Episode 01. Burned Name

# Episode 01. Burned Name Only things that arrived too late ever came to the Alliance Outer Route Administration dock. Post-war salvage ships, half-burned record cases, ownerless storage capsules, relics whose owners' names no longer survived. The world's glory was spent elsewhere; what drifted this far was always just the failure left behind. Sion Lapis sat crouched in the middle of those failures. His dark blue work coat was already streaked with dust, the tips of his gloves faded from metal powder. He'd been turning over a storage case with its retrieval tag half-torn off, scraping black soot from the inner corner with his fingernail. "Hey, Bloodhound. That one's already marked for disposal." Sion didn't look up at the voice behind him. Things marked for disposal rarely turned out to be actually finished. Not at this outer route bureau, at least — here, things shoved in as finished outnumbered the real thing. He tilted the case toward the light. Plenty of burn marks — but one side was strangely too clean. Too hasty for something erased, too obvious for something casually pushed aside. "Lapis." Kasern Idor's voice was soft, as always. Sion knew that softness was usually the signal just before dumping something tedious on him. He answered without taking his hand off the case. "What now." Kasern didn't lower his voice even as he came closer. Kind expression, as always — and therefore a more exhausting face. "Simple retrieval job." Sion finally looked up. Nothing Kasern called simple had ever actually been simple. The supervisor held out a thin transfer pad. The surface showed only a retrieval point, a temporary seal number, and a disposal inspection request field. Suspiciously short. Short paperwork usually didn't mean someone had trimmed the tedious parts — it meant they'd never written them at all. "Something that came over from the neutral port city side. Too messy to push back up the main line." "Messy things always come here." "That's why I'm giving it to you." Sion took the pad and skimmed it. The retrieval route had been cut twice, and one origin code was blank. At this point the paperwork was more suspicious than the goods. He asked without putting the pad down. "If I take this, will you ask me later why I touched it?" Kasern smiled softly. "Lapis, you always talk like that. Just finish the disposal inspection. No need to go sniffing around." Someone in the back of the dock laughed. Sion didn't. If it were a job that didn't call for his kind of attention, Kasern wouldn't have carried it over himself. Kasern stepped back and added: "Finish it today. And don't create problems." Instead of answering, Sion turned the pad back on. The field marker below the temporary seal number was smudged, but one final line was clear. **Retrieval priority. Record reclassification on hold.** The moment he read that line, Sion's brow slowly tightened. Usually it was the other way around. Classify the record first, set retrieval priority later. But this one read like an instruction to grab it first and bury it — without checking what it was. Sion closed the pad and muttered. "I get that it's a hassle… but why close it this fast?" Someone pressed a fingertip against the edge of the pad from beside him. "Don't file it." Seorin Kael was standing next to him — no telling when she'd arrived. Dock dust sat on the ends of her short-tied hair, and as always, her expression was tired but her eyes were perfectly awake. Sion asked without letting go of the pad. "Still haven't fixed that habit of getting into other people's business?" "It's not other people's business. It's going to be yours anyway." Seorin half-snatched the pad from his hand and scanned the screen. She didn't read fast, but her eye for catching the wrong thing was annoyingly more precise than his. A moment later, one eyebrow rose — barely. "Wow. Zero effort." "What." "Retrieval route cut twice, origin code blank, reclassification on hold." She tilted the pad toward him. "This isn't paperwork. It's someone who got tired and half-folded it before tossing." Sion laughed quietly. "That's exactly what I just thought." Seorin didn't laugh. Instead, she tapped the last line. **Retrieval priority. Record reclassification on hold.** "This is worse." "Why." "Normally you check the record first. This says grab it without checking what it is, and close the file." Sion looked at her in silence. Seorin didn't look away. "You're hooked again." "Not yet." "Sure. But your face already is." When Sion reached for the pad, Seorin let go this time — but tossed one last thing. "You're going all the way with this one too, aren't you?" Sion didn't answer. Seorin had known for a long time that his silence was the answer. She let out something between a sigh and a laugh. "Great. So much for clocking out." --- The retrieval item had been pushed to the very last slot of the temporary seal zone, deep inside the dock. Things too uncertain for formal classification but too suspicious for the disposal line always piled up like that. When Sion removed the temporary seal strip, a battered metal box, two half-crushed storage capsules, and a few burned record fragments appeared. Nothing remarkable on the surface. So unremarkable it felt worse. Seorin was already pulling on her gloves. "This looks like empty shells. Disposal-grade scrap." "Yeah." Sion ran a finger along the side of the metal box, then stopped. "So why is it retrieval priority?" He lifted the box slightly and angled it toward the light. The external identification stamp had been filed off, and the slot where the origin code should have been was smoothly wiped clean. The problem was that the smoothness looked too new. Not the wear of age — the surface of something recently scrubbed away in a hurry. Seorin leaned in to look. "Someone ground this off." "Yeah. And fast." Sion picked up one of the crushed capsules. Along its side, beyond the crack from retrieval impact, there was one more line — thin and long. It looked like a security seal forced open. Not someone retrieving the entire record inside, but someone who'd hastily separated it, then closed the empty shell back up. Seorin cursed quietly. "Opened and re-closed." "No." Sion turned the capsule slowly in his palm. "Started to open and couldn't finish." "There's a difference?" "Big one." Sion scraped the dark residue at the crack's edge with his fingernail. The dust-like flakes caught the light briefly. "Either they needed to open it and couldn't finish — or they didn't want to open it but were forced to try." Seorin moved her hand toward the record fragments instead of answering. Touching the edge of the burned panel surface, she paused — just for a moment. "Sion." "What." "This wasn't just burned…" She lifted the fragment. Beneath the blackened, crusted surface, a line too clean to be fire damage was exposed. The edge eaten by flame and a cross-section cut as if with a blade — both on the same piece. Sion's expression changed for the first time — openly. Seorin handed the fragment to him and said, low: "Someone didn't burn it to destroy it. They destroyed it, then burned it." Sion took the fragment without a word. The sensation against his fingertips was light and rough, but it felt strangely like something hiding too much. From the far side of the dock, the dull sound of a retrieval crane moving. A sound he'd normally ignore — but in that moment, it felt like an interruption. Without taking his eyes off the fragment, he said: "This isn't just cleanup." Seorin caught it immediately. "Which is why they threw it at you." This time, Sion didn't deny it. --- The silence broke with footsteps. Quick strides from the inner dock corridor — not a fieldworker's walk, but someone who'd caught the scent of a tangle and come down late. Kasern Idor stopped at the edge of the temporary seal zone. Expression still soft, but his eyes fell first to the inside of the opened case — not to Sion's face. "Still not done?" Sion turned deliberately slowly. "If these were the kind of things that could be finished, they'd be finished already." Kasern didn't respond. He scanned the inside of the case once more. Burned record fragments, scratched storage capsule, filed-off identification stamp. His eyes hardened — just once, very briefly — then relaxed again. That was enough for Sion. He'd seen it too. Kasern returned to his usual voice instantly. "With the condition being what it is, there's nothing more to look at. Maintain the seal and send it to disposal inspection." Seorin asked without the trace of a smile. "A minute ago you said retrieval priority." Kasern didn't even look at her. "Not anymore." "Why the sudden change?" This time Sion asked. Kasern looked at him for a moment, then answered with his usual kind expression. "Lapis. Fieldworkers move like fieldworkers. Stop sniffing around. Close the file." Before he finished speaking, Kasern reached to close the case lid himself. Sion's hand pressed down on it first. Their eyes met briefly. Kasern was still smiling — but this time, the smile held nothing soft. "That's far enough." The overhead dock light flickered once. In the distance, the dull sound of metal cases stacking. Through that brief noise, Sion heard something far more clearly. This wasn't something being hidden. This was something someone had already checked — and gotten scared of. No one spoke immediately after Kasern turned away. Seorin murmured first. "Nice. Now the higher-ups are sniffing too." "No." Sion's answer was short. "That's not the reaction of someone catching a scent." Seorin looked at him. Sion slowly lifted his hand and said: "That's the reaction of someone who already knows what it is." Brief silence. Seorin laughed — like a sigh. "Then it's worse." Sion reopened the case. His movements were much faster than before. "We need to go to the site." "Neutral port city?" "Yeah." "If you go now, you'll take the fall again." Sion carefully slipped one of the burned fragments into his retrieval pocket. It wasn't the sensation of picking up an object. It was closer to the sensation of putting your hands on something that had been hastily cut away, hastily burned, and yet never fully pushed beyond the scene. "If I stay here, it's already buried." Seorin didn't try to stop him again. Instead, she pulled her gloves back on and asked: "Transport?" Sion exhaled briefly. "We'll find one. This time, the smell is real." --- The bureau's official transit line wasn't particularly fast. More precisely, it was structured not to need speed. Reports went up, authorization came down, outer-passage clearances were re-stamped, transfer dock assignments reshuffled — and during all of that, the scene always had time to cool one more degree. Sion knew this well. Trips to places like the neutral port city — where the Empire and the border living zones reached toward each other — were even worse. Two days by official line, three if unlucky. In that time, names being erased and records being closed was hardly rare in this world. So even as he stood before the bureau's internal terminal, he was scrolling not through authorization request windows but through the outer cargo belt transfer schedules. Seorin asked from beside him. "Pretending to cut the official line?" "Not pretending. Leaving a trail." Sion answered briefly, then opened the request window. He paused the cursor at the top of the input field, then typed in a familiar hand. **Request for origin cross-check on classification-hold item. Identification code inconsistency and retrieval route gaps. On-site verification of retrieval linkage required.** Seorin read the screen and scoffed. "Sounds convincing." "It's not wrong either." "That's what makes it annoying." Sion typed the next line. **Auxiliary inspection personnel: 1. Post-site cross-check reclassification scheduled.** Seorin read it and slowly raised her head. "Who's the auxiliary inspector?" "Bloodhound's assistant." "Bloodhound is your nickname, not your title." "At this bureau, it's close enough." Seorin let out a hollow laugh. "Nice. Official title: ragpicker. Unofficial title: bloodhound." Sion murmured as he sent the request. "Such a way with words." Both of them laughed briefly — but their hands never stopped. When the send button went through, a pending-authorization notice appeared. Small gray text scrolled at the bottom. **Estimated wait time: 7 hours 40 minutes** Seorin clicked her tongue. "Great. The site will have closed three more times by then." "That's why we only pretend to wait." Sion minimized the screen and reopened the outer cargo transfer schedule. Official retrieval vessel, designated supply line, border patrol circuit, outer cargo transfer shuttle. Only three lines could reach the neutral port city's access zone within the day. One was too late. One was a route that would likely have upper-level surveillance attached. The last was classified as a waste collection vessel — but its mid-route transfer records were suspiciously blank far too often. It looked like a path built not for people but for moving things sideways, and for exactly that reason, it was faster. "Bottom of the list." Seorin spoke first. "Yeah." Sion nodded. "Since I've already filed the on-site verification request, taking the retrieval linkage line is a valid excuse." "A waste collection vessel is a retrieval linkage line?" "Some days, if you write it that way, it becomes true." Seorin looked at his face for a moment, then laughed quietly. "Your brain only works well in situations like this." Sion pulled up the last route's details. It was listed as a waste collection vessel, but the registered cargo weight and the actual load were nowhere close to matching. Someone had been using this line not as a transport but as a long-range detour. He memorized the dock number on one side of the screen. Bay 18-B. Not the main bureau dock but a junction connecting the outer cargo belt to civilian transfer lines. Workers who couldn't get on official lines, cargo slipping off the books, people whose names had grown blurry — they all passed through there at least once. "So, are we just sneaking on this time?" Seorin asked. "No." Sion closed the terminal. "We pretend to wait, then leave first." "Is there a difference?" "A little — later, when someone tries to pin blame." Seorin laughed like a sigh. Then just scoffed. Bureau-grade lawbreaker. Exactly that scent. --- The air outside the dock was colder than inside. Low steel frames let in the glow of external cargo lights, and somewhere in the distance, the evening offloading prep alarm droned on indifferently. Sion looked toward the dark corridor leading to Bay 18-B and said, quietly: "The official line is slow. The more it leads toward neutral territory, the slower it gets. With things like this — arriving late is always the end." Seorin fell into step beside him. "Good. Then let's go do our on-site cross-check, Bloodhound." --- Bay 18-B sat half-pushed out of the main bureau's lighting. Unlike the front docks where official supply ships came and went, this side always collected shadows before light. Waste collection vessels, outer-route worker shuttles, cargo that only got named after cleanup was done — they all used this side. Sion actually felt more comfortable in places like this. Clean places usually told clean lies; dirty places at least tended to be careless about hiding. As they reached the bay entrance, Seorin slowed first. "Something smells." "It's a disposal yard." "Not that." Instead of answering, Sion lifted his gaze. A few aging cargo lights hung from the bay ceiling, flickering at uneven intervals. Could be poor maintenance. But the workers moving underneath were unnervingly quiet. At this hour there should have been at least one curse word in the air — today, everyone had their mouths shut too tight. The collection vessel was smaller than expected. The hull paint was peeling, and the cargo bay exterior had layers of old collision marks. But the area around the boarding ramp was strangely clean — like new. Someone had recently worked on only that part. Seorin asked low. "Any reason a waste collection vessel would have just that section looking new?" "None." Sion scanned the floor beneath the ramp. Overlapping footprints on the dust. Between the treads of worker boots — the trace of a sole far harder than bureau-issue shoes. Closer to someone from surveillance or enforcement, not fieldwork. He shifted his gaze sideways. The cargo log panel. Arrival time, load weight, temporary classification code — all should have been displayed. The panel surface was on, but several key lines were faintly smudged. Less like something erased — more like a screen someone had been viewing until just now, then closed in a rush. Seorin clicked her tongue. "Really half-hearted." "Probably didn't have time to be thorough." "Not a good sign." "It was never going to be good." The two moved closer. Sion didn't slow his pace, but his hand was already resting on the retrieval pocket inside his coat. Nothing he'd call a weapon — but the tools you need when running were always in the same place. At that moment, a short sound of a metal chain being lowered from above the ramp. Too close. Sion and Seorin stopped simultaneously. Someone was watching from above. It lasted only an instant — too brief for certainty — but Sion never missed that kind of sensation. Not the gaze of someone working, but of someone checking who was coming first. Seorin said, very small: "Safe to go?" Sion looked at the ramp, the log panel, the worn hull, the too-clean boarding section — one after another — and answered. "We have to." "Why." He exhaled briefly. "The smell here isn't disposal waste. It's something that's been waiting." Seorin didn't ask further. Instead, she shifted one step to the side, clearing Sion's blind spot. Ready to run, fight, or turn — at any moment. And Sion walked up the ramp of the collection vessel — a vessel where someone had cleaned up too hastily, and someone else had watched too quietly.