The clinic smelled of dried herbs and old paper, the kind of smell that clung to the walls after decades of sickness and healing. Dust motes floated in the slanted afternoon light that pushed through the grimy windows, and the wooden floorboards creaked under the weight of the silence. The pirates had gone—slipping out through the back door, dispersing into the alleyways of Vàng-Harbor with their missions and their weapons and their dangerous promises. The office felt emptier without them, as if their presence had pressed the walls outward and now they were slowly contracting back.
Vie Briehanoi stood near the examination table, her hands clasped in front of her, her charm bracelet clinking with each nervous shift of her weight. The apron she wore—cream-colored, embroidered with her name in gold thread—was wrinkled from the chaos of the past hour, and a smudge of dust marked her cheek where she had wiped away tears she refused to shed. Her large brown eyes tracked the empty doorway, as if expecting someone to walk back through it.
Ciel Nguyen sat on a wooden chair near the window, his battered soccer ball balanced on his knee, his Rocco Sterling T-shirt hanging loose over his skinny frame. His dark brown eyes had not stopped darting since the pirates left, and his small hands kept opening and closing around the ball's patched leather. Outside, the sky was turning grey, clouds rolling in from the sea, and the distant sound of waves crashing against the harbor wall filled the silence.
Dr. Maven Trance moved around the room, putting supplies back into cabinets, his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose with each sharp movement. His white coat was wrinkled, coffee-stained, and he muttered under his breath as he sorted bandages into labeled drawers. The stethoscope around his neck swung with each turn, and the flask of brandy in his coat pocket clinked against the metal scissors.
Vie looked at him, her voice small. "Where should we go?"
Maven paused, his hand still on a drawer handle. He turned his head, his pale blue eyes—sharp, assessing, tired—finding her face. He opened his mouth to speak.
The transponder snail rang.
The sound cut through the quiet like a knife, shrill and insistent. Ciel's hand shot to his pocket, fumbling for the small shell. He pulled it out, and the snail's features shifted—taking on the familiar, worried shape of his mother's face.
Ciel pressed the answer button.
"WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" Dậu Nguyen's voice exploded from the snail's mouth, sharp as a slap. "YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN HOME HOURS AGO! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON? I HAVE BEEN WORRIED SICK!"
Ciel opened his mouth. "Mama, I—"
"DO NOT 'MAMA' ME! Do you know what the Marines are doing? They are rounding up people in the harbor! They are—" Her voice cracked, and she stopped, breathing hard. "Never mind. You come straight home. Immediately. No stopping. No kicking that blasted ball. GET HOME."
The snail's eyes retracted. The shell went still.
Ciel stared at the silent transponder in his hand, his face pale, his freckles standing out against his olive skin. He swallowed hard and looked up at Vie and Maven.
"I better go," he said, his voice small.
Maven, who had resumed putting supplies away, smirked without turning around. He pushed a jar of dried herbs onto a high shelf and wiped his hands on his coat. "I imagine you do, boy."
Ciel slid off the chair and walked toward the door. His feet dragged on the wooden floor, and the soccer ball was tucked under his arm, pressed against his chest like a shield. He reached the door and stopped. His hand rested on the worn wood.
"Do you think," he said, not turning around, "we will see them again?"
Maven paused. His hand hovered over a drawer, and for a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall and the distant crash of waves. He let out a long, slow breath.
"I do not know, boy." His voice was softer now, stripped of its usual crankiness. "They are outlaws and pirates. If they cannot pull this off..." He shook his head. "I fear it will be the worst case scenario for all of us."
Ciel turned his head, just enough to look out the window. The grey sky pressed down on the rooftops, and somewhere in the distance, a column of smoke rose from the harbor. His soccer ball was warm under his arm. He thought of Mister Kaburo, of the way the samurai's rare almost-smiles made him feel like he was standing in sunlight.
"I hope we get to see them again," Ciel whispered.
He turned to Vie. His face was still young—eight years old, round-cheeked, wide-eyed—but something in his expression had hardened, just a little. "You want to come home with me? At least until—"
BANG. BANG. BANG.
The door shook in its frame.
Ciel jumped back, his ball slipping from his grasp and bouncing once on the floor before he caught it. Vie's hands flew to her mouth. Maven cursed—a word in French that translated roughly to "not again"—and stomped toward the door, his cane tapping against the wood.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
"Who the hell is trying to break my door down?" Maven muttered, his voice rising. He threw the bolt and yanked the door open.
Two Navy sailors stood on the threshold.
Their white uniforms were crisp, their boots polished, their faces expressionless. Each carried a rifle—not slung over their shoulders, but held across their chests, ready. The taller one had a scar across his jaw and eyes that did not blink. The shorter one had a shaved head and a grip like iron on his weapon.
They stepped forward, filling the doorway, their shadows falling across Maven's face.
"All of you," the taller one said, his voice flat, "need to come with us."
Maven's face flushed. His glasses slid down his nose, and he did not push them up. "What are you talking about?" His voice was sharp, incredulous. "I am—"
The sailors did not wait. The shorter one reached out, grabbed Maven by the arm, and pulled him across the threshold. Maven stumbled, his cane clattering to the floor, his white coat flapping. "Unhand me! This is—"
Ciel lunged forward. His soccer ball dropped from his hands and rolled across the floor, bumping against the leg of the examination table. He grabbed the taller sailor's wrist, his small fingers wrapping around the man's sleeve. "Let him go!"
The sailor looked down at him with the same expressionless face. He bent, scooped Ciel up with one arm, and tucked the boy under his elbow like a sack of rice. Ciel kicked, his legs flailing, his sandals flying off. "Put me down! Put me DOWN!"
Vie turned to run.
The other sailor caught her before she reached the back door. His hand closed around her wrist, and she screamed—a sharp, startled sound—as he dragged her back. She twisted, tried to pull away, but his grip was steel.
"Let go of me! You cannot—you have no right—"
"We have every right," the sailor said, his voice still flat. "There is only one place for traitors against the World Government." He pulled her toward the door. "Mary Geoise. We are collecting the Heavenly Tax."
Vie screamed—a long, raw sound that echoed off the walls, filled the office, spilled out into the street. "NO!"
Ciel fought, his small body writhing against the sailor's arm. His soccer ball lay forgotten on the floor, rolling in a slow circle, bumping against the wall. The transponder snail slipped from his pocket and hit the ground with a soft thud, its shell cracking, its eyestalks twitching.
Maven stood outside in the street, his arms held by two more sailors who had materialized from the shadows. His white coat was stained with dirt, his glasses askew, his silver-white hair wild. He did not struggle. He simply stared at the clinic door, at the children being dragged out, and his face—usually so full of crank and bluster—went very still.
"Ciel," he said, his voice calm now, almost soft. "Vie. Do not fight. It will be worse if you fight."
Ciel stopped kicking. His body went limp in the sailor's grip. His dark brown eyes found Maven's face, and something passed between them—fear, yes, but also recognition. A promise. A remembering.
The sailor carried him down the street. Vie stumbled along beside the other sailor, her charm bracelet jingling, her face wet with tears. The soccer ball lay in the middle of the clinic floor, still rolling, slower now, tracing a circle that grew smaller with each pass.
The transponder snail sat beside it, its cracked shell leaking a thin fluid, its eyestalks pointing at the ceiling.
The door swung shut. The silence returned.
Outside, the grey sky pressed down on Vàng-Harbor, and the smoke rose from the distant dock, and somewhere up the mountain, a rainbow bird carried a laughing man toward a flagpole that would change everything. But in the clinic, there was only the ball and the snail and the dust motes drifting in the light.
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