The flavor at the eatery she led me to. To describe it without embellishment:
"It tastes like a stimulant."
"..Really?"
Simply a crude amalgam of spices, meat reek, and some acrid bite shoved into the maw. After two more bites, I set the ration down; Mille gaped, mouth agape in astonishment.
"Impossible… This branch sources ingredients via true hyperspace conduits, unlike those gravity-induction feeder ships. That's why it tastes exactly like mint-chocolate-rojema-rapine-pineapple rice cakes. And you say it tastes like a stimulant?"
Mille chewed and swallowed the mouthful she'd crammed in before speaking. Indeed, that suspiciously elongated, suspiciously dubious name was the very stimulant I'd just ingested.
She ultimately left half her order untouched—though as a two-person serving, she'd cleared her share. Emerging from the establishment, she led me onward.
"Hmph. So, venturing beyond the city limits? That explains your listless demeanor. Some crave distance from the familiar; others loathe it. But those around you all dread the outside—perhaps their malaise has seeped into you?"
Mille exhaled a faint sigh, then mustered a smile.
"So, how do we breach the perimeter? Standard landship? Armored convoy? You have countermeasures for those demons, right? Some improvised Originium Arts from that special blood of yours…"
I shook my head silently at her words. She hummed thoughtfully, pressing a finger to her lips.
"Eh, not sure if you'll get firearms clearance. Shall we proceed?"
"Precisely. Neither do I."
Moments later.
"Your permit application was processed this afternoon; we've prepared it in advance. AMa-11 over there—name, one moment… Ah, Erael, correct? Yes. Please scan your ident here. Verified. Stand by."
The black-shirted clerk vanished into what resembled a munitions depot, soon returning with a hefty case deposited before us.
"Ugh. Heave! Damn thing's heavy. Why delegate arms control to grunts when automated protocols could handle disbursement? As if theft's a concern. Anyway, this is your prepped firearm. Take a look."
Mille and I followed the clerk's guidance with mechanical docility—nodding, waiting, superfluous for our eager ingress into the registry. He disengaged the seals and instructed me.
"See the circular pad at the case's center? Press your index finger there."
I complied; a sharp prick preceded the chime resounding in my skull.
[User authentication: AMa-11. Acquisition and biometrics confirmed. Disengaging security…]
[Uploading data to firearm… Implementing lockdown protocols…]
[Complete.]
The chime faded; the lid bifurcated, revealing the weapon within.
The clerk, gloved, hefted the exposed revolver and presented it.
"A revolver. Archaic choice. Suited for fieldwork where maintenance is a grind—rustic frontiers demand this alloy tolerance and surface treatment. Long-term deployment, I take it."
Undoubtedly. At minimum, a century-scale endeavor.
The clerk proceeded with a field manual: handling protocols, disassembly rites, diagnostic sweeps, basic acquisition and discharge, safety interlocks—capped by a holographic briefing.
"Sign here to conclude. Oh, and your companion must cosign as witness."
Mille inscribed her name with practiced nonchalance. The clerk collapsed the hologram and ventured personal commentary.
"Off-record: Figured the Prophet foresaw this too—prepped months ago? Or sat on it until now?"
Mille paused, then replied softly.
"Who knows. Even I don't."
We exited into the streets, angling toward the research bloc but throttling our pace to a deliberate crawl.
A tepid certainty—this parting, final—anchored our steps. She spoke first.
"Did that man truly foresee our meeting… and you leading me here?"
Mille gazed at the waning twin moons.
"He's incorrigibly capricious—might've left it as a 'gift' for you. Inscrutable lot, aren't they?"
Her query evoked their visages: an assemblage I'd traversed. Emotions eluded precise taxonomy in me; I sketched one operator's mask instead.
Fundamentally stoic.
Yet prone to ire alongside the Doctor.
Especially his penchant for slurping instant rations—eliciting sighs of exasperation.
As his research adjunct, she ignored salutes but extended courtesies to others with strained effort.
She permitted a faint smile.
"Hm. Still, good people. Eccentric, perhaps—but decent souls."
"Indeed. That's a relief."
Mille lowered her gaze to me. My turn.
"Why aid me?"
Flustered—like the query blindsided her—yet her core temperature radiated serenity, primed for response.
"Helping you is axiomatic. I contributed to your genesis. Parental duty, one might say—though that platitude won't suffice, will it?"
I offered no retort; she hadn't sought one. I met her eyes steadily.
"Life. The Director, the researchers—they view you as instrument, to wield and discard, recoiling from your unnatural advent. Yet every one would answer this as I do: Are you a living being?"
Mille affirmed her own query with a nod.
"Affirmative. Thus, I aid you—and will continue to. All life is sacrosanct, invaluable. As I bore stake in your birth, I safeguard that sanctity: awaiting your choices, guarding your path forward. For mutual guardianship. That our civilization's spire—the luminosity cleaving the stars—endures not. For life, I strive."
Mille clamped her lips, averting her gaze in bashful afterthought.
"Should I not mention cribbing from the Ethical Oath midway?"
"Urgh, you knew! Saw that smirk twitch. Still…"
"I know. Sincere words. Not just you—most here, nay, the absolute majority concur."
Mille halted briefly, then flashed a subdued grin.
"Indeed, your perception reads emotions. Forgot it skips experimental utility."
"More precisely, I peg it as desire. That serpentine, reptilian instinct—luring prey with bait."
Comprehension dawned on her features.
"Reclassifying demons in nomenclature and spouting such—truly aberrant minds."
Mille vented her rising heat as she continued.
"Fretted your task was surplus? Or overburdened?"
I assented.
"Hence the drift. Hard to articulate… that sudden obsolescence. Routine for researchers like me. Your circle? Prophet and Priestess—geniuses paramount. Shun such comparisons. You're a miracle's distillate, as you know: human forged sans Originium."
Mille savored the final clause with a muted groan of unease—its brevity belying protracted torment. Then, curt:
"Cultivate self-worth! Weirdo!"
"One phrase would've sufficed; no need to drag."
"Such counsel demands dilation by rite."
In her parting words, I identified that temperature: the reason I couldn't recoil from her.
Affection for the cherished.
Cherishing born of authenticity.
Instinctual utility, perchance?
This, too, eludes me.
Sidelining private curiosities, time flowed implacably, biding that inexorable juncture. The grave scheme once overheard between Doctor and Priestess, debating in somber conference.
A protocol to conscript every soul herein—unfurling with measured candor and languid inevitability.
***
"Solaris Sea it is, then. No time to await alternatives, I presume."
The Doctor scanned Priestess's communique, pondered, then voiced:
"Indeed. Decision epoch approaches; scant months remain."
Solaris Sea initiation: one Terra year distant.
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