I’m in a lab, for lack of a better term. Behind Dr. Ocavey stretches an open room with rows of modern tables, equipped with instruments and devices that look incredibly complex. That, or they’re props to make the place look impressive.

  It looks almost like a mad scientist’s abode, the sort you see in movies or cartoons. I guess it would be fitting for the doctor’s appearance; he already looks like one. Still, he’s no ordinary researcher. The telltale signs of government involvement are everywhere: unmarked technologies with glowing blue seams and accents, odd tools that I’ve never seen before and which almost certainly are not available to the public. A few of the tables are covered with electronic parts; the one closest to me looks like a pile of scraps, some with thick and thin wires tangled about and connecting to other parts or disappearing within the stacks; there’s the occasional blue line coursing through the mound, thin rivers of light cutting down a mountain of metal.

  Behind that, a series of holoscreens — far more advanced models than the one I found in the church — clutter another desk. These are, from the looks of it, incredibly high quality and likely also not commercial-grade. Even from here, I can see the ridiculously good resolution. A couple screens have privacy veils, the excess from them sinking and pooling on the surface of the desk so it looks almost mystical, bright blue pillars of light and order amid a sea of fog.

  Yet another table, this one on the far side of the room, houses an array of clearly customized Augments. A prosthetic arm; a pair of cat ears — really? — with blue at the tips; two prosthetic Augments that look like they could be a set of limbs, though I’m not sure where they would go. Then there are sets of weapon Augments, probably for the police department; azure-edged knives, iGuns, tazers, a few projectile shooters loaded with various different injectors. There are vials of fluids so brightly colored they might be glowing, arranged in neat rows in their holders. A few look like the same liquids as on the tables of alchemical whatever scattered around the room.

  Overshadowing all of this, though, is a pair of brilliant white wings, their tips a radiant cerulean. My breath catches, the beauty of them momentarily blowing everything else out of my mind. Only the way they gleam in the fluorescent light hints that they are made of metal. The detail is exquisite, a gorgeous blend of detail and design so intricate I can’t fathom the time that must have been dedicated to its creation.

  “I am truly gladdened to see your appreciation of my work, Mir Losha.”

  I almost jump, jolted back to reality by Dr. Ocavey’s words. I quickly turn back to him, schooling my expression. After a moment I realize he’s waiting for me to respond. I opt to nod laconically instead, trying to smile slightly in what I hope is a friendly gesture. I guess it works; he seems encouraged by this, and continues.

  “Now, if you would follow me, I can lead you to the lab proper for your check up.”

  This time, he waits for me to acknowledge the request before pivoting on one foot and beginning to pick his way around the various boxes and gadgets piled on the floor. Given I don’t have any better ideas, I begin tracing his steps through the mess.

  He walks through a doorway on the far right corner of the room, which was obscured by the monitors from where I was standing before. I almost trip twice; my eyes keep drifting back to the wings.

  Then, I see it.

  Laying on a work bench beside the wings, something glints in the meager light that slips past the feathered monument. My eyes widen as I realize what it is.

  The belt. The one I stole from the corpse in the church. After I killed two people. Oh gods. I can feel myself begin to tremble; my skin feels tight, too tight for the monster held prisoner within it. Like that person, no, that murderer, is wriggling about in its cocoon, pushing against the walls of my composure. So I was right. The government did the cleanup in the church. They must have taken the belt somehow when the zone ended. I can see the three daggers on one side, and, propped up against the leg of the bench, the scabbard of the sword. On the ground beside the sword is the second belt.

  “Mir Losha, is everything alright?”

  I barely register the voice of Dr. Ocavey. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking to me from underwater or from strides away in a thick fog. Something; there’s a barrier between us, an insurmountable wall separating me from him and everyone else. Has he ever killed a person? How can he ever know what I feel, why everything is not alright, is so far from being alright that the very question seems silly to me. Are you alright? Am I alright? Heh. Does it look like I’m alright?

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  Rowan, breathe.

  How exactly do you expect me to breathe my way through this?! I feel like retching again, as the last of my attempt to repress these emotions unravels, leaving the wound bare and raw again.

  It was in self defense, Minerva insists. Had you not killed them, they would have ended you. You had no choice.

  I can’t bring myself to accept that, though. No matter how sensible she is, no matter how true or reasonable her words, I can’t stop thinking. There must have been another way. I could have cut off their limbs, or severed their joints…

  Which would have left them disabled for life, assuming they didnt bleed out first.

  … I know. I know! Still, it’s agonizing, so agonizing. Dr. Ocavey has walked back to where I’m standing, shaking like a wet dog in the middle of the room. He holds out a tissue to me; I realize I’m crying. He takes off his goggles, too; beneath them are a pair of dazzling blue eyes, deep blue like the depths of a mystic sea. Kind eyes, eyes that understand. Somehow, despite everything I’ve been through, they understand. They know what I’ve done, know how I feel, pierce right through my shell to scour my flesh for the knowledge of everything that’s happened in the past two days. And their conclusion, for some unfathomable reason, is that I am not a terrible human being.

  “Ah, Mir Losha, do you need a minute to yourself? I take it you’ve had a rather long day,” he says softly. I nod weakly, accepting the offered tissue and crouching to put my hands around my knees, as Minerva whispers soothingly in my ears, it will be okay. You’ll be okay…

  ?????

  Eventually, I calm myself down. I’m not really sure how long I sat there, crying softly, face tight and breathing hard. The air is slowly refilling my chest, I can feel my body again, my skin stops feeling like it’s a size too small for me. At some point the tears stop, and at some point Minerva goes quiet. When I stand up, I can’t tell if I feel better, per se, but I don’t feel… awful, as much. I feel numb, not empty but vacant; I don’t feel much of anything, my emotions are suppressed as though they only peer at me through a fogged window. I straighten my back and turn to the doorway, carefully avoiding looking at the workbench.

  On the other side is another, smaller room that actually resembles something from a hospital. In the middle is one of those fancy chairs that can recline and everything. I stride over and sit in it, since that’s the only thing I know to do in this situation. The counter lining the wall is covered in medical instruments, half of which I’ve never seen in a hospital. All in all, it seems a bit… much.

  Granted, all of this is a bit much. Not a bit, actually. Way, way too much. I was supposed to just go to some doctor, let them ask me a few questions, count how many fingers they hold up, and then leave.

  “So,” Dr. Ocavey says from behind a small portable holoscreen, his face mostly hidden by the hyperdense mists. “Now that we are in a more… secure location, how can I assist you, Mir Losha?”

  “First of all, please stop calling me that,” I say before I can think better of it. It was really getting on my nerves. “Rowan is fine.”

  The doctor, for his part, takes it in stride.

  “Very well, Rowan,” he says. “I take it you did not just come here to get checked for an ordinary concussion?”

  “Er… No, I really did,” I say. “Come for an ordinary concussion, I mean.”

  Dr. Ocavey seems momentarily at a loss. Then, his face lights up again; I can almost see the pieces clicking together in his head.

  “Ah! Forgive me, Mir… Rowan. I did not realize you were the newest vessel, though perhaps I should have.”

  I’m not sure whether to be relieved or worried that he knows what I am, so I end up just kind of standing there, a blank expression on my face. Wait. Newest?

  My confusion is evident on my face, since Ocavey scrambles to explain further.

  “Right. I had, ah, presumed your Numen had explained things to you already, if you do not mind me saying.” He looks in my direction, though I get the feeling he’s looking through me.

  That is quite alright, Doctor, Minerva replies. It takes me a moment to realize she projected her voice to include him; I’d forgotten she can do that.

  “Then, it is safe to say I should explain everything, including the basics?”

  That would be best.

  Hold on a second now. Oh, wait—

  “Hold on a second now,” I say for the Doctor’s benefit. “Minerva, what exactly haven’t you told me, and why did you wait until we were all the way here to say it?”

  My conclusion based on my knowledge was that you would not react so well to the following information before; I figured we might as well get it out of the way in a more… private setting, where you’ll be able to vent… appropriately, I suppose.

  “Appropriately?” The hell does that mean?

  I had not anticipated, she continues, that you would encounter any sudden stressors on our way here, but it can’t be helped now. We may as well.

  Dr. Ocavey sighs.

  “Well, it’s best we get started; the conversation ahead will be a long one.”