Cid frowned as he crouched on the floor of a prison cell. Ahead of him was a prisoner whose hands were bound in manacles above their head. It was a young man, blonde, blue eyed, covered in bruises and despondent in pain. The prisoner’s half-lidded eyes stared into a corner of the dimly-lit cell, and didn’t appear to acknowledge Cid at all.
The inquisitor shook his head and stood. “This isn’t the one,” Cid said as he turned to leave the cell. “None of them are the boy I asked for.”
A junior inquisitor was waiting outside the iron bars of the holding cell. He wasn’t much older than the prisoner, but he looked professional in his black and gold uniform. The junior swallowed, knit his fingers together behind his back; he followed Cid’s eyes carefully.
“Based on your description we identified one corporal Matteo Venturi as the target,” the junior said. “This man was a match, and further Matteo Venturi’s Signa was found in the coat pocket.”
Cid stepped out of the cell, stared hard through the guard. He raised the steel medallion that was Matteo’s Signa, a unique identifier for each soldier carried, for such a time as their remains were otherwise unidentifiable.
“This?” he asked. “And what did our fair-faced prisoner say about acquiring Matteo’s signa?”
“Well, he… uh…” the inquisitor began muttering. “He did say something about that.”
“Speak clearly,” Cid said sharply.
The junior raised his head, lip trembling under Cid’s glare. “Sir,” he said, swallowed again. “Over the course of our investigation, this prisoner confessed to stealing corporal Venturi’s signa after hazing the boy.”
“Hazing?” Cid asked as he placed the signa in his breast pocket. “Why didn’t you follow up on this?”
The junior blinked. “We… thought he was lying.”
Cid nodded and pressed open the button of another breast pocket. “Lying,” he repeated.
“In times of extreme duress, prisoners will sometimes make up anything to halt an interrogation,” the junior said. “That’s why we have to be careful with how we pursue new leads.”
“I understand how interrogations work,” Cid said as he retrieved a pair of earplugs from his pocket.
The junior’s eye flinched. “O-Of course you do, sir.”
Cid inspected the earplugs, made a show of turning them between his fingers. “What’s your name?” he asked.
The junior’s brow wilted. “Melony,” he said. “Melony Osconna.”
“Interesting name for a man,” Cid said, placed one earplug in his left ear. “How old are you?”
Osconna lowered his head. “I’m twenty years old, sir. I was made junior inquisitor last year.”
“On the Inquisitor Marshal’s recommendation, yes.” Cid nodded, squinted down at Osconna. “You weren’t top of your class in everything, but your mother is very wealthy, and a very important donor.”
Osconna pursed his lips, but he didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed squarely on the motions of Cid’s white, wrinkled gloves.
“Do you know how your mother made so much money?” Cid asked, placed the remaining ear plug part way in his ear.
Osconna nodded. “My family owns tailoring factories—”
“They supply uniforms for the military and all its branches, yes,” Cid said and pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket. “But that’s not what I asked.”
The junior inquisitor frowned slightly. “What did you want me to say, sir?”
Cid held out his hand, handkerchief unfolded so as to drape over his long fingers like a pall. “Hand me your sidearm,” he said.
Osconna appeared to hesitate as his hand lowered toward his belt, but he did assent with a nod. The inquisitor carefully unlatched his holster and removed his black pistol from the slip. He placed the grip in Cid’s open palm.
“Those born with silver spoons sometimes ignore how their fortune was made,” Cid said as he wiped and polished the pistol. “So, as your senior, I will teach you a lesson.”
Osconna made a tepid nod. “I am always eager to learn, sir.”
“Good.”
Cid wrapped the pistol’s grip in his handkerchief and ejected its magazine. A visual check confirmed the gun was loaded, so he slapped the magazine back inside and racked the pistol’s slide. The inquisitor threaded his finger through the trigger guard; his last earplug he pushed inside by the knuckle of his thumb. “Please follow me,” he said. “And cover your ears.”
Cid turned and raised the pistol toward the cell. Bang! Blood splashed across the cell wall and the prisoner slumped lifeless in their manacles. Cid motioned with his hand, reiterated a silent instruction that Osconna should follow behind him as he walked down the cell block.
Bang! another prisoner slumped in their chains.
“W-Wait!” another shouted.
Bang!
Bang!
Osconna’s head rung, even as he held his ears closed. All he heard were begging words; the pleading of prisoners and the screams of their lament. He tried not to look—keep his eyes looking straight ahead down the stone hall—but Cid extended his hand through his field of view.
The inquisitor was out of ammunition.
“Your spare clip, please,” Cid said.
The junior inquisitor trembled and reached for the second magazine latched to his belt. He placed it in Cid’s hand.
Click! The inquisitor released the magazine and it clattered on the hard floor.
“What are you doing?!” a young man shouted from the cell. He was Osconna’s age, of a similar look and build; handsome, but not remarkable; short, but not tall.
Cid fit the new magazine in the pistol grip, racked the slide.
“We’re mana void!” the prisoner shouted. “We’re humans!”
Bang! Blood sprayed against the wall; the prisoner was dead.
Cid removed his earplugs and dropped them on the floor. He held the pistol by its barrel and offered its grip to Osconna. The junior inquisitor appeared to shiver as he took the pistol from Cid’s hand.
“Your mother built her business on the backs of indentured servants,” Cid said. “More precisely, she used slaves to make our lovely—cheap—uniforms.”
Osconna nodded as he placed his pistol back in his holster. He said nothing.
“She was cunning and ruthless, and it earned her everything the world could offer,” Cid continued as he cleaned his gloves with his handkerchief. “Her slaves were weak, and so they were trampled on. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The junior inquisitor turned to meet Cid’s cold eyes and his chest shuddered. There was an effortless smile on the senior inquisitor’s face; he was completely unfazed.
“Y-Yes,” Osconna stuttered a reply, “I believe s-so, sir.”
“I would be remiss to punish a capable, young inquisitor with so much potential, wouldn’t I?” Cid asked.
“Yes, sir,” Osconna replied.
“But, I’ll—to use a phrase I happened on recently—take a page from your mother’s manual.” Cid’s smile widened. “I won’t punish you for failing to secure Matteo Venturi in the timely manner I requested, but like those rebellious slaves in your mother’s factories, I will punish everyone you know.”
Osconna sucked air in his lungs, straightened his back.
Cid stepped to the side, touched Osconna’s shoulder and pushed the junior gently toward a closed cell. The young man, who looked so similar to the junior inquisitor, sat slumped in a pool of his own cooling blood.
“All of these good, upstanding citizens—soldiers, even—are dead, because you failed me,” Cid said. “Don’t fail me a second time,” the senior inquisitor whispered to Osconna’s ear, “or your career will be the very last concern on your mind.”
Osconna nodded and Cid pat his shoulder. “Very good,” Cid said as he straightened up. “Now, go fetch me the real Mr. Venturi.”
Osconna broke away from the inquisitor and walked briskly down the hall. His heart beat loudly in his chest, and in his rush to leave he nearly forgot protocol. The junior inquisitor stopped, spun in place, and regarded Cid with a formal bow.
“I will take my leave, sir,” he said, straightened, and turned out the end of the cell block.
Cid sighed and his smile faded. “I admonished Zelaphiel for causing a mess,” he thought aloud as he cleaned his gloves a second time. “And I’ve gone and made one myself. Well, lemons and lemonade….”
The inquisitor stowed his handkerchief and raised his right hand toward the closed cell, leveled his palm over the head of its dead inmate. “Ex Necro Domina,” he said and an arcane circle written in black light appeared ahead of his hand.
“Level 10.”
Black lightning launched from the circle, arced between the cell bars, and electrified the corpse. Its head juddered, its bones cracked, and its hands pulled against its manacles. Black shadows crept across the floor, connected the fitful body to the cell’s light-less corners. The shadows polluted the corpse, spread over its clothing and across its skin, until it was covered in darkness like black ink.
The corpse lifted its pupil-less, round white eyes; stared up at its master.
Cid smiled again.
