CHAPTER FIFTEEN: VETERANS

The room they gave him wasn’t a cell, but it wasn’t far off, either. The door had no lock on the inside, and the windows overlooked a steril

The room they gave him wasn’t a cell, but it wasn’t far off, either.

The door had no lock on the inside, and the windows overlooked a sterile courtyard boxed in by concrete walls. There was a desk, a twin bed, and a bookshelf someone had made a decent effort to fill with real paperbacks, most of them parodies of dog-eared classics or PRT-approved coming-of-age stories. Not home. Not prison. Something uncomfortable in between.

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, a book open in his lap, unread for the better part of an hour. A half-finished cup of tea sat cooling on the nightstand beside him. The air still smelled faintly of antiseptic and old dust, like no one had properly lived here in a long time.

A knock, once, then the door opened. Miss Militia stepped inside.

She wasn’t in uniform. No flag mask. Just Hannah today, dressed in a dark green PRT hoodie and charcoal slacks, the green-black blur of energy at her side. 

That meant something. Probably.

She gave him a polite nod. “Mind if I come in?”

He shrugged. “Already here, aren’t you?”

Still, she waited for a moment before coming inside anyway, standing just inside the threshold. Not looming. Not relaxed, either. Controlled.

“I wanted to talk about yesterday,” she said. “The fire.”

Harry looked up slowly. His expression was unreadable, but there was something sharp behind his eyes. “You mean the part where I wasn’t supposed to do anything when someone was at risk of burning to death? That part?”

Her mouth twitched, almost a smile, almost not. “Yes. That part, yes.”

“I’m not sorry,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you to be,” she replied. “No one does.”

They stood in that quiet for a while.

Then Harry gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit, if you want.”

She did, crossing one leg over the other, and resting her hands on her knee. Professional, but not standoffish.

Harry placed his hands on either side of his person. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. This world… why is it like this?”

She tilted her head. “You’ll need to be more specific.”

“All of it,” he said, voice tight. “The way people talk, the way they move. It’s like everything’s on the verge of falling apart. Like everyone’s expecting to get jumped. And the kids—”

He leaned forward, his stare pinning her in place. “I met Gallant. Nice bloke. What is he, seventeen? Should be in school and going on awkward dates. I’ve seen your Wards. Children in body armor, treated like soldiers. Why?”

Hannah didn’t answer right away. Her eyes dropped to the floor, thoughtful.

“Because we’re overwhelmed,” she said softly. “Because the monsters wouldn’t wait for us to grow up.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not an answer. That’s an excuse.”

She met his gaze, her voice steady and calm. “It’s the only one we’ve got.”

She hesitated, just a fraction. Then said, “I was eleven when my village was burned. I survived. The others didn’t. They used me to find landmines, and my power triggered when I was meant to die. I was lucky. Most aren’t.”

“That’s how it happens, usually,” she added. “Trauma results in powers.”

Harry remained quiet. 

Hannah laced her fingers together. “The moment powers became part of our world, children stopped being safe. They got powers and they got attention. As a result, some were recruited, others were taken, and most were killed. The Wards was a compromise: If kids are going to fight anyway, regardless of our say, they should have training, protection, and oversight.”

Harry looked ill. “You train child soldiers and call it protection.”

She didn’t flinch. “I was a child soldier long before the Wards existed. At least the Wards try to give them a future.”

“Do they ever get to leave?”

“If they want to. When they turn eighteen.”

“And how many actually do?”

She paused.

“Not many.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, weariness seeping into his features. “This place is mad.”

“It is,” she said. No defensiveness. No justification. Only the truth. “But it’s the only way we know how to survive.”

He looked out the window, toward the grey courtyard.

“I fought in a war once,” he murmured. “As a child. Thought I was done with that life. Thought if I came here, I might finally find peace. But it seems like everywhere I go, it’s the same. War never changes.”

Miss Militia’s voice was low. “You’re not the only one who thought they’d find peace and was wrong.”

He looked at her, really looked past the calm voice and steady hands, and he saw the weight she carried, the grief worn into her bones, and the strength shaped by duty.

They sat in silence, then. Two veterans of different wars, united by the same scars. The tea went cold. The book stayed unread. And outside, the world kept spinning the way it always had.