Chapter 32 Chapter 31: Battle Ready
11:57. Twelve minutes. I had done it. A twenty-minute run, through the heart of the city, in less than twelve. The triumph was a wild, feral feeling, eclipsing the fire in my lungs and the ache in my bones.
But I had hardly stumbled through the sleek, automatic doors when a large, over-eager security guard materialized, his face a mask of alarm. He moved to intercept me, one hand outstretched as if to physically block me or, worse, manhandle me back out onto the street.
“I am sorry, Miss. Appointments only,” he said, his voice a low, firm barricade.
I barely had the breath in my lungs to speak. I braced my hands on my knees, gulping air, before straightening up. “I am… Nanda,” I managed between ragged breaths. “Nanda Stone.”
A Polli I hadn't noticed until then, sitting behind a vast, sleek counter of polished dark wood, called out. “You’re Nanda?” Her tone was laced with disbelief, and her face betrayed the sheer disgust she felt at my appearance, drenched in sweat, hair a wild mess, clothes clinging to me. “…Let her in,” she instructed, with a dismissive flick of her wrist.
The security guard, visibly relieved to be absolved of responsibility for the chaotic creature before him, immediately retreated to his post. I took the few steps across the marble floor, my worn trainers squeaking on the immaculate surface. The magnificence and grandeur of the lobby struck me immediately: soaring ceilings, modern art installations, everything speaking of immense wealth and power. Looking down at my own dishevelled, sweat-soaked appearance, I realized with a sinking heart just how out of place I was, and how far over my head I truly was.
The Polli behind the desk, impeccably dressed in a severe, stylish suit, greeted me with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. “I am Sarker. Hello, Nanda. So pleased to meet you.” Her eyes told another story entirely, one of thinly veiled contempt.
“Hi,” I said plainly, the single syllable heavy with exhaustion. I already didn't like her.
She placed two thick, important-looking folders and a digital form on the counter before me. “Firstly, you need to read and sign here,” she indicated a highlighted line on the tablet, “and if you can hand over your com, I can amend your passport details to ‘Diplomat.’ The folders are from Lord Vincent. He said it would be… goodnight reading.”
I handed over my com, the device feeling shabby in her perfectly manicured hands. I browsed through the form on the tablet, my eyes too tired to focus on the dense legal text. I just scrolled to the bottom and signed with a clumsy tap of my finger.
While Sarker worked on my com, her fingers flying across a holographic interface, I began flicking through the folders. They were filled with dossiers: pages and pages of ‘Who’s Who’ in Sylvan society, political profiles, and cultural briefings. The weight of the task ahead began to settle on my shoulders.
Sarker looked up from her screen, a deep frown creasing her brow. “There seems to be a problem with your passport,” she announced, her voice crisp. “You are listed as a Nate in your passport. And you are… a Polli now.” She said the last words as if stating a distasteful fact.
“Yes. I am a changeling. Still.”
“But it says here that you are almost twenty-three.”
A flicker of anger cut through my fatigue. “Yes. I do know my own age.”
“One minute. I have to talk to Lord Vincent.” She tapped her com, and the call connected on speaker, the buzzing ringtone echoing in the quiet lobby.
“Vincent.” His voice was immediate and sharp.
“Lord Vincent, I am here with Nanda Stone. There seems to be a discrepancy with her passport.”
“Go on.”
“She holds a Nate passport, and she tells me she is a changeling, yet she is twenty-three years old.”
“I know,” he laughed, a sound of pure delight. “Absolutely fabulous! The Sylva are going to love this. The unpredictability! The novelty!”
Sarker went pale. “But the Sylva, and the passport regulations-”
Lord Vincent broke in, his voice brooking no argument. “She’s a changeling, and the shuttle port always does DNA tests anyway. Passports are a formality. Everything is as it should be. No, it’s better!” He laughed hard again before the line went dead.
Sarker stared at the silent com for a second before composing herself. She turned back to me, her expression now unreadable. “Then I guess we don’t have a problem, Nanda.” I just smiled, a tight, victorious smile.
She handed my com back to me. “There is a golden diplomat credit card activated on your account now. You are to go to this address,” she said, sending the details to my device with a tap, “and ask them to measure you up for the items on this list. You need to look the part.” Her eyes swept over my jogging clothes one last time, leaving no doubt what she thought of my current ‘part.’
“Thank you,” I answered, my voice dripping with a sweetness thick with mockery. “You have been so helpful, Sarker.”
I gathered the heavy folders, the travel plans, and my com. Without another glance, I turned and walked out of the pristine lobby, back into the chaotic, real world, now carrying the golden key to a future more terrifying and exhilarating than I could have imagined.
'Marcel's' was the name of the shop I was supposed to go to. I didn't know it, and the message from Sarker had only given the street name. I took my com out and searched for the address.
Lindan Street.
A small thrill of apprehension mixed with awe went through me. It was the fanciest shopping street in the whole town, a place I knew only by reputation. I had never really gone there; the few times I'd passed by, I'd felt like a ghost looking in on a world that wasn't mine. I once owned a pair of cufflinks from a shop there, a present from my rich grandmother that had felt absurdly opulent at the time. But otherwise, the place was a complete blank, a territory of pure luxury.
The twenty-minute walk there was a blessing, a chance to let my heart rate settle and my mind begin to process the whiplash of the day, the clinical violation of the clinic, the frantic run, the cold formality of the consulate. By the time I turned onto Lindan Street, I had almost gathered my wits.
The street itself was immaculate, unnervingly so. Not a piece of litter, a stray leaf, or a scuff mark on the pavement was in sight. Each shop front was a minimalist masterpiece, displaying a few exquisite articles behind vast panes of spotless glass like priceless artifacts in a museum.
But by far the fanciest, most intimidating-looking shop was the one I had been asked to go to: Marcel's. The door was a heavy slab of dark, polished wood, adorned with a leafed golden trim that glittered even in the diffuse afternoon light. As I neared, it swung inwards automatically with a silent, smooth motion, as if the building itself had been expecting me.
I entered, my breath catching. Before me was an Aladdin's cave of textiles. Dresses, suits, and accessories of the utmost quality were arranged with artistic care. The air smelled of cedar and expensive perfume. There were three exquisitely dressed Pollis working inside, their makeup flawless, moving with a quiet, purposeful grace. And then there was the centrepiece: a weirdly elegant person in a brilliantly tailored pink suit. Very much a Clam, I thought, using the old, slightly impolite term for someone who defied simple gender categorization.
One of the Pollis, a woman named Mai according to her delicate name pin, came rushing over to serve me. Her eyes did a quick, professional, but ultimately dismissive, scan of my sweat-dampened jogging clothes. She started to say, “I think you, ha- probably have the wrong place.”
The Clam in the pink suit spoke up, his voice a melodious baritone that cut through the quiet. “Now, Mai,” they chided gently. “I believe this is Nanda.” He came over to me, and unlike Sarker, there was not a hint of condescension in his bright, intelligent eyes, only keen interest.
“I have just gotten off the com with Sarker,” he said, offering a perfectly manicured hand. “She said we should be expecting you for a large rush job.” He smiled, a genuine, welcoming expression. “I am Marcel. Pleased to meet you, Nanda.”
Then, he clapped his hands together sharply, the sound echoing in the hushed space. “Now, people, we have work to do! Mai, lock the door. We are not to be disturbed.” They began ushering the staff with the effortless authority of a conductor, a flurry of quiet instructions until everyone was poised and ready.
“Mai, get Nanda a cup of leaf while she slips out of her… rags,” Marcel said, turning to me with a mischievous smirk that took any real sting out of the word.
I already liked him. His almost rude charm was direct and honest, a refreshing change from the morning's hypocrisy. Marcel was the undisputed queen bee, and the others were his devoted workers.
“Mai, you shall be the scribe. Joan, you shall fetch. You other two shall assist.”
Marcel guided me to a raised circular platform in the middle of the shop. I stepped up, feeling suddenly exposed. He produced a measuring tape and started calling out numbers "Shoulder to wrist, 58 centimetres! Inseam, 74!"-which Mai diligently recorded. At the same time, Marcel was a whirlwind of creativity, calling for specific items. “The emerald clutch, no, the darker green one! The pearls, but the long strand!” He held up jewels and bags against me with either a cry of joy or a sound of dismay, his eyes seeing a version of me that didn't exist yet.
He called for swatches of fabric in a dozen different textures and colours, holding them to my skin, his fingers prodding and assessing with a tailor's precision. For a moment, I felt almost like I was back at the clinic, a piece of meat to be measured and cut. Yet Marcel did it with such artistic grace and genuine warmth, treating me not as a problem to be solved, but as a canvas to be honoured. He was treating me like I was royalty, and for the first time all day, I felt a flicker of the person I might become.