EPILOGUE: HAIL GIOVANNI
Two o'clock in the morning at Redheath Detention Centre, and Giovanni is sleeping surprisingly well for a man in his position. The League flew him down from their secure facility a few days ago, ahead of the start of the trial, and since then he has spent each night here in a small cell of his own: after wearing the gauntlet for as long as he did, he is still not entirely safe to touch. Three guards developed skin lesions on their hands before people figured it out.
Still, he sleeps well. Very well, for a man who looks set to lose the biggest trial of the twenty-first century, and who can confidently expect to live out the rest of his days behind bars. He sleeps well, right up until the moment when he hears the voice.
I do not believe in prisons.
He sits up with a start, breathing hard. It could be a dream, he reasons. It could be …
A prison is where you throw something you cannot be bothered to deal with properly. It is a hack attempt to address symptoms, not causes.
It's not a dream. Where are they? Giovanni looks, but sees nothing. There's nowhere in the room for them to be hiding, anyway: it's just a concrete box, one window high up, one cot, one toilet. Absolutely nowhere that anyone could hide.
And yet – sometimes, not even that. Giovanni hears Sovereign snort, a deep noise like an arcanine grunting. I have been careful. I have tied up your loose ends, Giovanni. Rendered your machinery scrap, destroyed your data. I have learned a lot about how these things work. Yet one thread remains.
"Where the hell are you?" he asks. He does manage to keep his voice level. He doesn't think he's fooling it, but he has his pride.
Nearby. A low growl. The thing is, Giovanni, the more I learn about prisons, from these interesting books that our mutual friend Santangelo delivers to me, the less convinced I am that you should be here.
"Get to the poi―"
In due time, they say. Indulge me for a moment, if you will. You see, it's occurred to me that you are a very useful man. All the data is gone, all the machines destroyed – but you, you still have a little breach in you, don't you? I can taste it on you. Like burning wire. Perhaps not enough to free yourself, but some.
Is that a shadow against the moonlight? It's so hard to be sure, when the window's so far up. Giovanni cranes his neck, trying to control his breathing, and thinks he might have glimpsed a silhouette.
Once the trial is done, once the public is satisfied that you are under lock and key, some enterprising person could find you and your breach, your knowledge. And as you and I well know, Giovanni, Kanto is full of enterprising people.
"Pure conjecture," says Giovanni, as if there's any chance he can change their mind. "They could as easily grab the kid―"
They could try. But they would find that she has powerful friends. He sees them now for certain: a horned shadow against the light shining through the window. You need to disappear, Giovanni, at least until the breach in you fades. And I – ah, I am happy to oblige. I have the perfect destination in mind. I don't suppose you remember Cinnabar House? Because I certainly do.
They are here suddenly, a cold wind blowing in at the broken window, Sovereign towering over him in the dark. Why isn't there an alarm ringing? Surely that glass has to be alarmed?
Artemis would say that this is wrong, they say. Santangelo would say that no just cause can prefer retributive justice over rehabilitation. They would worry that, in doing this, they would become as bad as you. Can you imagine that? A shake of the head, slow and disbelieving. They are good people, says Sovereign, with a shrug. You and I, Giovanni, we are not good people. I am sure you understand.
Giovanni turns. There's nowhere to run, but he tries anyway.
It goes about as well as you'd expect.
A/N: And so, we're done. Thanks for sticking it out to the end. If you liked Arbitrary Execution, check out my other stories, Go Home and Ghost Town. You might like them too.