#firewalldrabbles

“Can you tell me what happened?”

You look up. The troll across from you is dressed in an iron-gray uniform, clean Imperial lines; not angry, her face, not hateful.

Pitying.

“We’ve been trailing your people for years. What do they call themselves? Children of the Redeemer? They’re crafty ones -- most of them fled when we turned up. Except the ones with you.”

Your hand creeps up to your neck, to the thick pad of bandages there. When the Imperials came, you were kneeling for the tattoo needle, hair pulled away from your neck so that Sister Nadloj could work. You barely noticed the commotion, until Sister Lorataga grabbed you by the arms, pulled you up--

“It wasn’t a murder-suicide,” says the Imperial. “They didn’t try to kill anyone else, not even the other children. What’s different about you?”

A knife at your throat, its bite a sharp and sudden pain -- your own indigo blood gushing out over your hands, down your shirt, matting your long hair--

The Imperial shifts in her seat. “You’re going to have to talk to us sometime,” she says.

Do you, though? You guess Sister Lorataga is dead, and everyone else they captured, otherwise they’d know that you don’t speak to anyone. And they took your notebook with the rest of the things you had on you.

“I understand you’ve indicated that you can’t speak out loud. My bosses say it’s just that you won’t.”

Of course. You pointed at your mouth and shook your head, covered your lips and your bandaged throat with your hands, you hadn’t even screamed when they pulled you out of Sister Lorataga’s grasp -- but leave it to the Imperials to think you’re lying. 

There’s a long stretch of silence: you feel her eyes on you, but keep your gaze on the metal table. Then she slides a pad of paper across to you. Lays a pen on top of it.

You look up warily.

“Look.” She flips her hair, looks, suddenly, only a few sweeps older than you. She’s leaning in now, trying to catch your eyes. “As far as I can tell, the cultists tried to kill you and then left you with us. So however special you were to them, you’re not now.”

You hadn’t even thought to fight back, after the first cut. Sister Lorataga held you while Sister Nadloj stepped closer to finish you--

The Imperial’s talking again. “Our scans say you have some interesting psionics. We can help you train those. We can look after you. We can stop them from trying to kill you again. What do you owe them, really?”

Every member of the cult knows it’s better to be culled than to say anything to the Imperials. But your own blood is still on your hands. The glare of the overhead light might be pitiless and cold compared to the shifting candle-shadows of home, but it shows the entire room in sharp relief. You can see clearly for the first time in what feels like forever.

You look up, setting your jaw.  Picking up a pen, you write a few deliberate sentences on the pad, turn it back to face her.