A Midnight Meeting

>>4 Harten, 100 PFE, The Divine Empire, Novirsik, Industrial District, Warehouse 39   A man sits strapped to a chair, bound and gagged. The dimness of the poorly lit warehouse combined with the coming night makes it hard to make out his face, yet to anyone who inhabits this damned world, they would know his occupation from the uniform he wears. Smart, sharp black boots that are knee high merge into gray pants which are cinched by a black leather belt buckle, the buckle forming the visage of an eye. A pristine red leather trench coat overlaps a finely pressed white shirt and black vest combo. Around his neck is a medallion, an eye.   This man is an agent of The Assembly. The secret police and inquisition force of their beloved God-King. Across from this bound inquisitor sits a ragged, heavyset human male. He is older, with a gray beard and missing left eye. Wrinkles tell of his age and experience and yet nothing about his age takes away from the intensity of his gaze and energy. This man wears a trench coat as well, nothing so fine as compared to the Inquisitors, just a simple, ragged wool trench coat of black dye. Working pants and worn, weathered brown shoes with far overused socks and a sweat coated white shirt, if one could see the shirt or socks.   The man stares at the agent of The Empire, grimacing, “100 years. 100 years ago today Harbinger began his conquest of our world. This ‘god’, this demon from another realm. A creature beyond our understanding. They say at one time He was a man. A man… Can you believe it? Is that what they teach you over there in Heavenstone? That He was once a man like you or I. That bled, that cried, that felt. What I saw on that battlefield outside Yergen was anything but human. I can only describe it as I see it. Power, such, such terrible power. Such painful rage. Made my head throb with anger, my pulse quickened even seeing him in action,” he speaks, voice gruff with age, and the accent of north Aederian. The old man stands, slowly, with a painful groan, grabbing at his left knee. It had never been the same after that battle. Still glaring at the Inquisitor, a laugh of disbelief growls out of the man’s throat.   “Your god. Where is he now? Upon a throne of broken bodies and shattered cities, built on the backs of broken people. He says this is to build a better world, to build a ‘utopia’. This is a utopia? A world razed by war? You fanatics detonated a M-Bomb on Hurisic. It’s gone. Thousands of people, obliterated in an instant. That’s your peace, your beautiful world? You can keep it,” he spits at the Inquisitor, feeling his hackles rise as he speaks. All he had ever known was pain, suffering, war. This upstart Inquisitor, young and ambitious, knew none of it, he only ate up the spoonfed drivel that was fed to him from cradle to now to grave. Taking a couple slow, limping steps away, the old man turns and continues his rant.   “Yet you never question it, you never look up from the line you’re walking on, never to see that He’s leading you all to damnation. True damnation. The gods, the heavens, even the Hells. You cannot keep them out for that long. You may have conquered our world, you may have broken our nations and their armies but you will never break our spirits. Our will, our rage is enduring, it is endless. This war will last longer than both of us, that I am certain. I call it a war because for many of us, we never truly stopped. Even a century later, the idea of freedom perseveres,” he finishes the tirade and takes a breath, finding himself running out. The Inquisitor had only started, silent with the gag preventing his foul speech. The man laughs, a hearty, genuine chuckle. Another couple stumpy, thumping steps later, the old man leans down with another groan in front of the inquisitor, grinning a toothy grin.   “And now here you are, Inquisitor. Tied to a chair, gagged, helpless. The things I could inflict upon you, the tortures I could remember from my time in the dungeons of Barkez-Zar, tortured for information I didn’t have by sycophants just like you. Always searching for that nugget of information, for that speck of attention that might earn you a promotion up the soul grinding ladder you sold everything to. Was it worth it? To chase that lead, that little lie that we whispered into your ear. That lead that led you here, that led you to now. All your actions, your entire life, your entire blasted, accursed bloodline. All of it led you here, to this moment,” he comments. Before he can stand upright properly, a distant -bang!- can be heard, and screaming. Commands, orders. The soldiers of The Empire had arrived. The noise causes the man to stand up straight quickly, disturbing his trench coat.   The Inquisitor glances at his chest to notice that the man is not heavy set, it was artificial. A black vest overtop his white shirt, spotted with white bricks, and wires coming from each brick. He knew what it was: Eterium, a magical explosive, extremely potent. That much on his chest would level this entire building. Quickly the plan of these insurgents forms in his mind, and the Inquisitor begins to scream into the gag, desperate for his allies to hear him, to not walk into the ambush they had been masterfully led into. The old man glances at the Inquisitor and laughs again, speaking with a shrug.   “Now now, hush. I hear them. Your allies. They come to rescue you, and certainly to kill me. And now you see it as my duster moved aside… you see the vest, you see the wires. You’re a smart man Inquisitor Jedan. You know what this is. Oh yes… a bomb vest. When the squads of fanatics, other Inquisitors and Immortals come rushing in to save you, I’m going to give them quite the welcome. You know for such an extensively overfunded, under supervised division, you sure do fall for the easy tricks quite often.”   The bangs get quicker and more aggressive, until finally there is a splintering noise, and footsteps can be heard distantly. Dozens. The old man smiles, reaching into the trench coat and pulling out a cigarette, lighting it with an ornate gold trim lighter with a burnished silver finish. He takes a puff, listening to the footsteps grow louder, closer. The smoke rises into the air, ascending to the heavens as it is wont to do. The orange light illuminates the old man's face as he puffs once more, before flicking the cigarette to the ground, and stepping on it.   They were at the door now. The man and his allies had barricaded it as best as they could, but with shotguns and mages, it wouldn’t hold them long. The Inquisitor continues to scream, sweat dripping from his brow, stress skyrocketing. The old man smiles, from his belt clasping the small stick with a glowing red button, the stick connected to the wires on the vest.   “So young. You could have done anything. Anything. Or maybe not.” -bang!-   -bang!-   -bang!-   The roar of a shotgun pulps some of the barricading boxes, creating a small hole. He could see the legs of one soldier. Now the smile is gone, the joy of winning. Now only remains the face of a man long abused, a man who had everything taken from him. A man who like so many others upon this continent and all the rest had suffered day in and day out for a long life of servitude to an uncaring, bureaucratic, soul crushing empire helmed by a god they all hated. The Inquisitor stares into the man's dead, soulless eyes, realizing he had resigned himself to this so, so long ago. In that moment, Inquisitor Jedan did not want to die. He wanted to fight, to join them, to help them. He understood now. He understood! If he could just get the gag out he could stop this, he could save everyone!   Another shotgun blast roars out, ringing both of their ears. The old man sees the look of terror upon the young man's face and shakes his head with a solemn, soft smile.   “Maybe you didn’t have a choice. Maybe none of us do. Yet here we are, slaves to darkness, the lost and the damned. This is the world that you helped create. Maybe not you, but, you. Now here we are. I wonder… Did you ever wake up and look in the mirror, and wonder why of all the people you could have been, that this is who you are? I did. I did it every day. Now there’s nothing left to do but finish it,” he remarks, glancing over at the crumbling barricade. Not long now.   “There is a saying among our people. ‘Harbinger sits on a throne built upon a shattered world, upon broken corpses, and broken souls.’ By the time the night is out Inquisitor,” the barricade shatters finally, soldiers pushing through it and beginning to take stock of the situation. The old man pays them no mind and finishes his sentence, gripping the detonator.   “There will be another dozen or so bodies added to that pile,” he finishes, thumb moving up, and as the first rounds tear through the old man’s frail and damaged body, his thumb comes down.                       >>CLEARANCE LEVEL - OMICRON-PHI ALANIC:   SITUATION: OPERATIONAL FAILURE. INSURGENT WAS EQUIPPED WITH ETERIUM VEST.   INQUISITOR JEDAN AND STRIKE TEAM STATUS: KIA   WAREHOUSE 39 STATUS: TOTAL DESTRUCTION   TOTAL CASUALTIES: 18 EMPIRE OFFICIALS, 4 CIVILIAN, 1 TERRORIST   RECOMMENDED COURSES OF ACTION:  

REPRISALS AGAINST KNOWN INSURGENT SYMPATHIZERS

STATE FUNERAL AND AWARD FOR ALL LOYAL LIVES LOST

AWARD FOR MERITORIOUS SERVICE AWARDED TO INQUISITOR JEDAN POSTHUMOUSLY

INVESTIGATION INTO LOGISTICS OF INSURGENTS ACQUIRING SUFFICIENT AMOUNT OF ETERIUM TO CREATE SUCH A DEVICE

PUBLIC ADDRESS BY SPEAKER URIAN

EXECUTION OF ONE VALUABLE PRISONER