The room was full of objects that might have told an entire life, yet to Lacrosse they all looked the same in their function. Crates with magnetic seals set in neat rows; fabrics folded and rolled into semi-transparent cylinders; small portable generators; writing slates. He studied them, sorting with his eyes what he was meant to take. Clarisse had explained that everything had to be arranged in order of use, and he tried to memorise the sequence.
He didn't attach any of those pieces to specific memories. They were tools, components of a life he had not yet used. He had been off Crestoria only a handful of times, and never far from his family. Their smooth surfaces and elegant shapes were comforting in their neutrality, almost familiar.
Someone else used these things. Not me. Am I an impostor? No. To be an impostor, I would have had to replace someone. How do you call an impostor who replaces no one?
Clarisse entered without knocking. She had changed: lighter now, in a rosé dress. In her right hand she carried a roll of parchment; in her left, a pair of thin gloves.
"Mm…" she murmured, thoughtful.
The boy turned to her. "What is it?"
"You do not look out of breath," she said at last, setting the roll on the table.
"Well… thanks…" he answered.
Clarisse's lips curled up by a fraction. "Do you take it as a compliment?"
"Oh… you mean it wasn't?"
"It might be."
"Well… I took it that way," Lacrosse said, timidly.
Clarisse nodded. "Très bien. Mindset always helps. Here, I've brought you a few things."
Lacrosse looked at the objects lined up. "I don't know what I'll actually need…"
It was the plain truth; he felt none of the weight of choosing.
"In your defence, most of it is not," Clarisse replied, shifting a pair of generators aside with a flick. "Bring them to keep the elder happy."
"The elder" was the supervisor of the textiles room, but coming from her it sounded like an affectionate title.
"This," she said, letting her fingers glide over a tablet, "is for your notes. Write what you observe, when you're away."
"I have to write?" he asked. It wasn't a surprise, only a request for confirmation.
"Only if you wish. Or draw," she replied, turning a glove between her fingers. "Or leave it blank. There's no obligation. But I like to think that, when you return, you'll have something of your own to show me. And more importantly: call me, from time to time."
"I have to… report, right?"
Clarisse lifted her gaze. "That is the idea. But it will also be in your interest to stay in touch with your sister, will it not?"
Lacrosse nodded with a faint smile. He picked up the tablet and set it into the bag: a semi-rigid shell designed to distribute weight evenly. No buckle snagged; no metallic sound disturbed the silence.
"It's strange to leave without knowing when I'll come back," he said, more to himself.
Clarisse lifted her chin. "It is strange not to return. And you will return, so it won't be your problem."
She added no details. Lacrosse didn't press. He didn't feel the urge to ask for a date. He knew time, for his family, was elastic. Stays lasted as long as they were needed. Departures were decided and executed. He was about to live something he had never lived: he would be entrusted to a group of strangers, with a task he didn't fully understand.
"May I…"
"Mm?" Clarisse arched a brow.
An impostor.
"…may I take something of mine?" he asked, looking around as if searching for an object that carried meaning.
Clarisse followed his gaze. "Of yours?" she repeated, savouring the phrase. "What is 'yours'?" The question slid into the air and stayed there.
Lacrosse fell silent. There were books he had read but did not remember choosing, fabrics he had touched but that did not belong to him. Everything had been given, lent, displayed. He had nothing that had been born with him. He lowered his hands.
An impostor. An impostor who replaces no one.
"Then nothing," she concluded, as though the answer belonged to him. "Perhaps it's better this way: fewer bonds, more room."
The boy could have sworn he felt a knot in his throat.
I'm living a life that isn't mine. That belongs to no one. I don't belong here.
Clarisse turned. "What is it?"
Lacrosse startled. "Merde!"
His sister tapped his head lightly. "Oh? What did I tell you about vulgarity?"
"I apologize…"
"Well? What is it?"
"Nothing…"
"Mon coeur… how many times must I tell you?"
"I know, I know… It's just that… I'm sorry you have to treat me like this…"
Clarisse tilted her head. "Like what?"
"Like… a person."
"And what would you be, then?"
Lacrosse lowered his head. "To be honest, I have no idea…"
"…"
Clarisse exhaled and sat on the bed, patting the space beside her.
He sat next to her, and for a moment he felt something like warmth.
"Look out the window."
"What do you mean?" Lacrosse asked, confused. "Renoir is above the palace… you can't see it from here."
Clarisse made a dismissive gesture. "Don't be foolish. I taught you better than that. Look."
Lacrosse obeyed. The stars had always been part of his life and his memories, whatever shape those memories took. They were his sky, his company. What was so new about them?
He tried to lift one shoulder, a small sign that he didn't understand, without making it explicit enough for her to think he was entirely clueless.
"Now, there are many schools that hold many opinions about the cosmos. The pragmatists and the followers of nihil are certain the universe is a cold, indifferent force that sees us as nothing but collateral."
"That's sad…"
"Indeed. Then there are the empiricists, who see it as an order that is also impersonal, but more symmetrical, something to decipher rather than something that speaks to us."
"Where are you going with this?"
Clarisse made one of her hand gestures, the kind that meant be silent.
"More mystical circles interpret it as a living force, something that watches us, that is part of us as we are part of it… and then there are the anti-futurists like poor Selena, who see it as… malchance. I couldn't even tell you how they see it, those people."
A small laugh escaped Lacrosse.
"You laugh, but for a month I've been condemning everything our poor sister says," Clarisse replied. "In any case, do you know how I see it? Meaning, what is the objectively best view?"
Lacrosse leaned forward. "Which one?"
Clarisse couldn't help the proud smile that surfaced. "The canvas."
"The canvas?"
The Poetesse brushed a hand along his cheek. "Do you remember what I said about other people's ideas? I want you to make one exception. You are human, mon coeur. You are human. No one, not even you, will ever be able to deny that for you. And throughout your life as a human, the sky, the cosmos, the stars, nothing that you see beyond this window does, will ever be decisive for how you choose to carry your life and your choices forward. It is the opposite, rather. You may move as you please. You may make whatever works you wish, upon the vast canvas the universe has stretched for us."
Lacrosse listened, wordless.
"Now you will go out there," she said, "and you will live as a human."
They moved toward the door. Before crossing the threshold, Clarisse placed her hand on the frame. She didn't turn, didn't step. She simply touched the panel the way one touches an invisible anchor. Lacrosse filed the gesture away as a mental note. He didn't try to imitate it; he had no physical relationship with that room.
As they walked down the corridor toward the elevators, the Opulence's presence grew more apparent. It was never truly loud; it was more like a set of low frequencies that braided and unbraided. Lacrosse felt different vibrations under the soles of his feet as the floor plates changed material. Some were crystal; others a burnished metal. The alternation followed no obvious pattern, yet it remained harmonious, as if the palace had been built by listening to the music it gave off while it was being shaped.
"We won't be entrusting you to saints," Clarisse remarked, as if continuing an unfinished thought. Her tone stayed light. "And paradoxically, that may serve you. They have seen sides of the world we do not."
She didn't say criminals. Lacrosse hadn't felt the difference sharply enough. He had heard labels: outlaws, brigands, smugglers. They sounded like words for temporary behaviours, not essences. He had been raised with the idea that every action was contextual, and that people could not be contained by a single term.
"I entrust you to them," she concluded.
Lacrosse didn't try to reply. He registered the act. The word entrust had weight: it wasn't a gift, and it wasn't abandonment. It was a temporary transfer of responsibility. It contained no guarantee. It anchored the reality of the journey more than anything she'd described. It occurred to him that entrust didn't contain trust, yet it brushed against it. Like one hand passing a thread to another without checking whether the thread will snap.
"And remember: don't react as they react. React as you react."
It was the last thing she said. The doors sealed, cutting off his sister's figure. The capsule snapped upward, slipping into the flow of the axis. Lacrosse watched Clarisse's face vanish and didn't try to memorise it. He knew what mattered was what she had said, not how she had left.
As the capsule went down, the platform's light became a memory. The inner walls vibrated faintly, a vibration that wasn't unpleasant, only constant. Below stretched the tunnel of light; above lay the palace that had held him for four years. He didn't turn. Not out of pride, but because he wouldn't have known what to look for, looking back.
The capsule stopped at the bottom of the axis. The doors opened onto the square, where Law, Amarel, and Jean were waiting. Lacrosse recognised them from before: Law's scars, Amarel's dull-gold hair, Jean's hurried look. None of them seemed particularly pleased or displeased to see him. To them, this handover was a variable in a sequence of events, probably.
"Yo," Law said, without moving. His voice was rough, but not hostile.
"Hello! Did you bring everything?" Amarel asked, tilting his head. He looked like he was about to crack a joke, then held it back.
Jean looked at him, then looked past him, as if measuring time. "Hurry up, we're behind schedule," she sighed. "Because two certain morons threw away the only ship we had. You know we came here on public transport? Do you realise that?"
Amarel cleared his throat. "I beg to differ. Could you correct morons to moron, please?"
Law rolled his eyes. "Fucking hell, how long are you going to keep this up?"
The young man with ochre hair leaned toward Lacrosse. "Did you know he wrecked our ship in a straight line? A straight line. If you need anything, ask me."
Lacrosse nodded, chuckling at the brief banter.
They don't seem that bad.
"Have you… known each other long?" he asked.
Law scratched his chin. "We picked up the dock-lugger here not long ago. Shit, essentially on the way here."
Jean frowned. "I said I do deliveries, asshole."
Law shrugged. "Yeah. Blue-collar jobs all look the same to me."
"Because you're a little bit ignorant," Amarel ventured.
"Fuck you."
Lacrosse stepped out of the elevator without saying goodbye to Clarisse. She was already far, and he was already elsewhere. He followed Law, Amarel, and Jean down a corridor he knew would carry him out of the Opulence, toward the ships' gate.
Every step measured a new distance. Every step took him farther from the world he knew.
He didn't look back. Inside him, the echo of the first question.
What are we?
It flared again, unanswered.