She continued waiting. Despite her dogmatism, the pain was getting to her and her fists curled in anticipation and in an attempt to mill it. She couldn't allow herself to think over the cruelty with which the MHA treated their newbies, or perhaps how it would be particularly enhanced over her low-class origin. Never again. Never until she was out of this place. Otherwise, she would be dragging on her composure and be led to serious consequences. She wouldn't want to think about them.

The door opened. Trying to hold her head high for the first impression, the woman entered the room, trying not to look at the trail of blood she probably left on the floor. Her facial expression was neutral, brows relaxed, and back kept straight, unfaltering stance and gaze. The only thing that could be associated with her pain was the thin line of pursed lips and the grip of the hand sometimes tugging at the little black purse she brought with her at all times.

"Good evening, Miss Mercedell, although I'd rather call this night, if not for it being a welcome," a deep voice commented. Then there was silence. Just silence. No words spoken.

She found herself unable to rouse her gaze.

"Good evening-g, I have c-come across-" she didn't get to finish her sentence. She felt her throat contract, her mind turn black and Talissa Mercedell collapsed to the floor, hardly able to put her hands right in front of her chest before falling face down, barely conscious. Her nose had been hurt substantially and lots of tears now veiled her sight, if she was able to use it. She screwed her eyes, refusing to be shown into the bliss of her havenland.

"Over the problem concerning the murder of Macarius Mascar? Her will's good for a Belwoman," someone said anew. She didn't understand. She was sure she'd soon faint.

But all of a sudden, she felt some cold paste rubbed on her legs. It passed over the entirety of her feet. Diabolical pain overtook her.

She let out a scream of such immense pain that it seemed her whole being was on fire, and her mouth filled with ice. Dry ice. Ripped skin protruding from the roof of her mouth.

"Now, now, physical pain is something not to be experienced by your kind. But you've to get used to it," they said. Her breath caught in her throat. Her tears stopped. She lifted her head. The pain had passed.

She saw no bruises on her feet and no trace of glass shards on her body. The only reminder of the experience was the puddle of blood outside the opened door.And then she turned around, half-bending her knees to regain some kind of posture. She expected to see some sort of AI crouching by her feet.

But then she saw him.

For the first time she had met a person so resolute and valiant that he could be compared to a Greek god in disguise. The penetrating, imperious but at the same time sincere gaze went right into her soul as if scrutinizing her from inside out. Talissa fought not to lower his gaze and slouch, because the man's intimidating personality shone through.

The man was probably in his fifties, with not much silver in his otherwise thick pitch-black hair. A rigid posture passed him off as a military man. Prominent eyes, thin lips, narrow cheekbones, little to no wrinkles, an unusually tall size - this was the most precise description possible of Maximilian Stoll.

"Hello, M-maximilian Stoll?" Talissa asked. She was nervous. And flustered. She hadn't wanted for everything to go this way.

"Stand up," Stoll said. This was an order. She obediently followed suit, though hesitant to put weight on her feet. But it didn't hurt. Nothing at all.

"I feel no trace of the glass. I have never encountered this treatment before. How have you done it?" she said, determined to prove she was worthy enough of being considered strong. She had done her best to withstand the pain, at least, and she hoped she did well.

"This is a treatment developed in ancient Engel in the 20th century curing anything of pain," Stoll said. He had a deep voice, and, at the same time, too authoritarian to be the ruler of a mere organization. She was certain he held quite a position in the underground workspace. The "illegal", "most-not-talked-about" job. "This and many other treatments were invented circa 1950-2100, to close the eyes of your kind to physical pain, and to be able to prolong torture in our ranks."

Talissa was too afraid to look away. But it appeared they were in an apartment-like room, constituting a little entrance hall where they were currently standing, and a bigger "main room" area where the majority of the furniture resided. She had a hunch or sense that every room in those corridors was structured akin to this one.

Yet the last statement had installed some confusion in her frightened conscious.

"When you speak of "your kind", do you mean "Belmen"? Do you mean we've never been hurt, or pained in any way-"

"No, I speak of your kind, as in the population that continues to reside in the largest masses of our civilization," Stoll said, his eagle gaze piercing right through the very skin of her. Talissa looked effaced. "The population of your kind, in difference to ours, however, is being repeatedly subjected to the romantic notions the same "intellectuals" in the Renaissance have been subjected to one millennium ago. One millennium ago they were nearly the same civilization, intellectuals on the frontier and lower, inferior-class on the outskirts, the latter never to be rewarded by fame but always to be reckoned with. However, we are drastically different. We are the lead of a new civilization, with the same social spheres but we possess control far more excellent than the feeble one of too many emperors to be named. We possess the weapon of physical pain. Over the span of five centuries, we have weaned the majority of all classes from physical pain, forwarding favourable ideas that unbodily pain - forgive me the coinage - is the hardest of all suffering. But the act of physical pain isn't the best way of control."

He narrowed his eyes, thin lips twisting into an eerie smile.

"Fear is."

"But alas, we have errands to run. The murder of Mascar needs to be punished for." Stoll said. She shivered. He said that, expression neutral, as if nothing had happened. As if they were sitting at a café. And drinking one of the last 24th century coffees, tasting foul even without any sweeteners. As if she hadn't been hurt.

As if she hadn't just been forced to rethink the life she'd led before the premonitions of this death ruined her sanity.

"Here are the acquaintances you'll learn many things about," and, as Talissa didn't dare to turn her head to where he pointed, Stoll himself made her look at her left side.

There were three men. Three men sitting at a little round table a few meters across, the latter illuminated by a dim meagre light, Bordeaux in colour, quite gloomy but suitable for the occasion. They were all dressed in black, and they all were, probably, Leviathans. The second-to-worst thing was that they were all looking at her. Staring intently. She stiffened. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her expression resembled immense surprise. She couldn't take her eyes off of them.

The worst thing was that she knew all of them.

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance," the far-left man said in greeting and stood up, extending her hand to her. The woman froze in paralysis with her eyes wide open. "I'm Ender Ignacio."

She refused to believe this. This was probably madness.

But it wasn't. She wasn't insane. This was happening.

She had met the one she had seen the previous morning.

And the two other men? Those were both astronauts, Avin Hanlon and Skylar Gregory.

And they were both her friends.