~February 16th, 140 AH~

~Lower Akra, District Radicis~

The tram rolled to a stop in the middle of a busy thoroughfare, and Asena mimicked the other passengers’ casual urgency as they stepped off en masse. She’d arrived well into the evening, meaning her first order of business was to secure accommodation for the night.

She’d come alone, and only after meticulous preparations that had included a truncated sleep, sourcing disguises, and full memorization of Lower Akra’s byzantine map. The latter was one of few notable occasions where she was truly grateful for being a Kurator; [CONSOLIDATE]—if one were resourceful enough to sneak in a session on a spare workstation—was a handy core skill to apply to oneself, when studying for an exam or familiarizing with a part of Akropolis one had never before stepped foot in.

For it wasn’t enough that she merely visit District Radicis. She also needed to blend in, lest she catch the eyes and ears of the General’s informers that would no doubt be littered all across the city.

To that end, she’d dressed herself in a faded olive drab jacket and pants often sported by Essential staff members around base. She’d finished the look with a blue cap, a scarf, and a messenger bag, having taken inspiration from that fateful encounter where she’d received her first apple-diagrammed missive. If she wanted to look like someone who could belong anywhere, she couldn’t think of a better occupation to impersonate than a courier.

She’d also taken shears to her hair, which she normally wore as a neck-length bob. With the cap and shortened hair, along with avoiding speech and eye contact as much as possible, she hoped to pass as a man rather than draw attention to her unusual height. Nevertheless, she already dreaded the prospect of explaining her new look to her mother, but… one thing at a time.

The tram she’d just stepped off from had been the last express of the day that ferried workers through the three civic zones of Upper, Middle, and Lower Akra. Everyone she’d shared the ride with, from suited young men to shawled old women, would be returning to their homes at the end of another exhausting day, and to a one showed the appropriate sense of purpose. Hesitation would mark her out, clear as day, and as such, Asena forced herself to keep moving with the crowd, relying on her mind’s map for directions.

NEXT, SEEK THE ROOTS. That had been the second message she’d received from the apple-bearing stranger. By her own analysis, she’d concluded that this instruction held several distinct yet interrelated meanings.

First was the idea that she ought to learn of Zelen’s roots, of the child he’d been before he became an Athelstan. In the latest [EVOCATION] session—in the portions that didn’t immediately make her want to throw up—there’d been reflections on Zelen’s Essential origins, about his biological family, as he himself had called them. Asena had become more and more convinced that this murky past was core to Zelen’s self-identity and his interactions with the rest of the world. If anything could reawaken his Reiterschaft, it might well involve reminding him of whom he’d been before he was a Reiter.

The next interpretation was more literal. District Radicis—quite literally root—was the largest administrative district in Lower Akra where, unlike in the slums, all residents were accounted for by the city-wide census. Chances were that any Essential children undergoing the Ascension Standard would’ve been a Radicis resident. Asena could only hope that Zelen himself hadn’t been an exception.

The third and final meaning was considerably more contrived, one that was based on not much more than gut feeling. In an effort to leave no stones unturned, Asena had cross-referenced a map of District Radicis with a list of registered businesses. Unsurprisingly—and rather unhelpfully—there were no fewer than two dozen shops and companies whose names contained references or wordplays pertaining to ‘root’: Radical Manufacturing, Repairs Guild of Radicis, the Root of All Hunger, and so on.

One name, however, had stood out to Asena above all others: Budding Roots Early Education. It immediately called to mind a classroom, one she’d seen a brief flash of through Zelen’s piecemeal recollections. An all too cramped room with rundown walls. Eager children spilling over shared desks. And one kindly man at the centre of bright-eyed attention, explaining to the children why they ought to actively clean their rooms…

As for why Asena went through all the trouble in the first place, spurred on by nothing more than a message from a man who wouldn’t even show his face… Well, one thing at a time.

The unimaginatively named Radicis Hostel stood at one corner of a T-intersection, across the road from the factory that provided the bulk of their clientele. Asena didn’t expect this establishment to offer up any clues about Zelen, but she did need a place to stay.

It was a squat and dingy looking thing, at least by the Shiranui heiress’s inflated standards. She reminded herself that this was the norm for a large portion of the Akropolitan populace, and walked in with as much confidence as she could muster.

The interiors did little to improve her impression of the place. Her eyes darted this way and that, toward the peeling plasters and the mystery stains on the floor, before settling on the ruddy-faced hosteller who was already eyeing her with naked suspicion.

“I’m loo—ahem—looking for a room,” she said, doing her best to affect a lower register. Already, she had the inkling this would be even trickier than impersonating Spiegel Delta-Upsilon.

“A whole room? To yerself?” The hosteller responded in a naturally gruff voice, while his eyes performed the remarkable trick of narrowing and widening at the same time. “Whaddya think this place is? We look like a Sehermensch joint to you?”

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Asena blushed, and hoped desperately that it wouldn’t show in the dim lighting. She coughed again, then said, “A bed then. Anywhere for me to stay the night.”

“What’s wrong with yer own place?”

The Kurator froze for a second, wondering if the courier disguise had been a mistake. Surely the local factory workers weren’t the only type of guests this hostel slept? Regardless, she had no choice but to press on.

“Had a new route. Took longer than I expected. And seeing as how it’s dark out, I thought it’d be safer to—”

“Scared of the dark? What are ya, a twink?”

Asena didn’t know how to answer, not least because she had no clue what a twink was. But the hosteller’s scowl shifted into something of a leering smirk as he went on, “Afraid we’re booked solid at the moment. But I might be convinced to make extra room, given the right kind of persuasion.”

It was Asena’s turn to frown slightly, though she tried not to be too overt about it. She was almost certain that this proprietor wasn’t being entirely truthful. She vaguely recalled reading about this exact scenario in one of Makiri’s Old Earth books. There was even an evocative term for it: a shakedown.

“How… how much for the bed?”

“40 scrips.” The man’s ‘smile’ widened. “If you can manage that, I’ll even talk one of the factory boys into keeping ya company for the night.”

Asena now had a fair idea of what twink meant, and her opinion of the hosteller took another nosedive. She still needed his services, however, so she rummaged in her bag, counted four bills, and placed them on the grime-covered desk.

The man’s now fully widened eyes darted back and forth between Asena and her bills, and she was overcome by a terrible sense of dread. It occurred to her that this was quite literally the first time in her life she’d paid for anything with her own money. She had no idea how much a night’s stay at a Lower Akra hostel should cost, with or without the markup for an associated shakedown.

“Wait—”

“Right this way, sir.”

The hosteller’s demeanour changed dramatically, and the Kurator let out a tentative sigh of relief. As the man smilingly guided her through his establishment, he even added in a low voice, “And I’m terribly sorry about my, erm, comments. Just jokes in bad taste. Didn’t mean nothing by ’em.”

“Hm," Asena managed to produce a noncommittal grunt. "Oh, and don’t send anyone to keep me company.”

“Of course! Of course!”

Judging from the way the man’s earlier suspicions had shifted so easily to flattery, Asena could assume she hadn’t been the first ‘Lower Akran’ to flaunt serious cash. Evidently, wealth disparity was alive and well even among the Essentials themselves. This, while it worked in her favour for her particular purposes, nevertheless left her with a sour taste.

The whole interaction had felt too similar to that Martyr’s Day experience at the Athelstan Estate, where she’d walked in on a group of servants celebrating among themselves. Granted, the hosteller didn’t know her to be a Shiranui, but the reason he now treated her differently wasn’t far off.

The man eventually showed her to her bed, a creaky threadbare thing among a half-dozen that had been stuffed into one musty room. Then he took his leave, along with a few more words of grovelling apology.

Asena thought she might have to fend off more unpleasantries from her roommates, but she’d worried for naught. It seemed her fellow guests—mostly middle-aged, gaunt, and soot-stained—had intuited from the hosteller’s treatment of her that she wasn’t one to be meddled with. Despite confidence in her own ability to defend herself, she was nonetheless relieved that it didn’t have to come to that.

What she did have to contend with, however, were the consequences of her male disguise in a room full of men who had no reason to maintain decency. She escaped into the hallways, only to find things weren’t much better out here. She then scoured the building in search of the women’s room, before a horrible realization set in.

Asena returned to her bed, kept all her clothes on (including hat and boots), and turned her back on the rest of the room.

Gravelly conversations continued inside the room, and more floated in from across thin dilapidated walls. Eyes would no doubt be turned onto Asena now, curious as to her presence and choice of sleeping attire. She tried to shut all of it out, and concentrated on falling asleep.

Despite what she thought had been ample preparations, her first forays into Lower Akra were proving to be something of a disaster. She could only hope that the start of a new day would bring with it a change of fortunes.

~February 17th, 140 AH~

~Lower Akra, District Radicis~

Asena woke before dawn, then took advantage of the relative quiet to perform all the self-care she’d neglected the night before. Then she set off without delay, thankful for the hosteller’s absence.

As she travelled deeper into Lower Akra, the streets became narrower and more winding, cutting into and through each other seemingly without rhyme nor reason. They were a far cry from the manicured roads that connected the Tetrarchy’s four estates, or the brutal uniformity and efficiency of the JFB’s layout.

But a Kurator’s [CONSOLIDATED] memories were not to be trifled with, and Asena had little trouble navigating the maze-like residential complexes, until she came upon the prize she’d had her heart set on.

At first, she’d nearly walked right past it. The building was just that tiny and unassuming, and it all but blended into its surroundings, as if it was just one part of a slumbering organism made up of corroded beams and rusted plates.

Underneath one of these teetering beams was a painted sign: Budding Roots Early Education. The rusted plates that made up the walls featured more paintings, of stick-figure children running around or holding hands—the kind Asena herself might’ve produced in the nascency of her art career.

Between these plates was the door. And this door was tightly fettered by heavy metal chains that had seen better days. Indeed, the whole building had seen better days, and showed no sign that anyone had used or maintained it in at least months—perhaps even years.

Asena stood staring at the sign and paintings for some time.

She knew that this was a dead end, that she needed to resume her search, lest she lose any more time. Yet she now realized how oddly certain she’d been about her hunch—that finding this building would somehow lead to all the answers—and she couldn’t help but spend a moment or two to recover from her self-inflicted disappointment.

“You looking for someone?”

Startled, Asena spun to the voice, at the same time pulling the scarf higher up her face. She hadn’t expected company this early in the morning, and her first thought was that she’d been caught by one of General Duodecim’s men.

The newcomer was a hunchbacked and emaciated elderly woman, quite possibly the farthest anyone could appear from having anything to do with the military. Asena relaxed slightly, but not fully.

“Do you—ahem—do you know the previous owners of this building? I have a letter for them.”

The old woman’s eyes had all but disappeared into her wrinkly crater of a face, but they now widened a crack, along with a distinct glint that seemed to show exactly what she thought of Asena’s lie—and her fake voice. She herself spoke in a voice that, despite her wizened appearance, was surprisingly strong if somewhat slurred.

“Are you sure your letter’s meant for the Tengers, dearie? They haven’t lived here in, oh, must be twelve years now.”