Transmission 015 // “Polished Hinges”
School didn’t feel like school anymore. It felt like something else.
The canteen still buzzed with gossip and chatter. The teachers still wore their paper-thin smiles. Bryony and her crew prowled the halls looking for easy prey. Nothing had changed. It was the same as it ever was. But Amelia could feel something else now. Something beneath it all. Something bigger. Deeper. Older.
Something that hadn’t made its presence known—until now.
It was everywhere. The Evie-curated learning modules. The history lessons that felt altogether too clean. The EverLink updates. Her dad’s dinner table monologues. Those damned digital whiteboards.
Maybe the pattern had always been there. Maybe she’d just hadn’t been listening. But now, it hummed under everything. She could feel it, like an itch beneath her skin. Willowbrook High had always felt like its own little world. But it wasn’t. It was just another limb. A carefully pruned offshoot of a bigger tree.
Her eyes swept across the canteen again, taking in the faces of a hundred teenagers—each one caught up in their own little world. None of them knew it, but they were all leaves on the same vine—spreading in different directions, catching different winds—but fed by the same roots that had always been there.
And above it all, hidden by the canopy—the same dark rain cloud lingered.
Feeding everything.
Even art, which was usually Amelia’s favourite lesson, offered no escape. The day’s assignment was to sketch an object from memory and reimagine it in an unfamiliar setting. The exercise couldn't have felt more loaded. It was as if the universe was toying with her—laughing at her. Every thought, every scratch of her pencil, it all led back to the same thing. The photograph. Richard Helpmann, planted between her parents. And the look on his face—that tiny split second reaction—when she'd confronted him and finally said their names out loud.
He knew them.
Not only that: he knew something about what happened to them.
She was certain of it. And, one way or another, she was going to find out. Her mind ran too fast, the clock on the wall dragged too slowly. By the end of school, she was a coiled spring. The bell had barely sounded before she was on her feet and moving, cutting a line straight to the classroom door.
She hurried down the corridor to the gymnasium. When she got there, she had no choice but to wait. Her fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on the strap of her bag. Students began to pour from the locker rooms. She looked around impatiently. She couldn’t see the face she was looking for.
Then, he appeared.
It was the hair first—always the hair. Then the glasses, and finally the rest of Marv came into full view. He emerged from the crowd looking like he'd just survived a war. He was creased, damp and bedraggled. He pulled his book-bag behind him like the body of a fallen comrade that he couldn’t bear to leave behind.
“Football?” Amelia guessed, raising an eyebrow as he shuffled over. For a second, the tightness in her shoulders eased off, and she nearly broke into a smile.
“Football,” Marv confirmed grimly. “The only sport where ‘slam into that guy really hard’ is considered an innovative strategy. You know how you love chess?… well, it's basically that, but for total meatheads.”
A snort escaped before Amelia could swallow it. That was Marv’s gift: his sarcasm was effortless—and sometimes annoying—but it had a way of cutting through the noise in her head, even when it all felt overwhelming.
He pulled his backpack back onto his shoulder and ran a hand through his hair, before naturally falling into step next to Amelia. They wove together through the schoolyard, toward the gates. As they reached the road, Marv glanced in her direction.
“Ready for this?”
Amelia took a moment to weigh the question.
“Yeah. I think so.”
She didn’t say anything else.
They walked on.
* * *
On the way to the Willowbrook station, Marv broke the silence, launching into a lengthy monologue about his latest football experience. He gave a blow-by-blow account of every collision, every stumble, and every muttered insult—and he delivered it with the tone of a jaded war correspondent who had spent way too long trapped behind enemy lines.
Amelia nodded and murmured her agreement in the gaps. Thankfully, there weren’t many, as Marv barely seemed to take a breath. Even though she was only half-listening, she wasn’t at all surprised when the conversation veered toward Cyrus Murdock.
Cyrus had been dating Marv’s mom for over a year. He was a retired pro footballer—a linebacker, who had played all over the Commonwealth, including a legendary championship-winning run with the New Provence Gators. He ended his career in Greenhaven, but an injury stopped him from finding the same form for the Pioneers. But, he did find something else in the city—a home. For the first time in his adult life, Cyrus stayed somewhere longer than the length of his contract.
Greenhaven had no shortage of sports stars and celebrities, but they all gravitated to Uptown—impressed by the opulent glass-fronted apartments and white marble town houses. Cyrus Murdock was looking for something different. He could’ve had his pick of the penthouses on Crestview Rise, with a perfect view the city’s new football stadium. But he didn’t care for corporate boxes and the comfortable life. Instead, he bought a condo on the edge of Old Town, a stones throw from Founders Field, the Pioneers’ original home. The old stadium had long been abandoned, its gates chained shut and its walls scrawled with graffiti. But Cyrus appreciated its history, so he settled nearby.
Old Town had never had a star on its streets before, and that quickly turned Cyrus into a local legend. He was a familiar face at charity drives, school fundraisers, and community marches. He didn’t look for the limelight, but he was always happy to help a good cause. That’s where he met Miriam. They first crossed paths at the opening of a new community food bank. She was representing the hospital where she worked. Cyrus was there to cut the ribbon and give a speech to the gathered crowd. As usual, he got a heroes welcome.
Miriam wasn’t nearly as impressed as everyone else was. She had little time for men. She had married straight out of high school. Her husband, Frank, had left without a trace just months before Marv was born. Miriam hadn’t seen or heard from him since. Being a single mother for so long had made her fiercely independent and incredibly cautious. She’d built a fortress around her son and their life together and, in the subsequent seventeen years, had never seemed inclined to drop the drawbridge for anyone.
But Cyrus wasn’t easily deterred. He’d been conditioned by a life of collisions and comebacks, so he knew how to take a hit. He made it his mission to show Miriam that he was genuine. A lift home from the store. Groceries carried from the car. A crooked porch step quietly repaired while nobody was home. He kept stopping by and showing up. Miriam wasn’t used to it at all. But, despite her suspicions, he eventually wore her down and, one day, she left the door ajar.
Marv, on the other hand, would have kept it locked—and barricaded it—if he could.
Amelia had always found Cyrus to be approachable and kind; he’d ask her how school was going and, unlike most adults, genuinely seemed interested in her answers. But Marv didn’t like him—not one bit. As far as she knew, Cyrus had never tried to play the surrogate dad, but she was pretty sure that’s how Marv saw him. And, though he wasn't the type to get angry and rebel, he knew how to make his feelings known quietly, with subtle disengagement and silence. In his own way, Marv made sure that Cyrus knew he wasn’t welcome in his world.
Amelia would never have said it out loud, but she suspected that he wasn’t really upset about Cyrus—or football—though he would grumble endlessly to her about both. It was the shift that he resented. The change that inevitably comes to claim the thing you love. Her world had been shattered in an instant but, for Marv, it was happening in slow motion. The life he’d always known was unravelling in front of his eyes, one day at a time. And so, football wasn’t just a game anymore. It had become a crucible. A battleground. A slow fracture in the foundation of his world. Amelia didn’t know the first thing about football. But she understood how he felt completely. She knew that battleground better than anyone.
They reached the concourse of Willowbrook Station, where they were met by a cacophony of noise, and movement from every direction. Commuters swarmed around them, heads down, faces blank. The smell of hot oil and burnt coffee drifted from a nearby food cart. A faint thread of scorched metal rose from the tracks below and caught in the back of Amelia’s throat.
Announcements crackled through speakers mounted on high poles around the station. Amelia watched a man in an oversized jacket gesture wildly at a security guard. He was obviously shouting, but she couldn’t make out his words over the surrounding din. On the other side of the gangway, a pair of neon-haired punks pointed and laughed, as they slouched nonchalantly against a column and devoured fistfuls of potato chips.
Amelia flicked back into the moment and realised that Marv had stopped a few paces behind her. He was staring at the ticket machine, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight. His face gave nothing away, but Amelia knew what was wrong immediately.
“Don’t worry about it, Marv. This is my mission,” she said matter-of-factly, as she dug into her pocket for her phone. “I’m buying the tickets.”
Marv’s head snapped up, a flicker of indignation crossing his face. “No, it’s not that… I can—”
“Don’t be dumb. I know you can. But you’re not.” she cut him off, already stepping up to the machine. Her voice was firm and decisive; there was no argument. Not this time.
She prodded the screen a few times with her forefinger and then scanned her phone.
Thank you, Amelia Swanson. Enjoy your journey.
Amelia’s attention was focused ahead, eyes searching for the right check-in gates. She spotted them almost straight away and began to move. Marv trailed behind, muttering something under his breath—probably a protest—but it was swallowed up by the noise of the platform.
As they reached the train, the doors hissed open. They boarded and took a seat, automatically taking the usual spots—Amelia by the window, Marv by the aisle.
“The tickets… you didn’t have to, you know,” Marv said, slightly out of breath.
Amelia smiled across at him.
“I know. But this journey is on me. If I’m going to drag you along, the least I can do is buy your ticket. Besides… you’ve got your own mission now. You can buy mine when we go look for your dad.”
He glanced up, eyes searching. Then, he smiled back.
“Yeah… you’re right.”
As the train came to life and Evie’s voice chirped a departure announcement, Amelia settled into her seat and looked out of the window.
* * *
The journey seemed to last forever. Eventually, the train slid into Greenhaven Central Station. Its doors opened at a different platform, but it looked identical to the one they’d stepped out onto yesterday. The air on the concourse moved strangely—part chill from the vents above, part slipstream from the tracks below. A faint hint of citrus hung everywhere. The place was too sterile. Too spotless. Too scrubbed. Amelia could only assume the cleaners never slept.
Marv led the way out of the station. The address from the business card wasn’t far—about ten minutes walk. A green route pulsed across the screen of his tablet, showing them the way.It took them straight through The Cascadium this time. To Amelia, it felt like walking through the floor of a canyon carved from glass and metal. Gigantic screens shimmered, spilling a kaleidoscope of colour across the crowd. Every surface was selling something. Fragrances, fashion, and fast food—it all came at her in waves, bright and insistent. She felt like she could drown in the noise.
Then, just as suddenly, it fell away. They turned a corner and stepped out onto a long, straight footway that stretched as far as she could see.
“Is this—?” Amelia began.
“Yeah. Meridian Walk,” Marv said.
She’d heard of it, of course. Everyone had. Meridian Walk was one of Greenhaven’s best-known landmarks. It had been built a few years ago to link the Civic District to Uptown’s commercial centre. The entire two-kilometer walkway was laid with thick glass panels. Beneath the glass ran a silent river.
“Wow. It’s beautiful,” Amelia said, looking down at her feet.
The glass was flawless—no scratches, no joins—just one long, perfect pane between her and the current below. Hidden lights beneath the water shifted gently, cycling through blue, then green, then gold. For a second, her balance wavered. Her eyes told her the river was real. That she was standing on water. But her body knew it wasn’t.
“Sure is,” Marv replied. “Most people think it’s just here to look pretty. A flex… y’know, art to impress the tourists. But it’s more than that, Ames.”
He pointed down at the flowing liquid beneath the glass.
“For starters, that’s not water.”
Amelia frowned. “Then what is it?”
“Coolant,” he said. “I read something about it months ago. Thought it sounded weird at the time, but now that I’m looking at it…”
He crouched slightly, squinting at the flow.
“Yeah. See how it moves? It’s thicker than water. More viscous. Doesn’t ripple right.”
Amelia glanced down again. The colors shifted slowly under her feet.
“Okay, I’ll humor you. Coolant for what?”
“High-density power lines, maybe. Data trunks. This road runs all the way from the commercial zone to the Civic district— could be power sharing, or data transfer. A whole bunch of possibilities. But… ”
Amelia glanced at him. “But, what?”
He hesitated, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “But that’s a lot of coolant for a few power cables. You’d only need a setup like that if you’ve got something down there that’s running seriously hot.”
Amelia said nothing. She just watched the flow beneath her feet, as it rolled on toward the Civic district.
Further down the walkway, Evie’s voice broke the silence.
Turn left in fifty meters.
They did as she said. The street broadened out, but it stayed quiet. The air felt heavier here. It was still modern, still meticulously designed, but no longer desperate to be seen. There was no colour, no noise, no advertising. This area felt reserved and understated. On one side, a battalion of buildings stood to attention, as if under their commander’s watchful eye. They followed the curve of the road, their footsteps echoing in the quiet. Amelia glanced up at the empty windows all around.
You have arrived at your destination.
Marv slowed, scanning the buildings.
“Okay,” he said. “Evie says this is it… but I don’t see it. Do you?”
Amelia frowned. There was nothing. No sign. No logo. Just the same bland, anonymous buildings. She was about to suggest checking the tablet again when Marv spoke.
“Here we go, Ames. I’ve found it.”
He nodded toward a white panel set back into the stone beside one of the doors. It was the kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. The surface was divided into a grid of small buttons, each labelled with a company name and floor number.
Amelia leaned in, scanning the list.
At the very top, engraved in a simple typeface, it read:
5 — Helpmann
The fifth floor. Top of the building.
She craned her neck upwards.
“He’s up there?”
Marv nodded.
“That’s what it says.”
Amelia pressed the button impatiently. For a moment, nothing—just the low hum of the street behind them. Then a short crackle of static.
“Good afternoon.”
The voice was clipped and formal with a distinct accent.
Neville Browning.
“I’ve unlocked the door. Please come up. We’re on floor five.”
A lock released with a clean metallic click. The heavy looking door eased open.
Amelia looked at Marv. He raised an eyebrow.
“Well, this is your quest.”
He gestured toward the doorway.
“After you.”
Amelia hesitated. She pulled half a breath in, and then she stepped inside.
The door swung shut behind them. Amelia’s breath hitched as the lock clicked closed automatically. The hallway was sparse—perfectly buffed floors, bare walls. Not much else. The only real feature was a brushed steel elevator on the far side of the room.
They edged towards it slowly.
A single circular button sat on a small panel beside the door. No numbers. No markings. No hint of where it might lead. They looked at each other. Marv raised a finger, a silent question in his eyes.
Amelia gave a slow nod.
He pressed the button. A chime sounded, followed by the whir of pulleys and cogs, as the elevator stirred to life above them. Amelia’s eyes stayed fixed on the doors, waiting for them to slide open. The surface caught her reflection, but twisted it—her features pulled into strange proportions, like she was staring into a funhouse mirror.
Then the doors pulled apart. The elevator was small—room for two adults, maybe three if they didn’t mind breathing the same air.
They stepped inside. Amelia pressed the button for floor five.
Marv straightened up, clasping his hands in front of him. He puffed out his cheeks, glanced her way. Amelia adjusted her bag strap, met his eyes—then looked up, just as the doors hissed shut and sealed them in.
The elevator lurched upward.
Almost immediately, the space began to tighten. Amelia’s head went light. Her feet felt heavy—like she was sinking and floating at the same time. She crossed her arms. A quiet act of defiance against her own body.
Not now.
She fixed her eyes on the numbers. Tried to count her breaths. Each one came shallower than the last. The machinery of the elevator hummed. Drilled into her skull. The walls leaned closer. Her fists clenched. Tension locked in her forearms, like wires pulled taut.
And then—
This is the fifth floor. If you are leaving the elevator here, enjoy your journey.
She had never been so relieved to hear Evie’s voice.
The doors slid open. She spilled out, gasping—Marv close behind.
Neville Browning stood waiting, arms behind his back. He wore the same brown suit as yesterday. The fabric seemed to soak in the light, while his wire-framed glasses bounced it in different directions.
“Good afternoon to you both. I trust you’re well. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He spun on his heels and started walking.
They followed him through a large wooden door, and a corridor opened around them. The air was still, but Amelia felt the weight of it press down on her shoulders.
No turning back now. You wanted this, Amelia. Don’t waste your shot.
The corridor stretched out, long and narrow. The floor beneath their feet gleamed, black-and-white tiles—stretching out in perfect sequence, pulling them forward one step at a time. Potted plants stood at measured intervals down the hall, their emerald leaves arching with an unnatural symmetry, as if nature itself had been subdued. Portraits hung at perfect angles—solemn figures with unyielding eyes. Amelia didn’t recognize any of them, but they looked important.
Raymond’s voice drifted through her mind.
It’s often the lesser known figures in history that make the biggest impact on the world.
The quiet click of Browning’s shoes were as precise as a metronome. He walked ahead, fully at ease in this place—he seemed as much a part of it as any of the furnishings. At the end of the hall, he stopped in front of another heavy wooden door, this one varnished to a perfect shine.
He took hold of the handle lightly.
“Sir Richard is expecting you.”
Amelia swallowed and gave the faintest of nods. To her left, she saw Marv press his lips into a thin line.
Browning turned the handle.
The polished hinges didn’t make a sound as the door swung open.
It was time.
