The following morning, Jean escorts Lleuad to the science branch — situated on one of the sides of the crater, cut deep into the mountain. The place runs at a pace all its own, distinct from the rest of the headquarters in character and atmosphere. The majority of its inhabitants wear white uniforms beneath open lab coats, and every one of them moves with with a sharp, singular sense of purpose. The hallways are tall and spacious, and above the heads of the people moving through them, a continuous stone ledge carries a steady stream of supplies deeper into the mountain. The labs line the corridors at even intervals, varying in size, most of them open to view through large glass windows that in some cases span entire walls. Through them, Lleuad catches glimpses of tools and equipment that would not look out of place several generations ahead of the world outside.
Eventually they arrive at the door to one of the labs. Through the window, Lleuad can see two people — a man and a woman — seated at separate desks, heads down, entirely absorbed.
"We're a few minutes early," Jean says, checking his pocket watch. He glances through the glass and something shifts in his expression — admiration with a thread of envy running through it. "You are one lucky man, I have to say. Getting the Arc spouses to prepare your equipment."
"Are they particularly notable?" Lleuad asks.
"Extremely!" Jean replies, his eyes lighting up. "They are a husband and wife duo who each lead their own separate lab. Famous for the quality of their work and the breakthroughs they've driven in our technology. Their daughter is one of the brightest lights the Everwatch has produced — a genius and a prodigy who reached the rank of Slayer at only fifteen years of age." He pauses for effect. "If the Director personally assigned them to prepare your equipment, whatever you're heading into is going to be something significant."
— — —
When the appointed time arrives, Jean opens the lab door and steps inside, Lleuad behind him.
"Excuse us," Jean announces, his voice echoing slightly against the sterile walls. "We've come for the appointment."
The man at the desk stands, though his movements are stiff. "Ah — yes, of course," he replies, his voice distracted. "Please make yourselves comfortable. We'll be with you shortly." Without waiting for a response, he sinks back into his chair and returns to his work.
Jean and Lleuad find chairs and sit. The two people at the desks both look to be in their early forties, and both appear to have been working for some time without interruption.
After several minutes, the woman rolls out from behind her desk in a wheelchair. Her long blonde hair is pinned in a neat bun. Her pale face and the bags beneath her eyes tell the story of her working hours plainly enough, but her green eyes carry a glint that speaks of something the hours have not managed to touch — a live and genuine passion for what she does.
"Lleuad Sulienson?" She addresses him directly.
Lleuad stands and nods.
"A pleasure." She extends her hand. "Geduld Arc. I head the equipment department. Please follow me."
She leads him to her desk, leaving Jean with his chair. The man is still at his own desk nearby, finishing something with his pen.
"My husband, Pascal," Geduld says, turning her wheelchair to face Lleuad.
Pascal does not look up.
They wait. A few moments pass.
Then Pascal sets his pen down, pushes back from the desk, and turns. His face tells the same story as Geduld's — equally pale, equally worn — though his blue eyes are just as alive behind his glasses, lit with the same undimmed interest despite the tiredness. Unlike his wife, he carries himself with a slight clumsiness, his short light-brown hair entirely unattended to.
He offers Lleuad a small, awkward smile and extends his hand. "Apologies for the wait. A pleasure to meet you, Sir Sulienson. We received the sample artifacts you sent from the Dark Continent. Extraordinarily interesting material."
"We heard about your promotion to Slayer," Geduld adds. "Our daughter holds the same rank. It's encouraging to see the next generation producing people of that calibre."
"More than usual, at that," Pascal remarks. "And at a time when we need every advantage available. It's reassuring."
"It is," Lleuad agrees. "We will need all of it."
"True." Pascal nods, then pauses, his composure giving way to something more animated. "I hope you don't mind my asking — your surname. Are you genuinely a descendant of Sulien the Huntsman?"
Lleuad blinks. "Yes — but how do you know that name?"
Geduld's expression lights up. "His name is well known in the science division. He was one of the greatest Artificers of his era. We have several of his works preserved in the Vault."
"He was the one who disseminated the Spellforge," Pascal continues, with the enthusiasm of someone discussing a subject very dear to them. "A tool first developed by the Sorcerer King — it enabled humanity to produce Artifacts. His contributions became the foundation of the Artificer's trade and underpin much of what we build to this day."
"So you can imagine," Geduld says, "how we felt when Director Norman told us we would be preparing equipment for someone bearing that name. We simply had to confirm it."
Lleuad receives this with a mild awkwardness — but before he can respond, Geduld moves on.
"Now — to business. We have everything you requested. Pascal, if you would."
"Of course." Pascal turns toward his side of the workspace. "Before we begin — I was surprised to hear you hadn't brought any of your own equipment from the Dark Continent. Do you mind my asking why? We would have loved to see how it held up."
The disappointment on both their faces is genuine enough that Lleuad answers somewhat apologetically. "I had to choose between carrying enemy Artifacts or my own."
A brief silence.
"That's a shame," Pascal says, his expression falling for a moment before he collects himself. "Though your equipment would likely have been due for replacement regardless — we've made considerable advances in the past four years."
He turns and gestures to the first item on his table — a compact detection device. "Starting with the Grimmseeker. The latest version has a significantly improved detection range and accuracy. It can now detect a Grimm signature even when it is being actively suppressed — the only way to avoid detection entirely is to carry no Grimm power whatsoever. The minimum signature required to pinpoint a location has also been significantly reduced."
He moves to the next. "The Faceshroud." A mask, compact and unassuming. "When combat with Grimm is unavoidable, this will do a considerably better job of concealing your silver eyes. Using their power will still give you away — but passively, you should be able to move with more freedom."
He crosses to another table where a sidesword is laid out. "And a new blade. Our smiths have reduced the weight significantly and improved the durability. The balance has also been adjusted."
Lleuad picks it up. He turns it once, twice, and something in his expression settles — the particular satisfaction of a tool that does exactly what it should.
Geduld draws his attention to her side of the workspace. "The Speakstone — our latest communication device. It sits in the ear and connects automatically with any other Speakstone within range." She moves along. "I've also prepared two survival Artifacts: a Water Dust canister for a steady supply in the field, and a Fire Dust heater for an immediate heat source."
She pauses, looking over the assembled items. "I have to say — you travel remarkably light. Given where you've been operating, I would have expected a heavier reliance on Artifacts than most. Are you certain there's nothing else?"
"This will be more than sufficient, thank you," Lleuad replies. "Moving light tends to matter more out there than moving well-equipped. I've learned not to rely on more than I can carry easily."
"Then you are all set." Geduld folds her hands with quiet satisfaction. "Sign the paperwork and you're good to go."
Lleuad signs, thanks them both, and leaves the lab with Jean.
— — —
As the two make their way out of the science branch, something at the edge of Lleuad's vision brings him to a stop.
He turns. Further along the corridor, moving in the opposite direction, is a young woman — porcelain-skinned, her pale-gold hair catching the light, dressed in the same dark green uniform as him, her epaulettes marking her as a Slayer. She moves with an unhurried, natural grace. Beside her walks a young ruddy man in white — chestnut-haired, animated — and the two of them are clearly in the middle of a conversation that neither of them wants to end.
Lleuad watches them. It is not only the woman that holds his attention, but the two of them together — something about the pairing, the way the man's presence seems to draw out something in hers, or perhaps lend it a quality it already had but that becomes more visible beside him.
"Is something the matter?" Jean asks.
Lleuad comes back. "Hm?" He takes a moment. "No. It's nothing." He turns away, as though setting aside something he isn't yet sure how to name.