He looked too tall for his skinny waist and torso. Unlike a few of his family members, he had hit puberty just before the invasion hit and had experienced his growth spurt before their meals were drastically reduced. But he hated how worn down he had been reduced to. The outfit made him look less sickly, more put together and not drowning in oversized clothes, but his face. His brown skin sunk slightly at his cheekbones and underneath his eyes. He found himself wandering to the sink and splashing what he assumed was water onto his face, desperately rubbing some life back into his ashen features.

He had never thought about his hair, either. It was black and scraggly and wild, nothing like Christine’s maintained curls or Gabriella’s straight locks. What had Wrose thought when he saw a washed-up teenager standing in the staff room, speaking half-baked Rwequekian?

Using some more water, Mitchel tried taming his hair back and combing it with his fingers, so it didn’t quite fall in front of his forehead like before.

Mitchel tried to smile with his now brighter cheeks and partially tamed hair. It ended up just looking awkward, but for him it was enough of a win.

Nice. He gave himself a thumbs up of encouragement.

Mitchel forced himself away from the mirror and picked up his old clothes, placing them into the suitcase he had found resting near the open closet, and shut the container with a satisfying click.

You’ve got this, Mitch.

Winston’s voice echoed through his mind. The grace of his hand, the heat of him resting on Mitchel’s shoulder, his all lips smile. Memories resonated and laid the beast in his stomach to rest.

You’re going to be ok.

Mitchel straightened, securing a confident look on his face, before pressing a button that shot the door open.

Wrose was back at the table with a stick of food in his mouth and nodding along to what another Rwequek was saying.

“That sounds good. As long as it’s done in the next few hours, I see no problem,” Wrose told the male Rwequek, sporting a similar outfit to Mitchel.

Once the Rwequek bowed his head and left, Wrose swallowed the last of his food and began to walk to one of the mahogany doors.

“If you would wait for one more moment, I need to retrieve something from my own room,” Wrose said. “The uniform suits you.”

His room… Mitchel thought. His confusion must have been apparent on his face, because Wrose commented on it as soon as resurfaced into the staff room.

“Is there an issue?” Wrose asked as he began moving forward towards the heavily trafficked door.

Mitchel followed behind him, gazing into the glossy black hallway. Twin hallways split left and right of him, forming a rounded shape that he could not see the end of.

“I thought you were—” he blurted, mortification halting his words.

“Yes?” Wrose mused. “You can’t stop now that you’ve intrigued me.”

“I thought you were a noble as well,” Mitchel finished lamely.

Wrose let out a badly smothered chuckle.

“Didn’t expect me to be living here?” he clarified. He continued after Mitchel nodded. “No, I do not have any superior lineage. I am only an attendant, no interesting background. Just a humble soldier that piqued the interest of the 3rd Alforah’s son.”

Mitchel settled into Wrose’s brisk pace by his side and watched out the windows as they passed.

“Is that what nobility means? Lineage, not… accomplishments?” Mitchel asked lightly.

Restraining his buzzing curiosity was becoming difficult, but it seemed like Wrose did not mind much.

“I suppose this is an important topic for us to debrief, before you meet the head Alforah,” Wrose turned to him, catching his gaze. “Do you understand Rwequekian honorifics?”

Mitchel considered this for a moment. A moment too long it seemed as Wrose continued onwards.

“The Rwequek custom is to introduce yourself with your generation number, your house, and your family line. It tells the people around you how close in lineage you are with the Taej.” Wrose explained. He placed a hand over his chest and bowed his head slightly. “I am the 37th Generation of the Mercos House, 5th of my line.”

Wrose lifted his head with a side smile. “But that’s a little rigid, no? After I have acknowledged my rank, my acquaintances choose to call me Wrose, my given name.”

He stopped as they reached the threshold of a huge, circular room. Mitchel tried not to be so heavily distracted by the new scenery as Wrose stood before him.

“And as you are now a member of this household, you may speak my given name freely. Though, I do not think some Rwequeks will understand this, so I ask you to call me 37th Mercos or the general honorific ‘sir’ if there are others around.”

Mitchel’s eyes widened, surprised with this development. He didn’t see himself saying “Wrose” out loud anytime soon, but the fact that the Rwequek gave him permission only heightened Mitchel’s intrigue. If this was the Rwequek he was stuck to work alongside with, Mitchel could survive here.

Wrose turned on his feet and walked into the open room.

“This is the dining room,” he explained as he walked ahead, “The head Alforah will host political banquets here. That is what you will be helping with tonight.”

Immediately, Mitchel’s eyes were drawn upwards. The sleek black framing that supported the circular room converged into a dome. A lattice work of white beams was finished with gold and caught the light that filtered through the ceiling. Spots where the roof had not been replaced with clear windows were painted a deep navy blue as if it were a backdrop for the evening sky. Etched into the sides of the walls, small rectangular lights glowed a soft white light. Mitchel imagined that with the lights off and the stars flickering above, the room looked would look beautiful at night.

“On normal days, you won’t have to do something as formal as this. As you know, you will be working for the 3rd Generation of the Alforah, the owner of this residence and director of your Faction 117 and the greater District D. 3rd Alforah will be constantly going to meetings, dealing with disputes, and making improvements with our system. Your interpretations during these events will be immeasurable.”

Wrose gave Mitchel some space and instead stuck to the opposite side of the table, where he looked at the rest of the displayed items.

An assortment of stark red memorabilia was displayed across the walls on top of a long stretch of cabinets. A chord similar to the one around Wrose’s neck hung proudly next to a detailed box that had no clear purpose. A beaten helmet with gashes and tears was propped proudly in a case, with a small description indicating that it was from The First Interspace War. Beside it, a glittery array of space rocks caught the gleam of the overhead light. Their descriptions were illegible to Mitchel, though he tried to imagine them coming from far away planets or asteroids or moons. He had the urge to pick them up, to feel the materials of places he would never reach, but he refrained from doing so. Even though Wrose had showed exceptional kindness through their encounter, Mitchel did not want to push his luck if he ended up breaking anything.

A model of a spaceship rested on a stand. Mitchel knew that Annie would have been enthralled by the detailed pieces depicting the advanced engineering of the ship, but something else had caught Mitchel’s eye. Ingrained into the cabinet itself was a long line of Rwequekian, bordering the arrangement of memorabilia. Many of the words were unfamiliar to Mitchel, but he tried branding the unique Rwequekian script to his memory. The ending line of the script was basic enough that he could understand:

Strong Ties,

Hold us together,

Crafted from the stars,

Unending.

He itched for his language journal. He would remind himself to bring it along with him tomorrow.

“Over here is our assortment of Rwequekian literature,” Wrose called.

Say no more, Mitchel thought as he rounded the table.

A long winding cabinet that was contiguous with the wall was home to hundreds of thin books. The thinness and type of material of the pages were the same as the manual Mitchel had stolen from a guard.

“Here you will find materials on every subject of Rwequek culture,” Wrose explained, “Although you will have to use your eyepiece for some translations, I hope this will be a useful source for you moving forward.”

“It’s perfect,” Mitchel mumbled, a smile coming and leaving in a moment. It was hard to forget that the Rwequek’s eyes were still on him.

“You must have questions,” Wrose smiled evenly. “Do not hesitate to ask them.”

What’s the difference between one’s generation and line?

Who is the Taej?

What is the Third Alforah like?

Why does he suddenly need an interpreter?

Is this all linked with this week’s lockdown?

It was difficult settling on a question, as each could throw off the calm atmosphere the two had created. He wanted to ask an important question to truly understand his place here in the Alforah manor, but questions passed so quickly in his mind that Mitchel asked the one resting on his tongue.

“Why would Rwequeks bother with printing books?” Mitchel asked, itching to have one in his hands. “Everything you need seems to be in your screens.”

Wrose paused in thought, looking to the sunroof for an answer.

“I suppose that is a valid point, as we are particularly efficient in our production,” Wrose hummed in thought, “But it has been apart of our culture since our conception.”

The Rwequek pulled out a book that looked older, less compact than the rest, and showed Mitchel the cover. Mitchel had considered himself more in tune with spoken Rwequekian than written, but he knew all of the Rwequekian characters they used to compose sentences. However, the title’s script was completely unknown and foreign to him, no matter how far back in his memory he tried to reach.

“I can’t read this,” Mitchel mumbled, almost sad at the development.

“I would be surprised if you could,” Wrose chuckled. “It’s it the birth of our language, the Rwequekian script before it was modernized by the Alforah House.”

Instantly, Mitchel’s eyes widened. Curiosity took over the constant mistrust clogged in his throat as he asked for the book. Wrose handed it to him and continued to speak as Mitchel skimmed its contents.

“Our Taej was the first to document life on our planet,” Wrose continued, “And when the House of Ulis was born, she gave them the job to preserve our history. Our Taej has recognized that each innovation we push towards is important to document, and even the ways of old have been kept alive.”

Wrose paused Mitchel’s page turning to point to one out a few of the Rwequekian words.

“Altrose and Salcos: Houses of production and craft. I am from the Mercos House— the house of exploration.”

Wrose was looking back up at the sunroof, as if he could see beyond the blue sky and into the stars that lie far beyond.

If Winston were here beside me, I’m be nothing but an interpreter, Mitchel mused. He’d ask me to ask Wrose so many questions, and I’d be parroting them for hours.

“And finally the Alforahs—” Wrose opened his arms, gesturing to the entirety of the room, “—are the House that cultivates our cultural progress.”

Cultural progress… Mitchel tried to reason with himself on just what that meant.

“Of course, these are arbitrary titles. There are hundreds of jobs to do to maintain a functioning government, but if you land a job in the pride of your family’s House, then it is revered as a great honor,” Wrose finished.

Mitchel mulled over this information.

I work for the Alforahs.

Wrose is a Mercos.

That bastard Mizar is a Salcos.

Yuen and Pax are Ulis.

And Cherzil… Mitchel frowned. I’m not sure what Cherzil is.

“I see…” Mitchel finally said, thinking he had been silent for too long.

Wrose checked the screen on his forearm and murmured something under his breath.

“Well, time has certainly flown by already,” he remarked, a tinge of exhaustion drawing out his words. “We will have to save the rest of your questions and the tour for later. For now, we’ll make our way to the planning room to meet the Third Alforah.”

The reality of meeting his true boss finally set in.

Mitchel followed Wrose back into the black hallway, going around in a counterclockwise fashion. They ended up at a closed red door, to which Wrose knocked lightly.

“Third Alforah?” he called. “I have the new interpreter with me to speak with you.”

This man could end you. This man could also save your family. 

You know how to talk professionally. Don’t say things you’ll end up regretting, no matter how berating or belittling he might turn out to be.

You have to be strong, and that means sucking up your pride for once.

“Come in,” came a booming voice. Mitchel still flinched slightly when the door opened straight up by itself, and then he was face to face with true Rwequek nobility.