Rigged. This game is rigged.
The sergeant tore the turban from his head and ran a shaking hand back through his hair as he paced back and forth 'cross the length of his quarters.
He should've been focusing on the ongoing search for Mynhier, or helping Od'hilkas fend off an impending terrorist strike, not... not....
Gods-damned law enforcement.
Taeros. Taeros was a pompous ass of a man, what with having the gall to outright taunt the sergeant with the precarious position they'd found themselves in.
"Your...employers. Monetarists?"
"Would that matter, Sergeant?"
"You tell me. We're in Ul'dah. Does it matter? Should it matter?"
"They are of the wealthy sort. They lost much property and wealth in this affair. Whether they support the Sultana or not, corruption is corruption. And if it be amongst those who consider themselves elite protectors of the Sultana... even Royalists would dare protest, I would think."
The slime had a point. Gods damn him, the slime had a point.
That said... me, mistaken? 'Mistaken,' my ass. Soddin' Blade, is what y'are.
Swift. This was all Swift's fault. His mind raced back to the memory of his meeting with the commander, the briefing that he'd told Taeros hadn't happened.
"Fafaso, take these to Liliana, please. Pond, Peak will be needing forms fifty-six and three-thirty-two back, now that I've signed off on them."
Osric bit down on his tongue until he was certain that Swift was finished addressing his secretaries. This ain't Burning's office, and the man ain't Burning.
"Sir, given my... history... sending me is tantamount to handing me my own noose and asking me to tie the hangman's knot. So why me?"
The commander had turned to him, then. Had given him his infamous thousand-fulm stare.
"An inquiry of this nature cannot be allowed to pass on anything but an impartial basis. With the Blades and only the Blades involved, this would be anything but. So I insisted on sending my own man. I chose you precisely for your history."
"Sir, I... I don't understand."
"The Monetarists are making a play for the Royalists' power base. Should the accused prove guilty... that would be a grave blow and a grievous wound, but one that would have to be borne. Should they prove innocent, though...." The commander frowned. "The Monetarists won't settle for that sort of outcome. They'll seek to warp the facts, bend the truth. Whatever gets them the verdict they want. Whichever man I send must be seen as impartial, or else he will be swept aside. Whichever man I send must be acquiescent and believed to be under their thumb, under their power. Should the accused prove innocent, that proof needs be bared under such circumstances so as to be irrefutable and impossible to cover up. And my man must be seen taking every measure so as to insure the opposite."
"...you're asking me to risk my neck playing the field."
The commander's answering smile was full of teeth.
Rigged top to bottom.
He could almost hear the Syndicate's insidious whispers in his ears, feel their grimy claws on his shoulders.
"Ours, now. Ours, or Thal's. Bend a knee, little man, heed us, or your head will roll."
"Bring the Sultanate down, brick by brick, stone by stone."
"Grind it into sand."
Melkire roared, reached for the metal crossbar at the head of his bunk, and upended the works, sending frame and mattress alike crashing into the opposite wall in impotent rage, where the pieces rang out against the cold stone floor.
The door behind him creaked open, and a small voice said, "Recruits've turned in, Sergeant. Best not be waking them."
He waved a hand back towards the voice to mollify his little corporal. The door could be heard creaking closed again.
Rigged. But at least I got something done right, today.
The order. The order was everything. Could change everything.
Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef. Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef.
The order would decide all.
The sergeant tore the turban from his head and ran a shaking hand back through his hair as he paced back and forth 'cross the length of his quarters.
He should've been focusing on the ongoing search for Mynhier, or helping Od'hilkas fend off an impending terrorist strike, not... not....
Gods-damned law enforcement.
Taeros. Taeros was a pompous ass of a man, what with having the gall to outright taunt the sergeant with the precarious position they'd found themselves in.
"Your...employers. Monetarists?"
"Would that matter, Sergeant?"
"You tell me. We're in Ul'dah. Does it matter? Should it matter?"
"They are of the wealthy sort. They lost much property and wealth in this affair. Whether they support the Sultana or not, corruption is corruption. And if it be amongst those who consider themselves elite protectors of the Sultana... even Royalists would dare protest, I would think."
The slime had a point. Gods damn him, the slime had a point.
That said... me, mistaken? 'Mistaken,' my ass. Soddin' Blade, is what y'are.
Swift. This was all Swift's fault. His mind raced back to the memory of his meeting with the commander, the briefing that he'd told Taeros hadn't happened.
"Fafaso, take these to Liliana, please. Pond, Peak will be needing forms fifty-six and three-thirty-two back, now that I've signed off on them."
Osric bit down on his tongue until he was certain that Swift was finished addressing his secretaries. This ain't Burning's office, and the man ain't Burning.
"Sir, given my... history... sending me is tantamount to handing me my own noose and asking me to tie the hangman's knot. So why me?"
The commander had turned to him, then. Had given him his infamous thousand-fulm stare.
"An inquiry of this nature cannot be allowed to pass on anything but an impartial basis. With the Blades and only the Blades involved, this would be anything but. So I insisted on sending my own man. I chose you precisely for your history."
"Sir, I... I don't understand."
"The Monetarists are making a play for the Royalists' power base. Should the accused prove guilty... that would be a grave blow and a grievous wound, but one that would have to be borne. Should they prove innocent, though...." The commander frowned. "The Monetarists won't settle for that sort of outcome. They'll seek to warp the facts, bend the truth. Whatever gets them the verdict they want. Whichever man I send must be seen as impartial, or else he will be swept aside. Whichever man I send must be acquiescent and believed to be under their thumb, under their power. Should the accused prove innocent, that proof needs be bared under such circumstances so as to be irrefutable and impossible to cover up. And my man must be seen taking every measure so as to insure the opposite."
"...you're asking me to risk my neck playing the field."
The commander's answering smile was full of teeth.
Rigged top to bottom.
He could almost hear the Syndicate's insidious whispers in his ears, feel their grimy claws on his shoulders.
"Ours, now. Ours, or Thal's. Bend a knee, little man, heed us, or your head will roll."
"Bring the Sultanate down, brick by brick, stone by stone."
"Grind it into sand."
Melkire roared, reached for the metal crossbar at the head of his bunk, and upended the works, sending frame and mattress alike crashing into the opposite wall in impotent rage, where the pieces rang out against the cold stone floor.
The door behind him creaked open, and a small voice said, "Recruits've turned in, Sergeant. Best not be waking them."
He waved a hand back towards the voice to mollify his little corporal. The door could be heard creaking closed again.
Rigged. But at least I got something done right, today.
The order. The order was everything. Could change everything.
Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef. Kiryuu, Deneith, Mcbeef.
The order would decide all.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
