The warm, familiar living room of the Bartholomew farmhouse felt different as evening settled. Though subtly tidied from the previous night's chaos, the space still bore the faint scars of violence. There remained a slightly askew picture frame, and a faint discoloration on the rug where the window had shattered.

  Olt stepped into the room, returning from Mariah's apartment. He carried no bag, but there was a weariness in his posture, overlaid with a new, quiet resolve.

  His family was gathered, waiting. Hannah sat nervously on the edge of the sofa, her hands twisting a piece of fabric in her lap. Cristina stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, observing him intently. Omar occupied his usual armchair, his expression serious and expectant. Jeffrey leaned against the mantelpiece, his face showed a controlled neutrality that didn't quite hide the concern beneath.

  The silence stretched, amplifying the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway. Cristina broke it first, her tone direct, and edged with suspicion.

  "Where were you all day, Olt?" she asked, stepping away from the fireplace. "And don't tell me you were just walking."

  Olt looked at her, then at the others. He knew this was coming.

  Omar leaned forward slightly in his chair, his voice calm but firm, taking the lead.

  "Olt, Ernest – the gentleman who owns the herb shop… he stopped by earlier. We caught up. Had been a while since we talked."

  Omar paused, his eyes locking onto Olt's.

  "He mentioned you bought some things from his shop today. Some… special herbs."

  Hannah gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, her fear spilling over.

  "Indigo, Olt? Was it Indigo? You took the potion, didn’t you?"

  Olt sighed, seeing the futility of denial. He nodded, meeting his grandmother's worried eyes.

  "Yes, it was Indigo. But I had to, Grandma."

  He looked around at his family, his voice gaining strength.

  "I need to understand what happened to me. I need to be able to protect us."

  Olt gestured vaguely to himself.

  "I need to know if I can even do anything."

  Jeffrey pushed himself away from the mantelpiece, stepping forward. His expression was skeptical, and laced with a disappointment that stung Olt more than any anger.

  "I honestly didn't think you had it in you," Jeffrey said. "To take that kind of risk.”

  Olt met Jeffrey's, his own expression firming, refusing to back down. He didn't argue and didn't offer excuses.

  Jeffrey paused, observing Olt, really seeing the quiet determination that had settled over him since the previous night. The skepticism in his eyes faded, replaced by a grudging respect, then something warmer.

  "But… you did it," Jeffrey said. "You actually did it."

  He took a step closer, the tension leaving his shoulders.

  "Alright then." His tone shifted, becoming supportive. "If you're in, then I'm in. We're all in. Family sticks together."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  He placed a heavy hand on Olt's shoulder. The grip was firm.

  "I doubted you, but I’m glad I was wrong."

  The tension in the living room eased, replaced by a fragile sense of unity. Jeffrey’s hand remained on Olt’s shoulder. Omar, who had watched the emotional exchange with quiet intensity, stepped forward.

  "If you're going to this meeting tomorrow, Olt, you need to look the part."

  He gestured towards the back of the house.

  "Come with me to the shop."

  …

  Olt followed his grandfather, leaving the others in the living room. They walked through the familiar farmhouse hallway and out the back door, crossing the short distance to the large, detached workshop.

  Tucked in a private area of the workshop was Omar’s office and private workstation. The familiar scent of sawdust, metal, and oil filled the air. Moonlight streamed through the high, triangular window in the gable, illuminating the organized clutter within. Tools of every shape and size hung neatly on the wooden walls. Workbenches lined the perimeter, laden with projects in various states of completion, while bins and containers held raw materials and scraps.

  Omar led Olt towards a tall, wooden wardrobe tucked away in a corner near a storage area.

  "These clothes" he began, opening the wardrobe doors to reveal a carefully folded outfit, "they are the traditional dress of an Advocate, especially those who worked the streets, outside the Institute's walls."

  Omar carefully lifted the garments, laying them out on a nearby workbench.

  "But they mean more than that. This style," he smoothed the fabric of a short-sleeved vest jacket, "it comes from the countryside, from the time of the revolution. It's what the first Advocates wore, the ones who fought for justice against the corporations."

  Omar paused. A wistful expression crossed his face as he handled the dark, sturdy knee breeches and the weapon sheaf designed to be worn across the back.

  "I always admired them. I even hoped to become one myself, you know."

  He looked at Olt, faint sadness forming in his eyes.

  "I took the potion many times in my youth, hoping to awaken. But, it wasn't my path, it seems."

  He offered a small, encouraging smile.

  "But maybe, maybe it's yours. Wear these clothes, Olt. Wear them with the heart of a revolutionary."

  Leaving the outfit on the bench, Omar turned and led Olt back towards the main floor of the workshop. They walked towards a specific workbench covered neatly with a heavy canvas cloth. With a deliberate movement, Omar pulled back the cloth, unveiling the object beneath.

  It was a machete, but unlike any Olt had seen before. The blade was thick, heavy, with a unique, forward-curving profile, honed to a razor edge. Its dark, almost black steel was etched with an intricate pattern of swirling blue leaves and vines that seemed to shimmer faintly even in the workshop's steady light. The handle was equally detailed, carved from a dark wood with symbols Olt didn't recognize, capped with a sturdy pommel.

  "This," Omar said, "this was your father's."

  Omar picked up the machete, the weight settling comfortably in his experienced hands.

  "He was working on this design, years ago. He believed Synoro needed a better way for law enforcement to keep order, something less… lethal. He called it the Pacifier."

  Omar turned the blade over, admiring the craftsmanship, the deadly beauty tempered by its intended purpose.

  "He never finished it. His intention was to get funding so we could mass produce it. Regardless, it's still a good blade. Sturdy. Reliable."

  He held it out to Olt, handle first.

  "It's meant to protect, not just kill. Maybe you can finally put it to use, in your own way."

  …

  Olt followed Omar back into the farmhouse living room. The weight of the Pacifier was heavy and unfamiliar in his hand. The etched blue leaves on the dark steel seemed to catch the fading evening light filtering through the windows. He felt the eyes of his family on him and on the weapon.

  Jeffrey stepped forward immediately, his earlier skepticism completely replaced by a focused intensity. He nodded towards the machete Olt held.

  "You’re going to need to know how to use that thing. I guess that means I’ll show you."

  The implication was clear, Olt’s family was committed.

  Hannah, who had been watching from the sofa, let out a small, choked sound. Her hands twisted nervously in the fabric of her apron. She was deeply worried. She shook her head slightly. It was a silent protest against the weapon, against the training, and against the violence that seemed to be engulfing her grandson. Her disapproval was a palpable presence in the room.

  Cristina moved to her mother's side, noticing her distress. She placed a comforting hand on Hannah's arm, leaning in to whisper something soft and reassuring.

  “Mom, he’s a man. He’s made his decision. But he’ll be fine as long as he has us.”