Andre wasn't in the room when Chloe woke the next morning.
She stirred, rolled over and found his bed empty, the sheets already made with only faint wrinkles betraying that anyone had slept in them. Her shirt was gone too, but her other clothes and gear were folded neatly atop the dresser. Dry.
She lay still for a few more minutes before poking her head out to check on Jin. The alien was sitting on the top bunk with her back against the wall, one knee drawn up, a worn copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy open in her hands, eyes moving intently across the pages.
"Morning," Jin said, without glancing up.
"Mhm." Chloe pressed her face back into the pillow. She allowed herself a little longer before finally climbing out of bed. She looked at Jin again. "Didn't peg you for a reader."
"It's quite good," Jin replied, still without looking up. "I don't typically enjoy the literature of your people, but this is — pleasing. So far, at least."
"Where's Andre?"
"Breakfast."
Chloe nodded, then headed to the bathroom to freshen up. When she came back, she changed quickly — tucking a white shirt into her tactical pants and throwing her top on over it like a jacket. Once she'd laced up her boots, she straightened and tapped the side of Jin's bunk.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go find the others."
"Must I?" Jin asked, her voice carrying a trace of a whine. She closed the book around her index finger and shot Chloe a look of mild displeasure.
"I can't take my eyes off you. In case you've forgotten, I've been tasked with—,"
"I've been with you for weeks. Over a month, actually. You really still think I'm planning something?"
"Doesn't matter what I think," Chloe said. "What matters is what I know. And what I know is that you and your people are responsible for everything and everyone I've lost, and that you're capable of taking a great deal more. So no, I have no intention of letting you out of my sight."
"Ugh." Jin groaned, then rolled off the top bunk, landing perfectly on both feet. "Fine. Let's go meet the others and the dull little creatures."
"Dull creatures?" Chloe raised an eyebrow.
"The snot-nosed, whining children." Jin's tone was one of pure irritation. "They're everywhere."
"It's an orphanage."
"Whatever."
Chloe sighed and shook her head, then led the way out of the room, Jin pulling the door shut behind her. Almost immediately, she was hit by the sounds of playful squealing and laughter drifting up from below, along with the nauseating smell of pancakes and syrup.
She headed downstairs with Jin to the dining room, where nearly all the children were gathered, the rest scattered around the living room. Andre was there, helping Miguel dish out food to the kids. Every few plates he handed over, he helped himself to a slice of pancake and squeezed syrup directly into his mouth. Every time he did, the children erupted in wide-eyed grins and pleas for Miguel to tell him off.
"No fair!" one boy squealed. "You never let us do that!"
"This is hell," Jin said flatly, pressing her hands over her ears and making for the living room. Chloe followed, and as she passed, Andre caught her eye. He smiled softly and gave a small nod.
She found herself smiling back before catching herself, forcing her expression back to neutral.
The children in the living room were playing — some with toys, others crowded around Jon and Aiden on the games console. Aiden in particular looked thoroughly absorbed. Mortal Kombat.
"Can't believe it's been over a decade since I've seen a PlayStation 5," Aiden was saying to Jon. "Surprised this thing still runs."
"Where's Lucas?" Chloe asked.
"Out back," Jon said, nodding toward the double doors that led to a small garden. Through the glass, she could see Lucas doing sit-ups, shirtless, his expression tightly focused. Two children stood over him, counting each rep aloud, to his evident irritation.
"Is he going to be grumpy for the rest of his life?" Jin asked, staring out at him. "Doesn't that get exhausting?"
Chloe shot Jin a look and felt a brief, sharp urge to flick her in the back of the head. She restrained herself, tucked her hands into her pockets and clenched her jaw. "Go read your book," she muttered.
Jin was more than happy to retrieve her book from under her arm and settle into a small chair in the corner. Chloe drifted over to Jon and Aiden, standing behind them with her arms folded.
"When's the meeting with the Chancellor?" she asked.
"Ten," Jon answered. "Miguel's taking us — seems he has some kind of relationship with Bridge. Which means at least two of us need to stay back here and keep an eye on things."
"Not me," Jin said immediately, without looking up from her book.
"Lucas and I can stay," Aiden offered with a shrug.
"Is that generosity or do you just want to spend the day on that console?"
Aiden grinned. "Does it matter? You need babysitters, you've got them."
Once breakfast was finished and the children had gone through their morning routines, Miguel appeared in the living room in a neatly ironed white shirt tucked into slightly too-long black trousers, gleaming loafers on his feet and a crucifix chain at his neck. He gave Lucas and Aiden their instructions.
"Contrary to what the little devils might claim, they are not permitted to go on walks," he said with great emphasis. "Not a good time for that at all. Keep them inside. And try not to play too nice."
"Sure," Lucas said flatly. "I can manage that."
"I'm certain," Miguel replied, a faintly uncertain expression crossing his face. He turned to the others and gave a nod. "Alright then. We may leave."
They had to walk to Bridge's mansion.
"I've only got a broken-down truck and a two-seater bike," Miguel explained.
"What kind of pastor rides a motorbike?" Andre asked.
"One who knows how," Miguel said with a shrug.
The walk took about twenty minutes. For the most part Chloe was glad — it gave her a chance to take in more of the district than she'd managed through the downpour the night before. There were puddles everywhere, and the streets were quieter than they should have been, but there were still market stalls along the pavements, small auctions outside homes, children clustered around a playground and others flying kites. It was unexpectedly nostalgic.
Here they were, at the end of everything, and fragments of the old world still clung on.
"It used to be livelier than this," Miguel said, noticing her expression. "Streets would be packed on a good day. But there haven't been many good days here in a long time."
"No patrols?" Jon asked, noting the absence of guards on the streets.
"Most are stationed at the district entrances in shifts, and the rest are at Bridge's mansion." It was Andre who answered, and Chloe detected a trace of something suspicious in his voice. "There are still some routine patrols through the district, but far fewer than there should be."
"Doesn't help that the special unit was wiped out," Miguel added. "Much of the responsibility for our safety now falls entirely on the residents themselves."
They were expected at the mansion. When they arrived at the mahogany entrance doors, the two guards took one look at Miguel, nodded and waved them through.
"Library," one said. "Up the stairs, second door on your left."
Inside, the mansion was exactly what it looked like from the outside. Chandeliers hung from the ceilings. Paintings and portraits larger than any practical purpose could justify lined the wood-paneled walls. The carpets were thick and deep, the kind that made you feel you might sink into them. Several lavishly furnished living rooms occupied the ground floor.
A spiral tiled staircase led upward into another sitting area connected to a hallway. With Miguel at the front, they moved along it and stopped at the second door on the left.
It was slightly ajar.
Miguel glanced back at them, then raised his hand to knock. Before he could, a voice came from inside.
"You may come in. I've been expecting you."
Miguel lowered his hand and pushed the door open.
The room beyond was not a home library in any conventional sense. It was a library. A proper one — the kind that could have passed for an archive. It stretched a great distance on either side, row after row of packed shelves filling the space. Some held objects — globes, pens in jars, wristwatches on display stands — but most were books, each shelf labeled and organized by genre. Historical fiction. Biographies. Printed screenplays. Dark academia. Whatever had ever been written or published, it seemed to have found a shelf here.
At what would have been the reception in any standard library stood a long, dark, expensive-looking desk, positioned directly in front of a row of windows with their curtains drawn. On it sat a computer screen, several folders marked CLASSIFIED, and a high-powered pistol placed well within reach of the man seated behind it.
The man matched almost exactly the image they'd seen back in the Capital. Bushy eyebrows. Deep-set brown eyes. Short, dark hair shot through with gray. A weathered face that carried a sharp, commanding edge.
Chancellor Bridge had his hands folded beneath his chin and wore a smile that was clearly intended to be welcoming but didn't quite land that way. His eyes, however, were alert and watchful. Just behind his right shoulder stood a figure in full black tactical gear, face concealed behind a helmeted visor, the posture unmistakably that of a bodyguard.
"Chancellor," Miguel greeted, with a slight bow of the head.
"Pastor." Bridge leaned back in his leather chair and gestured them forward.
They moved closer. At a certain point, the black-clad figure behind Bridge stiffened almost imperceptibly. Everyone stopped, reading it as a signal that they were close enough.
"Now then," Bridge said, his voice warm but his tone anything but. "Which of you would like to explain to me why there's a special unit of Lost Ones from the Capital standing in my district?" He glanced at what appeared to be a file on his desk. "A unit, if my information is correct, made up of the soldiers present during the District 7 annihilation."
Jon straightened and moved to speak, but Miguel stepped forward first. The bodyguard twitched slightly.
"Chancellor," Miguel said gently. "I think we both know why they're here. People are frightened. They're out in the streets, afraid of what might be coming for them."
"I am fully aware," Bridge said slowly, his eyes moving past Miguel and settling on Jon and the others. "It was I who authorized the request for aid. Which makes it all the more disappointing that the Capital — the self-appointed champions of what remains of humanity — respond to that request by sending me a unit with a questionable track record." He paused. "At least they had the sense not to send that useless oaf Hardy along as well."
"We weren't sent to you," Jon said, his voice cold. "We were sent to this district to handle what you've failed to address in your capacity as Chancellor. If anyone should be questioning track records, perhaps the Capital wonders what it says about yours that they'd rather hand the protection of your district to soldiers they have doubts about."
Bridge's expression darkened rapidly. A vein pulsed at his temple and his left eye twitched. When he spoke again, all warmth had left his voice.
"Watch your tone, boy."
"Perhaps we could all take a breath before—," Miguel began.
Jon walked forward regardless, all the way to the desk. He placed both hands on it and leaned in, holding Bridge's gaze. The bodyguard shifted, coiled and ready.
"We're not here asking permission," Jon said evenly. "Our being here is a formality. However you feel about it, we have a job to do. We're not leaving until it's finished."
The silence that followed stretched for a full minute, everyone watching, fists loosely clenched. Chloe kept glancing at the bodyguard, an unease she couldn't quite name prickling at the back of her neck.
Then Bridge's expression broke. He relaxed back into his chair and began to laugh — a loud, genuine roar of amusement. "I like this one!" he announced, pointing at Jon. "Good lord, do I like this one. Forgive me — I needed to take your measure before we got into anything. Had to know what I was working with."
Chloe blinked. "What?"
"Did you really think I wanted to provoke a unit of Pandorans?" Bridge asked, still chuckling. He stood and extended a hand to Jon. "Stephen Bridge. Steve, if you like."
Jon studied the outstretched hand for a moment, suspicion still evident on his face. Then he straightened and took it. "Jonathan Taylor."
"Taylor or Jon?"
"Jon."
"Jon, then!" Bridge said cheerfully, giving his hand a firm shake and clapping him on the shoulder before sitting back down. "Now — how would you like to go about starting your investigation? And first, how are your sleeping arrangements? I could have you set up with the soldiers in—"
"That's sorted," Andre said, stepping forward. "Pastor Miguel has been kind enough to put us up at the orphanage. We'll operate from there."
Bridge raised an eyebrow. "Really? Because we do have considerably better facilities here — not quite Capital-standard, but not far off."
"The orphanage is fine," Jon said.
"As you like." Bridge nodded. "So — where does the investigation begin?"
Jon glanced back at Andre and gave a small nod. Andre stepped forward and cleared his throat. "We'd like to revisit the site where your special unit was attacked," he said. "And we'd want Captain Voss with us when we do."
"Just Voss," Bridge said.
Andre frowned. "I'm sorry?"
"Voss," Bridge repeated. "Yuri Voss. Not much left for her to captain now that her unit's gone, is there."
"Have any bodies been recovered?" Jon asked. "Any of the missing Pandorans? Even the children?"
"None." Bridge's expression turned grim. "Based on the state of the scene, it's reasonable to assume the Pandoran soldiers are dead. And honestly, if there were any chance some of them had survived what happened there — I'm not sure I'd want that for them. The kind of pain they'd have been through."
He shuddered.
"We can take pain," Chloe said.
"I don't doubt it," Bridge replied. "But even people as remarkable as yourselves have limits. And I find it hard to believe those soldiers weren't pushed well past theirs. Regardless, the scene hasn't been disturbed, so you'll be able to see it for yourselves and draw your own conclusions."
"And Voss?" Andre pressed. "Where do we find her?"