[NoR] - [19] – [IK04] – With no Direction

The door opens into a compact playhouse attached to a bar, the stage currently mobbed by a swarm of cultists intoxicated through more than just liquor. The three parties onstage make their roles painfully clear. The referee, at the back, oversees the proceedings. This revue is run by an individual who has flensed the flesh from their face, the skeletal grimace unwaveringly taking in the proceedings. One ‘combatant’, a short dwarven fellow in stolen Izzet attire, seeks to overcome the lyrical witticism of a particularly unpleasant ogre female.

“- your diversion’s just décor!

You don’t carry any power, but make it look awful scary,

So step yourself down and get right out of our door!"

The crowd seems to enjoy this. You can’t make sense of what has been said prior, but the realization that you are next brings a noticeable melancholy to the whole evening. The loser is shoved off the stage, directly into the pit of brawling cultists. The Ogre is set upon by the hedonistic berserkers, the noises following make you glad you looked away to face the bar instead. You manage to reach the bartender, his sweaty brow looking more due to the patronage than due to his exertion.

“Wh..What can I get you, Inquisitor?”

You smile as you remember your position within your Guild.

“A Pan-Galac, please.”

He raises an eyebrow, but pours you the drink regardless. You ordered the strongest you could think of, hoping the liquor would lubricate a creative flow. You look around, trying to spot a sign of some kind. Out of the corner of your eye, you see what you think are random patrons watching you, none of whom are when you actually look to them.

This is the place, all right.

You flag down the bartender, ignoring the ranting of the crowd and the barking of their handler.

“Hey…I need some help.”

The bartender looks at you cautiously, his worried stare darting from you to the crowd.

“Like…how?”

“Do you have any guests at the moment? I was sent to meet a comrade; however, I fear he was not specific in his directions.”

He wrung his hands nervously and leaned in.

“And what do you do?”

You lean in as well, noting the increase in attention from a robed individual further down.

“We work with memories. Nothing you want to know too much about.”

The robed fellow turns to face you, his beard reminding you of someone from long past. Your eyes meet for a moment and he cocks his head at you.

“Talk to that man there. He’ll help you.”

You move down a few seats, sitting comfortably beside the man. He speaks to you quietly but clearly.

“We’ve been expecting you, Inquisitor. Follow me.”

He stands and leads you behind the bar, making you sigh with relief. You see the door guard making his way to the stage just as you duck through a passageway, beyond the storehouse and upstairs to a small office. The room is dimly lit, flickering candles revealing portraits on each wall, but only barely illuminating the party across the way. As you step into the room, the door closes behind you, shutting out all noise from downstairs. The robes leave no question as to his allegiance, the pointed shoulders and fitted waist providing a signature silhouette. You step forward and speak.

“Pomas sent me. I-“

“We know who you are. He let us know the moment you left. You are lucky, Inquisitor, in that he has proven valuable to us. We would not consider assisting you otherwise.”

You smile, gesturing your humility.

“Of course. He told me as much himself. I appreciate this beyond my capacity to convey.”

He steps forward, the large string of beads draped from his neck glinting in the light.

“You may refer to me as Washus for the time being. You will not remember that name past tonight.”

You nod.

“I expected as much. I do not wish to compromise any of your secrets, I simply wish to regain my mental faculty.”

“So we hear. Please, sit.”

He gestures to a fine hide chair, the bolted krovod leather cracked from uncounted uses. You move up to it, resting comfortably within the seat. He steps up behind you, resting his hands on either side of your head.

“I’m not here to socialize. Let’s get this over with.”

This invasion is different from before. Washus is cold and efficient, causing intense but localized streams of pain to radiate throughout your head. You fail to even experience a change in your perceptions as he rummages through your mind, his training keeping you from noting the actions within. He pulls his hands away, the pain still thrumming through your temples. His voice sounds from behind you, laced with confusion.

“Let me try that once more.”

The pain is more intense, still restrained to streams of agony but with more of them blossoming as he digs through your paths of memory. You grimace, grinding your teeth together. The pain ceases abruptly, while Washus grasps the crown of the chair. His voice is quiet and irritable.

“I have news for you.”

The migraine pulses its way through your brain.

“Of course.”

“This is not our work.”

You furrow your brow.

“But…then who…?”

Washus steps around you, leaning against an armoire across the room. He looks deep in thought, and partially disturbed. He answers you with hesitation.

“Whoever did this is both better and worse than we are at memory manipulation.”

“How…”

“They are better in that the memories they have removed are gone. Entirely. They simply aren’t there. When we take your thoughts, there is still the chance of some errant connection reconstituting your recollection of the event. With this? I regret to inform you, but your memories don’t exist.”

You refuse to believe him. There has to be some mistake. You begin to panic as he goes on.

“However, they are worse in that they only removed your memories. The mind is a complex thing, and multiple types of recollective stimuli are utilized to remember. There are basic things in your head – reflexes, patterns, spells – things that are simply there, with no reason. You have fears that hail from events you will never recall. Feelings for someone you will never remember. I will say this – at least when we do our work, you won’t notice it after the fact.”

You start to say something, but think better of it. The loud explosion from downstairs and the following cacophony is a sign that this is a wise choice. Washus bolts to the window, turning to offer a final piece of advice.

“I am sorry we could not help you, Inquisitor. However, speak of me to anyone and I will personally ensure you fail to speak ever again.”

With a dive out of the window, the Excisor is gone.

The door slams open, propelled by a plated foot. A familiar suit of shining armor plods into the room, stopping halfway to your chair as it recognizes you from a few days earlier.

“Inquisitor…?”

You smile wanly and stand to face the Azorius agent, your frustration with the situation overriding any attempt at tête-à-tête.

“Justicar Myra. Welcome to my nightmare. How has yours been?”

“Better than yours, it would seem. Might I ask why I am finding you above a Rakdos revue amid rumors of Dimir intrigue?”

“I have not been myself as of late.”

She scoffs lightheartedly.

“I’d noticed. Why is that?”

You hang your head in defeat, irritation and hopelessness bubbling within you.

“I fear my mind has been manipulated without my consent. I had thought it was Rakdos initially, but my sources led me here, where the shadows themselves informed me that it was not their work. Someone is out to get me, Law mage.”

Myra sheaths her sword, walking up and taking you by the arm. The concern in her eyes would be alarming were you allowing yourself to feel anything. The ruckus below starts to quiet down as the last of the cultists are suppressed, while another explosion quakes the floor. Myra urges you on.

“Come with me, Inquisitor. We’ve had our differences in the past, but I think you’re in deeper than you want to be right now. Let me escort you back to your tenement.”

You brush her hand off your arm, a fake smile masking your face.

“No need. I’m entirely capable of returning on my own.”

Her hand finds yours again, grasping you tighter this time.

“I insist.”

The hint is not lost on you as you look to her, cocking an eyebrow but complying regardless. Her position of authority could be troublesome, but you suspected her motives to be much less than legalities. As a pair, the two of you waltz from the room, down the stairs and past the suspects lined up against the wall, the master of ceremonies screaming at you as you walk past.

“HEY! YOU ARE HERE! YOU OWE US LYRICAL COMBAT, YOU-“

Ignorance is all he deserves, and you give it to him in spades. The two of you stop briefly before the captain coordinating the raid with Myra, updating him as to the situation. She speaks loudly and firmly, her voice clear above the noise.

“I am escorting the Inquisitor back to his Basilica. The Orzhov have requested a report and are willing to offer us a payment for it.”

He looks visibly relieved, loosening his shoulders and hunching over.

“Oh good. We can finally get that new series of locks for the cage house.”

Myra nods enthusiastically.

“Precisely. I’ll go file some paperwork and be back within the week, ideally with a pouch full of updated safety regulations.”

He smiles and waves the two of you on, nodding at you as you stride past. You pass a large transport parked outside the bar, the open doors offering a glimpse of the Intel agent working within. You pay him no mind as you both continue down the street. For many blocks you walk in silence, your company enough for the moment. Eventually she speaks.

“If you are the target of some ‘scheme’, perhaps your residence is not the safest place to be at the moment.”

You look to the Justicar, narrowing your eyes and raising your eyebrows in suspicion.

“What, pray tell, are you suggesting, your Honor?”

The title brings a smile to her lips as she relaxes further. You forget your previous feud entirely as you simply take comfort in having someone there. She elaborates bemusedly.

“Well, I’m suggesting that if you need somewhere to be for the next few nights…I may be able to offer you a safe retreat.”

You grin and look forward, running thoughts and possibilities through your mind. Few of them are fit to share. Instead, you keep the conversation alive.

“I think…I think that would be a fabulous idea. I can’t be too careful at the moment. Maybe being away for a bit is precisely what I need.”

You try to relax, but the hopelessness of your mental state pulls heavily at your mind. The comments from the Excisor do not sit well. Who could you have dealt with that would be capable of completely removing a memory? What could you have done to draw their ire? How can you recover what was lost? For that matter, CAN you recover your missing memories? The flow of inspiration is not a cheerful one. Myra squeezes your arm slightly, looking to you with genuine worry that hits you harder than you want it to.

“Are you alright, Inquisitor?”

You push the thoughts from your head, resigning not to think about the situation for the remainder of your night. There is no sense in maintaining your sadness when it will fail to affect anything that could help solve the issue. Instead you bring back your smile, taking a chance and embracing the opportunity to get to know your escort.

“I will be fine, Justicar. Thank you for your concern.”

Her look of relief is brief, but comforting. You decide to verify a devious suspicion.

“So, how far to your place?”

She looks about, not realizing that she was giving away her plans and gesturing to a fountain further on.

“Not too far past the Province Market. We should be there before the day breaks.”

Now assured that you are accompanying her home, you vow to maintain a professional composure. A small part of you knows better.