Roenan sat in a small, bright office that looked a little too modern for the rest of the building. The walls were a muted tan, and the dark wood and deep blue of the desk, cabinets, and chairs echoed the color scheme of the common room outside.

In the far corner, a guard stood like a statue — stiff-backed in a dark-blue military uniform, with a tan cap pulled low over light brown eyes. Roenan caught a flash of color, which was the rows of medals gleaming across the man's chest. He was a high ranking Vernajjian, no doubt, and he remained completely motionless as Roenan slowly made his way into the room.

Behind the desk sat an older man, who was sterner-looking, and hidden partly behind wire-thin spectacles. His salt-and-pepper hair framed a sharp face and a moustache that seemed as rigid as his posture. His dark eyes pinned Roenan to the spot.

He barked a word, "Juznt." With a sharp flick of his hand, he gestured Roenan to the seat in front of him. He hesitated, before he walked forward. A toppled chair lay nearby, abandoned at an awkward angle, and Roenan had the idea that Saive had made a grand exit.

He picked it up, righted it, and slid into the seat across from the man. 

Without delay, the man slid a thick stack of paperwork toward him and launched into rapid-fire Vernajjian. Roenan blinked at him in confusion, his mouth opening slightly. The man paused, dropped a pen onto the stack, and turned his attention to his own documents.

“Um... I don’t—” Roenan began, but the he man cut him off with a sharp signing gesture.

“No, I know that,” Roenan muttered, squinting at the golden nametag pinned to his chest. “Captain Klonjerikk…?” he ventured. “But I can’t read this. I only know Jaedan.”

The captain’s eyes flashed with contempt. He plucked the pen from the pile, shoved it back into its holder, and extended his hand—palm up.

“Mannt.”

Hand, Roenan recalled. The word clicked, a memory flashing from not long ago to when Drakke was teaching him Vernajjian words about anatomy. He had chosen to do it in a humorous and shamless way, slipping in quite a few inappropriate references. The entertainment of it had actually made the terms stick more memorably for Roenan.

He cautiously placed his hand into Klonjerikk’s palm.

Without warning, the captain yanked his arm forward, forcing Roenan halfway out of his seat. From under the desk, he drew a small knife and slashed across Roenan’s pointer finger.

A sharp noise of protest escaped Roenan as he recoiled back, cradling his bleeding hand.

Klonjerikk made signing motion—now with his finger—then returned to his paperwork, unfazed.

Roenan burned with fury and he wanted nothing more than to throttle the man where he sat. But he forced himself to breathe. The cut wasn't shallow and it throbbed warmly with a searing pain. 

He caught the dripping blood in the palm of his hand as he shifted his glare from the man's face to the paperwork in front of him, eyes skimming the signature lines waiting at the bottom of each page.

He began signing the documents one-handed, dragging his bleeding finger across each line. He flipped through the pages with growing speed. By the last one—thirty or so pages in—the blood had slowed and dried. When his finger left no mark, he looked up at Klonjerikk, who was watching him over the rim of his spectacles. As Klonjerikk reached toward where the knife had been, Roenan quickly slammed his bloodied palm onto the page.

The guard suddenly moved.

Roenan tensed, bracing for retaliation, but the man merely collected the stack, methodically checking each page as he walked to a filing cabinet.

Klonjerikk stood and adjusted a camera mounted on a tall tripod. Then he barked more instructions in Vernajjian, gesturing sharply at Roenan.

Roenan let out a dry, bitter laugh. I still don't understand what you're fucking saying, he thought, staring at the man before him with blantant irritation.

Klonjerikk dragged a hand across his face, exasperated, and snapped something at the guard. In an instant, rough fingers seized Roenan’s upper arms and slammed him against the wall.

"What the hell?" Roenan gasped in shock, squirming in the man's grip. The guard reached up and gripped Roenan's chin, jerking his face sideways so his profile was in frame.

"Stay," He commanded in tickly accented Jaedan.

He stepped back, and there was a flash. He returned and roughly rotated Roenan to face the other direction.

“Okay, I get it!” Roenan snapped.

There was another flash. 

Before the guard could manhandle him again, Roenan faced forward for the last shot. The final flash blinded him and he blinked his eyes, attempting to clear the afterimages.

“Juznt,” Klonjerikk demanded.

Roenan grudgingly returned to his seat, scowling.

Klonjerikk brought out a device that looked like the finger scanners on the doors, but it was wired to his computer instead. He gestured for Roenan to place his finger on the scanner, but he held up his cut finger in protest. 

He waved impatiently for him to use the other hand. Roenan placed his left finger on the scanner, feeling the warmth of the scan as the green light passed by. After, he obediently submitted to an eye scan.

They sat in silence while Klonjerikk entered data. A machine whirred to life in the corner.

Eventually, the captain pulled a small metal tag from the machine, that he strung on a thin chain, and pushed toward him. His full name—Roenan Farrah—was etched into it, followed by a string of Vernajjian numbers including his birthdate. At the bottom, a single word: Vernajja.

Roenan slid it off the table and stared down at the dogtag. He swallowed as he scanned the numbers that were  now likely a new form in which he'd be known. Slowly and reluctantly, he slipped the chain over his head and tucked the tag beneath his shirt.

Klonjerikk stood and gestured to a door opposite the one Roenan had entered through.

As Roenan walked over, he quickly pretended to be adjusting his clothes as he reached into his pocket. He pulled his hand out—halfway—and looked down.

What Drakke had placed into the palm of his hand in the lobby, had been an embroidered badge that could be sewn on to a military uniform. It was the green, silver, and white flag of Jaeda. 

A small, helpless sound escaped Roenan's throat, and his eyes prickled. He squeezed his fist around the badge, tucking it back into his pocket as he fought to compose himself.

The guard suddenly stepped in front of him to open the door.

When the door swung open, Roenan needed only a glance. He froze, his heart lurching in his chest.

The room beyond was nearly pitch black—the floor, the walls, and the ceiling were swallowed by darkness.

But beneath a single harsh overhead light in the center, a body lay motionless on the floor.

Roenan faltered.

“S-Saive!” He suddenly cried, his voice cracking.

He sprinted forward, but rough hands grabbed him from behind as a bag was thrown over his head. He shouted and fought wildly until he felt the sharp prick in the crook of his arm.

Before he could fully process what was happening, his limbs went slack, and the world fell away into darkness.