Junior followed along as best he could while the conversation flared into a three-way argument.
Millie was talking fast at his side, her spitfire pace overlapping with Reynard's sharp, accusatory tones. Reynard was tossing around phrases like infection risk and contamination. A third person - a young woman's voice, measured, reserved - tried to inject calm into the mess, but was largely ignored by the other two.
"Seaman Tran," a fourth, previously silent male voice spoke up.
With just two words, Junior immediately pegged the new speaker as an older male. The voice had a direct, implacable tone that recalled to Junior the sound of a rolling boulder or landslide.
"Yes, Sergeant Dwyer?" the woman responded, exasperation hinted in her tone.
Junior gathered that 'Seaman' referred to the third voice, pegging the woman as Galatean Coast Guard, likely. He only knew their rank structure vaguely. If he had to guess, Seaman didn't sound nearly as overbearing as other ranks he'd heard of, like Captain or Admiral, whereas Sergeant didn't sound like a maritime rank at all.
Were the two newcomers from different arms of the government?
He briefly recalled a conversation outside the school after a recital - another Coast Guard officer talking casually about weekend plans and beach closures. It felt like a lifetime ago. How were schools even operating now? How did parents face the questions they couldn't answer?
It put his own situation into perspective - not diminished. Just . . . different.
Reynard had clearly reported something to someone. The questions were: 'what' and 'to whom'? But even though the other man had done something Junior would have really preferred he not do . . . could Junior blame him? What if Reynard wasn't just being an idiot? Something was clearly happening to him, something out of the ordinary. Was Junior a risk to others? To Millie? Achilles? Should Junior allow himself to be quietly hauled off to be interrogated and studied?
Was that the responsible thing to do?
Junior's fingers were sweating now, Achilles' harness slick in his tightened grip. He didn't want this. He was scared . . . none of this was his fault. Maybe if he just backed up . . . just slipped out the door . . . maybe no one would even notice.
Before he could muster up the courage to take that first, tentative step to the beckoning freedom of the exit, a deep voice snapped across the lobby.
"That's enough, Mr. Walters," Sergeant Dwyer said. His tone was not a suggestion.
The conversation skidded to an uneven halt as Sergeant Dwyer spoke with an authority that cut through everything else. Reynard tried to interrupt, but Dwyer's words rolled right over him. "You think making wild accusations about your neighbours is part of your civic duty?" The man didn't raise his voice - he didn't need to. "This young man's lived here for how long? And you think shouting about infections in a public lobby is a reasonable way to treat him? Someone who clearly needs your support, not your suspicions?"
Silence.
Then Dwyer turned, his boots giving a small scuff against the polished lobby floor as he stepped toward Junior.
"Sir?" he asked, his voice gentler now. Steady. "My name's Sergeant Dwyer, Nephyra Police Department. Just here to make sure things stay peaceful."
Junior swallowed. When did his throat get so dry? He tried to steady hands he hadn't even realized were shaking.
"Junior," he replied shortly. "Please call me Junior."
A second later, Eliza spoke up as well.
"Seaman Eliza Tran. I'm sorry, sir. I should have introduced myself earlier." Her voice dipped into something like embarrassment. "That was rude. My apologies."
Junior gave a tentative nod. Took a slow breath. The return to calm helped settle his nerves.
Dwyer turned back toward the other man. "Mr. Walters. Let's take a little walk. I'd like a word in private. One responsible Galatean to another." The smile he directed to Reynard wasn't a kind one. "Seaman Tran?" Dwyer added without taking his eyes off the frozen Reynard. "Mind if I borrow him for a few minutes?"
Tran paused. ". . . Permission granted, Sergeant."
Junior got the impression that permission hadn't truly been asked for. He filed that tidbit away to try to piece together the dynamics between the two later.
There was the sound of clothing rustling. Dwyer laid a hand on Reynard's shoulder. Now it was Reynard who started sweating. The man's breathing changed, shallow and fast. Junior heard him gulp. A small part of Junior felt gratified that it seemed he wasn't the only one in hot water anymore.
Reynard didn't argue with the intimidating police Sergeant.
"Y-yeah. Sure. My unit's on the 8th floor."
"Excellent," Dwyer replied, without moving his hand at all.
They walked toward the elevator. Junior could still hear them as Dwyer leaned over and began speaking into Reynard's ear in a whisper meant to carry.
"Respect. That's where it starts. We live in a community, Mr. Walters. An island. We have to rely on each other. You have to act like a neighbour, not a gods damned spy. Let that attitude stay on the mainland where it belongs. You understand me?"
But Junior didn't get to hear more as by then the woman - Seaman Tran - decided to speak.
"I think we started on the wrong foot. Let me try again. My name is Eliza Tran, and I'm here to help in this time of need," she said with a cool, though not unfriendly, smile.
\ - / - \ - /
The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Junior counted the tones as usual when they passed each floor and noted with interest that they'd stopped one short of his.
He followed Achilles' gentle guidance into the hallway, the harness snug in his grip. Millie stepped out first, Eliza Tran trailing behind them. The hallway felt familiar, but off. New voices echoed from behind closed doors. The scents of different meals drifted out from unseen kitchens.
Junior had excellent spatial memory. With the elevators as a common starting point, it was easy to conclude where they were headed. When they stopped, it was confirmed. This was the unit he'd heard Millie shouting from the day they met - the balcony below his, her voice raised, praising the arrival of blue screens.
His quirky friend had brought them to her place And she hadn't said a word about why.
Millie radiated tension. Her protective instincts hadn't eased, even with Reynard gone. Eliza, for her part, didn't seem like the easiest person to warm up to either. The tension lingered in the space between the women, quiet but unmistakable.
Still, Junior noticed Millie had stopped outright lying. She hadn't admitted anything, not about herself, nor about him. But the tangled web of evasion she'd been spinning had started to unravel. Her tone had changed; less deflection, more doubt.
Millie's key chain jingled softly as she slid a key into the lock of unit 705.
"Why's the Galatean Coast Guard even involved in all this?" she asked suddenly as she turned to eye Eliza accusingly. "Blue screens. Mass hallucinations. What's any of that gotta do with marine rescues and smugglers?"
Eliza paused, then gave a small, controlled exhale, just shy of a sigh.
"I get that question a lot," she said. "Truthfully? I don't know either. My commanding officer didn't deign to explain the whys. She just gave the order."
Junior nodded, accepting the explanation at face value. Millie's blatantly skeptical expression showed that she clearly didn't. But she let it slide, for now at least.
Millie unlocked the door, the key turning with a metallic click.
Eliza made an attempt to break the ice.
"I thought you were just passing through and didn't live here," she said, delivered completely deadpan.
The joke fell flat. Her tone was too dry to land as anything but a dig, especially with strangers.
Millie huffed but didn't otherwise respond, brushing past the comment without even a glance. Junior gave an awkward shrug; half apology, half discomfort. Eliza mentally kicked herself. Her acerbic sense of humour wasn't for everyone. The delivery had been too sharp. Too pointed. Not exactly the tone to earn goodwill.
Even the dog looked at her with what she chose to interpret as pity over her failed witticism.
Inside, Millie's condo was nothing like Junior's. Less austere, more lived in.
The layout was nearly identical to his unit on the eighth floor, but navigation would be harder. The floor was uneven with clutter. Loose objects. Discarded clothes. He heard Millie mutter something and then speak aloud.
"Watch your step, Junior. Achilles too."
She didn't mention Eliza.
Then she added: "Sorry. Poor wording. Let me get some of this junk outta the way." She began to clear a path. The rustle of fabric and the scrape of objects being pushed aside filled the entryway.
Achilles followed behind, taking care to guide his partner well. The transition into the living room was like entering a maze. Achilles navigated a zig-zag path past a slew of furniture: a sectional here; a chair there. Nothing was neatly arranged. Things were likely moved frequently to better fit the needs of any given moment.
When Millie finally declared the path safe, she patted one of the sofa cushions.
"Here. It's clear now."
Junior followed the sound and sat gingerly. Millie flopped beside him, sprawling across the rest of the available space, leaving no room for Eliza.
Eliza stood tall, hands behind her back in a casual rest position. She gave no outward sign that Millie's pointed snubs bothered her.
That seemed to bother Millie more. She crossed her arms under her breast while her lips threatened to pout petulantly. Eliza chalked that up as a point for her.
"Right," Eliza said after a moment, her voice adopting a practiced rhythm. "Under the authority of the Galatean government, the GCG - that's the Coast Guard - in cooperation with the Nephyra Police Department, has been tasked with public safety enforcement and information management in the wake of the Failsafe System Integration event. In light of this, my role is to act as a liaison. Between the GCG and any of the individuals who've been referred to as . . . the Reclaimed."
The tension in the room thickened immediately.
Junior sat up straighter. Millie tensed with an audible grunt.
But Eliza continued, unshaken.
"Just to be absolutely clear - we are not directed or authorized to detain, track, or even register Reclaimed individuals. I am not here to 'collect' anyone. My mandate is strictly supportive. I am to offer help, assess potential injuries or secondary effects, and . . . "
She hesitated, eyes flickering around the room almost imperceptibly.
". . . aid in the disposal of any remains of an unusual nature."
Neither Junior nor Millie spoke right away. Eliza pressed on.
"If someone wants to share information, I'm authorised to offer contact information. Mine, and the address of a confidential site being developed as a resource for Reclaimed individuals to share data anonymously."
Millie folded her arms. "And what are you writing down?"
"Excuse me?"
"You said you're not tracking. So you're not taking names? Addresses? Anything at all?"
"No," Eliza shook her head. "Nothing identifiable. Not unless someone offers it freely. Even then, we're not storing it. Not in any formal record."
Millie snorted. "And this 'anonymous' site? You expect people to just trust that it's not being monitored?"
Eliza took the push in stride.
"The site is hosted on an offshore server, routed through multiple jurisdictions. The development team's implemented VPN tunnelling by default - encrypted sessions that reset with every visit. It doesn't store cookies. There's no persistent login. Not even a timestamp, unless the user manually chooses to submit one."
Millie raised an eyebrow. "You expect the average person to know what any of that means?"
"No," Eliza admitted. "But they don't have to. It's built to be secure. If someone really wants to dig through your activity, it'll take more than a simple request from a government agency. And they won't find it linked to anything real."
Junior listened, quiet through the exchange. Millie had taken the lead without asking, but he didn't mind.
He was starting to realize she was still protecting him.
She'd brought them to her unit, not his. She was challenging every word Eliza spoke, playing the part of the skeptic, the wary Reclaimed. Drawing attention to herself.
Away from him.
Was it all an act for Eliza's benefit? Maybe. Maybe not. Millie was already into strange conspiracies, what with the whole LITRPG not-cult. But her intentions were clear either way.
Junior didn't say a word.
But he made a quiet note to himself to thank her later.