Outside of Oakside city limits the scenery changes from Industrial architecture to open fields overlooking both the Anderson Port City bay and fields leading into untouched forest. Past the tree line is Northern Waters, that surround the collection of islands that create the Pearl Isles in Anderson Port County. We’re heading to the county penitentiary. I wanted to investigate Zoey’s room before finally meeting with the Oakside police. The treeline vanishes completely. Leaving only barren fields to look at, dotting across the landscape are several solar panels you glimpse them from time to time. Tarmac transforms into a dirt road contained behind a gate. We’re now contained in one massive field, likely a deterrent to those looking to plan an escape outside of Anderson County Penitentiary.

There’s an irony in this environment, isn’t there? Both Oakside and Anderson City have the look of cities trying to imitate its past, while attempting to metamorphose itself beyond its historical values. I don’t know if that kind of metamorphosis is for the better.

As the massive complex comes into view. This place is out of the way, and trying to hide despite its size. I find this situation ironic for another reason as well, despite being a part of the system. I don’t see this as its future. In the Celestial Crest, we often detain people only for reformation. We see this behavior as a failure of the system, not the individual.

Though from what I hear, the Traditionalist have rooted themselves here in the Pearl Isles because they lack support in the Celestial Crest. ‘

“The gates are very welcoming,” Wolf breaks the long silence between the two of us.

A second set of gates surround the actual building and its car lot.

“You think?” I ask her.

“Very authoritarian,” Wolf remarks, “I love the; you’re not allowed in and you’re not allowed to leave look of the place. Building is nice too, really says out with the old and in with the new.”

“And what is the old and new in this given scenario?”

“Oh, you know, we have Reformation Center in the Celestial Crest. The Traditionalist really said let’s build a system based on criminalizing people. Nothing wrong we’re doing,”

“Not everyone is a Traditionalist,” I tell her.

“Beep boop-bop, you still loading up conversation mode?” Wolf retorts back.

I hadn’t caught that she was attempting conversation while parking. I don’t think I have thought so much about where I stand in that regard. The Sect or the Traditionalist, technically the Order of the Exalted, have their own set of principles, Oaths, and rules we abide by. We act outside of both the Sect and the Traditionalist. Though the Order has always had connections with the Sect. We gravitate around each other, the Oracles would say.

Inside, the penitentiary gives off a very different vibe than the outside. It feels like a very well guarded office building. We’re being asked to turn over our pockets before entering a waiting area of white tile linoleum and fluorescent lights. The smell of disinfectant is strong and pungent enough to make you lose your sense of smell. Despite the body scanners, the large lobby area has rows of fabric chairs. The type you might see in an office space. There are five windows ahead of us, receptionist desk.

“Afternoon,” I greet the receptionist.

She simply taps the window from the opposite side at a lamented card. Visiting hours.

“I am not visiting,” I inform her politely.

The older, muscular woman ignores me at first. Meanwhile, Wolf is a fixing a crease on the sleeve of her suit blazer.

"I am actually here to investigate Zoey’s cell,” I say.

The woman eyes us both, up and down, “You don’t look like an investigator.”

“What does an investigator look like?” Wolf asks curiously.

I try to hide a smile.

“Well, it certainly doesn’t look like you two,” she says.

Wolf sighs in relief. “Oh good. I was worried there. I didn’t want people to mistake me for the investigator.”

“I don’t know where you got your tip, but I have been told I am not let reporters in to investigate.”

“We’re not reporters,” I respond.

She continues to look at me suspiciously. This is the second time today this has happened. I rather not have to use this, especially since the penitentiary is so closely tied to the Oakside Police Department. Lysander will probably hear about this. She scoffs when she sees the satin gold of the lining of my black jacket, taking out my shield of service.

“I am a member of the Order of the Exalted,” I say, “Under my authorization I may conduct investigations outside of your orders.”

I slide the shield through the window slit for her to manipulate on her own. To most, our shields look like badges from a bygone era. Something tacked once on armor or worn as a pin on a gambeson. It’s magenta and teal, a saltire separates the two segments of the shield.

She claws the Celestial Star, etched into the teal side of the shield with her nail.

“Right, excuse me, I’ll get the Director to speak with you,” she says while sliding the shield back.

Wolf looks at me. “Well, they’ll know we’re here.”

“It was inevitable eventually. I think Lysander wanted to keep Zoey’s death from the public eye,”

“So, fancy robot investigator, tell me why we are doing this preliminary investigation? I want to take on the role of the partner who questions your every move.”

“Why?”

“Mostly entertainment,”

“Two reasons, really. The first reason is simple: to avoid too much noise, the more people you add into an investigation, the more opinions you are adding into the mix. I want to get my ideas down before I hear others take. And secondarily, I wanted to determine if I could trust Lysander’s tip.”

“You came all the way out here and don’t believe it?”

“I wouldn’t say that I don’t believe it, but there is a concern, of course, that none of these events connect. I try to keep that in mind. It’s, um, like when you think you have a full set of pieces for a puzzle and then realize someone has mixed pieces from one set to another.”

“Oh, a puzzle piece metaphor, you get extra smart points for that,”

I study her. Is she mocking me? She laughs and smirks, “We have done it folks, we have revealed you’re just an awkward weirdo.”

“I am not an awkward weirdo,”

“Mm, yes, yes, professional you, with your black wool coat, with the shiny gold satin inner layer, and that look on your face because I tripped you up,”

The receptionist eyes us as she slowly places the phone down. She heard us this entire time, didn’t she?

“The Director will speak with you,” she states plainly.

Speaking of which, I have a series of questions for the Director. I wonder if each room for each occupant here has a security camera feature. If these events are linked, then it is likely I can catch the same distortion on that security camera. It’s a long shot and I am casting a net into the void.

“You can sit down and wait,” the receptionist points to one of the lumpy fabric chairs.

Also, how did Zoey get hold of a nail in a place like this? From the looks of the front entrance, which is well guarded, with two armed guards. The visiting hours, slim. The receptionists vigilant, to the point they are giving us a hard time. How would anyone slip in to kill Zoey? Or how would anyone slip in to stage a suicide?

“There is something strange about all of this,” I state to Wolf unprompted this time.

“You can start a conversation, wow proud,” she is teasing me? Or mocking me? She seems to recognize it because she does a mental step back. “Sorry, sometimes I forget my filter. Often. I don’t mean to go too hard on you.”

“It’s fine,” I tell her, “I am inclined to believe Lysander. As you recall, Zoey killed herself with a loose nail. No ordinary human has the capability of ripping their own skin with as much force as she needed to apply. We have to come into this accepting the fact that someone might be organizing random accidents. I need to determine how this organizer is doing so and how this organizer is exploiting the system,”

“And the police might be defensive if an outsider is attempting to criticize that system,”

“The Order of the Exalted acts outside of their jurisdiction. That doesn’t mean we have their instant trust.”

“Magi, is it?” a man calls out, approaching us.

This is the Director. He looks less like someone taking charge of a penitentiary and more like a surly and disgruntled manager in a store. He’s dressed nicer than the receptionists. Middle-aged, tall, and built. I realize looking at him, this is what the Traditionalist want. He certainly wants me to like him. The Traditionalist want to make money off of this current complex of theirs.

“Yes, sir,” I extend out my left hand in greeting.

He scrunches up his face. He accepts it with his left, “Left handed.”

Not intentionally.

“I’ve been told that you’re an Order member,” he says.

“I am,” I say.

He eyes me. He doesn’t trust me, “Yes, your Order dictates that I am under Oath to give you whatever you request. If I remember my information correctly.”

“That’s correct,”

“Very well,” he pauses, “Magi, follow me.”

Though I notice, he quickly glances over at the woman behind the window. So, it’s going to be three times today.