We arrived at Alteker's third restroom, an unlikely temple nested within the heart of headquarters. Each chamber was a faithful replica of the last: sinks stretched along the left, neatly aligned beneath a broad mirror that captured every beam of the unrelenting light. The space radiated a kind of surgical sterility, yet curiously, it felt warm as well. Perhaps it was the carved wave motifs winding along the wooden panels that softened the atmosphere and invited you in.
On the right, a line of water closets stood at attention behind four solid doors. The cubicles were separated by sturdy partitions, each promising a sense of privacy so complete it bordered on theatrical. That first impression hit every time—practical, spotless, and just a touch dramatic, as if you'd wandered into the opening scene of an especially earnest play.
Above it all, water tanks rose up the wall, almost daring gravity to do its worst. They were hammered from iron mingled with brass, their muted sheen glowing under the lamps, reinforced by wooden beams matching the decor below. Every tank was inlaid with exposed gears and interlocking joints, giving the space an industrial charm. From each tank, thick pipes curled downward like braided metal serpents, carrying water to the polished porcelain below.
Gelemia stepped forward, clearly relishing her moment as a tour guide. "Here's how it works," she explained, her tone a mix of pride and performance. She reached for a chain, and at the lightest tug, the air filled with the scent of metal. A hiss followed, releasing a rush of water that cleaned the bowl in one efficient sweep, whisking whatever was left into the city's hidden arteries. Around us, the open orchestra of pipes came alive—lever arms glinted, gears clicked, and a pressure gauge ticked softly with measured patience.
Up above, vent ducts worked quietly, drawing out steam and any lingering discomfort, helped along by cool drafts from concealed air conditioning. Anyone stepping inside could feel the magic at play: the chaos of the outside world faded away, replaced for a moment by tranquility and clean air.
"And there you have it," Gelemia declared, her eyes bright with impish delight. Her voice took on the solemnity of a museum docent. "This is Alteker's pride and joy—the officers' own haven for a few moments of peace."
I had to wonder, silently, if it was truly as important as she made it sound.
Drawing nearer, she spoke barely above a hush. "Everything here—down to the smallest pipe—follows the designs from the upper city." She fixed me with a teasing look, eyebrow cocked. "Dare to guess whose genius thought all this up?"
"…Your father?" I murmured, my words barely audible beneath the soft whisper of the air cooling vents.
"Exactly! None other, none less—the one, the only, our illustrious leader: Tyan Flamino!" She pronounced the name with all the pomp of an invocation, as if reciting a spell.
I paused, logic faltering beneath my skepticism. "Wait… Tyan Flamino is your father?"
She shook her head, theatrically aghast. "Hah, who said that? I said he designed these toilets, not that he's my father. Weren't you listening just now?"
"So… you went all the way up to study just to learn the ins and outs of all the toilets down here?" I managed, barely restraining a smile.
Gelemia's eyes widened, her devotion painted across her expression. "You really don't get it, do you? Toilets like these, they're sanctuaries. Refuge for anyone weighed down by work, a place to shed tension and for a moment let your worries swirl away with the flush."
"A comfortable toilet means a comfortable place to let go of your stress, huh."
"Obviously!" she replied, her voice brimming with conviction. "The toilet is the last stronghold of every worker's spirit. In fact…" She paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Maybe you should help check them all, top to bottom, just to be thorough?"
We'd already made our way through three men's restrooms in succession, a tour de force more unnerving than any monster patrol in the abyssal city corridors. Not once did I dare interrupt Gelemia; she spoke with barely a breath between sentences, as if every stall door opened into a pocket-sized seminar just for us. By the second restroom, I could already hear the muttered derision from resident staff—their stares sharp as pins pricking holes in my confidence.
"Yeah, but… do you really have to come in here yourself?" I whispered, my voice as faint as the air drifting through the vents.
Gelemia jerked to attention, her forefingers snapping together like a small spell of embarrassment. "Oh—ah! Sorry! I didn't even realize!" Color flared across her cheeks, and in a heartbeat she darted outside, startled as a rabbit caught in a lantern beam.
Stifling a laugh, I called after her, "So, do you also wander into the men's room by accident back in the city above?"
She shot me an exasperated glare, caught between indignation and self-defense. "Don't be ridiculous! I just didn't notice this time, that's all. Besides, my sanitation professor at university… his enthusiasm was infectious, I swear. He always said, 'If you want to truly understand a city, you have to know its toilets first.'" With a sigh, she sounded as if she were defending some grand thesis. "So when I heard I'd be sent down here, I thought… does a city like this have facilities to match the world above? Turns out, it fully lives up to my expectations."
"A rather roundabout excuse, just so you don't get branded a pervert, huh?" I teased, my voice shaded with lazy mischief.
She lifted her chin, radiating the smug satisfaction of someone fresh out of a symposium. "Anyway, after touring with you like this, I've reached a solid conclusion: the toilets in Tytoal-ba and the Wetlands are both Tyan Flamino originals. The style is identical, a personal collection from the father of sanitation himself."
I shot her a doubtful glance. "So, be honest, was this whole 'showing me around' just a cover for your secret obsession with bathroom design?"
Gelemia dismissed the accusation with a theatrical wave. "How rude! I'm here on assignment to meet the Captain in the southern sector, and yes. The toilets happen to be down south too, so I'm just killing two birds with one stone. Besides, you said you wanted to explore Alteker HQ, didn't you? This is one of its true landmarks!"
Caught somewhere between amusement and awe unsure if I should be impressed more by Gelemia's near-fanatical passion for plumbing architecture, or by her unapologetic disregard for social niceties—I managed a lopsided grin.
"I told you already, you really do absorb everyone's energy," she whispered lightly, flashing a half-smile that made the hallway feel twice as awkward. I pretended to focus on the gear-shaped ornaments along the wall, silently wishing the discussion about toilets would finally flush itself away.
We drifted between patches of silence and forced small talk, until Gelemia suddenly piped up, "So… why don't any of you three look remotely alike, anyway?"
I blinked. "Not alike how?"
"You and Ashsa and Adonis. It's like you're from three different families. Even the names don't match. And your hair gold like that… is it dyed?"
Her question landed as gently as a feather touching water, but still sent ripples through me. I'd never truly wondered aloud about this golden hair, at least not to Erin. This body, after all, had never felt entirely like my own. There had never been a convincing story for the hair—or for the gaps and missing pages in my family history.
Mother's face was a shifting shadow, as elusive as a memory glimpsed through rippling water. My father's more abstract still, like the idea of him was spun from mist instead of flesh and time. All I could ever remember clearly was Paris his smile, his steady gaze. I'd grown up alongside Adonis and Ashsa, and then Lon, who seemed to drop from the clouds one day, fully formed.
Sometimes it felt as if we'd all just… been placed here. Set down on the stage of the world without prologue, without footnote.
"I don't know…" I answered at last, my voice nearly drowned by the echo of our footsteps down the gleaming Alteker corridor.
Gelemia fixed me with a sharp look, caught somewhere between playful and concerned. "You've never asked? With hair that gold, you're bound to turn heads. Honestly, I'm a bit jealous."
I shrugged, just enough to be polite. "Maybe I should fake it when people ask. Tell them it's just dye, not natural."
She nodded, half joking, half in earnest. "Honestly, that's probably the easiest answer. If you say it's natural, they'll start treating you like some kind of anomaly."
I gave her a small smile. "Why, though? What's the big deal with gold hair?"
She pursed her lips as if searching for the right memory. "I once read about it in a battered old book from Tytoal-ba. The pages were falling out and the spine was crumbling. It said that people with golden hair are those rejected by the gods, but accepted by the world." She spoke the words with a deliberate weight.
I paused, letting the notion settle. "Rejected by the gods? That sounds… harsh."
She quickly raised her hands, as if defending herself from some invisible judge. "Hey, don't look at me. I don't really believe it. The book was a mess, barely holding together, hidden away on the far end of the shelf. For all I know, it was just the work of some frustrated author no publisher wanted to touch."
I almost laughed, but the idea rang a little too hollow for humor. "That probably means it's even more ancient, right?"
"Don't be fooled. Not everything covered in dust is an artifact from the past. Sometimes things are forgotten simply because nobody cared. Still, weird stories like that do stick in your mind."
I drifted into thought. It struck me that I'd never really gotten a straight answer about my own lineage, never understood why this body, this hair, ended up planted among a family with no clear branches or roots.