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7/20/2025, 5:01:18 PM
“He’s clearly guilty,” you remark, over the clink of cutlery that fills the dining hall, “If he was innocent, he would say as much. He would plead for clemency, offer excuses for his actions. He wouldn’t gloat, wouldn’t mock us like this.”
“Of course he’s guilty. It’s only a matter of determining the depths of his crimes, and I fear that may be a hopeless endeavour. He won’t tell us anything that he doesn’t want to,” Cato pauses, hesitates, “It worries me. Our enemies have been running rings around us thus far, and I fear that this man is no different. He allowed us to capture him. Why?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, “But I think he’s too great of a risk to leave alive. Better that we get rid of him as soon as possible.”
A cold silence meets these words. You lean back, looking around the table and meeting the eyes gazing back at you. Elle looks fretful, but she makes to attempt to disagree. Justine is utterly impassive, silently considering your words. At the head of the table, the Saint herself fidgets and shifts in her seat. She’s the first one to break the silence, carefully clearing her throat.
“Before you do, I’d like to speak with this man,” she says carefully.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cato warns.
“Your objections are noted,” Lucille replies, “Let me rephrase that. I’m going to speak with him.”
Though she carries no formal authority, her words allow no dissent.
-
“It’s getting very crowded in here all of a sudden,” the Facilitator muses, looking at the many bodies in his cell. With a smirk on the vague suggestion of his face, he lifts a cigarette to his lips.
“Who gave him that?” Cato demands, “He’s not supposed to-”
“You wanted to kill me,” Lucille interrupts in a low, soft voice, gazing directly at the prisoner, “May I ask why?”
The Facilitator turns his disinterested eyes on the Saint. “It’s nothing personal. You seem like a very nice young lady,” he answers, “I wish to kill all that you represent. That’s all.”
“Better men than you have tried,” Justine mutters from the rear of the room, where she leans back against the wall with arms stubbornly folded.
“As you well know,” the Facilitator replies, giving the older woman a long look. Justine’s lips start to draw back in a silent snarl, but then she recovers her composure. Looking away with a faint air of amusement, the Facilitator allows his gaze to pan across the room. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asks nobody in particular, “No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you search, there will always be people like me. There will always people to try to strike back at you, who resist with the very depths of our souls. You seek complete dominion over mankind, but that goal will always be out of your reach. You want it all, but you will end up with nothing.”
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“Of course he’s guilty. It’s only a matter of determining the depths of his crimes, and I fear that may be a hopeless endeavour. He won’t tell us anything that he doesn’t want to,” Cato pauses, hesitates, “It worries me. Our enemies have been running rings around us thus far, and I fear that this man is no different. He allowed us to capture him. Why?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, “But I think he’s too great of a risk to leave alive. Better that we get rid of him as soon as possible.”
A cold silence meets these words. You lean back, looking around the table and meeting the eyes gazing back at you. Elle looks fretful, but she makes to attempt to disagree. Justine is utterly impassive, silently considering your words. At the head of the table, the Saint herself fidgets and shifts in her seat. She’s the first one to break the silence, carefully clearing her throat.
“Before you do, I’d like to speak with this man,” she says carefully.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cato warns.
“Your objections are noted,” Lucille replies, “Let me rephrase that. I’m going to speak with him.”
Though she carries no formal authority, her words allow no dissent.
-
“It’s getting very crowded in here all of a sudden,” the Facilitator muses, looking at the many bodies in his cell. With a smirk on the vague suggestion of his face, he lifts a cigarette to his lips.
“Who gave him that?” Cato demands, “He’s not supposed to-”
“You wanted to kill me,” Lucille interrupts in a low, soft voice, gazing directly at the prisoner, “May I ask why?”
The Facilitator turns his disinterested eyes on the Saint. “It’s nothing personal. You seem like a very nice young lady,” he answers, “I wish to kill all that you represent. That’s all.”
“Better men than you have tried,” Justine mutters from the rear of the room, where she leans back against the wall with arms stubbornly folded.
“As you well know,” the Facilitator replies, giving the older woman a long look. Justine’s lips start to draw back in a silent snarl, but then she recovers her composure. Looking away with a faint air of amusement, the Facilitator allows his gaze to pan across the room. “It bothers you, doesn’t it?” he asks nobody in particular, “No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you search, there will always be people like me. There will always people to try to strike back at you, who resist with the very depths of our souls. You seek complete dominion over mankind, but that goal will always be out of your reach. You want it all, but you will end up with nothing.”
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