#(fate locked)

“Did I just establish that the extremely orderly Lawful guy with an existing heart condition actively needs to do something soon so his heart doesn’t stop and then put him in a situation where he has to break his principles to stop a serial killer? WHY YES I DID :D”

me: huh it’s kind of fun how the inspector and the intellect are so similar and dissimilar at the same time

the story: “the cruelty, the lives ruined, the unflinching dispensation of that which he believes to be right”

“the house is messy >_>”

On the ragged remainders of what might have been grass, a mind that had a moment ago known nothing but law and light and space struggled to raise up a body which had cut through the fabric of the world like a sword.

By the time he had returned to his feet, the Relentless Inspector had sufficiently returned to himself that he became aware of figures rushing towards him, and the fact that this was highly irregular. Yet it was not unwelcome. Their steps cut through sigils that had burned their way into his eyes, and so he could instead turn his attention towards hearing their words over the din of the crowd.

“...ball must’ve hit him…”

“...bleeding, see?”

“...distracted…”

An elbow swung into the ribs of one figure with the inevitability of a law; another of them was pushed aside in a motion as definite as a judgment.

“...b____y b_____s, let me through…”

The last of the figures fell, and revealed a sight that sent the Inspector staggering. Paradoxes flaked off a form who might have been familiar; as they fluttered to the ground, they wrote truths that were lies, constants that reshaped themselves in every moment, laws that were chaos, and he could bear to watch no longer.

“...sir, everything all right?” He knew the voice, and he knew the concern plain in it.

In the language of the stars, there was only the truth. The words that passed his lips carried less power, did not burn, yet the truth could not be concealed regardless. “I… believe I may require assistance.”

“Let’s… let’s get you somewhere quieter then.” Concern became alarm, and a hand took hold of his elbow. “Somewhere with tea.”

As he allowed himself to be guided off the pitch, a bell tolled.

The Inspector’s pen moved across the paper without pause, without mercy, as decisively as he had once moved across a cricket pitch and a universe. The question before him demanded an answer, and the answer was clear. If 26 across was “evening”, then the bird in 19 down must be a dove. Cause still followed effect. Logic still applied. Even a puzzle invented by Hell yielded to rational consideration. All was well with the world.

There was a heavy knock.

This was unusual, and more than a little alarming. There were but few who knew this address of his, and none would knock so heavily.

Nevertheless, he answered the door.

A pair of Special Constables entered. It had become easier, by now, to see their steps as mere movements, to allow the unfolding patterns in every gesture to slip away like a half-remembered dream.

Then Mr Wines followed, and the weight of the memories made the Inspector sway.

Yet he swiftly steadied, and as he did, he saw clearly what the situation required.

Soon enough, the Inspector and his unexpected guest sat at the small table, hunched over two cups of Surface green tea.

"No alcohol for us. Our head still hurts. But what happened between you and... me... might have done our health well. We must face who we were, to better who we are." Mr Wines raised the cup to its hood.

“Indeed.” The Inspector nodded slowly, yet his voice was steady. “As to your statement, it-”

Mr Wines cut him off with a wave of its claw. “...will not need to go beyond these walls, will it?”

A Special stepped closer, and placed a box upon the table. “Green, directly from the Surface,” remarked Mr Wines, and opened the box a fraction.

Had the box contained sunlight, it could have had no more profound effect upon the Inspector than the delicate scent that now filled the small room. Eyes closed, he sniffed the air, seeming almost more like a bloodhound than Chiot, curled up under the bed, did.

The box snapped shut, and he straightened.

No further words were spoken. The visitors took their leave, and the Inspector remained alone with the box of tea and his inevitable doubts. He had acted correctly; had the evidence he had obtained amounted to aught, it would nevertheless be inadmissible, having been acquired in so irregular a way.

And yet, on the table stood a box of tea, suggesting to a mind hardened by the Neath perhaps a darker motive than simple appreciation of a duty done well.

He had done right, could have cited the pertinent regulation in his sleep, and still the doubts remained.

“Are you all right?” squeaked the rat frantically, her paws digging into his nightshirt.

“You- you fuss.” The weight of the accusation was somewhat diminished by the fact it was gasped out between frantic breaths, yet slowly, the Inspector steadied.

Finally, still cradling the trembling rat to his chest, he rose. The course before him now was clear: to examine himself for changes that might prove the presence of a Fingerking, or otherwise reveal what these creatures had taken of him.

His duty as a guard in the Labyrinth of Tigers had taught him the surest sign: the eyes were infallibly changed in such cases. Thus, he lit a candle - beeswax, not foxfire, as the latter’s greenish sheen should have distorted the color - and retrieved his shaving mirror.

Pain pierced his eyes, burrowed into his lungs. He recoiled, only barely retaining his hold on the candle and the mirror. Yet what he had seen had not sufficed for an evaluation. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze to the mirror once more.

Twisting fire filled his lungs; his vision swam; he staggered. He had seen a glimpse of the usual gray in his eyes, yet it did not suffice. He should obtain a second opinion.

Here, however, the next issue arose. Could he visit Inspector R____-H______, or would his visit only serve to endanger her? But this thought was swiftly dismissed - she was a competent officer of the law, and would do what was necessary.

“...please, won’t you tell me what’s the matter?” Given their difference in size, it posed evident difficulty for Lily to shake his shoulder, yet she attempted it nevertheless.

“That... would presuppose the issue was known.” He ran his hand over his braid. “I require someone to examine my eyes.”

Without another word, Lily scrambled up his neck; then, dangling off his nose and his ear, she subjected his eyes to a close inspection. “What are you looking for? It doesn’t look different to me.”

“...the symptoms of possession,” he confessed.

“Not even a snake could be as impossible as you,” sighed Lily. “Whatever is happening to you.. it’s not that, at least.”

“That leaves the matter of the mirror.” He scratched his whiskers in his usual manner. “I shall have to confer with Inspector R____-H______... once I have shaved.”

Yet though the Inspector had ever prided himself upon persistence, though he should never have given up a chase so long as he only were in sufficiently large pieces to crawl, shaving proved an insurmountable difficulty. Trembling with exhaustion as he stumbled from the kitchen, nauseous from the headache that had eventually set in, burning with shame at his body’s cowardly reflexes, he at last was forced to concede defeat.

 It was unsurprising, therefore, that when he called upon Inspector R____-H______ in such a state, he was immediately maneuvered to the nearest chair, bundled in a blanket and provided with copious amounts of tea. Almost as swiftly, an assortment of animals draped themselves over his feet, on his lap, and wherever else they thought they might prevent his departure until he had steadied and begun to restore order to his doubtless shattered world; only Mary kept her distance, hissing from the safety of a shelf, seeming like an uncharacteristically irate cloud of soot. Yet though the tea was excellent, and the company - whether human, canine or confusedly musteline - far from unwelcome, he found no answers beyond the conclusion that it was time to seek out the aid of an expert.

The identity of such an expert, however, proved a more difficult question. Various stage magicians were considered and rejected; the cats of the Shroud were to be only a last resort given the amount of superstitious nonsense they were involved in; even poets were discussed in more than a single syllable.

Finally, duty put an end to the discussion. Yet the issue persisted. It was not enough that his colleagues treated him with a caution that came near to confused pity; the question remained, and the Inspector found himself wasting time pondering it.

When something distressingly resembling an option presented itself to him, however, it was as disagreeable as the question.

Citizen Bowler was an expert on the matter of Fingerking possession. Citizen Bowler was also a suspect, and in a manner of speaking, something resembling a younger sibling.

Both of these facts made them exceptionally ill-suited as a source of information. It was certainly improper for an officer of the law to request the aid of a suspect; and as for their other relationship, an older sibling, if only in metaphor, should be more experienced than the younger.

“You fuss,” muttered the Inspector, shielding his eyes against the glare of the foxfire candle.

“So you’re saying, sir,” asked Inspector R____-H______ from her vantage point in the corner of the room in that casual tone in which the most wicked of snares are laid, “nearly falling over standing up, losing your lunch, and, oh, having a bloody wound on the back of your head are completely normal for you these days? Lily, is that what he’s saying?”

“It is the… temporary setback,” the Inspector conceded. “I was able to give the report.”

“In French, the half I understood. Not sure it counts if you fall over afterwards either, sir. Stubborn isn’t the same as fine.”

“I rescued the majority of the prisoners before this.”

“You look like you personally shielded them from every stalactite on the roof,” Lily chided him, gently pressing down a paw on his chest for emphasis. “Why do you keep using that strength of yours for getting hurt?”

Yet the Inspector was too weary to respond with anything but an exasperated huff.

He was not granted much rest.

“Sir? You still with me?” Inspector R____-H______ gently shook him by the shoulder less covered in scrapes.

“Where else should I be?” he snapped irritably, suppressing a wince at the volume of his voice.

“Careful, sir, if you overdo it you’ll wake Lily and Chiot, they won’t be able to take the next shift, and you’ll have only Cole for company.”

“Shift?”

“Doctor said to keep you up for the day, remember?” Concern was clear in her voice, yet it was soon suppressed as she continued, “It’s just I have a few questions about your report. Maybe we should go through them together.”

Duty had borne the Inspector up during his escape from the Starved Men; duty now at least brought him closer to wakefulness. “What do you require to know?”

“About… let’s talk about the Starved Men. How would you go about arresting one of them?”

“It… depends. Their anatomy’s… it is highly variable. All manner of different cuffs may be needed. At least the stars… the false-stars have regular shapes.”

“And why would we want to arrest these, sir?” Inspector R____-H______ prompted.

“Impersonation of authority,” he answered immediately, “and…”

Yet as habit had him seek steadiness in the sight of the same constellations that he was condemning, it seemed to him there was a movement outside the window, and the thread of his thoughts frayed once more.

“And?”

“Did you not listen?” he snapped. “They eat the captives.”

“Right.” She grimaced. “I’m making us tea in the morning. The good one.”

Once more, he gave no response.

“...sir?” Though Inspector R____-H______’s grip was as cautious as before, her voice was more insistent.

“I was... merely resting my eyes.”

“If it’s just your eyes that need rest, you won’t mind talking, right?”

Yet between his exhaustion and the English language, no reply was forthcoming.

“Then I’ll just keep myself awake reading those charts, I suppose. Fascinating, aren’t they?” she asked with such innocence in her voice as is seldom achieved without a conscious effort. “The Imago, that’s supposed to be you, right? Looks like-”

“It is nonsense,” the Inspector quickly broke in. “The natural behavior of these creatures, it explains this perfectly. They converged in the larger group as they were to be… fed. They surged towards the… the remains I was forced to employ as the distraction, and thus were in disorder. And they scattered in pursuit of the escaping captives. It is perfectly natural.”

“Perfectly.” The papers rustled as Inspector R____-H______ continued to search them nevertheless. “That Imago there does sound an awful lot like you, though-”

“Because I chose it, as she could not find the ‘sign’ to apply even with such broad terms. To her, I was the egg.”

She cocked her head. “I don’t really see the resemblance. Unless your head’s cracked.”

“I may assure you it is not.”

“Sounds like you’re in a shape to get some food in you, then.”

When he did not move excessively, the nausea subsided; thus, he concurred with the assessment.

“I’ll see if I can’t get you that mushroom broth. And stay put while I’m away, or you’ll wake everyone.”

As soon as she had left, there was a knock on the window, soon followed by a rattling the Inspector would have found profoundly satisfying had it not sent stabs of pain through his skull. It was as difficult to enter through the window as he had hoped.

At last, the rattling subsided, and somehow, a sheet of paper made its way through a crack in the shutters and came to rest upon the stacked charts.

Despite his sense of balance and a rather precariously posed Cole conspiring against him, the Inspector had come close to formulating a plan to reach the note when Inspector R____-H______ returned with the broth. Seeking a place to set the tray down, she instead found evidence of the attempted intrusion.

“Hullo, what’s this?”

“Citizen Bowler, one presumes. Do they speak of plans to improve my condition by excessive amounts of steam?” he asked wearily.

“... not as such. This just says ‘get well soon! I’ll visit you tomorrow’. And they drew some plants. This looks like… moss?”

He shifted to peer at the vegetation in question. He leaned forward; he leaned back; he swayed as dizziness overcame him yet again. At last, he conceded defeat. “...you would not have happened to see my glasses?”

“No straining your eyes, the doctor says. That’s… moss and basil, I think. Health and good wishes or somesuch. Then something about…  temptation and independence and remorse and affection… or maybe that’s just a fruit basket. And… they think you’re meek?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s birch, right? There’s a whole bundle of it.”

And yet the answer to this question might irk him more. He had saved them because it was the duty of an officer of the law to protect the citizenry. To possess another motive would be excessive at best. Yet there he was, considering the question of their competence as though it had borne relevance to his actions. That the Eradicator, in the midst of all her flaws, displayed the virtues of persistence and dedication; that the Rat, wrong though it was in the traits it admired, understood the value of carrying on a purpose that was greater than one’s self; that to be caught in the intestines of a living grotto armed with excessive amounts of teeth was a situation he understood to commonly engender camaraderie; what should all these matter to his actions? At best, they were superfluous as reasons; at worst, they were highly disturbing. It had been his duty to save them, and this should have sufficed. To let subjective factors such as caring for them enter into it might mean an unacceptable erosion of that duty.

To diverge, even a little, from objectivity in his evaluation of the pair could not be permitted. He would have to request an additional opinion.

It followed he had become fond of the Eradicator and the Rat. A troublesome conclusion.