Subordinance

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

The warehouse is a squat, sturdy-looking building that looks like it could withstand a nuclear bomb.

Which, judging from the surroundings, it probably has.

It’s in an obscure location, looking as if it’d been out in the glaring open from across the crater, but once we’d made our way around the toxic hole, it disappeared in a magic trick of well-thought out angles and natural defense. Very well guarded—that is, until you found it. Then that defense mechanism crumbles and leaves behind fragments of man-made defense; the fence is in shambles, rusted wire curling aware from the dented frame and twisting upwards in jagged spires. We warily prop the ancient gate against another section of the fence, the door directly ahead of us. There are no scanners, no separate entrances or lines for Subordinates and Purebloods.

In a way, it is kind of liberating.

The Quadrant Officer knocks solidly against the bolted metal door, a panel sliding away to reveal the gruff, unshaven face of a man with bloodshot eyes and a snubbish nose.

“Eh?” he says, his face expressionless. His lip curls slightly.

“We’re Scouts from the Kappa Base. We were told to Scout a potential AirTram circuit route from the Base to this location.” The man’s eyes bug slightly, scarlet veins blurring against a clouded pink background. His face quickly slips back to his previously flat expression, so quickly that I almost doubt it ever changed. “Were you notified? We’ll be spending the night.” The Quadrant Officer looks amiably at the man, and through their stares a silent conversation is taking place. The unshaven man concedes with a wordless grunt, the panel sliding back into place and accompanied by the sound of many locks and tumblers shifting. The door slides into the wall with a hiss and screech of protesting metal.

“Thank you,” the Quadrant Officer replies, walking into the warehouse with the confidence of someone who’d been there before. But when would he have?

Maybe it was part of the job.

The man who’d opened the door stands off to the left, short and stocky, with a greasy-looking shaggy buzz and a faded, rumpled uniform sitting slightly askew on his shoulders. He nods at the Quadrant Officer, motioning towards him with nothing more than a jerk of his head and a grunt.

He seems to enjoy doing that.

I catch nothing more than the slight changes in intonation throughout the entirety of their minute-long exchange. Both their expressions remain impassive, the eyes of the Quadrant Officer frosted yet again with reserve. He bobs his head slightly with the words he receives, replying with only a muttered phrase before straightening his shoulders and letting the shorter man cross in front of us.

“You guys want dinner?” The tone of his voice suggests that he does.

I check my watch, slightly baffled it had taken us that long to reach the warehouse; I’d felt it’d passed in an hour or two rather than the entire day. As the man turns, we follow him down a series of utilitarian metal-and-concrete corridors lit with shoddy fluorescent lights that flicker every so often. The mess hall fans out in circle at the center of the hallways, seemingly doubling as a meeting area for the warehouse, judging from the gathered group talking in hushed voices at one of the tables. Their conversation drops off at the end as they stand to greet us.

A man with mixed grey eyes steps forward, much older than the typical Subordinate; his cropped hair was shaded in hues of grey, the dark stubble on his chin pockmarked with whitened splotches. “Ah, the Kappa Scouts have arrived. I take it that the mission was successful?” His face lifts with a light expression, his stance comfortable and welcoming. “You all are more company than we’ve had in a while. I hope you’ll enjoy your respite from Scouting and ration packets while staying here.” He smiles, his grandfatherly aura dissipating whatever tension there’d been in the room to vapors. He goes to each of us and clasps our hands in a somewhat formal, slightly archaic greeting leftover from pre-Old War culture. He reaches for my hand and meets my eyes, the ready smile freezing in the bow of his mouth and the smoke of his eyes twisting in a conflicted and utterly unreadable emotion.