The twin iron doors groaned open under the wardens' silent gaze. Alan stepped inside, flanked by Elias, their footsteps echoing faintly into the cavernous atrium. Above, rusted iron chandeliers swayed ever so slightly, suspended from an exposed lattice of copper piping and brass ducts that weaved like arteries through the stone ceiling.
Feels like I'm walking into a bunker. Then again... that's exactly what this is, isn't it? A bunker for license.
The chill of the place brushed against Alan's neck like fingers of warning. Ahead, he caught sight of a row of heavy wooden counters caged in black iron grilles, manned by tired clerks in stiff uniforms. Long benches lined with bronze railings guided a slow-moving line of petitioners with pale eyes and shaking hands.
Elias tilted his head toward the far right hallway. "Come on. We're not going through the public hall."
Alan blinked. "Why? Can't we just get the license here?"
Elias didn't break stride. "If you want to wait three days while they log your file and burn a candle for every form, be my guest. But your mission starts tomorrow. No time to waste."
Alan followed, frowning, his boots clacking up a metal stairwell that spiraled tightly around a central pipe column. They climbed to the third floor, where a narrow corridor ended in a featureless iron door with a single horizontal slit. Elias halted, reaching into the inner lining of his coat.
He pulled out a crumpled slip of parchment, black ink faded around strange looping sigils. A Night Clerk referral, sealed in blood-red wax and marked with an encoded crest that writhed ever so slightly when the light caught it.
What… is that?
Without a word, Elias slipped it through the slit.
For a moment, nothing.
Then a pair of gloved fingers slid the paper in from the other side. Click. The door unlocked.
It creaked open to reveal a figure in a sleeveless mantle with a high, ridged collar bleached bone-white. Their face was a solid sheet of metal, no eyes, no features, only silence. A wax emblem in the shape of a closed eye burned red on the chestplate. Chainmail gloves glinted faintly as they gestured.
Why all this secrecy? Elias never mentioned anything about this…
"Follow," the figure said, their voice a hollow monotone, each word slightly off, like a phonograph playing a hair too slow.
They descended one floor, heading northeast. The hallway narrowed, lights dimmed. Pipes hissed softly in the walls, releasing brief clouds of scented steam. At last, they stopped before a plain wooden door. The masked figure turned and spoke again with mechanical precision.
"Enter for verification."
Alan looked sidelong at Elias, brow furrowed. "So... we're going in?"
Elias gave a calm nod. "Yes. I'm with you."
They stepped inside. The sound vanished the instant the door shut, thick padded walls swallowed everything. A pair of masked individuals sat behind a wide wooden counter, each in matching white mantles.
Their masks bore no mouth slits, no visible means of speech. Still, the voice emerged from them, unmoving and uncanny.
"Seat yourself. We will begin the interview."
The guide closed the door behind them and remained, still and imposing, like a statue guarding a tomb.
Alan swallowed and took the seat opposite the two figures. Elias remained behind him, silent, arms crossed behind his back. Alan glanced up at him.
"So I'm the only one being tested?" he asked, his voice quiet. "Why are you here then?"
"I've already passed mine years ago," Elias replied softly. "I'm here to guide. And to make sure they don't... overstep."
Alan gave a shallow nod and tried to steady his breath.
"All right."
The two masked figures spoke in eerie synchrony, their tone void of any natural cadence.
"Are you Alan Moriarty? New member of the Night Clerks?"
Alan straightened in his chair, pressing his palms flat against his thighs to keep them from trembling. His eyes sharpened, tone turning resolute.
"Yes. I am."
One of the figures leaned slightly forward.
"We will be asking questions. You must answer based on your own experience. Lies are... reactive here."
Alan felt a ripple crawl across the base of his spine.
What does that even mean... reactive?
The two masked figures spoke again, their voices perfectly synchronized and stripped of emotions.
"Blue light means truth. Red means false."
A soft, cold blue glow pulsed behind the desk, as if something ancient had just opened its eye.
Alan shifted in his chair, fingers tightening on the edge of the seat.
Isn't this a bit much? I've only been a Night Clerk for a few hours…
The blue light shimmered again.
"Truth."
Their tones didn't rise or fall, it was as if they were narrating.
"Thoughts can be heard here. First question: Have you been in any missions?"
Alan stiffened. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple.
Wait... did they just read my thoughts? Should I say something? Just answer, Alan...
He swallowed and forced his voice steady.
"No. I haven't. I've only been a Night Clerk for a few hours. My first mission is tomorrow."
The blue glow flickered once again, brighter, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
"Truth."
The one on the left tilted its head with a soft click of metal shifting against metal.
"Second question: What Shape do you have?"
Alan hesitated, eyes flicking between them.
Why do they need that? The Roamer Shape shouldn't be public knowledge yet… Should it?
But the blue glow answered for him before he could speak.
"Truth."
The second figure leaned forward imperceptibly.
"Last question: Are you willing to hide this... even if it is beyond your morality, beyond your understanding of justice, or your sense of human obligation?"
Alan's heart skipped a beat.
What kind of question is that? What do they expect me to say? That I'm willing to betray everything just to keep secrets?
He parted his lips, but no real answer came, only a vague, nervous murmur.
"I... I'll do what I have to."
The lights behind them stuttered violently. Blue. Then red. Then both.
A sickly violet bled into the air before settling back into silence.
One of the figures announced, voice warped slightly, like a ripple through water.
"Half-truth. Third question has been answered... half-truth."
The other turned to Elias, unmoving in his posture, but its voice came faster this time.
"Is he willing to hide this, even if it is beyond his morality, justice, and human obligation?"
Alan turned slightly in his seat, eyes searching Elias's unreadable expression.
Elias didn't hesitate. He looked directly at the masked interrogator, his tone sharp and resolute.
"Yes. I'll take responsibility, for myself and for him."
Blue light pulsed once, strong and clear.
The figures spoke again in unison.
"Verification complete. Three primary questions and two reactive questions answered. Proceed to the third step."
Alan slowly stood, his legs slightly stiff from tension. He turned to Elias, brow furrowed.
"That's it?" he asked, voice low with disbelief.
Elias gave a single, composed nod.
Behind them, the masked guide opened the door with a motion so fluid it barely seemed human.
"Follow me to the third step."
Alan hesitated for just a second, gaze flicking between the silent interrogators and the departing guide.
He knew this would happen. All of it. The questions, the answers... it's like he's done this with them before.
Elias turned, giving Alan a small, reassuring glance.
"Let's go."
Alan exhaled slowly, shoulders easing.
"Alright."
They stepped through the door, into whatever came next.
Alan followed closely behind Elias as they descended a creaking spiral staircase, the masked man's footsteps echoing ahead like distant clockwork. The hall grew colder the farther they went, shadows clinging tighter to the corners. They reached the ground floor, passing several dimly lit corridors before stopping in front of a booth sealed behind a heavy iron door.
A faded brass plate above it read: 0.
The masked man raised a pale, gloved hand and spoke with the same uncanny rhythm as before.
"Here."
The door groaned open, revealing a small office space dimly lit by a flickering ceiling bulb. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, oil, and cheap coffee.
Behind the counter sat a man who was immediately different from the others. He reclined casually in a steel chair, a steaming mug in one hand and a polished revolver in the other. His coat was deep black leather, reinforced at the shoulders and collar. Mirrored glasses hid his eyes, but his grin was visible beneath a faint five-o'clock shadow.
"Ahhh... hello," the officer said smoothly, tilting his mug toward them. "Take a seat. Let's begin the third step."
He shifted slightly, his coat creaking with the movement, then turned his head to Elias. His voice softened, touched with a familiarity that didn't quite match the cold room.
"It's been a while, Elias. How've you been? The Night Clerks treating you alright?"
Elias gave a slight smile, stepping forward with calm purpose.
"I'm doing fine. Just here to watch over our new recruit."
Alan blinked, eyes bouncing between the two like a spectator to a conversation he wasn't meant to hear.
They know each other… So that's why Elias walked through all this like it was routine.
He stepped forward, adjusting his posture to appear more confident than he felt.
"Hello, sir. I'm Alan Moriarty. New recruit of the Night Clerks. I'm here for the interview."
The officer sat upright, placing the revolver gently on the desk.
"Well then, Alan Moriarty," he said with a small smile. "Let's begin."
He took a sip from his mug and continued.
"First question, why do you need a weapon?"
Alan drew a breath, his voice clear and firm.
"To protect myself. And to complete my mission."
The officer's mouth curled into a grin.
"Hah. Probably something Mercellus taught you. Still…" he tapped the rim of his mug, "That's what Florence Graye answered too."
Alan blinked.
Wait. Florence Graye? She said the same thing? The girl who screamed like a vendor trying to get attention That's… unexpected.
The officer leaned forward now, elbows resting on the desk.
"Alright, next question. Are you familiar with the containment procedures?"
Alan opened his mouth.
"No," he said immediately.
Then froze.
Wait... what? I didn't mean to answer that yet. I didn't even think it through. Why did I just… speak?