"But that's only a tactical classification—just a way to trace the origin for easier engagement," Liz continued.
"Secondary Chelates are invaders from outside, so they're usually unfamiliar with the local environment or terrain. That makes them relatively easier to eliminate.
Primary Chelates, on the other hand, originate locally—they've lived in the affected area for a long time, know the terrain well, and therefore are far more secretive and cunning. Fighting them is always harder."
Hester nodded, understanding. "Is it the same way out in the Wastelands?"
Liz paused for a second, then shook her head slowly.
"The Wastelands…" she murmured, "They're different. Completely different.
"In the Wastelands, it doesn't matter whether you call something primary or secondary. Even if you tried to separate them, it would make no difference.
By the time anyone realizes the Chelation sickness has spread there—it's already too late.
Some people try to flee. Others just stay, waiting for the inevitable, until the illness takes them one by one.
"But if word gets out early enough, the Silver Needles and the United Government's teams can arrive before the full outbreak to provide treatment and evacuation.
The problem is, maintaining that communication is brutally expensive. There's no electricity in the Wastelands—everything runs on horses and human messengers.
"When an entire Wasteland succumbs to infection," Liz said quietly, "we call it a Chelate Tide.
But in the desolate lands, hunting Chelates is often easier than in the cities—you're not bound by all the restrictions of the inhabited zones."
Hester realized her question had been poorly timed. Liz's voice carried a subtle ache, a weight that clearly came from personal memory.
She'd accidentally stirred someone else's grief.
After a moment of silence, Liz shut her book with a soft thump and set it aside.
"Get your laptop," she said.
"…For what?"
"I'll help you set up encryption. I was supposed to do it yesterday, but things got too busy and it slipped my mind."
Seeing Hester's puzzled look, Liz gave her a brief explanation.
"So you mean," Hester asked, "Shawn might have been able to see my online activity?"
"In theory, yes," Liz replied. "But the base has revoked all his device access for now. He shouldn't have any tools left."
Hester thought for a moment, then nodded. "...Alright. Give me a second."
---
Days passed, and Shawn still hadn't managed to use Calvin's computer—Calvin had simply left his laptop in the base library.
They'd never gone this long without speaking before.
Several times, Shawn tried to start small talk, to bridge the silence with mundane excuses, but every time he approached, Calvin turned away before he could open his mouth.
After several failed attempts, Shawn gave up. He realized that unless he was willing to have a real conversation—an honest one—Calvin would never pretend that their last exchange hadn't happened.
The resentment festered inside him, but he had nowhere to put it.
Calvin had already begun preparations for their first live operation scheduled for next month—yet for the first time, he hadn't invited Shawn to train with him.
So Shawn began skipping every simulation he could.
He filed sick leave, personal leave, any excuse that came to mind—and to his surprise, the base approved them all.
Suddenly, he had more free time than he knew what to do with.
About a week later, the base unexpectedly raised his trust rating—from D up to C-.
Even though Officer Molly summoned him for a stern warning about his behavior, the upgrade still meant one thing:
both he and Calvin were permitted to move back into the student dorms.
For a brief moment, Shawn felt cautious, even suspicious.
But after leaving the field division, he spent several days without bothering Hester at all.
It didn't last.
Soon he began to understand what was really happening.
Crowds of civilians had started gathering outside the base, waving banners and shouting slogans—
"Let her be free!"
They lifted Hester's portrait high above their heads, her ash-blonde hair catching the sunlight.
And Shawn—idle and bitter—stood by a window in the main building near the front gate, watching the spectacle unfold with amusement.
He could smell the politics behind it all—a desperate attempt by Molly and the higher-ups to avoid a scandal.
They didn't want, or perhaps didn't dare, to see headlines about a trainee being bullied inside a military base.
But he wasn't afraid.
Not long after moving back into the dorms under the excuse of "recovering from diffuse headaches," Shawn found his chance.
He planned to sneak into Mrs. Lovett's first-floor office—her station room.
Mr. Weil, a logistics officer, had emailed her suggesting an afternoon drive to the city. He figured she could use the break—after all, the protesters had probably driven her half mad by now.
They'd leave around one and return before five.
The email, however, didn't specify which day. It depended on how soon Weil could finish his workload that week.
That didn't bother Shawn.
Every day after noon, he set up a chair by the window overlooking the L-shaped path near the dorm entrance and pretended to read.
Whenever someone passed below, he looked up discreetly.
Eventually, he saw her—Mrs. Lovett—leaving in full formal attire:
a pale-yellow overcoat, a floral dress, a small hat with green tulle and silk flowers, brown low heels, and a small black handbag.
Shawn watched until she vanished down the road.
Then he checked his watch, calculating the time it would take her to cross the base to the west-side underground parking lot, where Weil would be waiting.
He pictured them chatting in the car as the engine started—driving farther and farther away.
Once he was certain she was too far to turn back for a forgotten item, he closed his book, walked casually downstairs, and stopped in front of her door.
With a prepared universal card, he swiped the electronic lock open.
Mrs. Lovett's computer password was laughably simple: Lovett4576_.
It was, in her mind, the perfect combination—uppercase, lowercase, numbers, and a special symbol.
The only problem? Her username was also Lovett4576.
At least she'd never have to worry about forgetting it.
Shawn navigated quickly through the system to the access logs.
His eyebrows lifted—Hester's online activity stopped around 9 p.m. two Sundays ago.
So Liz really had helped her upgrade the security.
Still, he began typing in a few commands, curiosity sharpening his grin.
He opened Hester's most recent search history, expecting something dull—anything to break his boredom.
But as the list loaded, his smirk froze.
The topics were shockingly direct:
> How to buy a small knife suitable for concealment?
How to forge an alibi?
If someone under twelve commits intentional murder, what legal punishment would they face?
The cold light of the monitor flickered across his face.
And for the first time in days, Shawn didn't move at all.
---
(End of Chapter )
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