The Price of Lesser Evil [Short Story]

All acts here are not endorsed by me (obv)

this is based on my world that I'm building, here: https://app.kanka.io/w/299878

So I saw like a modicum of suffering in a literary work I was reading and thought: "I could do better!" so I wrote a short story thing with a bunch more suffering

presenting a day in the life of a random person in the Inquisition:

It was a long, long wait. Not that the surroundings made it any better, one could only look at the same grey (Or was it red? Everything looked sort of red, now.) stone bricks, laid in perfect little rows in the same monotonous pattern, put there and designed by an architect maybe centuries ago. If Vivienne could, she would strangle that godsdamn bricklayer, or architect, or whatever bas###d in the State Court decided that this entire cell was a good idea. But she couldn’t do that, or much of anything anymore. In front of her, there were the iron bars of the place, the thing that kept her here, a mocking sight of freedom, of the outside world.

 Whenever the Inquisitors or Tormentors or whoever they sent finally left, or a lawman finally brought whatever slop constituted as food down here under Oschich, Vivienne would often throw herself against those metal bars which she grew to hate, to no avail. All there was to show for her efforts in the present was a bunch of bruises, wounds, and dried blood. Down the halls, early on in her imprisonment she could hear some of the other prisoners doing the same, though now all that she can hear is the sound of rushing blood, drowning out almost any other sound.

 Each breath came through bloodied and broken nostrils, labored breaths that made an awful gasping sound as she fought for stale air. It was also so, so cold here. Maybe it was the fact it was subterranean, maybe it was an ice mage somewhere she couldn’t see that was making the place as freezing as it was, another layer in the cruel torture here devised to make each minute here misery. Or maybe it was just the open wounds and scars and lack of clothing that made things worse.

 Time was fluid here, changing, shifting, never quantifiable, hours, days, weeks passed by with little fanfare, blending into one shapeless mass of time and pain and torture. Torture that tore her to the bone and inflicted pain so blinding that she simply didn’t feel it anymore. Down to the last lick of life, to the last drop of blood, from one stretch of time to another, until they would bring in a healing mage to knit her tendons and muscles back together, to stop the rapid bleeding, to mend bones together again, so they could be torn and broken and bloodied time and time again.

 Now, right now, she was sitting in an old wooden chair that was more splinters than solid wood, though it beat sitting and sleeping on the cold stone floor. Vivienne was chained there, to the chair, the metal links digging so tightly into her skin and bones that she thought it might draw blood, like all the other things in this three by three meter space. The thing that was the worst came from the ceiling. In this spot where the chair was positioned there was always a drop of water that came barreling down from whatever place that was above these rows and rows of cells. She had always thought it an error in the design, maybe a sign of the age of the place. Now, she was thinking it was an intentional part of the cell.

 Every so often a drop of water would fall and land in Vivienne’s scalp, infuriatingly impossible to predict when. It was a slow, insidious torture, but she would take it over the indiscriminate violence of the others. Sitting in the corner of the cell was the 

Tormentor, or Inquisitor that had designed this arrangement. Maybe it was a Tormentor, or maybe it was an Inquisitor, she didn’t know, both were the same to her, anyway. They were sitting calmly on a stool, smoking a pipe of tobacco, leaning against the wall of the stone cell as if there wasn’t a care in the world.

 The top half of the person’s face was obscured by a sort of mask, the details of which Vivienne couldn’t make out through the red haze. They were wearing the regular garb of the usual interrogators that would enter the cell, at least that’s what she thought. If they were wearing something different, then she really couldn’t tell. The interrogator just sat there, filling the room with tobacco smoke and crossing their legs as if they were watching a puppet show rather than the torture method in front of them.

 Eventually, the interrogator spoke up.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

 From what Vivienne could tell through her damaged ear, the voice was masculine, smooth as if it had never strained itself once. She tried to answer, but her swollen lips would not open, and her instincts told her that speaking would only result in more pain, so she kept quiet. After all, it didn’t seem like the interrogator was really looking for an answer.

 “Vivienne Astruc, fifteen, residence W451, Oschich. Implicated in conspiracy attempt to overthrow the government. Implicated in plot to leave city without permit. Very serious crimes, you know. That’s what brought you here. To us. To me.”

 She had to speak up now, using whatever strength left she had to open her mouth in defence. Her voice was hoarse, and speaking hurt, like dragging her throat over a trail of shattered glass with every syllable. Sometimes she wondered why she still continued to hold on to this broken, bloodied life despite it all.

 “T-that’s no-”

 Her defence was interrupted by a fit of coughs, racking her already fragile and pale figure, culminating in her spitting out a lump of blood from the back of her throat. The interrogator watched on impassionately, as if he’d spied this scene a dozen times before.

 “That’s not…what happened… I-I didn’t, I… I didn’t…”

The interrogator waved her plea away as if brushing off an ant.

 “Yes, I’ve heard it all before, plenty of times. We both know that’s not true. Just spit out the truth, and we can be done with this farce all the sooner.”

 Vivienne remembered the day when the lawmen broke down the front door, flashing their weapons, warrants, with the intent to drag everyone in the house to the dungeons for interrogation. Yes, she remembered the day, but just barely, through flashes of what life was like before now, before the interrogations and the countless days that passed by in this hell. That day, the day the lawmen broke through the door, she had been with her father, uncle and mother, what were their names? What were 

they? It was too long. Maybe it was just a month ago. Time had no meaning down in the grey dungeons.

 It was… It was… Her uncle had died within minutes, a lawman had hit him in the head with a mace and left him to bleed out next to the front door. They then beat her father black and blue and dragged through the mud and streets to the prison carriage outside. Her mother surrendered, sobbing as they threw her into the prison cart in chains. For her, her… she could barely remember what she was like before.

 She had a sort of yellow-ish hair, a-a rarity in Ravenna, something that made her stand out from the rest in Oschich. At least, that’s what she remembered. The only reason why she still remembered was when she first saw that first tuft of graying hair fall out, she remembered it was different, then, back when things were ‘normal’. The lawmen threw her out of bed that day and hauled her to the prison cart. It was sunny out, like any other day, the clouds- they were- and the peo

 “The sooner you confess, the sooner this ends. Surely this can’t be the most accommodating place, yeah? I think you should give up this lie of being innocent. It won’t save you in the end. Probably only prolong the pain.”

 Vivienne’s inner rumination was interrupted by the interrogator, who exhaled a large plume of tobacco smoke into her beat up face. She would’ve coughed, if she had the strength. She wondered why they needed this confession. It would have been more efficient just to take her to the yard and execute her. She didn’t know why she still clung to innocence anymore. Maybe she should just confess, confess to this thing that she had no idea of anything about so it could all be over faster.

 “I…I’m innocent…please…”

 A scream of pain echoes down the halls, probably another prisoner down the hall being ‘interrogated’. Vivienne barely registered it, the screams in this place fading into the background cacophony after so long down here in these dungeons. The interrogator seemed annoyed by this statement and took another long puff of his pipe in thoughtfulness. The two of them sat together for a while, in the dark, the silence stretching on and on. Eventually the interrogator spoke up again, a hint of condescension in his voice.

 “Good people don’t end up here. Not in this place. They don’t end up being interrogated by a Tormentor, left here to rot. No. Only the guilty end up in a place like this, in a situation like this, protesting their false innocence.”

 The interrogator heard the silent response from Vivienne’s accusatory gaze and let out a small smirk as he let loose a puff of smoke from the pipe.

 “If good people end up here, in these dungeons, then they aren’t ‘good people’ anymore. They’re guilty people lying to themselves. They either confess to themselves what everyone else already knows, or they don’t. In the case of the latter, well, you know. What’s it going to be, huh?”

 The silence stretched on for a few minutes. Vivienne hardly had the strength to answer, and in any case, both of them knew what that answer was going to be.

The interrogator let out a sigh, and slowly stood up from his stool. He let out one last puff of smoke before speaking again.

 “Very disappointing from you. I must be on my way now. I hope the next Tormentor has luck on their attempt. And I hope, for your sake, that you accept the truth, guilty person.”

 With that, the interrogator left the cell, leaving through the door in the metal bars, leaving Vivienne in the dark stone cell, water dripping endlessly from the ceiling, turning the blood on the ground into a reddish water that covered the floor. She would cry, if she had tears left to give.

Corentin Morvan left the cell, feeling a bit disgruntled. Another criminal focusing so much on her own false narrative of innocence. Really it was a terrible thing, four people this week had insisted so much on that point that it was really beginning to be quite a bother. In any case, he had to report to Justiciar Matthews about another failure to get a confession. Maybe he would have to resort to more violent measures.

 Corentin saluted the two lawmen guards that held watch over the exit to the dungeons as he left, ascending the long staircase up to the city proper. He got a clean, deep breath of fresh air (really overrated, in his opinion), and crossed the street toward the local headquarters of the W District without much of a care for the encroaching traffic or hurrying merchants. They all fled, or walked away, keeping their heads down as he passed, recognizing the garb of a Tormentor, wisely keeping to themselves.

 The headquarters of the W District was honestly quite overly complicated, if he said so himself. Really, there mustn't be this much clutter for such an insignificant post. But it was all for the greater good and whatnot, so it was technically fine in the eyes of whatever inspector of the Inquisition allowed this place to be laid out like this. It took Corentin about five minutes to make his way through the maze of halls and rooms to the Justiciar’s office.

 The room was spartan in decor and nature, only the bare essentials on hand for use. Justiciar Matthews was writing up a report when Corentin entered the room, looking up to spot the Tormentor and putting down the quill in his left hand.

 “You’re back? Any luck?”

 “No. Still an insistence on their innocence despite our best efforts.”

 “Shame. The Chancery is breathing down my neck to get a resolution to the W451 case. The prisoner is the last one left from those we captured. In any case, you’re dismissed, Tormentor Morvan. Try not to smoke so much, yeah?”

 Corentin nodded, saluted, and exited the office with not much of a care in the world. The thing he was concerned with now was how to fill the rest of the time he found himself with, not much on the prisoner he had just tortured. After all, what difference could a guilty person like that make on the world?

AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAHAHAAH

WORDS

IM A DELTARUNE FAN

I CANT READ

Wow! Thats like a whole book! Enjoyed the read, dead. Thanks!

bump, I'm not doing allat just to get 3 comments only bruh

"Where is the pain? Where is it?"

did I screw myself by finishing and posting this at night when no one was online

Yh

bruh 💀💀💀💀

well then I'll bump it again and again until EVERYONE reads it and if they don't then I'll find them irl and force them to read it at gunpoint

thank you 🫡

B..-Bu..-But..

BUT IM A DELTARUNE FAN

I CANT REAS

I'll wipe Deltarune from your memories then

NO YOU WONT

I WILL INVENT TIME TRAVEL AND TRAVEL IN TIME BEFORE YOU ERASING MY MEMORIES

yeah sniper get ready to take the shot

if he sleeps, shoot