Have you ever left a particularly dismal news broadcast on and sunk deeper and deeper into a pit of self-made despair even though you could get up and turn it off at any time?

This is like that, except for the part about being able to turn it off.

Jeden, the lively and surprisingly charming port town I arrived in continental Nayrean territory by way of, is a rubble heap now. The voice of Warden Oleander, the wolverine whose privacy we thoroughly violated if you recall, regales the city with a scathing report of the atrocities committed by the Prelature.

I'm horrified by it, and yet not surprised. The history of the Nayre Dominion and the Grym Prelature is the history of constantly doing worse and worse to the other, and after the former's recently used tactic of infesting the latter's crop soil with cradleworms, the fear of scorched earth tactics is an entirely rational one.

Then there's the incident at the Archives. I suspect I'm still in the clear, as I've faced no judicially administered consequences, but whether or not they actually know, they've got a tidy cover story to tell the populace. Or maybe it actually happened and I don't know either, wouldn't that be wild? But anyway, the gist is that there were a couple of Prelature operatives in the city who were found out, did as much damage as they could, were held for two days, and then self-terminated before giving up any useful information.

Overall, recent events have been pretty bad for worshippers of Soma; in the newly enacted policy of martial law, her temples will be subjected to increased policing “for the foreseeable future". Even Oleander, the shock-and-awe guy himself, doesn't seem very optimistic about ending this war in any reasonable timeframe.

I lose count of how many times the message repeats before it finally goes quiet, and the ambience of the city returns, free of ringing bells and bellowing demagogues. I might actually get some real shut-eye as the sun starts to go down if it stays that way.

But there's still time before then. Nym nudges the door open, checking on me again as he's been doing regularly. He shakes a black bottle in one hand before setting it down on the nightstand, wheeling a stool over to perch nearby.

“This is the last bit I can sneak away for now, on account of it being the last drop in the whole palace. Will it be enough?"

“Considering I'll be ready to go by morning, I think so. I'll see if I can convince Kyra to go with me again to get more," I say, taking the bottle. It's a high-grade ectoplasm coagulant, the same stuff he'd given me in the intravenous cocktail that kept me going by sheer abundance. “Truth be told, I'm more worried about your well-being than my own after we're out of it.."

“Because of the…" he puts a couple of fingers to his forehead, tracing them outward on a line in the direction of mine.

“Yeah, because of that. I don't know its limits yet. I'll bring it up to Yhana later too, before she has a chance to…" It's my turn to gesture, but the aimless circling of my hands indicates nothing more than my struggle to put it tastefully. Conveying enough implicitly, I uncap the bottle and drink deeply, dosage recommendations be damned.

“Understood. If I might ask, why keep it hush in the first place?"

I swish the remainder of my mouthful around, trying to acclimate to its powerful flavor before managing it down.

“Suraokh's weird threat's, for one thing. But for the other… embarrassment, I guess. If I was worried about her continued exposure, if it seemed dangerous, I'd have spoken up. But, I guess in light of recent events…" I roll my back, which pops a couple of times in response, hydraulics evening out. “I don't feel quite embarrassed enough to keep a lid on it anymore, comparatively."

Nym chuckles; not in a mocking way, rather, it's warm enough to sneak a slight smile onto my muzzle as well.

“Once you can stand, we'll get you calibrated. There's just one other thing…"

“What thing?" I ask, lying back down.

Nym tugs at the collar of a shirt that doesn't exist, one of the prehensile cables that hold up his corrective lenses moving into its place instead. “Jen is going to want to discuss something with you himself, before you're cleared to leave."

“Oh, gods, did Suraokh talk?"

“No, no, Jen doesn't suspect a thing yet," the fox assures. “At least I'm pretty sure he doesn't. I think that, in light of recent events, I'm sure you've heard—“

“Ceaselessly, even," I confirm.

“—he's just going to impose further restrictions."

“Lots to look forward to," I groan, tucking myself and my ruminations in to rest. 

The night passes peacefully, with no strange dreams to be had. I suppose even my subconscious is all burnt out on those for now, after so many. Nym gives me a little bit longer to rest by disengaging the brakes on the bed and wheeling me all the way back to his quarters with his own two hands, a gesture I appreciate very much, but it's just rickety enough and attracts enough attention that I end up completely alert even faster than usual.

Upon reaching the bottom of the elevator in his room— because don't we all have one of those —he carts me through that forest of permanent scaffolds and stops me by a couple of workbenches arranged into a corner, where I chance sitting up again. Still sore and weak, but no worse than yesterday. I tell him just as much.

“That's no worry, I think we can alleviate most of that right now," he tells me back. “Just keep your back straight for me."

I do as instructed, trying not to jolt as I feel him pry at plates, adjusting screws that turn deeper, internal screws, working his way down and then back up, occasionally tapping each exposed metal vertebra with a tuning fork in between consulting me. I watch him work in the mirror, and despite my physical discomfort, which admittedly lessens over the time he spends, I can't help but feel taken already with the new apparatus, a matte-finished contraption plated with burnished brass, overlapping points sealing elegantly to hide the connective rubber, containing wire tendons. I'm already getting better at articulating them, to the point that the weight of the new spine is almost entirely offset by its distribution throughout me.

“How does it feel?" he asks, stepping back and removing his gloves.

“Well, let's find out," I say with a hopeful smile, sliding off the bed to stand, and to my relief, I don't fold like a chair this time. Looking back to him, and then to myself in the mirror as I turn to watch the plates shift, I agree, “Yeah, I think this'll do."

“No abdominal pain of any sort? Nothing… spoony?"

“Spoony?" I stop turning, confused by his question.

“So I took the liberty of installing some new features, among them an adrenal stimulator. The conductive pieces were incompatible however, so I sort of rigged up a pair of copper spoons in alligator clamps, resting right up on top of your kidneys."

I blink the slowest blink I've ever blinked, I think it starts as a squint of disbelief, but as my eyes shut, there's even enough time for me to back up in my mind and appreciate the resourcefulness.

“I mean… hey, if it works, it works, right?" I concede, to his visible relief.

Moving on swiftly, he clears his throat. “Well… let's get you to Jen, I suppose? At least to his office. If he sees me he'll get… well, he'll get that way that he gets."

I hate that way that he gets but I'm not the one who had to live with it for so long. I've seen the face Nym puts up but with as little energy as taking care of me has left him with, I doubt he has it in him to let Jen's fury flow over him today.

Finally getting out of the gown I've been provided feels like a relief. He still has on hand the outfit I changed out of before our ill-fated adventure, which I happily change back into, relieved again that the addition of these protruding metal scapulae doesn't uncomfortably alter the fit all that much. It's casual and cozy, if Jen expects me to do much better than this after invasive surgery, he's even less reasonable than he seems.

And so it's how I turn up outside the double-doors of his office again. Nym gives me a parting hug, and the moment he's out of sight, the duo of veiled vigilants guarding the office open the doors for me.

I half-expect to see Jen in his chair, stroking a cat in that way you always see nefarious bigwigs depicted. That would have been surprising enough, but the reality of it is an even greater surprise, even in a literal sense, as I lay eyes on Samsara. She stands in the middle of the room, her towering form only just accommodated by the vaulted ceiling, facing me with her blind gaze.

It occurs to me this is the first time I'm seeing her in the regalia of a Warden, claret robes evoking silent command. She still wears a blinder just as she had in disguise, but this one is a custom piece, plated in oxidized copper, resting at the base of her snout and fanning out upward into a convex half-moon flare that covers her face. Against the rim lighting from the wall of windows behind her, I can think nothing other than how suitably dramatic she looks, after the first impression she made in disguise.

“Good, just as expected. Please have a seat," she invites me in perfect Siggska, stepping aside and settling into a balancing crouch.

Jen is at his window, staring stoically out at the cityscape. Suraokh almost mirrors him, standing somewhere near the middle of the room, his gaze fixed upon the covered thing above Jen's shelf. I cautiously perch myself into the offered chair, wincing as the quiet creak of springs violates their pastiche.

“Good morning, Merion. How is the new body? As I understand it, upgrading a spine is a rather systemic process," Jen greets, also matching my mother tongue, carefully measuring only the most appropriate level of warmth into his voice.

“True, but it's an upgrade, for sure. Your brother does excellent work," I reply. That's a very risky note to open on but I'm hoping to make our meeting brief. It's not a lie, though. I did have a sentimental attachment to my last one, but this one's special too.

“His vanity has had to have been for something." He turns to me, sitting opposite in that chair with its too-tall backrest, elbows on the desk, fingers laced, following nearly beat-for-beat the body language I expected to see. Well, minus a cat.

He emits a short, almost percussive hum, which I take to be a chuckle for effect. “'Has had to have been.' I do love this language of yours, Merion. All these little, apparent redundancies that, when reflected upon, strive for an analytically specific level of clarity."

I don't say anything, wondering where he's going with this. He seems to catch that, as he lets no more than enough time to naturally draw a breath fill the pause before continuing. My eyes dart briefly over to Suraokh, who still hasn't turned to join the discussion.

“I believe then, you'll manage to understand and appreciate another apparent redundancy I'm going to enforce. I wanted to keep you here, in Iyakamraa, for your safety. However, in light of… current goings-on, this is not enough. Until further notice, you will be chaperoned at all times by Samsara and her personal guard."

My silence, this time, stems from not knowing what to say at first. I do my best not to stammer as I break it, but the incomplete words that search in vain for a concise interjection are the death rattle of any dignity I had sat down with.

“I— that is… pardon me, but—“

“Granted," he inserts.

“But don't you think that's a little excessive? The guard escort alone would be a lot, but you're assigning me a Warden full-time out of… out of how few?"

“Never you mind that. It's more than worth it, Merion. You see how bold the Prelature is getting, and if they catch you—“

I'm embarrassed to admit I startle as his fist pounds the desk, on the defensive before he even stands to crane over it, leaning in. “EVERYTHING ENDS."

He fixes himself upright again, giving himself space to gesticulate.

“And then it starts anew, with a brand new pantheon to enforce their rule. No more Irntztoz, no more Yau Yem, never again will they suffer an insult like the apotheosis of Tayyari. Even their beloved Soma will be secondary; an absent mother to a new, divine regime of spoiled, bigoted children!"

And then he is back in my face, eyes narrowed, a lock of silver hair fallen free across his faded red snout, and his voice dropping an entire register along with his volume. “Imagine yourself, or someone like you, reborn into that existence; no safe haven from their persecution anywhere in the five systems. Barren, misbred, gender-confused, unholy you. Things our civilized society accepts without qualm, that they'd kill you for. You may not have had to come to terms with a taste of that reality yourself, but far too many have," he asserts, gesturing emphatically to Samsara, who maintains her silent fixation on me. “And I refuse to let it keep happening. So no, Merion…"

The tension leaves his body in a single, long sigh, as he moves soundlessly back into his chair. “I do not think it is excessive at all."

I try to swallow, but I'm beset by that familiar dry mouth and aftertaste of blood. However, it's familiar for an entirely different reason than my last visit. It's a line of thought I can't follow right now but I keep it in the back of my mind for later. For the moment, I try to collect myself, feeling as though I'm melting into my chair, and the tangible, debilitating force I feel bearing down on me from the covered curio atop Jen's shelf certainly doesn't help.

Samsara apparently notes that I'm floundering, and speaks up.

“It won't be as invasive as you might be envisioning. We will watch from a distance, only intervening where absolutely necessary. Your privacy will be minimally impacted."

“Then I've got nothing to add," I say.

“Then that will be all," Jen declares, returning to his window. “Your safety is all our safety, Merion. Do not forget that."

I slowly stand up, half-expecting an addendum, but when none comes, I back a few steps away before turning to stride out. The new rule must be effective immediately, because Samsara is right behind me, close enough to step right overhead if she weren't matching my pace.

The doors close behind us, and the two of us leave down the ramp without a single word spoken by the room's fourth occupant. I imagine the private chat I'm likely in for with him later will be similarly unpleasant, but I'm too shaken by the one I've just had to think much about it.

I can't help but feel like I've misjudged Jen, somewhat. He truly seems to care about something genuinely noble. Then again, he's also a ruthless dictator who has his hand so deep in some shady business that it's gone up and around the bend. I haven't forgotten the policies announced by Oleander yesterday either, sounding dangerously like religious persecution is on the horizon.

As we walk, the tension built by how pointedly neither one of us says anything becomes unbearable; Samsara must think so too, because she speaks up before I can figure out how to do so in a way that feels natural.

“Where to?" She asks, settling back into Xemba.

“I'm going back to Yhana's. I'll find my way by train."

“I will take you to the nearest station. It will be faster," she offers. 

“You happen to know exactly where she lives, then?"

“No, if that will put your mind at ease. But I have an idea of the area."

I concede, and we head beneath the palace, where a valet brings her rail carriage to the platform. It's certainly sized appropriately for her, enough that the engine built into the rear doesn't seem out of place, especially not compared to the vertical rise of the vehicle. It's a stark, boxy machine, clad in regal burgundy and black, with a single pair of large wheels toward the engine, accompanied by the usual abundance of smaller pairs set beneath the chassis approaching the front. The only windows present are those by passenger seats, wide and bulletproof; I guess she herself doesn't really need them.

As we board, Samsara takes her place in the enormous, diamond-patterned leather seat embedded right into a hardwood console in the back, featuring twin cranks angled near either armrest, as well as a full suite of more discrete controls. It makes me wonder how the valet even managed to bring this thing around. Among the four benches facing each other in pairs near the car's midsection, there's seating for roughly a dozen passengers in my approximate size class. I settle into the reverse-facing one on the right, close to the light from outside rather than the dim, almost sultry shade of red that fills the car. In its minimal glow, a quartet of figures I hadn't noticed before moves soundlessly to seat themselves on the left, situated opposite of each other in pairs. All of them turn their heads to observe me. Somewhat shyly, I observe them right back through a sideways glance.

Their attire marks them as vigilants, like those stationed in the palace, or in the elevated checkpoints on any street for that matter, but they're more adorned than the others, in subtle ways. Long wedge-shaped patterns stripe their arms in copper tones, and their veil-covered headgear evokes the seashell-like crest of Samsara's blinder. These would be Samsara's fabled sanctifiers then, I assume. Her own personal task force, owing allegiance to her before anyone else, and by far the most public.

Samsara proves more inclined to make conversation than I had her figured for, speaking up again as we begin to roll. “I would like to apologize for how Jen intimidated you today. His people skills are not usually evident in one-on-one situations."

“Yeah. I get that he means well but…" I sigh, as words fail me yet again. “I'm sorry he dragged you into his example like that, too. I know I wouldn't have appreciated it."

She nods slowly, though her answer doesn't match. “It's no secret why I was persecuted, or why I defected to join the Dominion, way back when. Here, I don't have to be a secret."

I ease up at that, even smiling slightly. “Can't begrudge him for wanting to protect a place like this, then. It's hard to reconcile being unable to leave if I wanted to, but… well, there are worse places to be stuck."

“Yes, there are. You very narrowly avoided one."

She's right about that. I think back to our first meeting, and the multiple close calls she saved the crew from. “I didn't get a chance to say so before, but thank you for coming to our rescue, back at the shipwreck. However you managed it, I'm glad you got out safely too."

She says nothing, but I at least get a nod. That's all I get for a while though. I can understand if she doesn't want to talk about it; there was clearly a history there.

We travel through every checkpoint without ever being stopped, stalling only at a rotating junction to switch to a different line. Taking priority over other trains through the checkpoints expedites things, though Samsara's maneuvering is so mindful and well-times she has no effect on their journey, aside perhaps from a sweeping wave of civilian awe at seeing an elusive Warden out and about. Or at least her personal vehicle; the driver is well hidden from view within.

The thought occurs to me that in theory, it could have been anyone in here, though they'd need to have mastered the blindsight that Samsara so naturally perceives her world with.

The city eventually unfolds into districts more familiar to me, at which point I speak up. “Samsara, can we actually stop up here instead?"

The opossum is already working the levers before she even bothers responding with, “Have you changed your mind?"

“No, I just need to do something here first. I'll take a train the rest of the way like usual," I explain, “but thank you for getting me this far."

“Very well," she agrees, sliding a door open with the flip of a switch before we even arrive at a full stop. I wait for it anyway, the last thing I need is to injure myself pulling a stupid stunt when I've hardly been standing for an hour.

I clasp my hands in thanks as I move to leave, but it doesn't seem like an adequate farewell. “Umm.. see you around, I suppose?"

“Not if everything goes well, you won't. But I'll be close by." I'm relieved to see her actually crack a smile, and I step onto the platform.

People start to crowd the car, but are instantly deterred when the sanctifiers step up to the door at their full heights; not one of them has more than half the vertical gain that Samsara boasts, but it's more than enough to make the average person feel small. It allows me to slip out of the little station relatively unimpeded, shaking off the one or two people who tried to get my attention as I make my way toward the library I've come to frequent.

It's been a long time, so maybe there's been a message left for me by now? After the latest round of disappointment and its consequences, I'd really like some good news.