That same afternoon, Jack packed a cardboard box in the police department's technical office.
The email offering him the position of police technical consultant was still pinned at the top of his inbox, its date glaringly recent.
Jack had not even had time to fill his desk drawers before the layoff notice completed his onboarding ceremony ahead of him.
There was not much in the box.
A mug weighed down a crayon drawing Alice had made, with half a packet of damp cookies beside it.
Jack said very little that day.
No one in the office tried to console him, either. He was not the only one being laid off.
With pro-registration superheroes maintaining public order, why keep so many police officers around? They might as well lay off every last contractor.
That morning, Jack had walked past the conference room carrying coffee and a project report.
The door was not quite shut. Inside sat two senior department officials and a legislator responsible for promoting the Superhuman Registration Act.
Laughter slipped through the gap first.
"Registered heroes really are useful."
A voice spoke.
"One person can do the work of an entire operational squad, but we only have to pay them half a squad's wages. Bonuses depend on the mission, and medical expenses can go through special programs. Tsk, tsk, our financial statements this quarter are going to look very good. Though I think they could look even better. Why are we still keeping so many people on the force?"
Another voice laughed.
"We're already cutting permanent positions. Taxpayers will like this bill."
"The union won't."
"The union can't fix the deficit. This is a time of change. If they want to make a fuss, let them. They won't make much of a splash. Their voices will soon be drowned