As far as Fiona can remember, Ragnar has never been the expressive type. She remembers baking him a triple-layer vanilla cake with Shailene when they were kids for his 35th birthday - he had eaten the entire thing in solemn silence, wiped his face with a napkin, and said, "Well done." She remembers him sitting at the head of the table in every WAB meeting, nodding but never reacting to everyone's suggestions. She remembers watching her mother bleed out together, after which he patted her on the shoulder once and sighed deeply.
They didn't see each other for a bit after that.
Even now, his reaction is relatively subdued. But now, Ragnar eyes Fiona dubiously as she recounts the details of the last few hours. On anyone else, it would read like mild skepticism. On Ragnar, it says should I take you to the hospital?
"It was terrifying. Breathtaking. He looked like... an angel of death." Fiona whispers, feeling weird talking about him in front of him even though she's fairly sure he doesn't speak any English. Also, 'an angel of death'? Really? Thank the heavens that Shailene isn't here.
If the sullen stranger registers what she's saying, he doesn't show it – he just stares blankly ahead like he has been for the past 20 minutes. They're in Ragnar's office, which is sparingly decorated with its two armchairs and stolen desk. The stranger slumps in the chair, not touching the glass of water they offered him.
Ragnar swirls his glass of homemade mead on his desk. That's something else Fiona has always remembered about him – he needs alcohol to sleep, although the amount has increased vastly over the past few years, along with his belly. She briefly wonders how much honey's left in the world, and what Ragnar would do when he inevitably runs out of honey to make mead.
"So why'd you come here? I thought you said you wanted to stay away from the base for a while." Ragnar doesn't say it with any malice or spite, but the statement still brings a flush to Fiona's face.
"What else would you have wanted me to do?"
Ragnar sighs again and toggles something on his Sheltersuit. He hands a small metal sticker to Fiona. She approaches the young man, but hesitates for a second. She then puts on the sticker behind his right ear. He pulls away for a moment, but cautiously lets Fiona do her thing. Although Ragnar's still speaking English, the stranger will now hear a simultaneous translation. "Did you really take out an entire Compliance Order squad on your own?"
The stranger doesn't react in any way, almost as though he didn't hear. If Ragnar was even a slightly less-assured person, he would double-check his Sheltersuit settings. Instead, he repeats himself.
They wait in tense silence before the stranger looks up. He shrugs and his gaze slopes back down to the ground. Ragnar rolls his eyes. "Looks like your death angel is the quiet type, Fiona." He leans back in his seat. "But I'm intrigued. Compliance Order troops are DOD's meat shields, at least compared to WRAITH, but the CO technology is still impenetrable. If your story is 100 percent true, which I would have outright dismissed had it come from anyone else, he might just be the asset Left Behind's been looking for."
For some reason, this annoys Fiona. "I didn't bring him here to be your asset. I just wasn't going to leave him behind to be executed."
Ragnar takes a slow sip of his mead. He thinks for a minute. "We can keep him on the base for now and decide what to do later. Maybe he'll tell us what he wants or why he was wandering the streets unsuited. We'll keep him safe. For a bit."
Fiona looks at the slumped man, still dressed in his strange garb and unspeaking. "Maybe. On one condition. Let me be the one to tell Shailene."
Perfectly on cue, there is a sharp knock on the door. Succinct yet assertive and Fiona knows exactly who it is. "Do not let her in. Please."
"Just give me a second, Shailene."
There's a second of silence but Fiona doesn't hear any retreating footsteps. The door clicks open, and there's Shailene, holding up a pin that she used to pick the lock. "One," she grins.
"Mature." Fiona can't help the annoyance that seeps into her voice.
Shailene giggles and sits on the armrest of the stranger's chair. For the first time, there's a slight reaction. Everyone is always equally mesmerized and afraid when they first meet Shailene Fischer. Her cold beauty is contradictory and unforgettable — her wide eyes are the color of bronzed sunsets but are always mocking, her soft lips never arch into a full smile, and her faded scars only accentuate the flawlessness of the rest of her features.
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Today, her cornrows are tied into a bun that make her facial features look extra sharp. She doesn't wear anything over her extra-tight Sheltersuit. She leans into him, studying his face with mirth, her chest a breath away from grazing his shoulder. He leans away.
"Ever heard of manners, Shailene?" Fiona blurts and instantly regrets it.
"It's not like you're keeping your manners bringing your secret boy toy to your workplace," Shailene laughs.
"He's not my boy toy. And this is not my workplace," Fiona prickles, knowing that Shailene would be ravenous if she sees his abilities.
Ragnar clears his throat. "Let's get back to our discussion-"
Shailene swings her boots onto Ragnar's desk and he sighs again. "Like I would ever stoop so low. The guards told me on my way in." She appraises the stranger, who avoids her eye contact. "I gotta say, I never took you for the silent brooding type."
"Shailene," Ragnar says, as if in warning.
Fiona scoffs. "Enlighten me. What is my type?" She keeps her voice clipped. Civilized, for Ragnar's sake.
Shailene pretends to give it some thought. "Someone who's always on a moral high horse. But it's gotta be really, really tall. Since that's the only way anyone can reach you while you're on your own." Shailene speaks without breaking eye contact with Fiona.
Fiona rears up for a biting retort, something that she could never take back – not that she'd ever want to – but Ragnar holds his hand up, his facial expression as stony as the first time the orphaned girls bickered in his brief care. "Do this on your own time." Ragnar motions to the stranger, "What are we doing about this guy?"
They all turn to study him, overdressed in his now tattered robes and perfectly sullen. "What are you, some type of monk? A mystic?" Shailene says, breaking the silence.
To all of their surprise, this gets his attention. He looks Shailene square in the eye, and for the second time that day, Fiona is floored by the absolute despair in his eyes. "I do not deserve such a title."
There's a brief silence. Then Shailene goes, "huh?"
The man's lilac eyes drop and he stares back at the floor. "I once had the honor of learning the ways of Taoism and it was the best blessing I have ever received in my life. Lee Ji-ham was my mentor and a savior. But I cannot and will not ever be absolved of my wrongdoings. So therefore, I do not deserve such a title."
His words come out in a slow, sorrowful mumble. Even though the Sheltersuit technology translates every word into English, they look at him as though he's speaking gibberish. Finally, Shailene lets out a sharp laugh. "Maybe you are Fiona's type, after all."
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When Shailene takes the-monk-or-whatever-he-is to get fitted for his own Sheltersuit, Fiona isn't surprised to find herself excusing herself and veering off into a desolate corridor, following the familiar ridges of the hallway. She isn't surprised when the same code she always enters, two-zero-three-zero, unlatches the door beneath her fingers despite it being nearly years since she stepped foot inside. And she isn't even surprised when she hears another set of footsteps follow her in.
Fiona doesn't turn around. "It doesn't look like anyone's been in here for a while."
Ragnar is silent for a bit. "Well, you haven't exactly been a regular visitor."
She laughs without any humor. "I guess you and I are the only ones who would come in here."
Standing there with Ragnar, Fiona feels like she's a preteen again. As the nation's most wanted fugitive, he radiates gravitas no matter where he goes. Next to him, Fiona feels small. Not belonging. Even as she stares at her dead mother's shrine – or some version of one, anyways.
"Did you hear about the girl in Sacramento today?" Ragnar asks, voice quiet.
Fiona closes her eyes. "Yes."
"She reminded me of your mother," he says, stepping forward to hold up the picture of Fiona and her parents, huddled around her father's hospital bed in Busan as he battled one of the first cases of the pollution-triggered lung diseases. Fiona's hair is paler than her mother's blazing curls, and her dark green and light brown eyes softer than her father's — a muted amalgamation of both her parents. They're all smiling in the photo, like they know it's the last time they'll ever be happy and just want to cherish the moment.
"My mother would have never wanted to go that way," Fiona says, unable to take her eyes off of the photos. A photo of Dr. Madison Leigh presenting at a national science conference. A photo of her younger self on her parents' farm in Ireland. A photo of her and Fiona's father in university, where they met doing their dissertations. Back when people still did those. "She would have said it was pointless to die like that."
Ragnar finally turns to look at Fiona. He chuckles a bit, despite looking fifty years older than Fiona remembers. "That's exactly what I admired about Madison. She was a harsh woman, but not unfair. This girl in Sacramento... she held nothing back. She knew what she wanted the world to see, and so she showed us."
Fiona doesn't say anything to this. Doesn't know what he wants her to say. Her mother was harsh – that she always knew. And he's right. She would have loved the demonstration, even if she said otherwise.
"She would have been happy with how the younger generation is still fighting. Refusing to accept this world we've been given. I think..." Ragnar smiles. "I think Madison would have been proud of her."
Fiona scrutinizes him. The former government-contract chemist gone rogue who began a radical environmental protection organization, recruiting top climate change scientists across the world, including Madison Leigh. Fiona remembers how excited her mother had been when the infamous Ragnar Blomberg had contacted her. How happy, even when the world was imploding, her mother had been to be "fighting the good fight". How she'd always urged Fiona to be more like Shailene, to be more brazen, to speak up even when she felt like drowning in it all.
"I'm sure she would have," Fiona finally says. Ragnar's smile slips off his face, like it isn't how he expected Fiona to react.
"Fiona-"
"I'm going to check on the monk," she says abruptly. Ragnar looks like he wants to say something more and for a second, she waits. He doesn't say anything. Fiona nods and steps over to the door. "Thank you for your help today."
The door slams shut with a muted click.