If a stare could kill Cymir would be a nameless grave. Underneath a small shelter at the edge of the campus he and Menor waited for a tram. Despite its clear walls the alcove was dimly lit, yet it could not hide a cold and guilty conscience. Only an ashamed laugh marked the moment.

  "I'm sorry," Cymir said, "I only have enough for registration. The rest are... at home. You'll only need to cover me for this once."

  Menor frowned.

  "How would I know it'll cost three mavs," Cymir continued, "Okay, okay, maybe I should have seen this coming. Aaaand it should have been obvious, but you can't blame me for unexpected expenditures today. Right?"

  With a sigh, Menor replied, "Tram pass. You could of said you forgot."

  "Yes. That!"

  "If I didn't know better I would of guessed you were born yesterday."

  A meek sound came from the youngster. Feeling a nervous sting he quickly turned his attention elsewhere. To pretend as the previous conversation never occurred meant it did not happen. Such logic acted as a final grace to protect self-esteem. However other people waited nearby. Some sat on the wooden benches while others leaned against the metal frame. Although they kept to themselves, he swore some of them snickered.

  Rocking back and forward on his feet the location followed the gentle sway. The simple design of the transit shelter held a delightful and peaceful atmosphere. Blended by the subtle drip of melted snow. Despite standing on a busy street, the quiet alcove laid several steps below and hidden by well-maintained shrubby. Even the textured glass played with light and held beautifully crafted depictions of... was that a stick figure?

  Not long after a distant racketing drew curiosity. Leaning forward the Cymir peered to see the coming transit. Recalling their roofs from the other night his thoughts moved towards the particular moment in technological advancements. He recalled it was odd despite access to- Menor pulled him back from the platform's edge and to behind a painted red line. At such a moment the tram arrived.

  Colored in a charming, fluorescent hue the vehicle struck the youth with perplexion . It leaned more towards a boat's shape than what he imagined. During the short musing everyone else walked on. As such he followed. His acquaintance waved to the driver and handed over a small, metallic card full of engraved holes. Not too long after it was returned with two embedded, glass beads. Deep sigh came soon after.

  Tailing close behind, the student found the interior cute. The wooden walls reminded him of the sea-faring vessels. Especially since the salt-scented air lingered. Perhaps repurposed boats? Noticing Menor had found a spot near the back he quietly followed. Instead of sitting on the leather seats standing and holding the hanging straps, of the same material, appealed to him. A mistake quickly taught as the tram jerked forward. His feet flung out with only a grip preventing an unfortunate tumble.

  Along with the diver's chuckle the tram moved on. The sight out the long windows were nonexistent. Only stone in the canal's walls were displayed. Running by they eventually smeared into a blur. Yet upwards the ceiling was not of opaque materials but spotless glass. Through it the grey skies lazily hung. Boarded by the tops of trees and buildings displaying pretentious signs. Huh, so that's how people knew when to get off.

  Every so often the tram stopped and departed at a bell's chime. Some folks left while others stepped on. The bustling flow of post-lunch crowds brought delight. A bit later someone pulled a rope that hung from the ceiling. Notified by a soft ring the tram slid to a stop. The pair exited.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Menor bolted off. Eh? Through panic and blind trust the youth sprinted behind. Up the stairs, across the street, rounding a corner and into another transit shelter. They ran as if racing time. So fast he could not even question why. Although the short sprint, the youth gasped for air a few steps behind.

  "What... was that for?" Cymir asked.

  "Hm?" Menor replied, pulling a leaver, "Didn't you see the other tram coming?"

  "Other tram?"

  On queue the expected vehicle stopped mere moments of that second question. Apparently the rails moved without turns. Not even showing a sign of breathlessness Menor entered with a begrudged sigh. One that caused the youth to shiver despite wearing woolen clothes. Compensation seemed like an omen for reapers.

  After some time they arrived. Up the shelter's stairs Estuary's Cadastral Branch came into view. Rising taller than several layers of trees the building was a showcase of glasswork. Encased in a giant dome it spanned several blocks in both directions. To Cymir it looked dumb. Akin to a giant beetle wearing a mushroom hat made of snow. Menor responded with agreement filled with affirmation.

  "Uh, why the main office?" Cymir asked, reading the sign, "Wasn't there a branch in Eastline?"

  "A district site's structural integrity isn't enough," Menor replied.

  Huh. The youth nodded. However those words held a sense of oddity. When such notion failed to be unveiled he chased after his companion who walked off. Treading along the sheltered path they entered the building. A blast of warmth greeted them with a scent of bitter spices.

  Within laid a spacious lobby evenly lit and shaded by the cloudy skies. Stone columns, wrapped in ivy, towered above them and divided the area. The pair, led by unseen design, walked by rows of empty chairs. Their shoes echoed in the mostly-silent space. Perhaps they arrived at an unpopular time? As such thoughts lingered they reached the main counters.

  Despite the soft ambiance, unintelligible and quiet whispers filled the air. One of the receptionists noticed them. She smiled and beckoned. With glee Cymir waved back whilst jogging up to the free desk. Akin to a child, he requested for a combat authorization. To those overjoyed words she raised an eyebrow and turned to Menor. Where a shrug answered that this particular person was at least sane.

  "We're applying for licenses and permits," Menor said, "Combat Authorization being the main focus."

  The attendant nodded and said, "I'll need your names and identification. Then after checking the records..."

  Cymir's thoughts wandered off. After handing over his card, his eyes began to roam. Upwards. Towards the outer structure of glass. Instead of the expected smalls panels framed by metallic support, the dome was of large planes. Bent, rounded and intersecting, yet held a delicate texture. Where sunlight leaked in akin to a forest's canopy. A poor imitation. Such scenery brought some dreadful memories. Shaking his head he refocused on the important discussion at hand.

  "The permits will be for general foraging and labor assistance," Menor Said.

  "General foraging?" the receptionist asked, "Not just leyblooms?"

  "Apothecaries."

  With one word the receptionist groaned with sympathy. Lamenting on memories she slid him a pair of clipboards and told them to confirm the written information. Quickly pushing away from the desk she did a quick twirl on her chair. A few scoots more before arriving at a wooden door. After two knocks she peeked in.

  Leaning over Menor's shoulder Cymir questioned the need of those other things. A stare of concern appear on his companion's face. Under a sigh mutterings unheard spoke of insufficient compensation. To rue was to sow. As such the night-tinged individual inquired of payment.

  General requests. The youth spoke bluntly without a thought of concern. However failed to realize that general requests and labor assistance were the same. Former the activity, latter the official documentation. He scratched the back of his head with an nervous laugh.

  Not long after the receptionist returned with a note in hand. Grabbing Menor's clipboard she carefully compared. Accented with surprise, she pointed at him. His authorization would be delivered within the week. Turning her finger to the other one she provided no exceptions. So it goes.

  Privileges for the talented. The thought left a bitter taste in Cymir's mouth. Saddened, he brought out a coin purse. Pouring out the mavs for the inevitable cost.

  Shuffling papers, the receptionist said, "Registration will be ten mavs. The other licenses won't be charged."

  Cymir repeated, "Ten..."

  "That's nine," the receptionist quickly counted.

  Nodding with a frozen expression, Cymir slowly turned away. A glare, despite being unseen, held a promise that one day he will literally be buried. Weighed by dread the softest request for charity was made.