“Feel like home yet?”
“I’m a bumpkin, remember? All this is Evalyn’s turf.”
Elvera watched the pilot listlessly stare out the window, a hint of disdain in the way his eyebrows crossed.
“That is true. I guess your turf is a little higher, isn’t it?”
He snorted; at least he didn’t outright deny it. But such contempt for the city he had once risked his life to protect was a quality she could only imagine in him.
Personal validation and pride were the only things giving him self-value. The younger Flight Lieutenant that had stumbled onto her doorstep flew for nothing outside his cockpit and, in a way, that had made him fiercer than any other pilot she had ever witnessed.
The desire to fight for others, fight to protect something. For the select few, it was an inexhaustible fuel more valuable than the Aether that ran through their aircraft. But for others, self-preservation kicked in before they could put it all on the line, and rightly so.
But for Elliot, putting it all on the line had been his self-preservation. No allegiance besides to himself, let alone his state. It had convinced Evalyn that she could trust him with her defection, and it had convinced Elvera she could trust him with Evalyn.
And although never in a million years would she call the current Elliot a paper tiger, the paper tiger no longer tended to pack its claws full of gunpower like a firecracker and light it, if only for a chance to call the fight his victory.
His calloused fingers tapped against their tablecloth beside a half-drunk glass of whiskey. He wasn’t much of a drinker, as far as Elvera knew. Perhaps it was the scenery.
“Never mind how the city is doing,” he said, suddenly turning away from the window. “I’m frankly still in awe that a carriage like this exists on the Excala Express.
“It did something to earn its golden trim,” Elvera suggested, raising an eyebrow and a wine glass simultaneously. Even though the entourage consisted of a contingent of pilots and reconnaissance experts rather than bureaucrats, the mission was still, in a way, diplomatic. Their…invitation had come from the mouths of the Sidosian government, and the money from their hosts' wallets.
Elvera wasn’t complaining, and her travel buddies had a lot more than her in the way of positive reception if alcohol consumption was the metric. They were a hardy bunch, keeping their alcohol down as the glasses piled up. Permission to drink in front of the Lieutenant-General wasn’t also permission to treat the place like a pub.
“Are you feeling better about it?” she asked the one person she couldn’t say the same for as he took a swig from his glass, the grey buildings reflecting in his eyes as he returned his attention to them.
“No, and if I did, it’d be the alcohol talking.”
“Then why’d you come?”
“Orders.”
“It’s you, you could’ve ignored them.”
“Ah,” Elliot sighed. “Those days are behind me. I’m too lazy to disobey orders.”
“Don’t tell your union that. They might think something is up.”
His face only seemed to sour further at the mention of a union. Elvera wasn’t letting them get her. Not this time.
As if to get the sour taste out of his mouth, he washed down the conversation with his last swig of whiskey, downing the rest in one go and letting out a guttural sigh, no doubt fancying himself a fire-breathing Spirit as the warmth spread in his chest.
“You’re a good commander, ma’am. No complaints. But as a mother-in-law?”
Mother-in-law? The wording spurred on by a buzzed pair of lips almost made her blush. Almost.
“What about me as a godmother-in-law?”
“As a godmother-in-law, learn to cook.”
“Ouch. Noted.”
“Liar,” he said, slightly pouting. “If I get the crap kicked out of me, you’ve got to take responsibility and cook for the Maxwell-Hard...Hard—”
"Hardridge-Maxwell."
"—the Hardridge-Maxwell household."
Elvera sighed, the exasperation curling the sides of her mouth into a light smirk. “You’ll be fine, Elliot. We’re all professionals, and court-martialling exists for a reason. Besides, I’m too old to learn new tricks like cooking; teach Iris instead.”
Elliot chuckled. “Not a bad idea—no, no more, please. I’ve had too much.”
Elvera greeted the waitress herself, agreeing to another glass of wine.
Her wages weren’t anything to scoff at, but free booze was still free booze no matter how rich one got.
Their greeting party at Sidos Station had been substantial, as their on-board liaison had warned. Federal Police, their pitch-black cloaks trailing in the soft summer breeze passing through the station a reminder of the scars dealt by S.H.I.A. on the Metropolitan Police’s integrity.
They disembarked the train and followed their security detail, passing through a fire exit away from the main foot traffic and onto the edges of a brick-hewn square.
“They finished it,” Elliot said quietly in disbelief. “Wow.”
“That hard to believe?” Elvera asked, singling out a small collection of market stalls surrounding an ornamental fountain, faceless knights wielding poleaxes and greatswords petrified in stone.
“Y-yes,” Elliot stifled. “Yes. I don’t think you understand how insane a town square in Sidos City is.”
They continued their trek, reaching the bordering street and passing between bulky concrete barricades too narrow for cars to pass through. Waiting for them was a small, unmarked coach, the door already open.
The engine started as she heard a nearby pilot grumble about the lack of public waste bins.
Scars, ones too recent to ignore or rebuild like the ones left in the wake of the Civil War.
Two stops, one to Sidos’s capitol building, and another to a nearby hotel. The first stop was her’s only, and she bid Elliot a brisk farewell before siphoning her luggage off to his care.
She stood before the steps of a grey monument, its terraced concrete walls still managing to impose without the advantage of height. Even in the summer sun, the lower layers rolled over her like a front of storm clouds, and the inverse-arched atrium roof of concrete and glass like a ship's sails swallowed by a storm.
Elvera followed her escorts through the front entrance and into a gallery of monuments, concrete pillars rising from a deep scarlet carpet. They ignored the display cabinets and painting exhibitions, keeping a brisk pace as the entourage glanced past the Lower House’s chamber and through a staff-only doorway.
She’d heard about it from Evalyn, the winding hallways bustling with silent staffers. The backstage of Sidosian Parliament, she’d called it. Almost dingy in its presentation, anyone who walked in with a 'strongly armed agenda' would struggle to find their message’s recipient.
All by design. All healed scars.
The claustrophobic design refused to let up no matter how deep into the maze they went. Everything was compartmentalised, with no hubs or central workspaces. Her guides seemed to know their way around as though they were getting directions whispered into their ears, which Elvera was eternally grateful for.
She felt like a tourist in a train station.
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At yet another nondescript door, the suited men and women covering her flanks paused in their tracks, keeping their eyes forward save one, who opened the door and directed her inside.
Elvera gave a small thank you, her voice subconsciously matching the volume around her. She stepped inside, where a whirring ceiling fan waited to greet her.
The Prime Minister underneath was a nice surprise, but not exactly her first choice.
“Thank you for coming, Lieutenant-General,” Prime Minister Dalena Fault said, not a hint of a smile spreading across her face as she stood from her desk, hand outstretched.
“Pleasure is all mine,” Elvera replied, taking the hand and shaking it. Formalities dictated a salute was to be rendered, but after a handshake, it seemed unnecessary.
“I hope so,” Fault said, waving Elvera to a seat across from her bureau, the rich red wood sorely out of place against the porous concrete walls. “We took extra care in making your commute comfortable.”
“Yes, my pilots certainly made the most of it,” Elvera admitted. “To the point, I’d refrain from putting them in a cockpit until tomorrow morning.”
Prime Minister Fault smiled, clasping her hands together on the table. There were bags under her eyes obscured by the frames of her glasses, and the sculpted hair bun was falling apart, its strands hastily tucked behind her ears.
“No, that isn’t my intention. But, I will have to ask for a swift start to these operations.”
“Certainly ma’am,” Elvera said. “Needless to say, we share a mind on that fact.”
“Good,” Fault nodded. “As of today, your pilots will be under the command of the Air Marshal at Ashton Airbase, our Chief of Joint Operations. But, being Geverde’s military representative, you hold final say over what goes, what doesn’t.”
“Yes ma’am. I was told my standing orders were to stay near the cabinet instead of on base.”
“Your responsibilities lie here. Considering the…delicacy of the situation, and its proximity to the election cycle, I requested to be kept in the loop. Keeping you close means I can guarantee you a proper flow of information, and whatever you decide, I hear about first.”
Elvera leaned forward in her chair, almost taken aback by the strangely unique situation.
“Forgive me if I’m stepping out of line, but for the sake of guaranteeing the safety of my pilots...your wording implies you do not trust your high command.”
A disheartening sigh seeped through the Prime Minister’s teeth, and she took her glasses off as if to surrender.
“Trust? Yes. With my life, let alone the country. It took me most of my time in office just to make sure of that. But…they’re prideful, the Air Force. White Devils, Spirit Hunters. They were the frontline during the Civil War, and the older generation like to hang on to that. It wouldn't be outside the realm of possibility to expect a cold shoulder from them on information handling and cooperation.”
Elvera’s chair creaked as she sank into it, regretting every word of encouragement she’d paid Elliot beforehand. Knowing him, he’d never let her live it down.
“We’ve got a team of reconnaissance targeteers in tow, they’ll be keeping eyes their eyes open during good weather,” Elvera said, moving the conversation along.
“Good. I thank you once again for your help.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Was there anything else you required of me today?”
“Not in particular but….”
“Yes, ma’am?”
The Prime Minister shifted in her seat and rested her chin on a palm. “Did you happen to bring with you an Evalyn Hardridge? The Witch Excala’s so fond of.”
Elvera straightened herself, unsure of what to make of the question.
“No, ma’am. Unfortunately, I’m not authorised to speak on such matters at the moment.”
Fault pouted, if only for a second. “She was an interesting woman. I was hoping to thank her for her work a few years ago.”
Elvera did not have much of a mind for politicians. She did as their half-hearted desires instructed, changing courses as soon as they were booted from office and replaced with someone equally as self-centred.
But perhaps Evalyn was a weak spot of hers, as she found herself smiling around the corners of her mouth.
“Rest assured, Prime Minister. I’m sure your rewards got the message across.”
It took an unremarkable string of trains to arrive at her destination, and considering her intentions, renting a car for any leg of the journey would leave behind valuable evidence to use against her. Evalyn wanted to avoid receipts wherever possible.
But she wasn’t in the headspace to think about logistics. To Evalyn, those were base brain-stem functions, actions she’d automated, with the only variable being the particular lines she travelled.
The Private Investigator didn’t hold much love for small towns. Word got around quickly, and she didn’t have many options to conceal the markings on her cheek. In the city, she was another run-of-the-mill peculiarity, one of the many and far from the most notable.
Provided it was small enough, she’d be the most interesting thing to happen in a country town in months, maybe years.
Evalyn rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, folding the excess over her garters. Summer was unforgiving when it came to staying inconspicuous—all her coats were off the table, and depending on where her travels took her, the flimsiest shirt she owned was hard to bear.
The small steam train rumbled towards the mountains, spear tips lacking their snow-white edge, and fog almost non-existent. In its place, a steady congregation of clouds rolled down the slopes as water rose along the mountainsides and condensed.
The first signs of life were re-entering the view outside of her meagre cabin as she leaned against the window. Fences hammered into the soil, sheep leisurely grazing, the idea of getting snapped up in a Spirit’s jaws never even occurring to them.
Evalyn wanted to keep things that way.
It was a selfish thought. She knew it was. Selfish thoughts for a peaceful Sidos, but selfish desires for a peaceful home had felt more pressing as of late.
It wasn’t violent per se, but compared to the bliss that was the past few years, it was more than a stark reality check.
‘You used to be so cute!’ She could imagine any parent saying to their rebelling child. But Iris was still cute, and to her, she hadn’t changed one bit. Nothing was Iris’s fault, but for some reason, Evalyn found herself shouting at her.
Ruminating over semantics and hoping the tides of life would sweep away their problems wasn’t one of the few cards in her hand. It was a watershed experience, one that every Wizard and Witch confronted at some point, hopefully, sooner rather than later.
Some handed it better than others. Between a rock and a hard place, the best of them found that reasoning with the rock was easier than being crushed. Some gave up and resigned themselves to their fate, others pushed against it only to end up in the same place.
She rolled her arm over in her lap, tracing the creases in her trousers with her fingers. Rarely was there ever a Witch or Wizard strong enough to budge the rock with sheer force.
There wasn’t a doubt in Evalyn’s mind that Iris could smash the stone and the hard place along with it.
The nation-states would lose their crushing power quickly, and the world would crumble under her force if Evalyn didn't quickly clip the young Witch's nails.
A quaint station pulled into view, the surrounding village a charming collection of grey-brick buildings, perfect for a postcard to send home to the family.
She saved her few coins, unsure if the gesture would even be appreciated.
As picturesque as it was, towns bordering entrances to the Northern Chain Ridge often harboured dregs of a military presence. The young and green, old and withered, last line of border defence responsible for calling the backup.
Getting something in her stomach was in order first. Missions on an empty stomach was a practice she’d heavily indulged in her younger years as an apprentice. Colte fed her, sure, but opportunities for a meal weren’t always guaranteed. As much as she hated to admit it, life with a cook in the house had spoilt her rotten.
First order of business, check. The nearest restaurant was fast, and the food certainly explained the speed. The presence in her stomach was about all she needed, and in such a small town, a local inn could hand over the keys to a room in seconds, a fact which had held up once again.
Sidearm holstered to her shoulder, nothing was tethering her to the penultimate stop in her journey, but she found it frustratingly hard to take the first step. Hesitation, procrastination, whatever she called it,
The road out of town and towards the mountains—barely more than a pair of parallel tyre tracks—was heavily guarded. A toll booth with a rotting barricade and an officer—whose thinning hair was more telling of his service than any medal—stood in the way.
She sidestepped the obstacle altogether, figuring that security lay closer to the site itself.
Breaking into a jog, she followed the path from a slight distance, looking over her shoulder for vehicles following it. Once the town was but a collection of blips on the horizon, she armoured herself and began to surf on a small golden wave.
Evalyn raised its height as she approached the mountain face, bypassing the jagged rocks and boulders altogether. Crossing the transition zone between farmed and wild, her senses hit a metaphorical wall. Trees filled her vision, cutting off the azure skies like a sword to a throat. Moisture invaded her armour, and the sound of concentrated life—birds, frogs, crickets—coloured the world around her.
With the fog gone, one kind of the forest’s mysticism had gone with it. Its cards were no longer as close to its chest, willing to play bluffs with her. She could see between the trees, but only for a few metres until another filled the gaps. Brush and moss coated the ground, foliage the canopy.
It wasn’t impossible to navigate, but straying from the path was something she still wanted to avoid at all costs.
As the forest thickened further, she changed elevation, grappling towards exposed branches and at times swinging, at times launching off them. Simple in theory, but the thousands of variables life blossomed into in such a place was a heavy sensory overload. Finding the next branch was a chore in itself, let alone following the path at speed.
But watching as stray military transports passed underneath reassured her that she’d made the right choice.
A break in the forest, of density but also colour. Thick grey, unmistakably concrete jutted at unnatural angles from the surrounding verdure. A bunker, trees climbing over its walls and onto the roof.
Vines and moss grew up its face, almost passing for a cliffside. It looked unmaintained, but considering the traffic, she knew that to be untrue.
Evalyn paused on a tree branch and balanced, keeping as silent as possible. If she was in the base’s line of sight, security measures would have begun already.
No checkpoints along the main road, no auxiliary gates or fences.
Mines, maybe. Mines planted in the surroundings were a possibility, if only for certain sectors. Minimal security was another possibility; a low footprint was ideal to keep something under wraps from even the Sidosian Government.
The type of security and its abundance would be a telling indicator of how deep the rabbit hole went: the more costly, the deeper the tumour had spread into the parliament’s ranks.
Falling on such a revelation made the following sight all the worse when she looked down and saw a pair of wide, white visors wading through the forest floor.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, wishing desperately to be wrong. But the gas masks tucked underneath helmets, the plates of armour that stretched from head to toe, and the battered rifle holstered on their breastplate was a signal screaming at her to panic, and do so quickly.
The Sidosian 42nd Heavy Infantry Division—as far as the rabbit hole could possibly go.