Chapter Text
June 27th, 2374
If there’s anything Lawrence Indigo has learned from his years of experience working in the Immigrant Management Department of Solstacia, it’s that every single day, there’s always something.
The something in question varies, obviously. In Lawrence’s thirteen years, he’s dealt with his fair share of hysterical runaways and inconsolable families. The only reason he hasn’t become jaded with his work is because with social work, he’s directly subjected to the highest and lowest of the range of human emotion by whoever needs his help. He’s constantly on his toes, as he’s been told by his wife when he comes home from a particularly grueling day.
“You look like a burglar’s worst nightmare,” she’d say, a subtle jab at how he seems to be expecting danger at every corner.
“I feel like it,” he’d reply.
Despite his numerous complaints to his wife, he deeply loves his job. Lawrence was born and raised in Solstacia, so though he himself isn’t an immigrant, he’s close with so many. His parents, friends, even his wife. He sees a little bit of them in every person he helps, which usually leads to comments from his coworkers and boss that he’s “the nicest out of all of them”. And because of that reputation, his coworkers send him the troubled cases, the people who arrive at the Solstacia border in the deepest pits of emotional distress (and occasionally physical—he’s had to make his fair share of calls to the hospital).
So when the door to his office opens and his coworker Tyler sticks her head in with a solemn expression, his fingers immediately still on his keyboard. “Is something going on?”
She nods, biting her lower lip nervously. “Three teenagers just arrived at the border. One was severely injured, so she’s on her way to the hospital with a couple of our guys.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And the other two?”
“They both look traumatized, sir. One of them is refusing to talk.” The words leave her mouth clinically, but both of them still sense the weight and emotion of this moment.
Lawrence tends to get his most emotional when teenagers or children are involved. They can be volatile, and depending on their journey, they could have gone through horrendous things. And when a child refuses to talk, it usually isn’t a problem for Immigrant Management. They usually keep them in the boarding areas to give them a place to eat and sleep until they’re ready to talk, unless the child is suspected to have vital information. His body straightens up before his mind even notices. “What information do you need from them?”
“The quiet one, he has a mark on his neck. A circular tattoo. Neither of them offered any explanation, but it’s a telltale sign of Nomad cults.”
His heart pounds faster at the implication. “Alright. Send them in.”
Tyler nods and closes the door. About a minute later, the door opens again, and in front of him stands a boy and a girl, both looking old enough to be in high school.
Normally, he would mentally catalogue their appearances, but any attempt of that goes out the window when Lawrence’s eyes land on the boy.
He’s tall, but hunched over and walking with a limp. The skin on his hands is colored and puckered, likely burn scars. His clothes are splattered with blood. His neck has the mark that Tyler mentioned, though it’s barely visible behind his long curly hair. And in his right hand, the boy clenches a metal cane with so much force that it trembles.
That explains the limp, his mind supplies.
It’s a strange sight. This boy has clearly been injured much more than the girl has, yet he’s perfectly quiet. His eyes are wide with paralyzing terror, but he doesn’t speak, doesn’t dare betray any of his thoughts. The girl, on the other hand, is crying hysterically, though she looks relatively unharmed. Her clothes are also soaked with blood. Lawrence remembers Tyler mentioning how the other girl was severely injured.
“Okay,” he begins softly. His gaze lands on the girl first, the one Tyler said could talk. “Did you already tell someone your names?”
It takes her a second, but she manages a faint nod. “And…and all that other stuff,” she hiccups, hugging herself tightly. He wants to get up and hug both of them, or at least look less intimidating as he does sitting behind a desk, but as soon as he starts standing, the boy tenses and takes a stumbling step back, so he sinks back into his chair.
Lawrence nods at the girl’s answer. “So I don’t need to ask you two for any of that?”
Truth be told, he does need to know that information, but he doesn’t want to bombard them with questions, considering that the reason they’re in his office is so he can ask probably the most invasive question of all.
The girl nods back, and Lawrence shifts his gaze to the boy. His skittishness seems to have faded quickly, as he’s already back in that zoned-out state, and it takes Lawrence about ten seconds to realize that he isn’t going to respond any time soon.
If this kid can’t even answer a yes or no question, how the hell is Lawrence gonna get him to talk about a Nomad cult, or whatever’s the reason for the tattoo on his neck?
Instead of asking further, he gestures to the two chairs in front of his desk, and he feels a pang of sympathy deep in his chest as the girl guides the boy to his seat. It’s clear he’s barely capable of functioning on his own, and it’s not just because of his cane (which, Lawrence notices, is necessary because of the way his left kneecap is horrendously deformed, likely a shattered bone that healed terribly).
There’s another thing Lawrence has learned about the Immigrant Management Department of Solstacia. The people that come into his office are rarely immigrants from another country, but are usually immigrants from this one. Everyone that’s talked to Lawrence in this room—and those that didn’t talk—have all fled from their home, wherever that may be in this country, to find solace and refuge from the cruel oppression forced onto them by the government.
He leans forward in his seat and asks the question that could have a million different answers.
“What happened?”