The building isn’t towering like the ones they say are on Earth. It has a deceptive depth to it that contradicts the Old World skyscrapers, and it doesn’t reek of ego like Grant is sure the big cities of Earth do. Micah throws his son a suspiciously narrow-eyed look, which leads Grant to believe he may have said some of the last bit aloud. He shrugs sheepishly, and he receives a response by way of a complete 360 eye roll. “Come on, dad. I didn’t mean anything by it. You’re way too defensive of Earth.”

The acknowledgement seems to put Micah even further on the defense, but somehow on the other end of the spectrum than before. “I am not defending anything. I just think it’s a little uncalled for of you to toss around insults about a place you’ve never been to.” He sniffs, raising his head as if to say, Heed my word, son, for I am your superior. “Besides, I think your opinion is a little null. The only reason you know anything about Earth is because your dad’s an Old World historian.”

It’s Grant’s turn to respond with an eyeroll. “Speaking of which, don’t you have some history things to be doing? I don’t think Misa will appreciate you being late again.”

Micah’s eyes widen comically as if, despite constantly bragging about his job, he’s forgotten he has a career at all. “Oh, shit-and-a-half, you’re right,” Micah pats the side of Grant’s face lightly, eyes dancing with a pride Grant is familiar with. “Good luck. I hope everything works out how you want it to.” His lips quirk up. “And don’t forget to pick up your communicator! You know I expect you to send me subspace messages!”

Grant, fond but exasperated by the attention, shakes off his dad with a shrug, to which Micah laughs heartily. “Thanks, dad,” For all the fight he puts up, he really does appreciate his dad. “I’ll stop by after I’m done with my errands, yeah?”

Micah begins to walk backwards, that silly grin still plastered against his face. “You do that! I’ll be wading in artifacts by then, but I’m sure I can find something cool for you to look at.” Here, he turns on his heel and starts on down the street, which has transitioned from its prior dirt path to a white, clean-cut metal one; as he moves down the road, each step looks light, which Grant attributes to the almost shock-absorbant property of the indigenous element. It looks kind of funny, actually, because Micah walks with a bounce in his step in normal conditions, so the visual makes it seem like his dad is bouncing down the walkway.

With a vague little grin on his face, Grant turns toward the door of the building (and what a ridiculous obstacle it is, with its obvious symbolism of trepidation and the face of the city’s Malenite minister pasted, lopsided, to the inside of the door. How strangely… childish). The door itself is a clear aluminum, so he can clearly tell that there isn’t a line to speak with Admissions, and for that Grant sighs in relief as he depresses the buzzer on the door to request entry.

There is barely a second of waiting. The door slides open so quickly and abruptly that it startles Grant back a couple of steps. Shaking his head with the beginnings of a laugh stuck in his throat, he pushes forward and to the front desk, where a person with two pairs of eyes blinks up at him. “Are you here to apply to the LLCAPD?”

Grant smiles faintly, feeling somewhat awkward in this thick, professional atmosphere. The LLCAPD is such a mouthful, but he supposes it’s much better than its un-truncated name (which is, very to the point, Little Lone City Astronomy and Physics Department). Sometimes he wonders why the name couldn’t be catchier or shorter, but the Malenites are a very literal people, and Sha-kai -- the Ad Hoc Minister herself -- is no different. She’s young, even for her race, to be leading an entire city, but she’s no-nonsense about all the significant things and appropriately indifferent about the finer, pettier details. It really is no wonder the astrophysics department is named in such a straightforward manner. “Ah,” Grant can’t help but stutter, “I am.”

Here, the secretary holds out a long-fingered hand, and even though he feels so unsure Grant has no question about what he’s requesting; he places his wrist within the man’s grasp with no hesitation. “I will now scan and input your identity into the system,” he states, monotonous and bland in a way that suggests he says this very often. “Please refrain from moving.”

With an effortless flick of his wrist, he yanks Grant’s hand forward and under a small, thin clamp that clicks shut and tightens lightly to accommodate the circumference of his wrist. A dull tone sounds after a moment’s pause and then the clamp releases Grant’s wrist. There is a tiny, target-shaped splotch of red in the center. As the process is commonplace when making any sort of transaction, Grant knows that the spot is only an implication that the device was able to receive a sample of his DNA.

“Admissioner P’Lana will see you now.”

Grant nods in acknowledgement before rounding the clear desk and walking to the equally-clear door leading to the office beyond. He rubs at the slightly irritated skin of his wrist, nervous. He’s scared - just a little bit - of what P’Lana might say. She is the public representative of the department’s council, after all -- the best impression Grant can make overall lies in just how much the older woman can tolerate him. Grant’s approach to the door causes them to slide open, and that only unnerves him further; her face is stoic and lined, her posture is impeccably professional, and her eyes are critically analyzing his data that appears to be, if the pinging sound is anything to go by, being electronically sent to her desk interface.

“It says here, Vonté, that you have never been in a position of significant leadership.” Her lips curl condescendingly, and the vision makes Grant’s blood run cold as he takes the verbal beating. By now he has approached the desk and is standing with his hands latched behind his back. “In addition, you appear to have very little reputation to go on. How do you expect to lead a starship if you cannot even make a connection on a personal basis? How do you expecf anyone to respect you?”

While the words sting with every jab, Grant rolls with the punches. He know that, in the end, she’s right -- he doesn’t really have anyone he would legitimately consider a friend. He has acquaintances, sure, but what sort of person has no true friends? How stupid of him to believe that his personal inadequacies would be overlooked simply because he wanted it enough.

She snorts, an indecent and unprofessional sound the turns Grant’s stomach even more. “And here,” she cites, highlighting a large portion of the data on her interface and projecting it upward into a holo; the article throws an eerie blue light over both of their faces. “You were prescribed an anxiety booster from your MD to ease symptoms of,” and it’s here that she quotes, “‘Jumpiness and severe paranoia.’ He even added a note at the bottom that your chronic shaking only ceased after your first booster.” She sends Grant that same little smile from before. He just barely fights the sneer off his face at the unfair acknowledgement of his medical history. “And yet you expect me to put you into a position of power over a group of impressionable officers.” She scoffs. “Laughable. Though, I do applaud your socred.”

His socred, or social credit. That’s all she can compliment him on.

“Now, Grant, I would be willing to give you a chance.” This causes Grant to perk up. For the first time since entering this hellish office, he doesn’t feel like his entire existence is being questioned. A smile begins to form unbidden on his face, and he opens his mouth to thank her, but then-

Then she raises her hand to silence him, eyes full of a regret that hadn’t been there before. “I would give you a chance if I could. But your records have a clear and strict probation from APD service.”

He doesn’t quite understand the words, even though he’s certain she’s still speaking in Standard. There’s a sound rushing through his ears, something akin to rushing water or heavy wind speeds, and she keeps talking but Grant can’t hear her anymore. He can’t even focus on reading her lips because his vision is blurring, bubbling up like he’s trying to look at something through an unfocused scope. His eyes and throat are burning. Even if he tried, Grant isn’t certain he would be able to utter even a syllable through the lump clogging his airways.

He tries, though. “What - I mean, how… what do you mean?”

P’Lana looks sympathetic, which isn’t right. He preferred it when she was voicing empty insults about his character and looking at him like he was unbelievably unfit to be a captain. Now her eyes are wells of pity, and it makes Grant tired because he just, he really doesn’t understand, why is this happening to him? He did everything right and by the book since the day he learned how to read and this… doesn’t make sense. None of this is right.

“I’m afraid it is, Grant.” P’Lana answers, and he jolts because at first he thinks she’s digging around in his thoughts, but then it’s clear that he was speaking out loud again. He swipes viciously at the tears falling freely down his his chin. He hates that he’s having a breakdown in front of the Admissioner, but he can’t leave before she laughs and tells him this is all some cruel prank. “It says here that the Rogue Mairne Vonté is your mother.” She glances tellingly up at Grant. “The officials in charge of her capture have implemented the probation as a sort of… incentive to lure Mairne back to Molt and into a capture.”

Grant is at a total loss for words. “How long?” He asks, voice flat.

“I’m afraid the probation is in place until Mairne has faced a traditional Moltesian trial and put into custody of the province. I’m sorry, Grant.”

Grant nods numbly as he turns to go. Just before he turns all the way, though, he pauses with his face turned to one of the four bare walls. “You knew as soon as my information was sent to your terminal, and yet you still ripped into me. You knew I had no chance of being in the program even if you wanted me to be in it. I guess I’m just curious why you would go to all the trouble to hurt me worse than was necessary.” His voice is harsh and bitter, which is probably what shocks P’Lana’s eyebrows up to her hairline.

But instead of snapping back, her lips curl up on the sides into a tiny, unoffended smile. “I don’t usually get to see an applicant’s backbone until they walk away. It’s a loss to this department that the one to finally offer it willingly is the one I’m forced to turn away.” She clicks her terminal interface away from Grant’s records and to something a little more innocuous. The dismissal is clear, but Grant doesn’t budge, silently urging the Admissioner to answer him.

After a few beats of silence, though, it’s clear she has nothing left to say to him. Halting, he turns to leave.

“I did it,” P’Lana begins, eyes still glued to her interface. “Because you can handle it.” She eyes him through her thin lashes. “And because a great Captain would overcome any trial to protect his ship.”

Contemplatively and without even a backwards glance, Grant leaves the room.

~ . . . ~

He considers, at first, just going home. He can sleep or play a game with the AI, or maybe indulge in comfort eating. He could take a freezing bath to cool him off and take his mind off of the destruction of all his future plans.

Grant had goals that could last an entire lifetime plus some. Before he stepped foot in the Admissioner’s office, he couldn't wait to be able to just live. His life was going to be this elaborate adventure of traversing space and time, of discovering solar systems and naming celestial anomalies, of being and becoming one with the idea he claimed to his destiny.

And maybe it was naive to think that he would be allowed to have everything he wanted, but this... this is different. His probation isn't even his fault. He can't fix it by being good or an ideal civilian or any number of redeeming activities because he isn't being punished for something he did -- he's being punished for his mom going unexpectedly Rogue, for his mom essentially abandoning him and his dad, and she ruined everything.

Grant kicks the wall outside of the building. It's a lot busier outside now, people bustling about to make it to work on time, but even with the odd looks he's getting Grant doesn't so much as glance up from where he's staring blankly at the ridiculous  sticker of Minister Sha-kai.

Even with the knowledge that she wasn't alive when this asinine probation was likely implemented (on an infant, no less! What a way to assuage a child's pain at being abandoned by a parent!), he feels no less personally affronted by her; the need  to put blame to a face he's familiar with is so strong.

He turns on his heel and walks. He's certain the people parting around him are shooting him concerned and anxious looks. Let them stare. Grant walks and walks and walks, and when the crowd dissipates into a less busy quadrant of the city, he jogs, and before he knows it he's entering into a building with civilians aimlessly tapping away on their mobile interfaces around a moderately busy waiting area.

He's in the Mian Hoc building, that much is obvious (and not only because the detailing to the architecture extends to an intricately engraved "Mian Hoc" across the top of one low-ceiling wall). Grant has been here too many times to count, mostly with his dad, sometimes by himself, but never with such foggy, unclear intentions. He almost leaves.

But something about the male Nevitian sitting in the corner of the room, alone, really bothers him. There are plenty of people standing and squashed up together on extended seats, but it seems no one considered the very clearly empty seat next to the Nevitian. Maybe he's dangerous, or mean, or rude. None of these possibilities deter Grant as he approaches, slow and still so heavily in shock; no, in fact, the idea intrigues him.

He could certainly benefit from an excitement that doesn't make him feel empty inside.