The Index Returns

The four of them froze.

The figure hadn’t moved an inch since they’d stepped out of the lift. Smoke curled around its outline, sometimes hiding it entirely, sometimes revealing it in harsh strokes beneath the dim bulbs overhead. In a hallway teeming with motion at the end, this one body stood apart.

Joren’s stomach tightened. He could feel Willow stiffen at his side, one hand morphing into a weapon, though she knew as well as he did they couldn’t afford another fight, for Joren's sake at least. Gus shifted his weight, ready to lead the fight in their leaders absence.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if studying them through the veil of smoke. The stillness was worse than if it had charged. Every second it remained unmoving clawed at Joren’s nerves, winding the coil in his chest tighter and tighter.

The soldier stepped forward towards them. Then the man’s voice cut through the haze.

“You’re Joren, right?”

The words landed like a stone thrown into still water.

Before Joren could answer, the man continued. “Good. I’m one of Nyra’s insiders for the department. No time for introductions. If you want to get out of here, follow me.”

For a moment, no one moved.

Willow’s weapon-hand lingered in half-form. Gus’s jaw tightened, suspicion and relief warring in his eyes. Even Bartholomew blinked up at the man with an odd mix of disbelief and exhausted hope.

Joren swallowed, forcing his legs to steady beneath him. The stranger’s words carried no trickery, which gave them a wave of relief. He turned sharply, trusting they would follow as he navigated through the chaos.

“Stay close,” he muttered over his shoulder, voice low but commanding. “This distraction will only help you get outside, so you are on your own from there."

Willow fell in at his side, her eyes darting to every doorway they passed, her weapon-hand twitching as though waiting for betrayal. She decided to change it back to normal to avoid catching any of the other soldiers attention. They were just a bunch of nobodies at the moment.

The insider’s pace never faltered. He navigated through the haze as if he’d walked these paths a hundred times, turning sharply into side corridors that bled with smoke and the smell of scorched wiring.

Soldiers rushed past them in every direction, faces streaked with sweat and soot, some shouting orders, others hauling buckets or dragging equipment. None spared more than a glance at Joren’s group.

Joren kept his head low and legs moving fast, matching the rhythm of the insider’s stride. His chest still burned, but each step felt steadier now that he wasn't being chased. If no one looked too closely, maybe they could make it out. The absurdity almost made Joren laugh, but the smoke caught in his throat and smothered it.

The insider glanced back once, sharp eyes cutting through the haze. “Don’t draw attention. Keep your heads down and move like you belong here."

His voice carried the weight of a common soldier making his way up the ranks, low enough to be lost in the noise. “That fire was Nyra's suggestion. I was able to buy you this window, but nothing more. Any more than that and I might compromise my position in here."

Willow’s eyes flicked toward him, assessing, but she kept her pace. “Compromise your position? Sounds like you’re enjoying this little game.” she muttered, barely audible. “How did you even know about us being down there?”

The man didn’t slow, weaving through a cluster of soldiers hauling buckets. His answer came quiet, almost swallowed by the noise. “Your invaluable leader Joren radioed Nyra about his findings before they went in. Nyra contacted me to create some diversion that would allow you to escape once you got back to the above ground.”

He ducked beneath a hanging pipe, never breaking stride. “Didn’t expect there to be a coup forming in our department, much less in the laundry rooms.”

Joren felt the sting of embarrassment flare through his chest, but there was no time to dwell on it. “Actually there was a forgotten area under building D that only connected through one corridor. The way in was so hard to find, it was just pure chance.”

The man gave a short snort, though he didn’t break stride. “Pure chance or not, you stirred the hornet’s nest. I heard about you saving Nyra from some people in an alley the other day. Thank you for saving my leader, from one man to another."

Joren thought about what he said. He was still only seventeen, though he would turn eighteen soon.

What day is it? It must be coming up soon...

He had no answer. Time had slipped away somewhere between villages, festivals, and the weight of a star burning in his hands. Birthdays didn’t mean much when the government would soon be hunting you.

Willow glanced at him, her pace never faltering. “Don’t nod off on us.” she murmured, sharp but not unkind.

Joren blinked, forced his legs to keep up as he pushed the thought away. A set of steel doors loomed ahead now, the air clearing up as they got closer to parts that were already put out.

The insider reached the doors first, glancing down each side corridor before pressing his shoulder against the bar. The hinges groaned, smoke curling inward around the frame as the doors crept open.

Beyond was movement and noise on a scale none of them had felt underground. The evening air rushed in, sharp with the tang of ash, shouts, and clattering boots. Orange light flickered against the windows where the west wing burned.

The insider held the door open just wide enough for them to slip through, his voice low and urgent. “I'll help you guys get to an exit, but after that, I need to disappear into the group."

For the first time since stepping into the lift, Joren tasted open air. Smoke stung his throat, but there was something freeing now.

The yard stretched wide before them, fractured by streaks of smoke and sweeping hoses spraying the fire, inside and out. Gus pulled Bartholomew along, the old man wheezing and coughing against the smoke and talking about 'smoked gouda'. Willow scanned the open stretch ahead, eyes narrowing, calculating the distance, the angles, the timing.

For a heartbeat, Joren just breathed, letting the night air fill his lungs, sharp and real. It was chaos, but it wasn’t confinement. The insider pointed toward the far perimeter, where the shadows of the main entrances stood tall. This was their chance.

Then the sound came.

A long, rolling sound of wheels and measured footsteps approached. One set, then thirty more. Boots striking the stone with deliberate weight.

The rolling thunder of four wheels scraped across stone, rattling louder as it drew nearer. Filing cabinet drawers clattered with each jolt of the sidewalk, a chorus of metal echoing through the smoke.

“Unfiled entries must be redacted before being thrown away." A voice rang out, stopping the five in their tracks.

The all turned around, and there he was.

Commander Coral pushed his filing cabinet across the sidewalk, each wheel shrieking in protest, clearly needing a little grease. His monocle gleamed in the sunlight, a drawer wide open and ready for his next move.

The guards fell in behind him, boots slamming in rhythm, their presence sealing the yard like a lid.

Joren’s fists clenched. They’d made it all this way, only to have the walls close again.

Other soldiers began to take notice of the semi-circle forming, joining their commander as it was their duty to assist. No one that wasn't part of the coup group could tell what was going on, but they just followed blindly for fear of doing something wrong. They fell into place at their commander’s will, forming a tightening circle to close them off from escaping.

Joren’s breath caught. Freedom was right there, just beyond the gates, but now it was gone.

“That blaze in the west wing?” His tone was measured, conversational, but warped with the cadence of record-keeping. “Your doing. You scrawled chaos across our catalog, believing disorder could hide you as you stole from us. I bet you five were going to sell some classified documents to another nation so they could attack us. No no no, my dear appendices, you shall not throw us to the stamps... hmm-hm-hmm."

The cabinet creaked forward with each deliberate push, drawers rattling like chattering teeth. His presence filled the yard without need of a weapon, a cold certainty that all things would be filed away in due time.

“Every misfiled entry finds its drawer,” Coral continued. “Every folder is bound, and every page—” his lips curled into a thin smile, “—is redacted.”

The soldiers stiffened at his words, fear or reverence locking them in place. None seemed to understand what he was saying, but his accusation made it clear they were the culprits of the fire.

Joren’s stomach sank. They hadn’t started the fire, at least not them in specific, but to these soldiers, it didn’t matter. Coral’s words were law, his accusations the only record that counted.

Bart wheezed once, then straightened his shirt with a defiant tug. “I always expected to die for treason,” he muttered, “but at least accuse me of something clever.”

Coral’s monocle caught the firelight as he drew to a halt, one hand resting lightly on the cabinet’s edge. His smile widened, lips twitching with an almost musical cadence.

“Four against one,” he said, drawing the words out like headings in a ledger. “It will still be unbalanced, but my soldiers need a good show that their commander is no slouch either. I am the drawer, and you are the loose papers. No matter how many of you are scattering about… the drawer always closes.”

He gestured faintly, and the soldiers behind him did not move forward, only held the line, a wall of uniform silence.

Coral chuckled softly. “They will not touch you. You are my entry. My revision. Prepare for the assbeating of your lives, my four headers."

Coral’s monocle glinted, his smile too wide, too certain. “Your entry is at its end. Prepare for redaction.”