“That would’ve been deeply on brand.”
“It would have been embarrassing.”
Traffic mist hits my coat hem as we cross into the tram queue. The station smells like wet concrete, overheated brake systems, and too many people trying to pretend they aren’t listening to the public feeds playing over everyone’s shoulders.
A man three places ahead of us is watching a split-screen debate on his palm slate.
One talking head says, “The memorial was a necessary corrective.”
The other says, “Necessary to whom? We are reopening wartime wounds under the illusion that more exposure equals more justice?—”
I mutter, “Oh, choke.”
Rhyx says mildly, “You continue to be very civilian in public.”
“I’ve worked hard at it.”
The man ahead of us glances back, catches enough of my face to recognize me, and then does that awful little double-take people do when they realize the person they’ve been discussing like a concept is standing six feet away and has cheekbones and opinions.
He looks away so fast I almost feel bad.
Almost.
The tram ride is standing room only. Windows streaked with rain. Seat rails slick with damp. Someone’s grocery sack smells aggressively of citrus. An elderly Vakutan woman with three silver bangles and a stare like divine correction clocks the foliounder my arm, then clocks Rhyx, then me, and says, “People should sit more when carrying futures.”
I blink at her.
Before I can answer, she glares at a young man in a courier jacket until he leaps up from his seat like she has psychically set him on fire.
I sit.
“Thank you,” I say.
She sniffs. “Obviously.”
Rhyx stands over me through the whole ride, one hand hooked around the overhead rail, body angled just enough that nobody jostles the folio. The tram sways. Water beads on the windows and blurs the city into movement and glare. Nobody speaks to us again.
Serr’s review location is not in any official oversight tower.
Of course it isn’t.
It’s a civic records annex pretending to be a defunct planning office—low concrete facade, minimal signage, rain-dark steps, two visible staffers and at least six invisible security layers if my nerves are reading the architecture correctly. Inside, the air is cool and dry and smells faintly of paper dust, filtered air, and old plastic insulation. The lights are soft enough to keep people from feeling interrogated, which only makes it more obvious that this is absolutely where careful interrogations happen.
Talis is waiting beyond the first access door.
“You came,” she says.
“That’s a weird thing to say to people carrying incriminating legislative evidence.”
Her silver eyes flick to the folio. “You would be amazed how often conscience loses to nausea.”
“Do not make me relate to senators more than I already do.”
That actually gets the smallest possible curve at the edge of her mouth.
She walks us through three successive checkpoints. No devices beyond approved slates. No open comms. Physical seal verification. Archive particulate scan, which sounds made up and probably isn’t. By the time we enter Serr’s review room, my skin feels too tight.
Serr is there with two others: Pavel Iri from the Casualty Disclosure Network and an archival cryptographer I don’t know, Pi’Rell, older, eyes like sharpened glass.
