Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
Tock.
.
This was no grandfather's clock.
Just a blob of white, hung on the gray wall.
Counting away seconds, droplets of sand falling with each flick of its arms.
Gray eyes, drilling into nothing, gray thoughts, clouding the lost soul's mind. There was not a single thing to fear in the room, nothing to be afraid of, yet his heart ran rampant.
Four walls, a table, two stools in front, one beneath. No windows, no decorations, aside from the master of time ticking out the hour of his demise. It all hurt. Nothing at all had yet happened, not a single thing, but it hurt so much. It could've been the beating he took from the homeless. Could've been the wallop Croissant lent him. Blood rang in his ears, the deafening silence protesting against his very own cochlea and assaulting relentlessly. Time and time again, the sound of nothing was overbearing. Too overbearing to think, to function properly, to exist at all.
Surgically crafted to perfection, the room kept closing in on him, as if shrinking with each tiny chatter of the clock. Each tick, each tock, the walls crumbled, the ceiling fell a little, entrapping him in this prison of gray tiles and vomit-inducing white lights. How could someone willingly design, then create this cage, take a good look and think "Yes, this should put the interrogated at complete ease"? They couldn't, because its purpose never was to soothe anyone or anything. Quite the opposite.
His foot kept tapping against the floor, knee unwillingly jumping up, over and over. Vibrating like a jackhammer, completely in sync with his rampaging heart. He could feel the sweat forming amidst his jungle of unkempt curls, halo beaming brightly, flickering every now and then. The Law never truly had any problems with him, it seems like. Never struck him down for good, never took away his wings and radiant ring, always reminded to act his age and race, yet never stepped in to say "That's enough."
Never once blinked when his arms held the lead-spitting machine aimed at a field of tied up, broken captives. Didn't dare speak up as his mind mowed down the helpless, instead giving him a proud pat on the back for staying true to his roots. Sarkaz and Sankta, once barely united, now fiercely at a couple thousand year long war. Where was the Law when he held a gun to that poor, weeping woman's head? When him and W hunted down whoever they damn pleased, sometimes just for the fun of it?
It stayed silent. Why? Because it was Lawful. Because killing those devilish hounds of war had always been and will always remain the most Lawful form of worshiping the program there is. A god born of a lie, a culture built on deception, that's all it was. All it had ever been.
Yet, Andy had no idea. No Sankta knew, except a chosen few. For him, the Law was simply a blockade, an annoying flick to his nose whenever a swear word slipped through. A reminder to never shoot his own, to treat his weapons with respect and expect them to treat him just as swell.
He couldn't question the Law. How could he? Lemuel was religious, after all. Now, he couldn't question anything his beloved, little angel believed in, right?
She had a tight grasp on his life. Even in those moments when it was just the two of them, together, yet her thoughts remained focused on someone else, on a certain blueberry-haired fiend, making the boy feel so utterly useless and unwanted. She was right there, but her thoughts were far, far away, wandering through the plains of her teenage years, sweet moments spent in the embrace of a dear friend, when everything was so nice and swell, so warm and comfy. So different from his dirty past. So, so different.
"Half a thousand people? You've killed half a thousand people?"
Her words would ring through his mind, sending shivers down that tungsten pillar of a spine. Was that it? Was he just some bloodthirsty monster in her eyes? A silent shoulder to cry on and nothing more? A pile of regret and guilt?
Any time thoughts like this arose, he'd shake them right out. Beat them away, if he had to.
Some bruises, some cuts and signs of hurt weren't anyone's doing but his. He hurt himself just to send the mares off and away. Far, far away, back to that graveyard spilling for miles in the deepest confinements of his mind. The grand marbles, W and Mostima forever locked in stone, waging a losing war on both sides. He'd have to blow the statue up someday, in good, 'ole Lateran fashion.
Thud.
A loud slam forcefully grabbed him by the collar and tore from beneath the surface of his mindless ocean of thoughts, void of any destination whatsoever. Two men entered the room. Could be the same folks from before, could be two completely different souls. Only when they spoke, Andy assigned the voices he heard before to their now bare faces.
"Evening. Kept you waiting for a while, apologies." One spoke, old and wrinkled. His utterly fashion-less chops could only be matched by the mess of graying, black hair sprawling atop his scalp and surrounding his thick horns. Right from the get-go, Andy felt a strange tingle somewhere at the front of his brain, a tiny nudge at the sight. There was something off about this mess of a person, something vaguely wrong. The other, younger, was just as unkempt, messy curls spilling over his face, which he kept haphazardly brushing back every few seconds or so. He had a certain glimmer to his eyes, something malicious. Not necessarily evil, yet still a harbinger for what was about to come.
"... No problem." Andy murmured back, feeling his claustrophobic fears melting away, being replaced by a genuine worry for his own life. They took W's knife away right at the entrance, leaving him bare. Naked. All he knew was that he acted rightfully in the Law's eyes. He didn't care that their law did not agree.
"Mmmm. Codenames IB01 and 02." They took the seats in front, pulling their chairs right up to the shapeless, metal table. "Say, you remember why we took you in?"
"I don't think I do. My dad had Alzheimer's, I tend to forget stuff." He lied, tensing up a little at the sudden closeness. Raphael Reiff did not suffer from any mental illnesses apart from his depressions and anxieties, definitely not any that would make him forget things. Had he forgotten his wife at some point, he would probably still be alive and kicking, writing for whoever was willing to read all his sappy bullshit. Andy felt a spike of deep regret being shoved down his throat, drawing a tear up his eye canal. The older "Lung" pulled a cigarette from his chest rig and lit it with the flick of a finger, which did not help at all, as the tear-jerking smoke quickly filled the boy's nostrils.
He turned his head away, refusing to be brought back into that pitiful tenement block. The geezer noticed.
"Not a fan of nicotine? I can put it out, if you'd like."
The other, IB02, still fiddling a little with his own cigarette and lighter, raised an eyebrow in slight confusion and hesitance.
"It's alright." The angel flicked back, blinking a few times to keep the tears in.
With a shrug, the younger Lung lit his own, drawing a long puff into his breathing bags. For a moment or two, the officers took their sweet time savoring the cancerous cigarette mist, as if the boy wasn't even there. Old man ashed around a little onto the table and blew out a shapeless mass of gray.
"So, Mr Forgetful, let me remind you. You're here on account of being a main suspect in the investigation of a quintuple murder from a few months ago. You know which one, right? Was all over the TV, all over the radio."
"I don't have a TV." Andy corrected his interrogators, but they ignored him.
"... It was a shootout with some Columbian refugees. Never heard of it, you sure?"
A heap of smoke flew his way, directing his thoughts back towards that old, wooden door in a place he once used to call home. He shook his head, a negative.
"No."
"Are you completely sure?"
"I am completely sure."
"Okay."
The old one straightened his back, pulling the chair even closer, while the other Lung just watched, smoking his cigarette with such delight in his eyes that one might think he genuinely preferred the taste of the cancerous smoke over air itself.
"Tell me, Ricketts, do you own a gun?"
It seemed innocent enough, the question.
"I do."
"How many? Two? Three? Fifteen?"
"Just two."
"Just two… You sure?"
"Why would I not be sure?" Seeing the old man's raised eyebrow, he soon added, "... Sir."
"Why? You LOOK like a gun collector, Ricketts. You look like someone who would own a lot of guns. You look like someone who likes shooting, too. Shooting at biker scum in the middle of a commercial-living area, maybe."
"What are you implying?" After another eyebrow raise, "... Sir?"
"I'm not implying, I'm saying how it is. Look at you." He threw the cigarette butt aside, squashing it against the pristine, stainless floor with his boot. A finger flew towards the boy's halo. "There aren't many of you in this city, you know? A couple hundred, a thousand at best. I'm just stating that if it was a Lungmenite who shot all of those dirty greasebags, it was probably one of your own."
Andy blinked. The sudden revelation left him slightly speechless for a moment.
"One of my own? Surely you don't mean…"
"You. Sankta. Angel-people. All your gun-religion bullshit. Come on, don't tell me I'm wrong. Am I wrong?"
His silent partner shook his head, throwing away his own cigarette stump and lighting up another.
"... Sir."
He wanted to say something. Anything, really, but he was just dumbstruck. Utterly confused. It was nothing but a racial thing, then? No other basis?
"Yeah, don't "sir" me, Ricketts. We found a bunch of nine millimeter bullets scattered around the aftermath. Did you, or did you not bring with yourself a pistol that shoots exactly that cartridge, two and a half years ago when crossing the border of Yan and Kazdel, then Yan and Lungmen?" He spit through gritted teeth, leaning dangerously close over the table. Andy wanted to correct him a little and point out that the "bullets" they found could've very much been of a different caliber, but disfigured on impact, up until he remembered that he didn't bother collecting the empty shells afterwards.
He nodded, feeling a tight grasp forming around his throat, some invisible hand locking itself around his neck, bringing about a cold shower of sweat. "I have, sir."
"So you do admit that you own a weapon of the exact caliber that was used to commit the crime?"
"I… Sir, but nine millimeter weapons are one of the most common…"
"Answer the question."
That freezing voice. It was filled with hatred up to the very brim, permeated with disdain.
Andy leaned back in his chair and nodded. He felt so incredibly tiny, so small. As if all he ever did was for nothing. As if the grand cathedral from his dreams never left, as if it sat by his side all throughout life to remind him just how little and insignificant he really was.
"I do."
"You admit. Do you also admit that you used said weapon to commit a quintuple…"
Feeling a burning sensation in his stomach, the boy perked up, raising his voice a little in a sign of protest against the marbled fortress.
"No. No, I didn't commit any murders, I haven't shot anyone."
"You haven't shot anyone. Hm" The geezer scratched his chin, before throwing his partner a look. He shrugged, reaching for his third cigarette of the interrogation. "Bullshit."
"..." Andy sat still, unwilling to say anything they could twist against him.
"Bullshit. Look at you, you fucking bum. You're all covered in blood, all bruised. All you do is get into scraps and blast anyone for the fun of it. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I'm wrong, Ricketts."
The sudden assault took him completely off guard.
"You're wrong."
The boy's grip tightened on his chair's metal seat. The young smoker let out a whistle and raised his brows, directing his gaze to his senior.
"You're saying I'm wrong?"
"You are wrong, sir. I did not kill anyone."
"So I'm a liar, then?"
"W-... What? No, I'm saying that you're saying things that… That are just wrong. I did not kill anyone. I didn't."
"So I'm a liar, in your eyes." He huffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing those armored arms of his.
"..."
The angel didn't even know how to respond. Was that how things usually went here, in Lungmen…? Back in Kazdel, when someone wanted you dead, they'd at least outright tell you, but here? Here, everything needed a thin layer of lawful morality draped over it, to prove that your sins and horrible wrongdoings were actually perfectly justifiable.
"You're a fucking liar, Ricketts. You, not me."
"Excuse me?" He perked up in confused annoyance.
"You heard me, you stain. You, you… Lawie, you're a stain. Run around, think you're better than everyone else, 'cause you can shoot a gun. Not here. Here, WE'RE better. Us, Lungmenites, not you, you dirty Kazdel escapee. You don't like the rules, you're welcome to fuck off."
"But I didn't… I didn't do anything!"
"BULLSHIT!" The geezer stormed up, slamming his hardened gloves against the metal surface. "You realize how many of you I've had here, in your chair? HOW MANY TOLD ME THE EXACT SAME THING? HOW MANY KEPT SQUIRMING AROUND WHEN PRESSED? HOW MANY CALLED ME A LIAR?"
"..." Andy curled up on his chair, legs hugged tightly to his own chest, forced into a state of pure shock.
"I DON'T GIVE A SHIT WHETHER IT WAS YOU OR NOT, DO YOU UNDERSTAND? I WANT THIS CASE RESOLVED, I WANT ONE OF YOU SHIPPED OFF TO MANSFIELD OR HANGED BEHIND THE PRECINCT, I DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GUILTY OR NOT."
"..."
"..."
Breathing heavily, the man leaned over the desk, inching dangerously close to the boy. His partner reached for another cigarette, completely unphased by the sudden outburst.
"... You got the winning ticket in our lottery, Ricketts. This has been going on for far too long. Ruining our rep, making us look like a bunch of incompetent imbeciles… Like we can't catch a single gun-fucker. No other gun owner with even an ounce of self respect would ever do something like this. No gun owner but you, Sankta fucks. You know how rare it is…? A gun-murder downtown…? You know how quickly this case should've been resolved…?" He mumbled and mumbled, eyes forever locked on the boy's. There was absolutely nothing behind them. Emptiness. A blank void filled with hatred. At exactly this moment Andy started wondering whether those were truly Lung eyes he was staring into, not something else. Something far more sinister and far more familiar.
He wasn't no Lung. To the untrained eye, maybe, but no to his.
He knew exactly whose eyes he was staring into. A domesticated fiend. A devil.
"... I didn't do it." He whispered.
That's all he could muster. All his pitiful, tiny existence allowed him to do. The towering giant of marbled stood by his side, the summits unreachable to his gaze even if he tilted his head all the way up. Null. The cathedral, so grand and important, a walking corpse of an angel for contrast, so utterly meaningless.
"..."
"..."
"... Okay." The old Sarkaz returned his hushed words. "Okay."
Andy dared lift his gaze to look into his eyes once more. There was but a glimmer of some sick, twisted understanding. His own sense of justice.
"You're confused, Ricketts. But that's okay. That's okay, we'll help you out."
A flick of a hand followed. A signal for the young smoker to act. He gathered his armored body and moved off the chair, crossing the surgical plains with a few steps, only to stand still in front of the shapeless door, the only piece of decorative adornments lining the walls. Andy raised his gaze.
"...?"
"If you're innocent, you can leave. Right? If you truly have done nothing, then leave. You're not being detained, after all." The devil spoke, forcing a twisted mockery of a smile onto his ancient facade.
The boy felt his knees growing weak. Even weaker when he stood up, as if they would collapse under his tiny weight at any moment. With an asking gaze, he slid towards the smoker, who, seeing the boy's advance, brushed his hair back once more and crossed his arms.
"..."
Andy stood still. He wanted to pass and open the door, but couldn't. He wanted to push the armored giant away and rush past but knew it would result in nothing good.
"... Could you move?" He asked, a tiny glimmer of a voice leaving his lips and crashing against the fortified shore that were the smoker's trained ears, whipped to a shape that would only accept direct orders from his supervisors. "... Please?" He added, after a moment.
But the smoker did not move. He stood still, gaze locked on the tiny angel in front. Without a doubt, this one was a Lung. At least something resembling one.
"You're free to leave." Reminded him the old man, still sitting at the table. "Or, if you feel like you've got something to tell us, sit back down."
The boy knew exactly what would happen, had he laid even a finger on the smoker's armor. Just a light nudge would result in him being labeled as an aggressor, as someone who tried assaulting an officer of the Guard Department. Someone who deserves nothing but a slow, painful death, in the old man's eyes.
So he sat back down. His legs, like wool, quivering and threatening to collapse, led him back to the chair.
"... Good. Good, Ricketts." The Sarkaz murmured, leaning over the table to get a whiff of the boy's fear. "Now, tell me."
A beat.
.
"Did you commit a quintuple gun-murder at Elm's Crossing a few months ago?"
.
Andy shook his head a little, with his eyes boring a hole deep into the table's surface.
"I didn't." His lips quivered with a tiny whisper.
"Mhm. Wrong." The interrogator replied, as if talking to a small child. A blanket of gentle understanding washed over his senile face, as he stood from his seat. "Try again, Andrew."
He shuddered a little at the mention of his name, curling up in the safety of the steel chair. He couldn't see, could only hear the approaching footsteps. Heavy, yet tender, creeping death.
"... I didn't kill anyone."
Only a soft, broken murmur, a shaky mumble. Andy could only stare at his own lap, feeling the fiend's hot breath on his ear. Each little bruise, each trickle of dried up blood burned him like a newly lit fire eager to purge him from the face of Terra.
"Wrong, again."
"B-But I didn't...?"
Softly, the old man grasped him by the collar of his coat. His spine sent a reactive flicker of electricity up to his brain, a desperate cry for help, as the cold, unfeeling hand tightened around his neck and pushed his face down onto the table. A little blood splattered over the pristine surface, mixing with all the cigarette ash already riddling the place. Andy gasped for air, desperately trying to wriggle himself out of the devil's grasp, but to no avail. Taking a wild guess, he reckoned the fiend must've been a Goliath, judging by those horns and strength. Just like W and her nose-breaking techniques. Not that it mattered much.
Sprawled across the table, the boy spat out a mouthful of blood and glanced towards the smoker, seeking any sort of resolve in his empty eyes. The young man only flicked him a nod and reached for another cigarette, guarding the door as diligently as ever.
"Let's try again. Did you, or did you not commit a quintuple gun-murder at Elm's Crossing a few months ago?" The mass of violence standing atop him asked once more, keeping a tight grip on the back of his head. Andy squirmed, trying his best to lift himself off the table, but no attempt proved successful. In between his shaky, uneven breaths, he managed to mumble out a quick "I didn't", knowing that agreement meant a fate worse than death.
"Mhm."
Again, he lifted the boy by his collar and slammed his face against the metal.
"... You were already all bruised when we took you in, you worthless animal. We can do this all night long. No one's gonna ask, no one's gonna intrude. It's just us." The old man whispered right into his ear, holding his entire head up by those dirty, bloodied curls.
"... P-Please." He mustered a pitiful mumble, spitting blood. It crashed against the metal surface, splattering all over the place.
"Please, what? Andrew, I just want you to accept the fact that you've done something wrong. Not something your Law permits you to do, but something our law forbids. Tell me you've done it. Just say it."
"I didn't do it…"
"Tch."
With the force of a dying star, his face squished against the surface once more. Just for good measure, the armored glove gave his cheek an eager kiss, sending him plummeting down to the ground.
"Did you do it, Andrew?"
"I… I d-didn't do…"
A heavy boot stopped his pathetic attempt at getting up. Crushing his limbs, squeezing the air from his lungs, burying him deep into the floor, the force retracted for a moment, only to be fired rapidly into the side of his chest. It made him wheeze uncontrollably, red filling his vision.
"S-Stop…"
"Andrew, we CANNOT stop, not until you realize what you've done. We'll do this all night, okay? We'll keep doing this until you admit you killed those grease-eaters."
"B-But I didn't…"
"Andrew, I don't give a shit if you did." He reassured the boy, giving him a very affectionate pat on the top of his head. Slowly, his hand crept up to his halo, sliding along the brim. It hurt. A lot. Like the tip of a knife being driven along his spine, just barely splitting his flesh apart. "... I just need you to say you did. I need you to understand that you did. I need you to tell me, that's all I want. That's all you want, too."
Andy jerked away from the fiend's grip. With a few groans and sobs, he covered himself with those twiggy arms, like a hunted animal trying to protect its softest, most vital organs.
"... I didn't do anything. I didn't. I swear, I didn't…" He kept repeating, each word flowing along the river of tears spilling from his eyes. "I didn't kill anyone."
"..."
The old man let out a sigh.
"... Andrew, both you and me know that's not what I wanna hear."
"..."
"Last chance. Did you do it?"
"..."
Please, Law, wake me from this living nightmare. Please, Law, take me away, far away.
"... I didn't."
"..."
Please, Law. I promise to all the Saints watching, I bow before you and beg, please Law spread your wings of light and shield me from the tyranny of this world.
"... Alright."
.
Metal clanking against metal filled his ears, as the old man stood up.
.
"02… No, Zhou, get him up, get his rags off. And lock the door."
.
The real interrogation was about to begin.