though—not everyone is as quick in the mind as I am. But as we are on the topic of the motivational posters (I think "propaganda" is a loaded term), let me clarify a bit. Soon after the beginning of school, after we had put up most of our initial posters (Jason took point on these), Ms. Caulfield approached us to compliment us on the design. She said she abhorred the messaging—but yet, she could not fault our aesthetics, most especially given our work was student-directed. She offered a compromise: her classroom was to remain as free of our influence as possible, the art students having freedom to ruminate on existentialist philosophy unopposed or discuss illegal substances, and in exchange she would supply us with aesthetically-pleasing posters. This was an offer we couldn't refuse, and ever since then, some of the most inspired designs in our collection have come from her room. I digress, anyway.

"It's gone now. Reduced to atoms. Dust in the wind. It is a crime, and I need to find who is responsible."

"Well, this does sound like something very important—but have you not considered putting up another copy and pretending nothing ever happened?"

"As we speak, someone is bringing another copy, but I don't think you're understanding the point of the matter. These sorts of incidents escalate when traitors believe their actions go unpunished. Next they'll go after something more precious—your cowbell, perhaps. Then it's wedding rings, and someday one of them will walk out with the gold bullion we keep buried under central courtyard."

I argued my point with intensity and conviction bred over months of doing nothing but the right thing. And yet, when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object, no ground is gained. Ms. Liu remained nonplussed:

"You make a compelling point. I suppose you want to know if I saw the crime in action. I did not, but how come your security cameras didn't catch anything? Are they not the eyes that see everything?"

"They were wearing black hoodies. Not regulation attire, I know. But they acted quickly, during passing period. If anyone saw anything they wouldn't have said anything. Classic bystander effect—we can't expect everyone to be as courageous as us."

Ms. Liu stirred her tea again.

"Now that is interesting. The crime is unimportant, but the method by which it was done is most intriguing. They know they have risked a lot by doing this, not just the theft but their violations of dress code. And what for? Your posters are infinite, as infinite as your network of informants. Surely they must know their actions are ultimately fruitless, even if they can post pictures of their war trophy on Snapchat."

If there's one thing her literary background has brought Ms. Liu, it's a keen understanding of the futility of resistance. There's this book I had to read a while back, Fahrenheit 451, about how people were sent to burn books, but at the same time there was an underground movement dedicated to saving them. I'm never one to sympathize with the little guy here, but for once I do: burning books is a waste, even if I never read them. This was meant to be an allegory about freedom of speech or something, but instead I interpret it as a cautionary tale about wasteful government policy. I really do believe in small governments that support the little guy, believe it or not: that's why I'm in favor of student government, which by definition is representative of the student body. There's another book, 1984, that might be more apt of a comparison. We've taken great inspiration from it in our administration, almost viewing it as an instruction manual of sorts, and the point there is that resistance is futile.

"Very well said, Ms. Liu. Well, if there's nothing else you can offer me information-wise, I will take my leave and look elsewhere. Your help has been appreciated."

"My pleasure, Alan. You should ask Ms. Baldwin during lunch if she's heard anything. This behavior savors of freshman chicanery."

I smiled and waved to take my leave, but turned back at the door:

"Oh, just one more thing: want Gina to bring you a TJ Eckleburg poster too?"

"I would love one, Alan. Consider that payment for my time."

I returned to Ms. Denham's classroom post-haste, and she accepted my explanation of crime with her usual cynical eyes. Ms. Denham's skepticism of our club, our movement, was constant: from what I've been able to gather, the moment she read our guiding document she knew there was something that didn't sit right with her. If she were a student, she would definitely have been demoted to at least a Gamma, if not worse. But I have learned to extend good grace to our teachers, as it is with their blessing we run the school.

At lunch, I took Ms. Liu's suggestion and went to Ms. Baldwin's classroom. We hadn't talked much, not since the dance classes, but I would like to think she knew who I was. I'm told my reputation precedes me: people greet me with phrases like "I've heard so much about you" and "Oh, it's you again," out of what I presume is respect for my commanding aura. I began my questioning after we exchanged simple pleasantries:

"Have any of your students been seditious lately?"

"Seditious?" Ms. Baldwin exclaimed, leaning back into her chair.

"There was a theft recently, outside Ms. Liu's classroom. Word on the street is that freshmen could have been involved."

"A theft? Of what? This sounds serious!"

"A propaganda poster."

"Oh, it must be one of those TJ Eckleburg posters. That's one of the best designs you've come up with. Was that the only one you had? I can see why you're so worked up about this."

"No, it was a copy. There's already another up there. But it's the thought behind it that counts: if left unchecked, next they'll go for Ms. Liu's cowbell, or wedding rings, or the gold bullion we have buried under the central courtyard—"

"I agree a crime has been committed, and clearly one of the most heinous imaginable—stealing a photocopy—but why have I been brought into this? I'm not the only teacher who teaches freshmen."

Ms. Baldwin was hiding something. It was as clear as day.

"Your name came up, and that's all I can say. If any of your students come into class wearing black hoodies, please let me know and I'll take care of it."

"Black hoodies? But that's against the dress code!"

"Exactly. That's the worst part of it."

I could have lingered to squeeze out more information from Ms. Baldwin, but I was hungry and had reached the limits of my patience. Ms. Baldwin was always sympathetic toward those less understanding of our grand vision, those who had ideological conflicts or were simply too stupid to understand. I also like standing up for the little guy: it's why I do everything I do. But sometimes we must sacrifice the little guys, because by definition they are expendable.

This day's investigation was going nowhere, so while my tech team (Jason and his analysts) wrapped up the case where good old-fashioned elbow grease wasn't doing the trick, I went about the rest of my daily activities. It was disappointing not having a tidy resolution to my business, and this was what I said to Juliet when after school, she saw me and inquired as to whether the traitors had been caught:

"Justice is slow to act, Juliet," I responded. "These things take time, but just know that they cannot escape forever. The eyes of TJ Eckleburg see everything, and what they don't see our security cameras do."

"You tried your best, Alan. That's what counts. Better luck next time—who knows, maybe you'll actually solve a case for once."

"I appreciate it," I said, and we parted ways at the student parking lot.

As I reflect on this journey now, I can't say I learned a whole lot. Ms. Liu's lead about Ms. Baldwin's class proved accurate, and Jason was able to track down the kids and punish them appropriately before their behavior could get too out of hand. Their motivation was unclear, but I'd like to think they did it just for the thrill of the crime. Such deviant behavior deserves the harshest punishment, and catching delinquents like that makes my job even more worthwhile. So that's a day in the life of Alan Graham, detective, and next time we will see what struggles await.

Discussion Questions:

What genre is this story paying homage to? The chapter title may be a hint for any movie buffs out there, and chapter titles will continue to provide hints. Does Alan really like roleplay, or is there another narrative purpose behind this?

Is Alan portrayed positively in this story? Why might he have been portrayed as a bit of a bumbling detective?

Why might this have been picked as the "first chapter" of the sequel?