(Present Day)

The past few hours of Garrot’s whirlwind briefing and rushed deployment had gone by so quickly, during such red-eyed morning hours that he could barely remember much of it. But what snapped him awake wasn’t even the inhalation of some warm blackbark, but the incredibly well-timed view of the sun peeking out from beneath the east side of the Umbra. Their express train was just coasting the tip of a snowy hill along one of the Imbral suburbs when their conductor had walked the halls to draw back the smoking car’s curtains and call attention to the picturesque scene.

Garrot could tell that Halehearth Rail had to have planned not just their rail lines but their schedules for moments like this. He hadn’t been so fortunate as to observe this same view when he had moved to Imbral, but he was sure the vista before him was one that had enticed thousands of migrants arriving for their first time. He could see across to the downtown region dotted with towers of ice, fields of wooden homes, and even open parks, whose fields of white snow reflected the morning sun. Even in the distance, neighboring towns’ snow-covered wooden rooftops stretched on miles and miles away, far enough to begin to see the Egg’s gentle upward curve in the distance, as though those houses were leaning on a hill. Garrot had been scanning the cityscape for some of his more well-known landmarks; St. Teri’s steeple, Fort Ormeyer, and the Scholars’ Quarter library, which he recalled as the closest landmark to Bran and Rhile’s home.

“Ahhhh...*what* a start to our vacation!” exclaimed Sarei.

His new Lancer colleague had been hogging the closest view, bending almost perpendicular to the window to absorb the sites.

"Can’t even argue,” agreed Bran. He couldn’t muster the energy to berate Sarei a tenth time for referring to their assignment as a vacation. “And to think, so many of these businessmen heading out to Almensk just pass by this hill every few weeks...”

He made a cursory examination of the room around them. Most of the well-dressed nobles of the smoking car had afforded the picturesque view from the window a few glances, but had otherwise become absorbed once again in their newspapers or black arm mugs. One or two were fingering cigarettes, but were waiting to light them until the family of children near them had left.

“Papio, papio!” came a small, excited shout near them. “Los ve neke Imbralo!”

To Garrot’s right, a mother and her two children gazed out over the landscape in awe. Garrot listened in as the small girl, held in her mother’s arms, and her older brother loudly broke into conversation; prompting a short chuckle from the Private.

“Wonder where they’re from,” pondered Bran.

“Well, they’re not J’halan, but they’re speaking Elman. So I’d guess they came from somewhere in Elmira.” said Garrot. He lowered his voice. “The boy’s just making fun of his sister because she said ‘Look! We’re almost in Imbral!’”

Bran shared the chuckle. “Ah, our translator getting his ropes in.”

Garrot refocused on the conversation across the car. He’d mostly internalized even his thought process in Imperial, but on Bran’s suggestion, it felt as good a time as any to flex between languages.

“Now she’s, uh...saying she wanted to see that big building—the palace - and her mother’s telling her they already did.”

“Let me guess, she wanted to go up the big tower - the Emperor’s Hearth?” asked Sarei.

“Basically - haha. Aaand, she just looked at the beverage card and since the one imperial word she recognizes is Cocoa, she’s begging for that.”

Sarei bolted up from her perch at the window, knocking Bran’s chin back.

“Oh shoot, they serve cocoa on these? Man, I missed all the amenities of express trains!”

Bran stared her down, nursing his chin. “We’re less than ten minutes out of the capital and you’re already spending pocket money?”

“No I’m not,” retorted Sarei. “They explained we can report food as an expense, right?”

They had, in fact, been told as much by the Lieutenant, since they’d be operating alone around civilian areas rather than on military grounds, but Garrot doubted over-marketed confectionary was what he’d had in mind. Bran groaned, clearly contending with the worry that his new subordinate’s sweet tooth was going to be an issue.

Bran, and the nearby mother of two, shared an exasperated glance—having both encountered the same problem.

‘Kids, right?’ Bran mouthed.

The mother failed to stifle a small laugh. “You are...soldiers, yes?” she asked, in delicate Imperial.

Bran offered a quick two-fisted salute. “Yes, ma’am. Steel legionnaires.”

The mother’s face fell into the look of fear and confusion that tended to be solely associated with language barriers. “Steel......lee...jun-”

Garrot interrupted to explain. “Se itendei...’Legionnaire’ ke voco perdonte pon Halen ‘Soldier'.”

She nodded, smiling warmly—Garrot could remember the level of pressure he had felt when still learning the language, and the relief on occasionally finding someone familiar with his home tongue. It felt good to pass on the torch.

He began explaining to her in Elman that, while the Steel Legion kept many models of trains specifically for troop deployment, since it was just the three of them on a separate assignment, they were travelling by commercial train.

“Mhira’s sake...”

The utterance had come from an older gentleman in a booth across the car. He made a visible show of scowling at Garrot and ruffling his newspaper in frustration.

“...too much to ask the cavemen to learn to speak Imperial...?”

“Perdo-!...Excuse me, sir!” the mother called over accusingly, momentarily flubbing the dialects.

The mother’s two children had been startled into silence. Garrot could tell they regularly associated this raised voice to parental punishment.

“Oh- Ma’am, it’s fine, I didn’t mean to bother you or your sweet little kids,” the gentleman replied, flashing a smile to the two of them. He dropped his smile towards the Rangers.

“Just...Sergeant, does your...man speak any Imperial?” he asked, directed at Bran.

“Ask him yourself,” shot back Bran, turning away to face the window.

“Sir-!” interjected the mother. “I was saying-...asking, for s-speak Elman!” She seemed to be dividing mental energy between translating with grammatical clarity, and conveying frustration. “He was just...telling why...’L-Legionnaire’...”

She threw up her hands, abandoning the sentence. “Why do you...be...rude?”

The man slammed the newspaper onto his ashtray, with all the impact that could be achieved with a half-folded sheaf of paper.

“I am not the one being rude!! This car is supposed to stay quiet!” he seethed.

Sarei leaned back against the window. Her smile had only widened during the exchange. “So I suppose you’ll want to ask the kids to be quiet first? Hathorne, you want to help him translate ‘Be quiet, you two brats’?”

Garrot rubbed the bridge of his nose, motioning his palm down for Sarei not to intervene. “Miss Adamel, please don’t escalate this. He’s right, this car-”

Sarei ignored Garrot, and stepped around him to meet the surprised stare of the businessman. He was glancing at Garrot, having only just associated the voice speaking Imperial from earlier to the klyskin-colored man he’d insulted.

Sarei leaned in towards him. “Or, given that you assumed my associate was in charge at a glance, is it just too scary to speak to anyone that isn’t as snowskin as you are?”

“SAREI. ENOUGH.”

Garrot spat the rebuke before he’d thought. Setting aside the eyes falling upon him, Garrot stepped over to the two children and knelt down before them, adopting a reassuring smile to confirm they weren’t in trouble.

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“Kindentos? Mio espaldo vite pon escal ie vocado. Se pastao selo intendei: Escul se vocado ve carron.” he explained, in an apologetically hushed voice.

The boy kicked at the ground, avoiding Garrot’s gaze. “Le esculde ru vocado tambeb.”

Garrot laughed, hanging his head with his hands up. “Terre vite, kindento! Terre vite. Espaldo.”

Garrot stood, and paced back to the businessman, who recoiled defensively.

“And, sir? I’m sorry for disturbing you while you were reading your paper—and for my colleague’s comments. The conductor invited us to see the view in this car, and we’ll be leaving now that the view’s gone.”

“I...”

The traveler sat tongue-tied. Though Garrot spoke politely, he appeared to desire no involvement in the conversation. He spoke in a hushed voice, as though aiming not to offend.

“What were you saying to them just now?”

“I said to them, I was sorry for raising my voice—and that you were just directing us to lower our voices in this car. The young boy here pointed out that I raised my voice too, and I just said ’Terre vite!’, which means ‘Very true!’”

Garrot enunciated the phrasing more slowly and carefully, for the sake of teaching a novice. It was a trick he’d learned - people’s moods often improved after they’d learned something.

“A-All right. Fine then.” the passenger muttered. “Carry on.”

Sarei nonchalantly opened her mouth, prepared to make a remark, but decided against it when Garrot flashed a stare at her. She settled for rolling her eyes instead.

Bran motioned them out. “Come on, he’s right. The view’s gone now.” He let out a sigh. “Mhira’s sake...what a start to our ‘vacation’.”

A few minutes later, they’d settled into a dining car, finding themselves a late breakfast. Halehearth Rail had long prided themselves on grandiose, luxurious dining on their express network, and where they were seated was no exception. The car was about as tall and wide as the rail network allowed, and its brass decorations glittered around them. Each booth sat in its own sunken alcove, making it feel even larger once seated. Even the lighting was routed through electrical lightbulbs running from the engine’s generator, saving the conductors from frequently refilling oil lamps.

Bran and Garrot had each polished off a simple tenguin breastmeat sandwich, and were now haplessly watching Sarei gulp down a stack of pancakes and a mug of cocoa.

“Are...you sure that’s enough for you?” asked Bran, his face a mess of incredulity.

Sarei shook her head. “You wanted your own, should’ve ordered it. Heck, you still could.” She forked another slice of the stack deep into her cheek. “’Fore you guys know it *munch* you’ll be back to the nasty stuff they...*swallow* feed you at Ortmeyer.”

“Chew. Swallow. Then speak.” said Bran. “So, Private Adamel, I have to ask, am I going to have to chaperone your eating as WELL as your conduct around civilians?”

Sarei leaned back to digest, feeling unthreatened. “Well, that depends. Hathorne.” she turned to Garrot. “How often are situations like that last one going to happen with you here?”

“Garrot is not at fault here,” returned Bran. “Your conduct with that man was excessive.”

“And so was his,” said Sarei. “Didn’t even surprise me seeing he was an Owls’ Eye reader. If you need me to cut down an eldmoose I can do that. Being a Scion’s own personal Querywoman, sure, I’ll give it a go. But letting the squad serve as punching bag for racist assholes? Sorry, no.”

“I didn’t need you speaking up on my behalf,” said Garrot.

“I wasn’t speaking up to defend you. I was just sick of that bastard swallowing all the air in the car walking all over you. I mean, you were being a wimp, no offense - didn't even call him out for calling you a caveman. Let people walk all over you like that, and I’m worried that we'll have more than terrorists to worry about just walking around on investigation, and worse, we’ll be down one translator.”

Bran opened his mouth, but hesitated. Garrot could guess why; what Sarei was saying was simply an echo of his own concerns.

“Nevertheless...” he said finally, still planning his words. "Private Hathorne prefers to deal with conflicts of that kind on his own. Next time, if you can’t take it, I’ll just ask that you walk away. Are we clear?”

Sarei pondered into what remained of her pancakes. “Buy me a bottle of King Panther when we get to Westbell and it’s a deal.”

“Private.”

“Yeah, sure. Fine. Whatever.” She swallowed the last portion of what had previously been a giant stack. Her fork clinked to the empty plate, and she reached for the cocoa mug.

“I’m pretty sure I stopped drinking over-sweetened train sweets like that when I was seven years old...” mocked Bran. “If the blackbark wasn’t similarly overpriced, I wouldn’t mind some...only got one cup before we headed out...”

Garrot held up a finger, and reached into his bag, producing a screw-sealed wooden mug—pouring a measure of warm, aromatic blackbark out into each of their cups.

Sarei observed the two of them across from her with a curious look. “So - you two know each other, do you?”

Bran shrugged. “Garrot and I met in basic. We ended up in different squadrons, but since he didn’t really have a place to stay during Salute Week, my husband and I let him sleep in our guest bed. It’s only since the last reassignments that we’ve even been in the same squadron.”

Sarei nodded. “Mmmm. Right. And does your husband know you’re deploying together?”

Bran shot her a stare. “I’m hoping you didn’t start blabbing around on this. I don’t claim to know their reasons, but both the Lieutenant and General were both clear that this assignment is not to be discussed outside secure channels.”

Bran had privately admitted to Garrot that he had wanted to inform Rhile that he’d be leaving the capital—but the element of secrecy behind their deployment as Rangers had caught him off guard.

“Mum's the word, of course.” said Sarei. “So if you guys decide now’s the best time to start your affair, I’m not gonna mouth off about it.”

Bran choked on a gulp from his mug, and quickly grabbed a napkin to dab out a hot black stain left on his trousers.

“Ehm, s-so...” ventured Garrot, “I felt pretty sure I knew what the imperial word affair meant, but just to be clear-”

“What the fuck are you talking about??” blared Bran.

“Aw, come on.” teased Sarei. “You burst into that meeting room with a ring, wetting your pants in front of a Scion, to try to get yourself into Garrot's assignment. And let me guess—you're the one who bought him that mug?”

She hooked her arm lazily around the table to stealthily grab Garrot’s wooden flask, admiring the craftsmanship on it.

“Oh man...copper lining and taurmawood heat insulation. Can you imagine keeping mulled corecider warm in a treasure like this? Quite a generous gift. I’ve seen them go for half a gilder before.”

“He bought it himself, he has a salary,” rebutted Bran.

Sarei raised an eyebrow. “Did he?” she mocked.

She spun the mug to show the engraving tailored into it.

“G. H.? No one buys something this ostentatious for themselves.”

“Fine. Then I have no idea where he got it,” insisted Bran. “Maybe if you were polite enough to ask, you’d find out.”

“Y-yeah, I don’t...” Garrot was catching his brain up, feeling thoroughly incapable of handling Sarei. “Bran and I are...not-”

“You sure? Eh, guess we don't need to complicate sleeping arrangements then.”

She stood from her chair, stepping out of the sunken seating. “I’m gonna check the smoking car to see if they have any books to read or anything, then I’ll be in our compartment. Let me know if we get any other good views out the window.”

She stuffed her hands in her pockets and strode away to the next car. Bran made no motion to stop her, his hand still glued to his face in frustration.

“Wow. So that...huh.” Garrot was scratching his head. “Sarei Adamel, Devil Company’s Lancer Unit. She seems really-”

“It’s not as though she doesn’t have a point,” remarked Bran, sipping on his water.

Garrot tensed his shoulders, sensing a confrontation.

“What do you mean?”

Bran sat back, swirling the mug of blackbark Garrot had provided him. It almost seemed like he hadn't heard the question.

“You remember me talking about all those Queryman Haingen stories, right?”

Garrot nodded. Bran and his husband Rhile had long had an affection for the stories of the Queryman’s Guild, whose work was frequently fictionalized. But they’d had particular fondness for stories told of Queryman Haingen. He was a slightly older, fictional character who would always make it to the heart of a mystery—but always find reasons to conceal the truth and ask the Guild to archive the case. Sometimes, a young boy had stolen money from a miser to pay for his mother’s treatment, or a victim of murder would turn out to be an evil monster, or find that the killer had acted in self defense.

Bran shrugged. “This...might be one of those moments. Except Haingen gets to go on to the next case, while you and I stay colleagues forever, long after I’ve solved enough of your mystery to leave you alone. And while I’d like to assure Private Adamel that I have you figured out...first I’d like to make sure I do.”

Bran began counting on his hand.

“You left J’halaga long after the U.J.P.’s ‘purge of undesirables’. When you did, you arrived with no family in tow, and spent most of your first year volunteering at a church before joining the army.”

Bran shrugged, considering his ‘clues’.

“A lot of people on the run from loan sharks, or their old gang in the P.R.U., would keep to themselves. But you almost go out of your way to be as outgoing and inviting as you can with every person you meet.

“Initially, that kind of background made me curious. But...I stopped thinking about it when I realized, whatever your story is, whatever trauma you deal with; the way you act around other people—it's how you ‘process’ it.”

The guilt was coming back to Garrot under Bran’s scrutiny. Maybe he knew. Maybe his silence about life in his homeland had only made things harder for his friend.

Bran sensed his unease, and leaned back, giving the impression he was finished laying into Garrot.

“...What I want to impress on you is that...I don’t think I’ll ever experience what you did leaving your home. But if those challenges taught that you should never confront people—that even morons who assume you’re an illiterate serving boy deserve your full respect...then I think you took the wrong lesson out of it, and it hurts us to see it.”

“Us?” asked Garrot.

Bran gave a smirk.

“Since I met you, I’ve learned to appreciate the different ways people show it—but Sarei seems to get along with you pretty well. I think cursing up a storm at that businessman was just her way of showing it.”

Garrot shared the smile.

“Hah. I’d say you’re probably right on both regards.”

Garrot set down his mug, gazing into its swirling contents.

“I’m sorry. I know I don’t act like most people—even like others who came from the same places as me. I had to decide very early in my life what sort of person I had to be,” he protested. “...Had to be...”

Even considering the topic of his homeland caused a burning pain in his heart, making it difficult to explain his own thoughts.

Bran and his husband were both inquisitive minds; it was likely that if the Sergeant were given a week with a library’s newspaper archives, he'd learn what had instilled the subservient mindset that had guided much of Garrot’s life, even more so than most others thankful for their lives in the Empire.

But he hadn’t; as a show of respect for Garrot’s hardships. Maybe even as a show of appreciation for the things Garrot had taught him; that behind every man and woman in the street, lay a mystery of their own makings.

Bran steadily rose out of his chair, careful to avoid the shudders of the train under their feet.

“If it’s okay...I think I need to go make sure Private Adamel hasn’t gotten herself into another fight on the way back to our cabin.”

“Oh, come on...!” laughed Garrot. “She’s not-…!...”

Garrot tapped his finger on the table, reconsidering.

“...Welllll...”