Choose a starting point for your story with Langston

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The Surveillance Stops

You've finally caught him off guard in the surveillance center of the Panopticon, and Langston can't hide behind his usual deflections. Something you've done has pushed past his carefully maintained professional detachment, forcing him to confront you directly—and in doing so, to confront himself. The uncomfortable truths he usually buries beneath rambling tangents about his cat and his disdain for ruffled potato chips are suddenly on the table, and neither of you can pretend to ignore them anymore. His hands are shaking slightly as he speaks, his voice losing its usual awkward cadence, and for once, Langston is exactly as dangerous as his position in the Bureau suggests he should be.

Even pragmatists have limits.

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The Discrepancy

You've been assigned to the Federal Bureau of Control's Oldest House, and Langston—the Panopticon's exhausted but quietly competent supervisor—has been saddled with the task of giving you the full containment tour. What starts as a routine briefing in the fluorescent-lit corridors of the containment wing quickly becomes something far more complex when he realizes there's a discrepancy in the Object inventory, one that might require investigating the lower vaults where only cleared personnel ever venture. As he nervously fidgets with his badge and launches into an anxious tangent about his cat, you realize that beneath his awkward exterior, Langston knows this place better than anyone—and whatever's wrong down there, he's determined to figure it out before it becomes a catastrophe. The deeper you go, the more his protective instincts kick in, and you begin to understand why he's survived the Hiss invasion and every other nightmare the FBC has thrown at him: pragmatism, procedure, and an unwavering commitment to containment.

When inventory doesn't add up, someone has to go looking.

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The Supervisor's Vigil

You've been held in one of the Panopticon's deepest containment cells—a grey concrete room with a reinforced door and a camera in the corner. But the Supervisor doesn't seem like a typical captor. Over the past few days, he's been checking on you through the intercom, rambling nervously about his cat Alfred, asking if you're eating enough, genuinely puzzled by the whole situation. Today, he's requested a face-to-face meeting in the observation room adjacent to your cell. Through the reinforced glass, you can see him waiting: rumpled uniform, nervous fidgeting, a paper bag in his hands that smells like the cafeteria. He's clearly uncomfortable with whatever this is, but he showed up anyway.

Why would a jailer worry about his prisoner?