Page 34 of Veinblood
She laughs. “No, there are hundreds of different countries, each with their own government. Sometimes they cooperate, sometimes they fight.” Ellie’s expression turns thoughtful. “Actually, that’s not so different from your world, is it? Meridian isn’t the only realm, right? You said your mom was from somewhere else. So you have different realms, different rulers, and I guess different conflicts and alliances.”
“I believe the scale may be different, and certainly our methods of communication are not like yours. How do they prevent conflicts from destroying everything?"
“They don’t sometimes. We’ve had wars that killed millionsof people. But we’ve also developed weapons so destructive that using them would destroy the entire world. So, there’s a sort of mutual assured destruction kind of balance. It’s too dangerous to fight, but also too important not to compete.”
“Using mutual annihilation as a deterrent seems a strange way to avoid war.”
“I suppose it is, but it doesn’t stop smaller conflicts. Or prevent people from finding other ways to hurt each other.” She straightens in her seat. “This is our stop.”
The train hisses to a stop, and the doors slide open. We follow the flow of people outside, and Ellie turns toward a path where there is a row of yellow vehicles.
“These are cabs. We pay the driver to take us to wherever we want to go.”
She opens the door and climbs inside onto a long bench seat. I join her, copying as she pulls a strange belt across her body. She shows me how to clip the end into the slot in the seat, then leans forward to speak to the man at the front.
He replies, and then thecabrolls forward.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I study the buildings as they become smaller, designed more for function over form. It reminds me of towns and cities controlled by the Authority.
“Institutional control through environment.” I say the thought out loud.
She frowns at me. “What do you mean?”
“In Meridian, Authority buildings follow similar principles.Serve basic needs. Minimize cost. Ignore human comfort.” I turn to look at her. “If you make people feel temporary and replaceable, then it’s harder for them to form attachments or organize resistance.”
She blinks, then looks beyond me to the world outside with wide eyes. “I’ve never … do you think it’s intentional?”
“Possibly not to begin with. But effective regardless.”
When the vehicle stops, Ellie hands the driver folded pieces of paper, then opens the door. The building in front of us is three stories high. There’s a sign on the wall beside the door, which I assume states what the building’s function is.
“This is it.” Her voice is quiet.
I study her face, noting the tension around her eyes, the way her breathing has turned more erratic.
“We can approach this however you find most comfortable.”
She nods, and takes a deep breath. “Let’s go inside.”
The entrance reminds me of Authority buildings in Ashenvale. A space designed to process people, rather than comfort them. The lighting above our heads eliminates shadows completely, but also removes any sense of warmth. The floors are covered in material that appears to have been chosen for ease of cleaning. Everything smells of something sharp, cleaning supplies maybe.
Beside me, Ellie’s posture changes a little. Her shoulders are straighter, her expression guarded. A defensive stance learned here, and now being triggered by memory and herreturn. I want to reach out and comfort her, but I’m not certain it would be appreciated.
There is a woman sitting at a table near the entrance, and she looks up when we walk toward her. I position myself where I can watch while Ellie moves closer. The woman’s gaze flicks to me briefly, then switches to Ellie.
Their conversation is brief. Ellie’s voice is soft, nervous, lacking the confidence it has when she talks to me, while the woman’s is sharp. Ellie’s shoulders sag, and she says something else, then starts to turn away. The woman watches her for a second, then glances around nervously, before speaking again. She pulls out a sheet of parchment and writes on it, before sliding it across the table toward Ellie.
Ellie’s face transforms, a smile curving up her lips and chasing away the disappointment of seconds ago. She speaks once more, then turns to me.
“Mrs. Patterson, who ran the place when I lived here, died three years ago. But there’s someone else. Mrs. Clancy. She worked here for over twenty years and might remember me. The woman gave me her address.”
“She seemed reluctant.”
“Privacy policies. Staff information is supposed to be confidential.” Ellie studies the paper in her hand. “But she said that Mrs. Clancy often gets visits from kids who aged out.”
“That’s good. It means she wants to help, despite protocol.”
