Someone knocked on the doorframe. Loud, insistent, unceasing.

  “Sorry, we’re not open yet!” Ruvle called out, in the middle of the lobby, still sweeping up the floor.

  “Yes you are,” a gruff feminine voice answered on the other side of the frosted glass. “A true citizen wants to speak with you.”

  Was this Othek again? She didn’t know henching groups were mixed-gender; every institution she knew had either henchmen or henchwomen exclusively to preserve the anonymity. Ruvle slipped her dress shoes back on and righted her fez atop her head on the way to the door, preparing to talk him down. It could also be a prank; sometimes a person said that to try to get privileges.

  She opened the frosted glass door to the midmorning sun. The henchwoman stepped back—blonde, broad-shouldered, in visor and suit—to surround the person of interest in a circle of eight. A tall, deeply muscular woman approached, shrouded in that same Dye-embossed black cloak that Ruvle so recognized, with clockwork faintly clicking underneath it and the scent of vinegar crinkling Ruvle’s nose. She couldn’t see the face clearly under the hood, save for some fringes of gradient-toned hair, just like those she’d spotted on Othek’s view screen, but this time with a patch of definite red.

  “Good morning, Fygra!” Ruvle said, putting on her best service smile. Fygra approached, slippers scratching on the stonework. “How can I help you today?” Ruvle stepped aside to give her space. Fygra hummed to herself. A different henchwoman followed in and closed the door behind her, leaving the three alone in the lobby. “I’m here to serve your all-important needs!”

  “This is why people like Othek are dangerous,” Fygra said, her voice low and disappointed.

  Ruvle smiled and nodded, trying to parse Fygra’s implication. “He was a challenge, but within my capabilities,” she said, splitting the difference.

  “Present the document.”

  The henchwoman unfolded, from her suit pocket, a sheet of paper with glittering notary ink upon it—the original copy of Othek’s record of lost asset; Ruvle recognized her own signature. Ruvle nodded again, hands behind her back. “That’s the proof,” she commented.

  “Mmm. Undo this.”

  Ruvle blinked. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’ve already used the Adult Genetics Self-Determination Kit; there is nothing to undo.”

  “Mmm...undo this. If I tell you a third time, this office will be shut down.”

  Her self-control alone kept her smiley and approachable. “Would you like the form itself revoked? I’m sorry, perfect Fygra, I don’t quite understand. Were you perhaps the one that asked regulatory agencies to verify my office’s validity, then?” she asked. Was it not Othek the whole time?

  “No. Oh, dearm if I wanted you shut down, you would not have been probed for an excuse to do it; it would have simply happened.” She could see Fygra more clearly now in the matched lighting inside; despite the change in her body type and added shades of hair, her face looked exactly the same, with eyes fixed directly on Ruvle and without a trace of mirth. Ruvle started to sweat.

  “Shutting my office down wouldn’t accomplish your transcendent goals,” she answered. “Not to imply that you don’t know this, but as a reminder. Most of a notary’s value is in their community trust. A new office could be opened very soon. Is there a different way I can help you today?”

  Clockwork ticked, echoing in the almost-empty lobby. The henchwoman folded the paper back up, looking away awkwardly.

  “Interesting. Very interesting,” Fygra said. “I was warned you’d be strong-willed.”

  “Thank you for your complim—”

  “Second document.”

  The henchwoman presented a piece of paper, crumpled and yellowed. A bomb threat, written in a teenage boy’s handwriting.

  “You recognize this page.” Fygra said it not in reaction to Ruvle’s paling face or her eyes transfixed on the lettering, but as if presenting background information known beforehand.

  “I do, Fygra.”

  “You’re not as nearly good at covering your tracks as you think you are,” Fygra said.

  “I’m sorry once again, but what is the importance of this document?” Keep her talking; maybe there’s a way out of this.

  “Your public trust.”

  Sweat from Ruvle’s brow met the floor.

  “I’ll prevent questions from being asked,” Fygra said, gesturing vaguely towards the door and the common people on the street beyond it. “I suppose you could say no a third time, in which case everyone you know will understand that you send messages like this.”

  “I’m not sure that they’d believe—“

  “Including Elial.”

  Ruvle wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now.

  “Yes, I know about her and your relationship to her,” Fygra said.

  Ruvle slowly bowed her head, tears clouding her eye. To imagine Elial finding out what she did, along with everyone who had ever set foot in her office...and her Dad finding out that she’d killed the family business, entirely by her own fault… “You’ve...done your research excellently…”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Fygra leaned in close. The scent of acid grew overpowering; Ruvle held herself back from coughing. The foundation makeup on her face felt like it was melting.

  “I’m going to need that back,” Fygra said, her voice in a low whisper.

  “...Right away, it will be done,” Ruvle said.

  She departed, to the back room, up into the attic, her sleeping space all for her. Sniffling and seething, Ruvle grabbed the kit from atop the pantry-armoire and returned; she presented it in open hands and on her knees, her head bowed. Tears fell into the seam between black tile and white tile as Fygra lifted it by its handle. It was passed to the henchwoman, who tucked it into her suit.

  “Please don’t shut down my office,” Ruvle said.

  “Mmm, no, the questions I’d get from that are less convenient than if you carried on. No one ever hears about this, you understand.”

  Ruvle nodded.

  “I don’t care what you do with Othek, but don’t lie to a true citizen again, and especially not me.”

  “...I have not used the kit yet,” Ruvle admitted.

  “That’s better.”

  Ruvle didn’t dare stand up. All she knew was the taste of acid in the air fading, the scratch of slippers across tile growing distant, the swing of the door and the way it shut. Once more, the lobby lay empty, still in need of sweeping, still to be prepared for the day to begin—no longer with anything to look forward to at the end.

  ‘M.A.D. Sabic Nightlight ~ I HAVE THE GENE SEQUENCE,’ came the scientist’s message on the textwork midday.

  And she had to never tell anyone she lost the kit.

  ‘Mielo ~ Thanks so much! I’ll put it to good use!’

  The rest of the day was a blur of signatures and identity verifications. Nothing stuck in her mind, besides a man who wanted an envelope containing his new secret mint sauce formula signed over the seal, and the sweet old lady asking her at the end of the day if she liked the cinnamon tea. She did. Yes, she would accept more, another night. Apparently the old lady’s former lover made these boxes by hand, and she, Pazim, had taken up the tradition.

  Once she could close the building and lock up, she went rummaging through her file cabinets while letting Chain know of her plans. ‘Mielo ~ I’m going after Fygra.’

  ‘Chain Hydrapress ~ Why?’ That alcazar tower really did work.

  ‘~ I can’t say.’

  ‘~ Uh. Okay, but Fygra is maybe the worst possible true cit to go for.’

  ‘~ I don’t care. I’m throwing everything I have in me against her.’

  ‘~ Please don’t. You’ll die.’

  She pulled out more documents instead of answering.

  By the time she had a map of Crater Basin and its surroundings on the wall, records of true citizen transactions atop the cabinets, and an old scientific manifesto about a final acid with high vapor pressure in her hands (every competent scientist had at least one deranged screed of barely-legibile genius for society to benefit from), Chain walked in, one shoe off and his scarf bundled loosely in his arms.

  “That was fast,” Ruvle commented, studying the map.

  “I figured out a shorter tag so I can erase and scriven it faster. Why Fygra?”

  “I told you. I can’t say.” She flipped through one of the transaction records, referencing an address in Gabardine, the northeast side of the crater; maybe this one was where Fygra lived.

  Chain held his arms out to his sides. “Hey, hey. Ruvle, what’s on your mind?”

  “Breaking everything Fygra owns, that’s what.”

  “Ruvle–”

  “Stop saying my name.”

  “Talk to me. What happened?”

  She sighed and hung her head, resting in on her arm crossed over the top of a file cabinet. Chain, mercifully, gave her a few moments to think.

  “Can you keep a secret?” Ruvle finally asked, her voice muffled in the crook of her elbow.

  “You bet I can.”

  And so she told him what Fygra did. A part of her wanted to hold back on what Fygra blackmailed her about, but if Ruvle wanted to commit to being ruthless, she had to get comfortable saying what she did out loud. Chain, for his part, sat down in the middle of the file room and listened, eyes intent upon her.

  “...that’s a problem,” he finally said, his hands in a cargo pocket each.

  “She stole everything I earned from the raid just because she wanted it,” Ruvle reiterated, setting the business transaction aside and picking up another. “So I’m going to break her arm and tie it in a knot.”

  “I get that you wanna, but she’ll definitely kill you. Even other true citizens usually listen to her. She’s on the ‘save for last’ list.”

  Ruvle folded her arms over her chest, facing the map. “If…everything I earn can be taken from me, to make the most powerful people in the world even further ahead of me, then there’s no point. If I hurt her, I get closure.” She waved the business record. “I’m finding her tomorrow.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Too bad.”

  “R…lass, I think it wasn’t fair of her either, but there’s got to be a better way to get back at her than throwing your life away. Please?”

  Ruvle clenched her fist and took several deep breaths. Deep self-control was required for hyperdexterity, and this was an exercise in it. She would not be calm, but she could listen. “...What’s the other option?”

  “Give me, like, a day to figure it out.”

  “You have until I go tomorrow night.”

  “Deal.” He stood and grabbed a loose piece of paper up on a shelf atop one of the cabinets. “Sign.”

  “What?” She frowned.

  “You said you won’t throw your life away until tomorrow. Sign something that says you won’t.”

  Ruvle held her scowl for a few moments, trying to stay mad. But if it meant that much to him… “Fine. But that’s the wrong kind of paper.”

  He turned it upside down and then backwards in his hands. “It’s…it’s paper.”

  “No, that’s acid-free archival paper. The documentation paper is up at the front desk.”

  “How can you tell the difference?” He flapped the paper back down awkwardly.

  “I work here!”

  And then she put her Thoughtful adult brain back on and got some documentation paper to promise to Chain, in formal writing and with Dye-infused notary ink, that she would not go fight a hopeless battle against someone that had bought their way to demigodhood. Not until tomorrow night, anyway.

  Chain sighed in relief. “...Are we going to talk about you sabotaging your own mentor, or nah?”

  “I don’t feel bad about it,” she lied. “There’s nothing to talk about.”