Station Hotel (2)
Meat and vegetables, sugar, and even a cup of tea didn't take long to slide down my throat.
"Full."
Phaenax, sitting across from me, said that before lifting her transparent cup and taking a sip. Wait, isn't the rule at places like this to finish with a drink?
"Drinking water after scarfing everything down... you're such a weirdo."
"You're the weirdo. Or maybe that guy over there."
I'd just tried explaining Phaenax's oddity when her counterattack hit right away. Another weirdo like me? I glanced where she nodded toward.
The murmur of adults chatting mixed with kids giggling as they dashed around the lobby. Too far to hear clearly, but definitely parents and their kids gearing up for the entrance ceremony, right?
"Weird? Looks like a normal family to me."
Then it hit me. Without the bandages, the scars on the hand holding her cup stood out sharper. Big, ugly wounds that didn't come from honest grunt work. If they were tangled up with family drama, that could get messy. Maybe I'd picked the wrong conversation topic.
"Not there—further back. The boy in front of the 'Staff Only' door."
Whew, no heavy family baggage spilled out. Well, it might someday, but someone tougher than me could deal with it. Focusing my senses like Lambda taught, I peered further back as instructed.
Between a softly glowing mana stone ad and a promo video of Pristine Comprehensive University campus life. A boy stood against the wall.
First question that popped up: "Isn't there just a wall behind him?"
"No. There's a 'Staff Only' door marked there."
From the context, it felt like she was recalling it, not seeing it right now. What, eidetic memory or something? No way, for real? I pulled out my pad and loaded up the Station Hotel map. And damn, there it was: "Staff Only" label and door icon, clear as day.
Maybe this is Pristine Comprehensive University material. Or maybe she's just on another level.
Whatever—priority one: figure out what's weird. "How's he weird, exactly?"
Instead of answering right away, Phaenax drained her cup and set it down carefully on the table.
"Same posture as when he walked in."
She shoved the cup aside, straightened the utensils, and stood up like it was no big deal. I'd finished too, so I got up with her. But she didn't wait—just breezed past me.
"Steer clear of anything dangerous. See you tomorrow."
She dropped the short line and bolted from the restaurant.
Ugh. Kinda stings, but with no one else around, maybe that's just how she talks to people? Felt like she was treating me like her big bro or little sis back home, and it rubbed her wrong.
...Nah, overthinking it. Can't be buddies with everyone anyway.
More importantly, I snuck another glance at the weird spot. Now that I'd clocked it, the boy stood out—frozen in that exact pose.
If I knew zilch, I'd march right up. But after today's mess? Someone's job-loss meltdown still echoed in my head. I'd cursed them out, but everyone knows that's pointless.
Better play safe. I fired up my pad and started snapping pics of the lobby's Pristine Comprehensive University promo clutter. Some good shots for later, sure—but a few deliberately caught that guy in frame. Circling wide and casual, no rush.
Position: between the entrance and main front desk. Click click.
Tested the pad's camera too. Settings had options galore. File extensions were unfamiliar, but hey, raw data mode existed here too. Snapped in that—huge files, but easier to spot anomalies later.
Hit me fresh: no wonder reporters pop up in hero stories so much. Sneaking close while playing dumb? Cakewalk.
One big loop around the lobby later, I was there. Not a mannequin, not a robot. Just a normal-looking boy on the surface. Should be off, has to be wrong somehow... but nada. No red flags, all clear, move along.
Whoa, that felt gross. Like, push the photo-sniping idea far away. Acted totally chill passing by.
Instantly, my brain stamped him as "ordinary boy, nothing weird." Even knowing better, it gnawed like bugs chewing doubts away—just walk on by.
Urk, thoughts getting squished? Nasty as hell.
Call from outside? Kidnapping vibes. From inside? Runaway teen alert. Better if he'd smirked creepy or had a monster limb or something. Magic world's ugly side, incoming: perception tampering. Hard pass.
Couldn't just ditch him, though—too spooky. So I went full kid mode.
Heading to my dorm, pad out, contacts check. Texting works here, obviously. Even if voice is easier, writing leaves records. Civilization's built on text, after all.
Grabbed just the shady shots with him in 'em and fired them off. If she's a detective, she'll crack it. Bluntly? I'm billed as "assistant," but really Informant A—no heroics, no risks.
451? Just a dumb joke here. Lame gag! If it turns out he's some top-secret Pristine security golem, I'd die of embarrassment.
But hey, dying of shame's the best-case. Shoved that aside and headed back to my room. Even the beefy pad chugged sending all those fat files—took a minute.
"Back already?"
Carlo—more "hearty" than "sturdy"—greeted me. And right on cue, that hyper kid from earlier barreled out.
Sigh. Rough night ahead.
---
Beep.
Lambda Lilion snatched her custom-tuned workstation from her pocket. Screenless, it barely passed for a pad. But it excelled at masquerading as harmless junk. Reality? The opposite.
No screen? Trivial for her, wielding godlike machine mastery down to machine code. She parsed data raw.
A quick sound check: a number she'd registered that afternoon. Title? Bold as brass: 451st Assistant.
"Only 37 on payroll right now."
No spam—this gizmo didn't auto-link known numbers. Sender verified, but 451? Mystery number. Personal code? Random? Nothing in her memory banks on it.
Abelian's tossed numeral. Lambda tucked it away as light puzzle fodder, scanning the message slow.
Nothing to report. Playful note, plus bundled photos. Newbie pad user snapping pointless high-res raws, maybe hyped for fancy school?
"Defaults to compressed. Raw's buried—nobody stumbles into lossless by accident."
One more thing. She pictured that tiny human. Soul neither clear nor cloudy like normal pearl-shapes, but shattered shards glued desperate. She'd seen it a million times.
Back when they called her Exorcist. War days, loved ones dying left and right, survivors clinging undead. Cracks leaking glitchy flickers from the shell.
Meant: not of this world. Soul-body gap wide for evil spirits, born defective—doomed to spiritual disasters. Reincarnator.
"So assuming anyone's pics means missing it."
She dissected the 14 shots. Not images—raw digital data, sniffing for anomalies needing specialist software.
"Singar optical veil? Yusor disguise spell? Nah, bloom's off. That's Incognitus refraction—been 30+ years since they pivoted to perception warp."
Pristine Comprehensive University: something brewing. Confirmed. Now hunt what.
"Such outdated magic."
Muttering, she spotted the answer forming. Who still packs relics? Today's intel: above the downsized Guardian Knights grunts, honorable higher-ups loomed.
"Honorable" sometimes swaps for "antiquated."
But motive thin. They weren't victims—they profited from cuts. Paved highway living; this? Muddy detour, risks galore.
Unlike monster-swarms of war, unknowns everywhere. Fun riddle pile.
Lambda's lips curved thin.
"Now... what to do?"
She eyed the workstation meshing her golden gears.
Pity: Abelian contract passive. Pre-gifted pads for ongoing intel—unfair deal, but he feeds info. No pushing.
Regret tinged, she fired a curt, honest reply.