She sighs.

The last fourteen hours have been a naught less than a whirlwind sprint, from the early morning phone call–a professional obligation she could not refuse–arranging a last minute sitter for her son –adopted, for all the wrong reasons–the last minute flight to Athens–that she nearly missed–the unsubtly racist taxi driver she had tried her best to make simple conversation within until she got to port–she thought no less than two times about pulling her gun to command him to cease speaking–and now here. Bobbing on sea, at least, felt almost relaxing, the precipice of being unburdened by duty and obligation, muted by inevitability of her mission and the lack of human presence.

She tries her best to make the most of the moment, imagining the perhaps it was closer to summer where a comfortable warmth sweeps the sea, when the ports and streets start to fill with tourists, at a time when she might just be able to let go and relax. In better circumstances, she could return to this. But she made her choices, decades ago, and the door is closed to her. To have seen what she has seen and to know what she has come to know, well, often comes at a price, and this is hers.

“Agent Jiang, we have are due to arrive at port in twenty minutes,” a deep, smooth voice, posh and English, cuts her from her thoughts, “If it is not untoward, may I suggest we make for the car and prepare for departure?” 

She sighs and turns to him, a uselessly tall boy in salute. Barely an adult, pale as a ghost, hair ashen white. Athletically built, though a bit on the bony side of thin.  Were it not for his violet eyes one might’ve mistaken him as a character ripped from their limited existence in a black-and-white television show. The black shirt, black slacks, black shows, and gray Chesterfield do little to alleviate it.   

“Drop the salute, Augusta,” her eyes narrow,”Loosen up a little as well.”

“M-my apologies, ma’am,” he goes into a slight bow before jerking back up, standing stiff. She sighs. 

“Your apologies are unnecessary,” she waves him on, “I’ll be along shortly. If I do not join you before arrival I will be waiting on the port when you depart.” 

“Of course, m-ma’am.”

Rivelin Augusta, is Lian’s least favorite person right now. Among the youngest to ever joined the ranks of the Library, and perhaps the least fit for duty at this stage, he was thrusted upon her in her early morning delirium. ‘A simple, non-combat affair’ she was told, ‘his talents are complementary to yours’ they said, honeyed words accompanied unfulfillable promises of actual vacation time. It is not that he is unbearably awful (merely just bearably), but his posh disposition, formalities, social ineptitude, and overeagerness to perform jabbed at her in all the wrong ways. Worse still, he arrived on an earlier flight and took the rental car from the airport half an hour before she could deplane, forcing her to parlay with the taxi. 

“Earlier, was it a mistake for me to not wait for–”

“No,” Yes, yes it was, “Just go, Augusta.”

He apologizes and excuses himself, his insecurities slipping through in a stammer. Lian cannot help but sigh, an involuntary reaction she fears is becoming a frequent occurrence on this mission. She stands from her seat, stretches her arms above her head, and looks past the front railing of the deck, the island city of Asteria and its haze of tragedy sitting clear on the horizon before them.

* * *

1:52 p.m.

The Town of Asteria

Augusta took the wheel of their government-issued car–a worn, two-door luxury car from the early nineties–and set off from the port to the local hospital, for all of the wrong turns it Augusta to navigate his way there. The GPS misread every road as closed due to the lockdown, so Lian was forced to instruct him on when and where to turn based on an out-of-date print-out map, but at least the lack of people in the streets meant few had to bear witness to their mistakes

Perhaps it was unwise to let someone who has only recently ceased to be an actual child drive, in a foreign country no less, but better to let him gain the experience here rather than in a emergency situation. Regardless of her internal irritation, she holds herself together as best she can. She too once had been thrust into this world at a young age, and given that most Library Personnel have sealed internal files privy in full to few, she knows little of what circumstances have led him here to this moment. 

The hospital lies up northward a bit past the dense menagerie of light-colored buildings and narrow streets of the recently revitalized of the port and harbor districts, courtesy of the wealthier members of the town’s immigrant-majority community. Roads roughen further, accidental loops around one-way streets and u-turns at dead-end streets. Runaway vines, weeds breaking through dilapidated concrete, and the pristine, bright buildings dull and crack. Brand name stores, national chains, and hotels give way to apartments, homes, and local shops, nature slowly reclaiming the space between as they come in view of the hospital.

Augusta grips the wheel, arms straight, eyes focused on the road before him. Lian eyes him curiously from the corner of her vision, not wanting to pressure him and potentially frighten him into driving right into a wall but still well within her vision to observe. He swallows, Adam’s apple plunging and rising, a drop of sweat dangling on his chin. In profile he almost appears aquiline, and were he to cease all motion one might almost mistake him to be a statue of antiquity.  

“So, this hospital, they know we’re coming, right?” he asks, the first words he’s spoken since so confidently boasting about his driving ability upon departing the port.

“They have been informed. We are to rendezvous with the Police Director for Asteria beforehand, one Serigy Klymenko,” Lian recites the information as though it was common knowledge. Meetings, expectation settings, boundaries, and a slew of red tape to establish before Augusta and her can enact their mission. Augusta nods, staring forward as he takes a turn and drives past a worn, off white sign with ‘Γενικό Νοσοκομείο Αστεριών/ Asteria General Hospital’ writ in a faded teal.

A stout guard stops them at the gate and–avoiding Lian–asks Augusta for the reason for their visit. He presents there documentation and his badge, a spiked, platinum sphere reminiscent of the planet, to which the guard apologizes and directs them to park in employee parking zone. He states that Klymenko meet and escort them from there. Augusta thanks the man in what can little be described as the most butchered sounding ευχαριστώ one could imagine, eliciting a small chuckle from the guard, and drives forward.

The hospital grounds are uncomplicated affair, a main boulevard circling the primary building with well-maintained grounds breaking up the monotony of concrete with verdancy. Employee parking is separated from the public’s by a small split from the road and a sign, not that there appears to be any method of enforcement, least that Lian can surmise. Augusta turns in and parks, in a space away from the building proper, while Lian peers at the row of police cars all parked close to the hospital’s back entrance.

A uniformed man leans against the car, eyes closed, smoking a cigarette. Cropped blond hair, square faced, lighter complexion. Klymenko, Lian surmises to Augusta. He nods, asks if there’s anything he should be prepared for, and she responds to just be matter-of-fact and doesn’t say any more than he really needs to. Augusta doesn’t respond enthusiastically, but she assures him it is best to keep their intentions and story simple for now.

A second man emerges from the police car, thinner and younger than Klymenko, with dark hair and a deeper olive complexion. He signals to the Police Director of your arrival, to which he merely twists his head to glance in their direction, frowns, and goes back to his cigarette, unwilling to leave his shaded reprieve. The younger officer’s shoulder fall and he takes a breath before speaking to Klymenko once more before he is once again rebuffed and makes his way over to their car. Augusta rolls down his window in advance.

“Pardon me, but I am guessing you are the guests from the Library,” he asks, accent thick.

“That is correct. I am Agent Rivelin Augusta, and this,” he gestures toward Lian,” is Agent Jiang Lian.” 

“It is nice to meet you. I am Lieutenant Christos Chatzis. Director. Serigy Klymenko is over there,” he gestures back towards the hospital, “I, uh, apologize for him in advance.”

“For?” Augusta raises a brow.

“Just how he has been lately,” Chatzis takes a deep breath, “It is not for me to talk about, sorry. Just… don’t take his attitude too personally.”

“Shouldn’t be much of an issue,” Lian opens her door and stands up, speaking to Chatzis from across the top of the car, “I’m accustom to dealing with far worse than one moody police officer.”

Lian starts to march over to Klymenko, Chatzis quickly following and Augusta tripping out of the car and rushing to catch up. Klymenko responds to their approach by glancing at them, eyes furrowed, before returning to focus on his cigarette.

“Guessing you’re them?” Klymenko calls outs, head titled downwards, eyes mired in displeasure. He makes no attempt to meet them halfway as his cigarette finishes in his mouth, puffing out a cloud of smoke toward the sky as he stares at the butt slowly burning out.

“Police Director Serigy Klymenko, I presume,” Lian flashes her documentation and badge to him, “Agent Lian Jiang and,” she gestures towards Augusta, “Agent Rivelin Augusta. You have received the debriefing, I hope?”

“Ah,” he hands his the butt of his cigarette to his partner, who goes off to dispose of it in an ironically-placed ashtray atop a bin by the hospital backdoors, “Yeah, I read it. Don’t like to have to play ambassador with the Library, but I don’t have much choice here with all of this,” he turns and waves them to follow.

“We appreciate the hospitality, sir,” Lian grants him some deference. No need to antagonize someone who does not want you here, regardless of whether or not he has the authority to defy you. As an agent of the Library and by extension of the U.N.A., Lian and Augusta in theory have absolute authority over the local place, though the rules and caveats around exercising that power incentives cooperation and deference. Certain powers are to be limited in only the most dire of circumstances.

Klymenko gives a noncommittal grunt and leads them into the building as his partner rejoins them. Past the hefty doors, two officers salute Klymenko and Chatzis and give Lian and Augusta noncommittal looks, their eyes ever so slightly narrowed. The interior of the building, as one might suspect, consists of an almost-beige off-white walls and dark blue flooring, footsteps clattering in intervals throughout long hallways. Locker and break rooms line this hallway–unsurprising, given they came in the employee entrance–but it takes a two minutes to walk to make their way to an unoccupied desk.

Klymenko rounds it and picks up a phone and dials a number.

“They’re here–yes I have–does it really matter?” Klymenko sighs, annoyed, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be here.”

He returns the phone and sits down as he boots up the computer and taps on at the keyboard, fingers disjointedly darting and stopping between letters as his brow furrows. At a punctuated, final tap of a key he sighs and leans back in the chair, but only ever so slightly as to not tip over.

“Anastos and Goswami will join us shortly,” he states. The Hospital Administrator and the President of the Board of Directors respectively; her debriefing includes profiles on both of them. 

Dr. Loukas Anastos is a born-and-raised native to Asteria, the Anastos family stretching back generations as far as recorded history indicates. Educated in Athina and Berlin, a family man who married a childhood friend and has three kids, and fishes with his fathers in his free time. A clean record, and unlikely to warrant concern, though Lian has been around long enough to know better than to assume surface-level observations constitute the whole of person.

Dr. Puja Goswami, on the other hand, is the more curious anomaly here. A well-educated business woman and doctor from Bharat, married to the fourth-in-line brother of the influential Goswami Group. The Goswamis originally came to Asteria thirty years ago and played a vital part in the town’s revitalization from a desolate government-designated ghetto for immigrants and refugees. While her husband is often traveling on family affairs, Goswami herself has rooted herself in Asteria with her two kids. The Goswami Group has no known public activities that has warranted the Library’s attention, yet there is enough legal tape surrounding some of their projects that encourage a cautious approach.

 Klymenko looks around at the nurses passing by, the four of them standing around in extended silence. At one point, Klymenko’s face softens and eyes dart to Chatzis, the two of them nodding back to one another. With a wave Klymenko stands up and says he’ll be back shortly, commanding Chatzis to keep watch over the two of them, and departs down a hallway calling out to a nurse. Though Lian does not understand what he says, she does recognize the name ‘Olena’ in his speech.

“His wife,” Chatzis offers, “Strong woman, keeps the Director straight.”

“Happily married, I would hope?” Lian asks.

“Much so,” Chatzis turns his head back in direction where Klymenko had run off before returning to the two of them in a quieter, hushed voice, “Though, it’s been difficult for the two of them. I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but,” Augusta tilts his head, hands politely clasped in front of him, while Lian narrows her eyes in curiosity, “You’ll find out eventually, but one of the victims is his son, Kyrylo.”

*** 

In the waning months of 2014, eighteen children between the ages of 7 and 11 disappeared in Asteria. The first three raised alarum, but little was done. By the fourth disappearance in October, the town issued a curfew after 7:00 p.m., brought to 5:00 p.m. after the tenth in November. After the thirteenth in December, the curfew had been escalated into a full lockdown., and by the time of the final disappearance on 24 December a portion of the Hellenic National Guard had been brought in to assume patrol, escort, and investigative duties over the town. 

Following the establishment of the army’s presence, media access to Asteria was severely limited and residents were highly advised to remain quiet on social media and to outside calls . With the lockdown, all incoming ferries and goods were treated as though they were arriving from a foreign country, intercity movement had to be approved and supervised by either the police or army, and extensive records were kept and tracked to aid in the investigation. Despite every measure taken, a few other–though notably non-juvenile–individuals could not be accounted for and for months on end no progress was made into solving the disappearances.

That was until on 25 March, where an explosion rang out from a branch laboratory of Larsen Pharmaceuticals located up on the mountain, twenty or so minutes beyond the municipal limits. The company had operated on the island since the early nineties, named after the prominent Scandinavian family who founded in it. While the cause of the explosion remains unconfirmed–reports indicate internal sabotage to a gas line)–authorities had swarmed the facility and rescued eleven of the seventeen missing children. The remaining six were found in a desolated morgue within the facility, in varying states.

Of the eleven children, four were airlifted to other hospitals at the behest of the victim’s parents. The remaining seven stayed in Asteria, where they’ve were quarantined in the local hospital and were placed under heavy surveillance. The UFN and the Library jointly agreed to investigate the situation, having regulated themselves to an observational-only role in early December. Lian Jiang, despite being officially retired as a field agent, was personally requested to head up the investigation, and was assigned Rivelin Augusta to be her understudy and partner on the mission. Additional agents were assigned to the other children.

Officially assigned to Asteria under the guise to ensure the children’s well-being and audit the security measures and actions taken, both agents are aware that the true intention of their investigation runs deeper far beyond the surface of their cover. 

*** 

4:30 p.m.

Asteria General Hospital, Pediatric Intensive Care Unit

Anastos, an older, balding man in a white coat, and Goswami, an intense woman dressed in a black pantsuit and with a bag slung over her shoulder, lead the group to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) on the third floor of the hospital. Klymenko, having rejoined them prior to the newcomers’ arrival, and Chatzis hung back, their sole purpose now to be escorts. Anastos pitched Lian and Augusta with all the little details of the hospital, pointing out the location of restrooms and the cafeteria, directing them to the emergency exits and stairwells, chatting them up as though they were regulatory inspectors or potential investors. Lian entertained him as much as she could, asking leading questions to pry out answers she couldn’t care less about and catching small tidbits to lead him onto tangents. Goswami spoke little, a few words of context scattered here and there, her head held high and face unreadable, preferring to allow Anastos to make conversation. It wasn’t until they reached the PICU that she took over.

“We have arrived,” she flatly stated, cutting off Anastos’s tirade about HR’s lack of accountability about nurses and residents intermingling on the hospital grounds. From under her arm, she pulls out seven thick folder of papers and hands them to Augusta, “These are the victims’ medical and personal information. We have been as thorough as the timeframe permitted.”

Augusta shifts through them, each file labeled with a name;

L. Alexandru

E. Iliopolous

B. Im

K. Klymenko

T. Ojo

V. Padapolous

M. Riviera 

Peering over Augusta’s shoulder as he skims the documents, Lian notes that Goswami may have understated her efforts. Besides their initial medical and psychological evaluations, she there seems to be birth records, educational reports, extracurriculars, previous doctor visits, and passport records. Impressive work in such short order.

“I can assure that these documents were all obtained through legal matters,” Goswami responds, seeing Lian’s thoughts through her face, “I coordinated extensively with the hospital administration, local government, and the Goswami Group’s lawyers to obtain these records, for your convenience.”

“For which I thank you,” Lian does not detect subterfuge in her tone, but someone of her stature most likely knows to mask it. She clearly wants to project herself and the Goswami Group as a cooperative, non-impeding partner to The Library. For now, Lian obliges her, “Your efforts and generosity is greatly appreciated, Dr. Goswami.”

“Please, call me Puja.”

“As you wish, Puja,” Goswami holds her hand out, which Lian shakes. She detests referring to others by their given name. It implies a familiarity, a friendliness, a personal attachment, all things that she need cast aside for the worst of her job. Surnames permit distance with the veneer of respect and honor, hiding the personal in favor of the professional, a defensive layer of socially acceptable detachment. Though Goswami’s offer is mere overture towards fostering good will, Lian still finds herself annoyed.

Augusta passes a file toward Lian, labeled ‘L. Alexandru’. Female, age 9, born 12 January 2006. Preliminary examination indicates severe physical and mental trauma. A full examination was unable to be conducted due to the victim’s resistance to being touched, noted to be a shared trait among the seven of them. Victim is otherwise responsive to most questions, if vague and indistinct, and eats very little. Family contact confirmed, interviews with parents indicate average home life if otherwise impoverished. Average grades across the board, though high marks in the arts. Fond of cats, minor allergies, no major health issues of note. Hellenic citizenship passed by parental naturalization, Romanian citizenship by descent. 

No much for them to work with, for the most part, not that Lian expected much. Asteria, despite the hospital’s decent funding from the Goswami Group, is not equipped to handle this kind of trauma–nor, given the implications, would any regular medical facility– and while the children are mostly stable for now, without further investigation and follow-up the extent of the damage they’ve suffered may never be truly known. It does solidify The Library’s suspicions, yet the elements at play here do not wholly confirm any immediate hypotheticals. Premature conclusions often lead to lack results, and Lian has been at this far too long to latch onto an easy explanation.

 Inside the PICU Anastos and Goswami direct the group towards a closed room down a hallway on the far side of the wing. Through a wide window a makeshift-playroom lays, decorated and furnished by colorful chairs and various toys and books, not entirely dissimilar from a children’s classroom. The room’s walls are dual colored; lower half green and the other blue, with white blotches and yellow streaks dotting them in irregular intervals. Soft, classical music hums, loud enough to fill in the silence but quiet enough to be forgotten. 

Four nurses mingle about the seven children scattered throughout, light streaming in from the afternoon sun. The children are listless and disengaged, some merely sitting downcast and others in half-hearted attempt to engage with the toys and books and what-else-have-you. Five of the seven are dispersed separately from one another, as though they were almost all repelled by one another. Two boys in the center, one with black hair and a white crew-neck and the other brown-haired in a white button-up, sit together, chair’s pulled together, their hands clasped and laying on the edge of their seats between them.

“They have been like this since their rescue,” Goswami breathes, eyes downcast, “Despite our best efforts, they’ve spoken very little. And from that little, we are no closer to understanding what happened to them.”

“What about the two boys,” Augusta points towards them, “The others are scattered, but they are together.”

“Ah, yes,” Goswami slips out a small notepad from her bag and flips a few pages, “Iliopolous and Im. They were found together, according to the Hellenic National Guard, and they have been inseparable since.”

“Any discernible reason for that behavior?” Augusta looks straight onward towards the two boys, eyes focused, shoulders straight. He sees something in them, Lian perceives, a misalignment in the planes of reality, a corruption of natural order, but there’s something else there. Recognition perhaps, she ponders, but in what regard? Augusta’s internal profile is rather sparse–a commonality of those in the Library–but this enshrouded expression confirms suspicions that there’s something more at work. 

“None that we’ve can confidently say,” Goswami slips her notepad back into her bag and affixes her gaze back into the room, “According to our initial interviews and background checks with the children and their parents, all seven appear to have been acquainted or friendly in varying capacities. Nothing definitively  indicates the two boys would be more connected than the others are.” Goswami sighs, dull and heavy.

“And on the less definite side?” Lian baits and flicks her gaze between Augusta and the other three men. His eyes meet with her’s, slides around behind her and goes off to Anastos, Chatzis, and Klymenko, conversing with them and leading them ever so slightly out of earshot of the two women.

“I have several theories, based on our limited observations,” Goswami hesitates, eyes glancing back toward the younger man as he regales the others, “I… should not engage speculation without full access to police reports and a thorough examination, but I am assuming compatibility of some kind, in regards to what befell them. The most I can say is that they seem to calm each other, for what it is worth.”

“Have you been able to determine anything concerning their captivity?”

“Beyond the psychological and limited physical trauma, no,” she sighs, closing her eyes for a second, “It has been a delicate situation, as you can understand. There is little more I can share further on the record than what I already have.”

“And if we were to consider the next few moments “off the record?” Lian nudges her on. 

“Human experimentation,” Goswami huffs under her breath, “To what end or how, I cannot say. I will offer up that, at least on my own observations, that amongst the seven, Iliopolous–” she points to one of the two boys sitting together,”–appears as though he was the “favored” one.”

Lian eyes shift to the boy beyond the window, unbrushed black hair, olive skin, eyes vacant, his hand in the other boy’s hand, “How so?”

“I oversaw each examination alongside Anastos, but kept separate notes that I have not shared those with anyone. My observations extend beyond what Anastos sought fit to report.” 

“May I ask why not offer up your own?”

“Because I do not trust Anastos, Lian,” she whispers, voice seething, “I am sure you have seen it in him. The front he puts on, the salesman approach to conversation, the disaffected obliviousness. I can offer no evidence against him, but I will recommend caution with him.”

“Understood”, Lian sees little reason to push her further, “At the very least, I thank you for sharing all this with me.”

“And I thank you for hearing me out,” Goswami nods and fall quiet for a moment, looking into the room. She sighs, “Based on the preliminary reports, you intend to speak to the children, correct?”

“As a part of my overall duties here, correct.”

“It is curious that The Library has taken a direct interest in all this. I will not inquire into the truth of the matter, but I would like to make it clear that despite being the Goswami Group’s representative, I am not here as puppet of my husband’s family, but as woman concerned about tragedy. I hope you understand that in your pursuit of knowledge.”

“Of course,” Lian agrees. Goswami clearly is more aware than she feels she can let on, but years of navigating boardroom politics has taught her to be conservative with the hand she is dealt, “But we are here as but an extension of our observer status. You can be assured that we have no interest in impeding the local and national authorities’ investigation.”

“My apologies for being overly presumptuous,” Puja bows slightly and looks to her time, “I suppose the time has come for you to speak with the children. I will confer with Anastos so that you may do so unimpeded.”

“Thank you.”

Goswami bows, excusing herself, and turns to the others, asking Augusta to step aside so that she may speak with the other men. Augusta steps aside and rejoins Lian. His eyes are focused, darting between the window and the others.

“I take it our suspicions have been confirmed,” her voice is low, just enough for Augusta to hear.

“Yes,” he responds, haggard, “I am afraid so.”

She nods, accepting Augusta’s observations. It is his expertise, after all, to see the unseen. 

“We will have to speak to each of them.”

“If I may suggest whom we address first…” Augusta trails offs, eyes half-lidded and gazing towards the room. 

“The two boys, correct?”

“Yes. I feel as though given the anomaly of their closeness in comparison to the self-isolating–”

“You don’t need to plead your case,” Lian cuts him off, “I agree with your suggestion. We will speak to the boys first.”

Augusta takes a moment and nods, his brow softening ever so slightly. His emotional volatility is transparent and Lian needs him to keep it together while they are here. She may not know his past, but she has done this enough to recognize the signs of someone who has succumbed to a similar fate. Once many years ago she was much the same, a youth stricken by tragedy and betrayal shortly thrusted into a grander game and forced to confront the depths of humanity’s depravity. 

Coming to an agreement, they approach the other group. Chatzis is first to notice, followed by Klymenko, Goswami, and finally Anastos. The agents will be given independent reign to speak to the children, with the nurses still present, while the officers will guard the hall and the admins will observe from the window. 

*** 

 A small radio plays classical music at low hum as they enter. None of the children turn up at their presence, all seven of them One of the nurses stands up, saying a few words to the child they were with–Klymenko’s son, a blond and blue-eyed youth a year or two older than the rest–before departing and greeting Lian and Augusta.  She greets them, introduces herself and gives them a brief refresher of the children and their background. Lian thanks and dismisses her, to her confusion, to which Augusta assures her that they are professionals and offers his hand to shake on it. The nurse hesitates, unsure, but returns his hand with hers. Their skin connects, and as she pulls away, her shoulders let go and her expression softens, quietly adjourning herself to the others so the two of them can work. 

They round the two boys, in the center of the room, Lian on Iliopolous’s side and Augusta on Im’s, and squatting down to reach something closer to eye level with them. Enough room is left between them, to allow a barrier of safety. They both greet the boys, exchanging first names, slowly and patiently waiting to respond. Iliopolous is the first to react, heavy eyes sliding to Im for a moment of silent consideration before either of them turn back to look at the agents flanking them. His mouth moves a few times over, mimicking words unspoken before he manages to find something he can vocalize.

“Hi.”

One word, but it is something, “It is nice to meet you. Do you mind if we talk for a bit?” 

The boy hums in response, a vague affirmative and a weak nod. Progress is progress. 

Lian continues on, keeping their dialogue–largely one-sided–going, pushing and relenting as she needs. He needs to be comfortable enough with her for her to do what she musts, no matter the time it may take. Simple questions, like where did you grow up, what is your favorite color, do you have any pets, and so forth flow out one after another, follow-ups and shared anecdote shared liberally. 

While Lian speaks to Iliopolous, Augusta manages to convince Im to move just a table away. Both boys were initially unwilling to part, hands locked in one another, but they compromised on still being within sight of one another. Even as they speak further, the boys keeping looking to the other, often spacing out and forgetting either agent is there.

 It takes nearly an hour, but in time Iliopolous speaks more and more, shifting from one-word responses to full–if simple–sentences. It is a balancing act, a back-and-forth volley with a solid-yet-infinitely-fragile brick wall. Regardless of how conversational they become with each other, the boys do not go more than five minutes at most before making sure the other is still in the room with them.

“You two seem close. Are you friends?” Lian is curious, turning the topic to the other boy. She has a theory, one that may need a little prodding. She had yet to ask about the other boy, but given the progress so far it may be beneficial to push a little more.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice trailing off, “He’s… very important to me. I don’t want to be without him.”

“I see. How long have you know each other?”

“A while. Since we started school. We both played football together. A-and we hung out a lot too…”

“Sounds like you both were very active together. Did you live near each other?”

“N-no,” he shakes his head, “He was downtown with the big buildings. My house was away from the everything.”

“Ah, I see. Did the two of you have any other friends you played with?”

“I… I don’t remember. I can’t remember a lot of things since…”

“It’s okay,” she soothes, “You said he is important. You have him, and he has you. That’s all that matters.”

“Y-yeah,” he trails off, looking over to Im. He goes quiet, mouth again moving trying to find the words to say something. After a minute, he stops, letting quiet settle over the two of them. His posture is less stiff than before, his breathing a little slower, face less harsh. Now is probably the best moment, Lian decides.

“Do you mind if I ask you a small favor?” she softly asks. 

He turns back to her and hesitates. A few seconds and another glance later, he nods, “Sure.”

“I will ask just two things of you, and if you do those two things it will help you feel a little bit better. All you will need is close your eyes and let me hold your hand,” she pauses before continuing, letting her words settle in him, “Is that okay?”

“I don’t know…”

“I promise you will be okay. I will not hurt you,” she modifies her tone of voice to her ‘motherly’ one, for all the sense that she even has one, “It’s hard to trust. I know. I felt just like you once too. Unsure. Lost. Alone. It is scary. It is hard to live with. But trust in me that I will not hurt you.” 

He looks at her, eyes struggling to maintain contact. For moment Lian believes she had fully fumbled and pulled the trigger too early, but the boy takes a breath, looks towards Im, and then back to her.

“O-okay,” he replies. He may not be fully committed to the idea, but is still willing and that is all she needs. She removes her gloves, feeling the cool air brush along her fingertips and down along her palm. 

“Let’s begin. First, close your eyes, and focus on your breathing,” she commands, letting him sit in his own calm before moving on,”In and out. In and out. Just focus. Let everything fall from you.”

“Hmm.”

“Good, now, hold out your hand and I will gently place mine with yours.”

*** 

As their hands connect, Lian greets an infinite darkness, plunging herself beyond the confines of the somatic reality. She lifts from herself, mind and soul departing body, her physicality snapping into an unfeeling weightlessness, unchained from her anchor. Her knowledge, her rationality, her quintessence, her emotion, her idea, all relinquished into the beyond, breaching the boundaries of reality. 

The body is the base form for which we all experience reality, and for most it is the only one they may ever consciously experience. But there are more spheres to everything than just the somatic one, for every person possesses not only body but mind and soul as well. Whereas your body is the primary vessel you live your life from, the whole of your person extend into the other two. Your mind is your reason, your knowledge, your memory, the rationality that bridges and connects body to soul. The soul is the purest essence of the self, your emotion, your feeling, your truth, an abstraction of who you are and all of you could ever be. 

The body and soul exist on coexisting planes, moving in tandem with one another via the mind. Minds do not exist in tandem with one another on a plane; rather, they are dense, solitary labyrinths that exist in isolation of every individual and serve as the link the allows a person’s soul to function in their body. These three aspects are required to sustain a person existence, lest their body becomes an empty husk and the soul becomes lost in the psychic plane. 

  Lian and Augusta are among few who can readily traverse these aspects, displacing herself from her somatic body and allowing her to interact with reality via her soul in the psychic plane. But the psychic plane is not her objective, but rather the mind of the boy. For she is one of an even fewer number who can look into the mind of another, launching her own perspective not through her own mind on the way to the psychic plane but rather using the boy’s body as the conduit to launch herself into his mind.

Her mind and soul stitch in and out, flowing delicately through the boy’s fragile existence to reach his mind. It is a fraught technique, needing such an incredible mastery of one’s own parts and understanding of the grand makeup that most flail out and return to themselves within the slightest moment. For the few who can thread themselves far enough to reach another’s Mind, they run the risk of colliding into an aspect of the labyrinth that would shatter their Mind and permanently sunder their Body and Soul, rendering them irretrievably lost. Lian is accustom to this, she knows the risks, she is aware of the danger. Yet she is the best there is, an artful dancer gliding in non-euclidean maze, effortlessly weaving herself into young Iliopolous’s Mind. 

Her aspect emerges into darkness, his mind torn through, cosmic energy piercing through its weakened walls. Fragments of memories chip from the walls, cosmic tentacles latching onto the pieces and affixing them to the walls it was now trying to repair. Lights flash in and fade out as boy tries to recall something–anything–but the damage done makes it hard for him. Floors shift, hallways twist, ceilings become walls, walls become stairs, stairs become floors. The mind is ever moving, ever shifting, in constant reaction to somatic and psychic stimuli.

She observes. She waits. Every mind works in its own concert, its song unique and its structure a beast of its own. If she wishes to delve further, Lian must become an imposter to the choir. So she does, enjoining the vibrato and flowing through its disjointed hymn, constantly moving and observing the flashes of memory and knowledge that she passes by. Finessing through the notes is an art, and here she is but a master artist.

He is hurt, that much is obvious. But the damage done renders much of his recollections as flashes of emotion and areas of recent memory remain too far enshrouded in the cosmic for her to approach. The pain is fresh, the suffering he’s endured still close in his shadow. Images of tall, shadowed figures, blurred lights, glinting steel, a cacophony of sights and sounds scraped away at until they remained but suggestion of what they once were. A standard case study of trauma suppression, though based on the damage done that Lian surmises that the boy will only just be able suppress his own knowledge of the pain and not the pain itself. 

There is, however, the other boy he was with, Im. His face and voice shine in this undulating chaos, a solid, consistent soft melody amongst cacophonous shrieks. An eerily clear imprint, one where the you can perceive the slight scar on his cheek, see the loose strands of his hair bounce as he moves about, the flurry of blue flecks in his green eyes that make them appear a sea green. Im is the point of focus in the photograph of Iliopolous mind, even in its darkest and most devastated depths. 

Yet, despite clarity and abundance, Lian is unable to trace its roots. Under normal circumstances, a memory of that strength could be traced like one might trace the long-winded roots to a tree or a trail of crumbs to a mouse. In the mind, all connects to one another, one way or another. But here, in a Mind so violated, those lines are blurred, the connections weak and bleeding into one another. Where normally his memory of the other boy could be tracked to distinct memories, events, and knowledge, here it merely bleeds into everything else, all direct links blurred into a smoky cloud that drifts in all directions. 

Further still, where the cosmic is thin, his memories are still yet dampened. Glimpses of a middle-aged woman and man, both olive-skinned and black hair, smiling and looking down. His parents, she presumes. A few others, a few fragments, go by here and there. One of a dog, a few of school, tunes of local hits, the smell of the Mediterranean, the heat of summer, commonalities of a boy his age. Following along the trails of his mind, Lian creeps farther from the physicality of him and towards his psychic essence, departing from memory and known truths to slowly seeing the abstract beliefs and knowable emotion that lives closer to the Soul.

It is there, toward the edge of the Mind, where it anchors itself into the Soul and the plane of the Soul, that she sees heavy destruction once more. Cosmic energy is heavy in its flow here, shattered walls and paths left to float in arrhythmic patterns, another convex dome pushing into the mind from the psychic plane. Both ends of the mind flanked, crushed, damage, yet still standing despite everything. Remarkable constitution, yet horrifying all the same.

The damage here is worse than the other, far too broken and shattered to try and approach. Emotional memory and knowledge is weak here, nigh impossible to ascertain. Yet, much like the other side, a flurry of trust and believe and hope and desire also swim around the notion of the other boy. And again, all these emotions are unable to be traced, a state of something that appears to be just be as it is with no corresponding association. 

Bouncing between both ends of his mind, Lian discovers little more than what she witnessed in her first trip. Vague truths, Im’s presence, deep-seated traumatization. A ruination that runs deeps, that in spite of its attempts to mend itself it might never will never fully repair. 

With little other options on the table before she need depart, Lian gathers herself and allows a small tinge of cosmic energy to flow in sync with herself. Opening herself, inviting in the infinite beyond, letting in just enough that it may not overtake her yet enough that it will grant her the strength to manipulate it in her own orbit. While her skillset makes her more of an observer, she does have a small degree of power to manipulate the inner workings of the mind. Nothing to the extent of crafting falsities, but enough strength to sway and aid in the restoration of the mind itself. 

Letting the cosmic flow dance along her finger tips, a weight that she balances and swings around each digit. In one move, she swirls the energy into a condensed pinpoint on the edge of her fingers, creating a small gravity well that she grazes along the edges and fragments of the mind. Gently, she eases the cosmic and the mind into one another, a quiet plunge, mixing and synchronizing the elements into a harmonious force. Once accustom to one another, the cosmic forces allow her to shift and move parts of his mind, permitting the leverage she needs.

 From there, it is an artful dance, drawing arcs with the wells to coax and nudge the elements as she needs. Delicate, intentional, subtle, not too fast, not too slow, not too much, but just little enough that benefit can be derived. Her fingers are anchors, attached to chains of fragile ships that she must guide to port. She must be calculated and attentive, for but the slightest error would cause more damage than she aims to mend. 

In her left hand, her  pointer finger, she drags a fold of his mind into another, using her thumb to stitch the two together, while her pinky reforms a misshapen pillar. In her right, she weaves and whips the Cosmos into a stilted retreat, sifting back through the cracks and sealing the rift as it dissipates. What may have been once a fragmented mess is reformed into a respectable shell, damage still present but not so mangled as to be beyond functionality. 

She does as much as she can for him, as far as the strength of her own mind can withstand coexisting in another before she senses her will begin to falter. From there, she finishes and lets the energy slowly leave from her, in such a small amount that it gently returns to field and not burst forth causing more destruction. Soon, she feels the last of it leave her and lets herself become heavy and fall, a controlled spiral descent plunging through the mind of the boy and back out into his own body and through which she comes back unto herself.

*** 

Lian opens her eyes. The young Iliopolous is still here, unchanged and unaware of her intrusion. A good sign. She lets a small smile set upon her, before flowing back into conversation. Glancing at the clock, only mere seconds have passed, so short of time that neither the nurses haven’t noticed much amiss. Out of the corner of her eye, Lian notes that Anastos has turned away from them while Goswami still looks on, face unchanged from when they parted. 

“Okay,” she says, letting the boy take a few more breaths before continuing, letting her own mind and soul settle back into rhythm with her own body, “you can open your eyes now.”

“Hmmm,” he mumbles, soft, and complies. They’re less empty than before, Lian, notes, a positive development. His hands slip back to him, folding over in his lap. Lian mimics him, giving him a moment to collect himself.

“Do you feel a little better?”

“Yeah,” he replies, voice still shaky, but more direct, “I… thank you. You were right.”

“I know it was hard, but I am happy you trusted me.”

“My head feels better now, I can think more, if you want to ask about… that.”

“There is no need,” Lian shakes her head. If he is to remember, it is better he comes into that on his own. Even with her own efforts, it will take some time before his recovery, “What matters is that you feel better now, and will feel better in the future. Do not let the past hurt you any more.”

His eyes look back and forth, a slight franticness, “Is Bo-Yeon still okay?”

“Your friend? Yes,” she points across the room, the boy’s eyes following her hand and then her finger, “He’s right over there with my friend.”

At another table, Augusta, ever the actor, was speaking to young Im, less disengaged than he was before but nowhere near as together as Iliopolous is now. Augusta does not possess the degree of skill that Lian does with the mind–she is but one of a handful who can–but he is capable of ascertaining mental and psychic status via his eyes and has the capacity to access the psychic plane via himself. Enough to assuage some pain, but ultimately it will be up to Lian to help each child alone. 

“He’s… always caring about me, but he doesn’t let me care about him,” the boy fiddles with his jacket sleeve, rustling it in-between his fingers. Lian, still holding his one hand, nods, “I just… don’t want anything to happen to him.”

“He may not let you care, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep trying or that he doesn’t want you to,” Lian slips her gloves back on and holds out her hand, “Even if it seems hard, it will be better for you both to have each other,” 

The boy nods in response, eyes still locked to the other two.

“Do you want to walk over to him?”

“Please,” the boy’s attention snaps to Lian, his tone slightly eager, “Can you help him feel better too?”

“That I can,” she chuckles. The two of them stand up and walk slowly over to Augusta and Im, hands still enjoined. Augusta notices them first, and quietly directs Im to look over to them. The other boy relaxes and his eyes widen ever so slightly as Iliopolous lets go of Lian and walks over to embrace him.

They don’t exchange words, but glances and gestures. Iliopolous nods at Im and flicks his head toward Lian. Im follows and lets go of Iliopolous, and turns towards her, head down, turning over his hands in each other and eyes struggling to meet hers. Lian quietly slips off a glove.

“H-hi,” Im barely musters.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Bo-Yeon,” she says, holding his unsteady gaze, holding out her hand for him, “I’ve heard a lot about you from Evangelos.”

*** 

11:23 p.m.

Asteria General Hospital, Pediatric Intensive Care Unit

The moon sat high by the time Lian had finished meeting with the seven children, each as broken and unreadable as the last. Though they were no closer finding out the truth of what befell them, there is enough detail there that she will be able to make a sufficient report to the Library proper. They both say their goodbyes to the children, all tired but now more themselves, and exit the room so the nurses can prep them for a late snack and bedtime. 

“I presume all has gone as you had hoped, Lian?,” Goswami asks as they exit, Klymenko by her side. Anastos and Chatzis are nowhere to be seen, “Dr. Anastos has retired for the evening. The lieutenant escorted him and others home for the evening”

“I commend the hospital for taking excellent care of the children,” she responds, an honest half truth, “In spite of everything, I am assured of all of your efforts in this unprecedented time.”

“Will he–they be okay?” Klymenko asks, the late hour taking a toll on his composure.

“I am optimistic to their recovery, Director,” she assuages him, “It may take time and there may be highs and lows, but I remain hopeful.”

He sighs and hangs his head, neither placated nor defeated. It is understandable that he’d seek a more definitive answer, but Lian had learned a long time ago that fueling the fire of a vulnerable man oft leads to more destructive outcomes.

“You lot are going to the lab tomorrow, right?” Klymenko chimes in.

“That is correct, Director,” Lian confirms.

 “The National Guard will want advance notice before we arrive, so we will plan to escort you two there around noon in the evening tomorrow. Give us all get a chance to catch up on rest.”

“That will work for us,” Augusta speaks up, “I suppose it is time for use to retire for the evening, then?”

“Agreed, Agent Augusta, “ Goswami, “I am sure all of us here have been up for the better part of the past twenty-four hours. Rest will allow cooler heads to prevail.”

At the exit, Chatzis and several other officers stand guard, a few nurses and doctors coming and going with their armed escorts. Goswami praises them and thanks each individual for their work, dragging on the day ever so slightly longer, and bids Lian and Augusta farewell for the evening as she departs with Klymenko, who intends to retire for the evening and informs Chatzis he is to take charge of the officers until the morning.

“As members of the UNF and the Library, you are free to move about on your own,” Klymenko tells them, “That said, remember you are on our turf. We don’t need any other problems right now.”

“No need to worry Director, we are more than well aware of the delicateness of the situation.”

“Goodnight,” he waves as he departs. 

Lian and Augusta follow shortly after, walking under the dim parking lot lights to their car. They throw themselves into the car, Augusta foregoing decorum and loudly sighing while Lian maintains a veneer of grace as she takes a moment to just breathe.

“It does not match up, does it,” Augusta asks, backing up and beginning their drive to the hotel.

“It is clearly not his work,” Lian sighs, “Far too messy, too reckless, almost as though–”

“–they were meant to be completely broken.”

“Yes,” Lian nods, eyes looking at the moon overhanging them, “To what end remains the question,” a question that they alone would no sooner to come to answering.

“Is it safe to leave them? If it is not him, then I am not sure if the protocol still applies.”

“I cannot say. If we can determine if it might be a disciple, then maybe. For now, all we can do is proceed with the investigation and report back.” 

“But–”

“I understand your concern. Trust me, I know far too well. But we don’t have the resources,” she sighs, defeated, “After the Rhodes incident decades ago getting the government to cooperate with us has proven difficult. At best we will be able negotiate a continued observational capacity.”

A exasperated and tired groan escapes him, arriving at an answer he knew full well was coming. It is not as though neither of them care, but the limits of The Library can only stretch so far for an organization largely structured for intelligence gathering. 

“It is ridiculous,” he says as they stop at a stoplight, no other cars around,”We should be able to at least do something for them. At least, if they could at least do for them what they did for me, then–“ 

“Enough, Augusta,” Lian commands, voice stern, “You are tired, frustrated. Do not think I do not share your concerns. I do not like this situation anymore than you do, but the situation is what it is. We cannot change that.”

“I know, I know…” he hits the pedals and lets the force thrust his head back, eyes focusing down on the road, “I want to do more. I know I can do more. But what good is it if those of us who have the power to do something just are not allowed to?”

“Trust me. Most of your fellow agents are in agreement,” Lian sighs, and looks out onto the darkened streets, lit by the occasional lamp and window light, “But when so much of what we do is beyond the average person’s comprehension, we are limited in our capacity to act. Lest I need remind you of–”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he hangs his head in defeat, “Let’s just get to the hotel and rest.”

“Agreed.”

They arrive by midnight to an upscale, three-story building a short drive from the port district. An elderly woman greets them at the reception, browns and whites emitting a warm yet cool atmosphere. She tells them of what few amenities are still in place due to the lockdown, advising them to come again in kinder times, and gives them their room keys, directing them to the elevator. Their room is on the top floor, she says, with an excellent view of the sea and that if they need anything to call down to the desk.

Once in their room, Augusta is quick to unpack and excuse himself to shower, while Lian arranges her bedclothes and work clothes methodically in the closet space. She places a quick call home, wishing her son goodnight and apologizing for having to leave so suddenly and thanking the sitter for everything she has done. Afterwords she pulls out her laptop from her luggage and sends off a few emails and preliminary reports while she waits for Augusta to finish.

Augusta tells her he’s done, a loft of steam hanging in the air and a towel wrapped around his thin waist, and they swap places. She showers cold and fast, not letting herself fall into comfort while on assignment. By the time she emerges from the bathroom, Augusta is splayed across his bed in just the bottom part of a set of two-piece pajamas. He’s out cold, not having made it under a cover before succumbing to fatigue. He reminds her a bit of her own son, in a way, holding back a laugh so as not to disturb him. As annoying as she may find him at times, she reminds herself that he has barely had a chance to be an adult yet, let alone what little opportunity it appears he had to be a child. 

Tomorrow will bring more of the same. More riddles, more fragments of a truth. A scheduled visit to the site where the children were found will be conducted, but it is unlikely much will be able to be extracted given the explosion and the quarantine of most of the site. Both local and national governments are keen to finish the investigation as soon as possible, to quell and deter additional media attention, regardless of the Library’s intentions. 

Lian tries to brush thoughts of work from her consciousness and relaxes herself in bed, letting her eyes shutter. Dawn will come sooner than later and there is little reason to deprive herself with more to do tomorrow. Yet before sleep takes her, her thoughts drift to those two boys, Iliopolous and Im. An anomaly in all of this. All seven children’s minds and memories are muddied messes, yet in those two they coexist in extreme clarity in the other minds.