The Betrayl
Damien Jonson sighed. It was a Monday morning, the sky was a clear blue and cloudless, and the heat warm yet comfortable. And Damien was stuck in an office. Not even a nice office. It stank of stale bread, and the walls were painted a green that Damien had only seen on a coffee mug he had neglected to wash for six months. Damien sat in a rickety office chair next to a window, which had a set of half closed blinds. Eastwood was sitting at his desk next to the left wall, the door directly opposite Damien.
"Do we have to do this Eastwood?" Damien whined, turning his gaze out of the office window.
Inquisitor 'Dirty' Harry Eastwood looked up from his desk, and looked at his young apprentice wearily, smiling.
"I'm afraid so lad. All part of the job. It can't be all scourging and purging you know" Eastwood sighed and continued to write.
"Yeah, I know but look at today" Damien cast his arm towards the window "It's a beautiful day, and we're stuck in a bloody office doing paperwork. And we should really think of getting someone in about the smell"
"So are most people lad" Eastwood replied, not looking up from his report. "And I've told you, I'm trying. We don't have the time"
"Yeah, but most people aren't there just because they happen to be apprentices"
Eastwood sighed. Damien was an exasperating pupil at times. He knew he wasn't this persistent when he was Damien's age.
"Damien, this is all part of the role of the Inquisitor. We have to do this because-"
"We need to catalogue the death of heretics and destruction of heretical artefacts" Damien mimicked sourly, rolling his eyes.
"Well, cheer up at least its only a quarter of an hour left until lunch"
"Thank gods. I could do with a little excitement." Damien muttered, stretching his arms.
"Why? What you doing at lunch lad?" Eastwood asked, looking up from the near-complete report.
"Meeting Joanna at half past" Damien replied, awaiting a stream of bad jokes and innuendo from his mentor. Damien couldn't really complain, as Eastwood was like an uncle to him. And like most uncles, Eastwood made annoying remarks about his love life.
"Really?" Eastwood raised one of his eyebrows conspiratorially, beginning to grin. "What you two kids got in mind?"
"Nothing illegal" Damien replied, smiling at his mentor "So you can stop smiling like that"
"I know lad, I know." Eastwood laughed "I 'spose you'd want to get changed then?"
"Yes, actually. As astonishing as it may sound Eastwood, black robes aren't exactly the height of fashion anymore" Damien answered, rising from his seat. "Now that I think of it, they never were"
"Since when have you cared about being the height of fashion Damien?" Eastwood asked, returning to his report.
"Well, never. Its just Joanna complains when I wear it. She say's I look like I work in the morgue." Damien smiled, walking towards the door. "By the way Eastwood, what are you doing?"
"Well, I need to speak to his highness. That should suck up most of the lunch hour."
"Fun, fun, fun eh?" Damien laughed, his hand on the door handle.
"Oh, and do you have your vox-link?" Eastwood asked as Damien opened the door, shifting one eye on his young apprentice.
"Yes Eastwood" Damien groaned, walking out the door. That was another thing about Eastwood he disliked. He had a tendency to treat Damien like a child at times. Just because of that little 'incident' when Damien had forgotten to keep his vox-link on, the Inquisitor harped on about it constantly.
As the door closed behind Damien, Eastwood sighed to himself.
"Kids" he said aloud to no one in particular "Thank gods I never had any".
Damien breathed a sigh of relief as the door to his quarters shut behind him. They weren't anything special, simply a bookcase, a wardrobe and a bed with a pillow that could be used to club someone to death with.
Damien still had a good half an hour until his rendezvous with Joanna, but he preferred to be early.
He walked up to his wardrobe, and took of his uniform black robe and threw it inside. Then turned and looked in the mirror thoughtfully. It was very rarely Damien had to think about what to wear, an advantage to the uniform robe of the Most Holy Royal Mobian Inquisition. But it itched like hell.
Damien was a squirrel, 15 years of age. His fur was a pale grey, very pale, almost white. His eyes were a deep blue, verging on black. He was lightly built, and not very strong, but he was often quick enough or smart enough to stay out of combat, or quick or smart enough to use a pistol and blow his opponents genitals off whilst in close combat.
He smiled at himself, before taking out his black trench coat and sliding it on. Admittedly, it was a bit too hot to be wearing a trench coat, but Damien did so anyway. Damien liked the coat, and besides, it was the only piece of armoured clothing he owned. Despite Mobotropolis' low crime rate, Damien still felt safer wearing some form of protection, especially as he was known in the criminal underworld as 'They Guy Who's Dating Don Diaz's Niece", and not every low-life was on friendly terms with the Diaz crime syndicate.
He reached into his wardrobe, and took out his vox-link from his robe, and slid it into an inside pocket. He then took out a small obsidian cuboid with a single silver 'I' on it, and put that into the opposite inside pocket. Finally, he took out an ornate revolver; a family antique and the only thing he kept that had belonged to his family other than his grandfathers silver pocket watch.
Damien then posed for a few second in the mirror, generally making a fool of himself. Damien chuckled a bit, it was very rarely he could act his age and slid the gun into his most accessible inside pocket.
With a click, he shut the wardrobe and looked in the mirror for a final time. He looked like a private eye from a dodgy noir film, minus the hat, and felt partly stupid, partly cool and partly like he was going to die from heat exhaustion.
"Lets go to work" he smiled, opening the door and shutting it with a thud as he left his quarters.
Damien Jonson sighed. It was a Monday morning, the sky was a clear blue and cloudless, and the heat warm yet comfortable. And Damien was stuck in an office. Not even a nice office. It stank of stale bread, and the walls were painted a green that Damien had only seen on a coffee mug he had neglected to wash for six months. Damien sat in a rickety office chair next to a window, which had a set of half closed blinds. Eastwood was sitting at his desk next to the left wall, the door directly opposite Damien.
"Do we have to do this Eastwood?" Damien whined, turning his gaze out of the office window.
Inquisitor 'Dirty' Harry Eastwood looked up from his desk, and looked at his young apprentice wearily, smiling.
"I'm afraid so lad. All part of the job. It can't be all scourging and purging you know" Eastwood sighed and continued to write.
"Yeah, I know but look at today" Damien cast his arm towards the window "It's a beautiful day, and we're stuck in a bloody office doing paperwork. And we should really think of getting someone in about the smell"
"So are most people lad" Eastwood replied, not looking up from his report. "And I've told you, I'm trying. We don't have the time"
"Yeah, but most people aren't there just because they happen to be apprentices"
Eastwood sighed. Damien was an exasperating pupil at times. He knew he wasn't this persistent when he was Damien's age.
"Damien, this is all part of the role of the Inquisitor. We have to do this because-"
"We need to catalogue the death of heretics and destruction of heretical artefacts" Damien mimicked sourly, rolling his eyes.
"Well, cheer up at least its only a quarter of an hour left until lunch"
"Thank gods. I could do with a little excitement." Damien muttered, stretching his arms.
"Why? What you doing at lunch lad?" Eastwood asked, looking up from the near-complete report.
"Meeting Joanna at half past" Damien replied, awaiting a stream of bad jokes and innuendo from his mentor. Damien couldn't really complain, as Eastwood was like an uncle to him. And like most uncles, Eastwood made annoying remarks about his love life.
"Really?" Eastwood raised one of his eyebrows conspiratorially, beginning to grin. "What you two kids got in mind?"
"Nothing illegal" Damien replied, smiling at his mentor "So you can stop smiling like that"
"I know lad, I know." Eastwood laughed "I 'spose you'd want to get changed then?"
"Yes, actually. As astonishing as it may sound Eastwood, black robes aren't exactly the height of fashion anymore" Damien answered, rising from his seat. "Now that I think of it, they never were"
"Since when have you cared about being the height of fashion Damien?" Eastwood asked, returning to his report.
"Well, never. Its just Joanna complains when I wear it. She say's I look like I work in the morgue." Damien smiled, walking towards the door. "By the way Eastwood, what are you doing?"
"Well, I need to speak to his highness. That should suck up most of the lunch hour."
"Fun, fun, fun eh?" Damien laughed, his hand on the door handle.
"Oh, and do you have your vox-link?" Eastwood asked as Damien opened the door, shifting one eye on his young apprentice.
"Yes Eastwood" Damien groaned, walking out the door. That was another thing about Eastwood he disliked. He had a tendency to treat Damien like a child at times. Just because of that little 'incident' when Damien had forgotten to keep his vox-link on, the Inquisitor harped on about it constantly.
As the door closed behind Damien, Eastwood sighed to himself.
"Kids" he said aloud to no one in particular "Thank gods I never had any".
Damien breathed a sigh of relief as the door to his quarters shut behind him. They weren't anything special, simply a bookcase, a wardrobe and a bed with a pillow that could be used to club someone to death with.
Damien still had a good half an hour until his rendezvous with Joanna, but he preferred to be early.
He walked up to his wardrobe, and took of his uniform black robe and threw it inside. Then turned and looked in the mirror thoughtfully. It was very rarely Damien had to think about what to wear, an advantage to the uniform robe of the Most Holy Royal Mobian Inquisition. But it itched like hell.
Damien was a squirrel, 15 years of age. His fur was a pale grey, very pale, almost white. His eyes were a deep blue, verging on black. He was lightly built, and not very strong, but he was often quick enough or smart enough to stay out of combat, or quick or smart enough to use a pistol and blow his opponents genitals off whilst in close combat.
He smiled at himself, before taking out his black trench coat and sliding it on. Admittedly, it was a bit too hot to be wearing a trench coat, but Damien did so anyway. Damien liked the coat, and besides, it was the only piece of armoured clothing he owned. Despite Mobotropolis' low crime rate, Damien still felt safer wearing some form of protection, especially as he was known in the criminal underworld as 'They Guy Who's Dating Don Diaz's Niece", and not every low-life was on friendly terms with the Diaz crime syndicate.
He reached into his wardrobe, and took out his vox-link from his robe, and slid it into an inside pocket. He then took out a small obsidian cuboid with a single silver 'I' on it, and put that into the opposite inside pocket. Finally, he took out an ornate revolver; a family antique and the only thing he kept that had belonged to his family other than his grandfathers silver pocket watch.
Damien then posed for a few second in the mirror, generally making a fool of himself. Damien chuckled a bit, it was very rarely he could act his age and slid the gun into his most accessible inside pocket.
With a click, he shut the wardrobe and looked in the mirror for a final time. He looked like a private eye from a dodgy noir film, minus the hat, and felt partly stupid, partly cool and partly like he was going to die from heat exhaustion.
"Lets go to work" he smiled, opening the door and shutting it with a thud as he left his quarters.