Equilibrium Fan Fiction by Judas Austin Taking Sides 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 Query: why is it that I can take out threats, disarm bombs, escape traps, handle all kinds of vehicles and weaponry and take down an entire governmental regime without breaking a sweat, yet lose basic faculties of speech whenever I come face to face with Kia? Answer: no idea. I never had this problem around anyone else. Then again, I never met anyone who could talk to me like a regular person. Well, apart from Jurgen and he's not my type, even if I was that way inclined. Same goes for Halls and Partridge. God, I can't even organise my thoughts in here! Get a grip on yourself, Preston! You get one look at an attractive female and your self-possession goes out the window. I'm a Cleric. I should be above all this. Then again, if I were, wouldn't I still be part of the Tetra Grammaton? And why does it even matter? After all, I should be allowed some time off from rational thinking. No. No, that last part doesn't even make sense, and neither does the rest of this entry. I think I'll forget it for tonight...or should that be later today now? --John Preston, Grammaton Cleric First Class Preston paused, checking himself over for the third time. You're reading too much into this, a little voice inside him whispered nastily. All the woman wants is some information. Preston considered this briefly, then dismissed the idea, turned and promptly tripped over Klondike, who was lying in the door. The Cleric opened his mouth for an angry retort, then closed it abruptly as he looked at the dog. Since returning, Klondike didn't seem to have moved, despite Animal's best efforts to play with his new friend. "You miss him, don't you?" Preston said suddenly. Klondike didn't respond, didn't give any sign that he'd heard. "Hey." Purely out of habit, Preston glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching, then crouched down next to the dog, running a cautious hand over its fur. Again, there was no response. Klondike didn't try and bite Preston's hand off, but he didn't react in any other way, either. Preston wouldn't have thought these animals formed such a strong bond with their owners. Okay, so Animal was always ecstatic to see the Cleric whenever he got back to the apartment (or out the bathroom, or the bedroom for that matter) but he didn't pine for him in the same way Klondike was doing. Then again, until he'd met Klondike, Preston hadn't thought that these animals were smart, either. "He'll come back," Preston said. At the same time, he wondered who he was trying to convince. Judging from the long look Klondike gave him, the dog wasn't taken in by Preston's comments any more than Preston himself was. The Cleric sighed, scratched the dog behind the ears, then straightened up and left, heading for Corridor 6 at a brisk pace. He'd got about halfway there when four people stepped out in front of him. Another three fell in behind, cutting off Preston's line of retreat. "Where's Halls?" one of them said. Preston blinked, slightly thrown by the suddenness of these people. "I beg your pardon?" "Kevin Halls," the first speaker repeated. "He went out with you and we haven't seen him since." "I'm sure Cleric Halls has a good reason for his prolonged absence," Preston answered crisply, taking care to stress the word 'Cleric' ever so slightly. "I'm equally sure you do, Cleric," the man countered. Preston's mind finally threw up a name to match the face. "...Al," he said. "Right?" "Yeah, that's me, and you still haven't answered my question. Where's Halls?" "That's the third time you've asked me that," Preston said, for no better reason than to gain time. "Yeah," Al said again. "And I'm going to keep on asking you until I get a straight answer. Where is he?" Preston shook his head, trying to make sense of this. He couldn't for the life of him understand why Halls' disappearance had had such an effect. But he had a damn good idea that if he tried to push past, these people would get nasty. And ex-sweepers had both the training and the physical ability to make themselves serious nuisances. The Cleric ran through the options available to him in the blink of an eye. Generally speaking, he liked ex-sweepers since they never complained and they did whatever he told them without question. Al was obviously going to be an exception to that rule. He couldn't kill them-hell, he didn't want to kill them-without due cause, and he couldn't even use force on any of them all the time they didn't attempt to physically restrain him. That left one option: talking his way out, and Preston didn't like the sound of that one either. "Where's Halls?" the man repeated flatly. Preston hesitated, then sighed. "He's in the Tetra Grammaton." "WHAT!?" "And I would appreciate you keeping that to yourselves," Preston added, glancing around in a futile attempt to see if anyone had heard Al's eruption. "You left him there?" "He stayed," Preston corrected the sweeper. "He was alone when I found him," someone else cut in. Preston vaguely recognised the sweeper lieutenant who'd saved his ass back in the Nethers. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised; most off-the-dose sweepers seemed to have this internal magnet that drew other sweepers right to them. A sweeper on his own in the Nethers was, after all, a fairly easy target. They needed some way to stick together. "We had to get out," Preston said flatly. "Halls shoved me through the door and stayed behind. I heard gunshots as I was leaving and assumed they were his, so I didn't worry. I waited for him to catch up before I realised he wasn't going to. Now stand aside." Al still didn't look particularly disposed to move. Preston wondered if he was going to attempt something crazy like revenge. If he did he would die; if word got around New Libria that an ex-sweeper had successfully knocked the shit out of John Preston, Preston's authority would be at rock bottom. "And what are you doing about it?" "Everything we can," Preston said coldly. "Move." Al stayed put. Without any further hesitation, Preston reached out, gripped Al in one hand, another sweeper in the other and slammed them against opposite walls, then continued on his way, resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder. Corridor 6 was viewed as the heart of social gatherings, culture and parties for anyone that way inclined and, like so many hearts of social gatherings, was also viewed as a very desirable address by those who didn't have to live there. The ones that did usually put in requests for transfers within twenty four hours, or failing that, soundproofing engineers. Kia was waiting for him at the 'canteen', which was a fairly expensive place, at least by New Librian standards. She was dressed-if that was really the right word-in a pair of black shorts that stopped about a quarter of the way down her thighs and a tight fitting white midriff top with a high collar, a top that left nothing to the imagination. "Sorry I took so long," Preston said, and was pleased when his voice emerged sounding perfectly normal. "There was a, uh, slight problem in one of the corridors." "Nothing serious, I hope?" Kia said, a slight look of concern crossing her face. "Oh no, nothing serious at all," Preston answered. Uh huh. A missing Cleric, seven very pissed off sweepers out for your blood and a partner who's back from the dead, but nothing serious, right? Right. "Do you want to sit down?" Kia asked, after a few minutes had passed in awkward silence. "Right...of course." Preston, uncomfortably aware that he should have asked first, led the way over to a small table with two chairs, well out of the way of the main thoroughfare. "So. What's the problem?" Kia gnawed her bottom lip reflectively. "It's just...this probably sounds stupid to you..." "Not at all," Preston said sincerely. "I...well, I suppose what's really the problem is that I'm not too sure what I'm supposed to be doing, how I'm supposed to go about my job." "What is your job?" Preston said evenly. "I was asked to report to the science wing, but...well..." Kia flushed slightly, "...with the grades I got, I was thinking perhaps I might be better suited elsewhere." "...Right." Preston was slightly nonplussed. "Well...do you have any idea where?" Kia dropped her gaze. "I was hoping...maybe...to get into your branch of things, law enforcement, military, things like that. I'm not sure if that would suit everyone, though." It suited Preston just fine. "I can get you a transfer," he said. Kia's face lit up. "Really? You mean it?" "Of course," Preston said composedly. "That would be wonderful, if you could!" Kia paused, then went on in the tones of one who isn't entirely convinced of what she's about to say. "There...was something else I wanted to ask you." Preston shrugged. "Go ahead." Kia took a deep breath, as though she was steeling herself up. "Cleric Preston-" "John," Preston said impulsively. He didn't know why; it just seemed important that she knew his name. Kia hesitated. "...John," she said finally. "Will you teach me Gun-Kata?" Preston was flabbergasted. "Teach you-! But you're...uh...you're..." "I'm what? A female?" 'Half naked' had been what Preston was actually going to say, but he leapt on Kia's explanation instead. "Well...yes, and-" "Aren't there any women in the Tetra Grammaton?" Kia cut in pleasantly. Preston blinked. "Apart from technicians and prisoners, you mean? No." Damn, why did I say that? he wondered irritably. Most people who had lost friends and family-and there was practically nobody in New Libria who hadn't-didn't like to be reminded of it. "No, there aren't," he repeated, in an effort to cover up his momentary lapse. "Really?" Kia sipped her drink. "Why not?" "I..." Preston hesitated. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure. It was something he'd accepted while on Prozium and when he wasn't, he'd been too busy trying to stay alive to worry about things like equal rights. "I don't know. I suppose there's no reason why females can't be sweepers, or Clerics, come to that. It's just never come up before. It's not the kind of thing that would have occurred to Vice-Council." You idiot! Stop babbling! "Hardly an equal opportunity employer, then, is it?" Kia said, a trace of humour in her voice. Preston met her gaze levelly. "Such things usually don't concern those on the dose," he pointed out. "Well, I-" Kia began, then her hand jerked spasmodically, almost knocking her drink over. Preston caught it just in time. "Hey, careful!" Kia wasn't paying any attention to him. Her attention was fixated on a point some six inches beyond Preston's left shoulder. Curious, the Cleric turned. "Is that Cleric Partridge?" Kia said, in a somewhat choked voice. "Yes, it is," Preston said evenly. "Do you know him?" "I...no, but everyone I've spoken thought he was dead. I thought he was dead." "Join the club," Preston said. "There you are!" "Great," Preston muttered under his breath. "And I thought Jurgen had bad timing down to an art form." He sighed. "Alright, Partridge; two things. Firstly, what do you want and secondly, can't it wait until morning?" "Jurgen told us to come and find you. He said it was of the utmost importance that he spoke with you." Rossiter, who had been sent to accompany Partridge and resented it enormously, stepped out from behind the other Cleric. Preston, who knew Jurgen's manner of speaking, raised a deprecatory dark eyebrow. Rossiter gave in. He knew when to quit. "Well, what he actually said was 'Partridge, take the rookie and get Preston up here now, and if either of you come back without him I'll throw you to the Clerics and I don't mean the ones on our side!'." There was a slightly bitter tone in Rossiter's voice that said he was still smarting over the rookie comment, but he didn't offer any further information. "Ah." Preston ran a hand over his forehead. "Damn." It sounded like Jurgen was either worried or seriously pissed off about something, both of which were calendar events in themselves. Across the table, Kia stood up. "I'm sorry John; I didn't realise you were busy." "No, it's alright, really," Preston said, hastily getting to his feet. "You don't have to-" But she was already gone. "-leave," Preston finished, somewhat lamely, then turned a blazing look on both Partridge and Rossiter. "If this isn't a life-or-death situation, I'm going to kill the pair of you!" "'John'?" Rossiter echoed, somewhat unwisely given Preston's current frame of mind. The Cleric turned very slowly to face him. "Is there something you'd like to say, Rossiter?" Rossiter flushed crimson. "No, Cleric. Sorry." "Right." Preston looked at Partridge. "Since the rest of my night seems to be effectively ruined, I might as well go along with you two. Where's..." Preston's voice abruptly broke off as his instincts warned him of a threat. His head snapped round to one of the people there, seemingly innocent, a person who was moving almost imperceptibly towards Rossiter. Next to him, Partridge spun, obviously reaching the same conclusion. "Rossiter, move!" Rossiter whirled, arm already up in a standard block. There was a flash of steel as the assailant dodged almost mockingly, then lashed out, slicing the underside of the Cleric's arm open in a three-inch gash. "OW! Shit!" Rossiter clutched at his arm, from which the blood was already spurting. "Wait!" Preston rapped out to the people who were converging on the Cleric. The attacker had disappeared into the crowd, but Preston was sure he'd find them. As soon as he had time to devote to the case, that person was going to pay, and pay heavily. Preston didn't think exile was too high a price, not for attacking a Cleric. And speaking of which... Preston glanced over at the young man. Something had just clicked into place, something that had been niggling at him for days now. "Rossiter!" Rossiter looked at him. "Take out both your guns." Rossiter somehow managed to give Preston an 'are you insane?' look. "Do it!" The younger Cleric snapped both guns out. His injured arm took two or three attempts to perform the action, and when the gun came out, his hand was so slick with blood that it slithered to the floor. "Pick it up," Preston ordered. Fumbling, Rossiter attempted to scoop it up, but failed. Four attempts later, he dropped to his knees, already weak from blood loss. "Alright." Preston jerked his head towards the medics. "Sort him out." "What was that all about?" Partridge demanded. "Did you hear about Kernachan?" "That poor kid who blew his own head off? Yeah. What's that to do with Rossiter?" "He slashed his own arms open first," Preston answered. "From here-" he tapped his wrist "-to here," tapping his elbow. "So? He probably just wanted to do the job properly." "Him?" Preston was hardly aware he was speaking aloud. "Or someone else?" There was a pause. "That's a little too deep for me at one thirty in the morning," Partridge said eventually. "Care to elaborate?" Preston glanced around, then grabbed Partridge and yanked him into an alcove. "What if it wasn't suicide? What if we've been leafing up the wrong tree?" There was another pause. "Barking, Preston," Partridge said at the end of it, his tone as carefully neutral as he could make it. Preston waved a hand impatiently. "Bark, leaves, same thing." "He wrote a bloody suicide note!" 'Bloody' was quite accurate, Preston thought grimly. Aloud he said, "I know. I saw it. But look at Rossiter." Partridge looked, then returned his gaze to Preston. "Yes. And?" Preston shook his head in frustration. "The verdict was suicide, I know. Supposedly he slashed his arms, then daubed a note on the walls in his own blood, then put both his guns in his mouth and pulled the trigger." "And?" Partridge said again. "Kernachan was nineteen years old, Partridge." Preston frowned slightly as this hit home for the first time. "Nineteen," he repeated, "just out the Monastery and, not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but he didn't exactly distinguish himself there either. Rossiter's eighteen and top of his year, more by dint of the fact that everyone else was a lot worse than him, it's true, but even so. If a three inch long gash on Rossiter's wrist makes him unable to either draw or pick up his gun, and causes him to pass out through blood loss approximately-" Preston checked his chronometer "-three minutes twenty seven seconds later, how the hell did Kernachan a) rip open both arms to the bone in a foot-long gash with such precision, b) manage to write a suicide note in his own blood before passing out and c) somehow take both guns, put them in his mouth and pull the triggers when the tendons in his arm would have been torn so badly he probably wouldn't have been able to use his hands for a good six months, if at all?" "He might have written the note beforehand," Partridge said, but he didn't sound convinced. "He might well have done," Preston agreed, "but the coroner's report said there were no other injuries other than the ones Kernachan had inflicted upon himself. The blood group matches his, as well as the blood on his fingers. We know he didn't do it before he slashed his wrists, and he damn well didn't do it after he blew his own head off! But someone did." Partridge stared at him. "You're saying that someone went in, did all that, then when the guy was dead took his hand and used it as a paintbrush?" Preston wasn't a hundred percent sure what a paintbrush was (although he could hazard a guess), but would have died a thousand deaths rather than admit it. "Yes," he said aloud. "I believe I am." Partridge hesitated, then shrugged. "I suppose it's possible," he said matter-of-factly. "I read the report Jurgen sent out, the one saying Kernachan felt too guilty about what he'd done." He shook his head. "That guy was a kid just out the Monastery. We handled what we'd done. We felt guilty, yeah, but not to that extent. And Kernachan...why the hell would a newly-graduated feel guilty?" "Say that again," Preston said with a puzzled frown. Partridge was baffled. "I just said, why the hell would a-" "Nineteen year old," Preston cut in. Partridge eyed him with that special kind of wary look used by someone who hopes the person speaking is going to make sense sometime in the near future. Preston didn't notice. He was hearing, as if from a long way off, the medic's voice. Why the hell should a nineteen year old feel guilty? "It was murder," he said, more to himself than to Partridge. "What?" "Kernachan didn't kill himself. He was murdered." "Someone did all that to murder him?" Partridge said, raising an eyebrow. "What's wrong with just shooting him in the face like a normal person?" "This way would throw us onto the wrong trail completely. By the time we realised our error, it might be too late to correct it." Preston hesitated, then appeared to come to a decision. "Where's Kernachan now?" "Wherever the soul of a dead Grammaton Cleric may go," Partridge said poetically. Preston, who was perhaps slightly less poetical than the walls surrounding them, simply looked at him. "Alright, he's down in the mortuary!" Partridge said testily. "Happy now?" "The mortuary?" Preston echoed. That had to be about the last place he wanted to go, Tetra Grammaton notwithstanding. "Yes, the mortuary," Partridge said, like it was no big deal. "Coming?" "You're sure?" Preston said, although he was already following the other Cleric towards the steps that led down to that room. "Positive," Partridge said calmly. "...Right," Preston said. "Uh. Maybe we'd be better off coming back later." Partridge raised his eyebrows. "You can't tell me you're afraid of ghosts, Preston!" "No," Preston said truthfully. "I just hate that place, that's all." "I don't see the problem," Partridge said with a shrug as he pushed the metal door open. "The mortuary is strictly off-limits to everyone without a pass. Even us." "We're Clerics and you happen to be head of New Libria." "Joint head," Preston reminded him. "Alright then, joint head. You're still head," Partridge told him, with slightly more conviction than coherence. "People are hardly going to arrest me, and they're definitely not going to arrest you." He shook his head. "Trust me, Preston. The chances of anyone coming down here are a million to one." "Hey you!" Partridge turned around, partly to get a good look at this person and partly to avoid the look Preston was now giving him. "Show your passes!" Partridge, who wasn't entirely without a sense of drama, was sorely tempted to take out his guns at this point. "We don't need them," Preston said cuttingly. "All unranked individuals are required to-" "Shut up and get out of the way before I tell my partner here to shoot you." It was on the tip of Partridge's tongue to tell Preston to do his own dirty work, but he restrained himself. "You think you can intimidate me?" The man drew himself up to his full height, which would have been a lot more impressive if said height had been greater than five foot two. "I'm not as stupid as I look." "I didn't think you could be," Partridge answered, so sincerely that at first the man missed the implied insult. "This isn't getting us anywhere," Preston said coolly. "My name is Cleric John Preston. Is that a high enough rank for you?" There was a silence. "Of...course. Sorry sir. I didn't recognise you in this light. I'll just, er, I'll just go and..." The coroner turned hurriedly and scurried off into his office. "I wish people wouldn't do that," Preston muttered. "It makes it so damn hard to have a civilised conversation." "What-" Partridge yawned "-what are we looking for anyway?" "I want to take a closer look at Kernachan's body. If it was murder, the next of kin has to be notified. If he has any," Preston added as an afterthought. "His girlfriend Sharon, his younger sister Eliza and a two month old daughter," Partridge reeled off glibly. Preston stared at him. "I knew most of the Clerics in the Resistance," Partridge said by way of explanation. "Kernachan was a fairly popular person for a Cleric." He snorted. "Pity you couldn't say the same for his partner." "Yes, how did you come to meet Halls anyway?" Preston said. "Last I heard, he wasn't a great one for socialising." Partridge snorted. "What, you kidding me? I thought everyone in the Tetra Grammaton knew who Kevin Halls was." Preston grimaced. That much was true; Halls had enjoyed his own peculiar form of notoriety in the Tetra Grammaton, a notoriety caused by his losing eighteen partners in fairly rapid succession. Although nobody on Prozium could actually be afraid per se, there was nevertheless a strong undercurrent of almost-hope among the newly graduateds that they wouldn't be the next one to be paired up with Halls. "Tell me something," he said suddenly. "If I can," Partridge answered, busy scanning the logbook for Kernachan's name. "Why is it that Halls is probably the least popular person in New Libria, yet everybody who hears about him being incarcerated in the Tetra Grammaton is acting like we just lost the war?" "Well..." Partridge looked like he was considering his words very carefully, "firstly, I wouldn't say that Halls deserves what's going to happen to him there and secondly, Halls is something of a survivor. You know as well as I do that people here respect that, even if Halls isn't the nicest person around." "That's an understatement." "He has his reasons, Preston." Was it his imagination, or was that a note of rebuke in Partridge's tones? Preston thought about it and decided it was probably better not to ask. "Can we get his family down here?" Preston wanted to know. Partridge's eyebrows shot up. "What, at two fifteen in the morning? You'd need a bloody good reason for that!" "I'm John Preston, and I want to speak to them about Kernachan." Partridge rolled his eyes. "Alright. Wait here. I'll see what I can do." He turned and set off at a run. Preston glanced around and caught sight of the coroner, who was watching nervously from his office. "Hey you!" The man jumped as if Preston had shot him. "M-me, sir?" "Yes, you. I'm looking for a body, one belonging to a Cleric." The coroner hesitated. "Er...ah...when you say belonging to, sir, do you mean-" Preston cut across him. "Alright, let me make this simpler. The body of a Cleric. Cleric Alexander Kernachan. Does that help clarify matters?" "Right sir. Yes. Sorry." The coroner breathed an inward sigh of relief. You could never quite tell with Clerics. "Vault 81, sir. Just down there. Allow me." "Thankyou." Preston stepped to one side, allowing the man to move past him to where a rack of keycards was fixed on the wall. The coroner peered at the codes, seemingly reading something into them that Preston couldn't identify, then selected one and handed it to him. "If you'll excuse me, sir, there's some...uh...paperwork that requires my urgent attention. Yes sir. Paperwork. Um." Preston rolled his eyes. "Just go, alright?" "Yes sir. Thankyou sir." The man turned and practically ran out the room. Preston sighed, then went over to the rows upon rows of vaults that lined the walls, trying to match up the code on the keycard with that on the door. The coding system had been Jurgen's idea. He hadn't liked the thought of people coming down and desecrating the bodies of Clerics or sweepers in some mindless act of revenge, so the standard numbers had been replaced with a sequence of dots and lines, which covered the whole blank area of the keycard itself. It worked, after a fashion, but it meant that anyone who didn't work in the mortuary-ie, Preston-had no idea where to start his search. "Hey, where-" he began. "Fourteenth on the left from the door, second from the top, sir." "Ah. Thanks." Preston crossed over to the vault in question and checked the card. Yes, they seemed to match. Good. Now all he had to do was wait. Fifteen minutes later, he heard three pairs of footsteps from behind him. "What kept you?" Preston said, not looking around. "Funnily enough," Partridge said, a distinct edge to his tone that hadn't been there before "waking people at this uncivilised hour and getting them down here is not the work of a few minutes, Preston!" "He's right." The speaker was a young woman who was barely in her twenties. "You Clerics may be possessed of unending stamina, but us lesser mortals aren't so fortunate." Preston suppressed a snort. 'Unending stamina'? That was a joke. The high he'd been on when he was with Kia had evaporated like steam, leaving him exhausted. He glanced at the woman again. Sharon, that was her name. Next to her was... "...You're Kernachan's sister?" Preston said, staring. The girl rolled her eyes in the manner of one who got that question a lot. "Yes, I am. I'll get a DNA test if you want." "That's not necessary," Preston said automatically. It wasn't so much the idea of Kernachan having a sister that stunned him; it was the fact that he'd met the other Cleric, and there was absolutely no physical resemblance between Kernachan and the fourteen year old now standing in front of him. "What's this all about, Cleric?" Sharon said. "There's been a...development," Preston said carefully. "'Development'," he heard Partridge mutter next to him. "Well, that's one way of putting it, I suppose." "What sort of 'development'?" Sharon asked crisply. "We think Kernachan may have been murdered," Preston said bluntly. Sharon's jaw dropped. "You what?" "A colleague of ours, Mark Rossiter, presented myself and Preston with some new evidence," Partridge said. That had to be the euphemism of the century, Preston thought in the privacy of his own mind. "So why are we here?" Sharon pressed. "Because..." Preston faltered slightly. Now he came to think about it, he realised he had no good reason for summoning both Sharon and Eliza. "Because the longer we wait, the colder the trail grows," Partridge cut in, before either of them had time to notice the hesitation. "We had to tell you now, because we need permission from the next of kin to proceed with the exhumation." Sharon raised her eyebrows. "Wouldn't you have to bury him first for that?" "Do you have any objections?" Preston said in a tone of frosty politeness. Sharon glanced away. "No. Not really. Not if you can find out what happened." "Good." Preston opened the vault, pulling out the mutilated body within. Eliza looked at it for a few seconds, then turned to the Cleric. "That's not Alex." There was a silence. "What do you mean?" Preston said eventually. The kid was most likely in denial, but the conviction in her voice was such that Preston found himself half believing her. "Alex had a scar across his left thigh. He got it in a training incident at the Monastery when he was fifteen." "You're sure?" Preston asked. The look Eliza gave him was enough to silence even a Grammaton Cleric. "Excuse me? Who's his sister here, me or you? If you don't believe me, ask Sharon!" "She's right," Sharon said. "I've seen it myself." Preston and Partridge exchanged glances. This was one development neither man had bargained on. "So...what are you saying?" Partridge said eventually. "He's still alive?" Sharon's face became cold, unreadable. "Maybe." "Either he is or he isn't," Partridge said sharply. "Isn't that your job to find out?" Sharon said. "Let's try an easier question then," Preston cut in coolly. "Have you been in contact with him, either of you?" There was an uncomfortable silence. "This arrived a day after the...incident," Sharon said finally, her voice quieter now. She held out a slip of paper. Partridge took it and glanced at it, frowned slightly. "May I?" Preston asked. Wordlessly his partner handed it over and Preston read what was written there. "That's it?" "That's it," Sharon confirmed. Preston scanned the note again. It looked like it had been written in a great hurry; the words straggled over the page, which had torn in places under the force of the hand that had scrawled them. "'JP slash Kev okay'?" "He's, uh, talking about you," Sharon said, somewhat awkwardly. "Me?" "JP. John Preston. I don't think he dared write anything that could be easily identified or interpreted." "JP?" Preston echoed, half unsure whether or not he ought to take offence. "And Kev?" Partridge said. "Cleric Halls. He's-" Sharon swallowed a couple of times. "He was a good friend of Alex, and us." Preston stared. He couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, imagine Halls as anyone's Kev, let alone a friend. "Really?" was all he could find to say. "Yes, really." Sharon sounded somewhat put out, as though this was a frequent point. Preston and Partridge exchanged glances. "Well, he was Kernachan's partner," Partridge pointed out. Preston hesitated. It wasn't Partridge's statement that made him uneasy; it was the fact that the Cleric had started referring to Halls in the past tense, like the man was already dead. He glanced at Sharon. "Right," he said. "Thanks for your time." He nodded to them, watched as they turned and walked off. There was a silence. "Well," Partridge remarked finally. "There's a turn-up for the books and no mistake." "Do you believe her?" Preston asked quietly. "I'm not sure," Partridge admitted. "People do tend to deny reality sometimes, but in this case...something as distinctive as a scar..." He shrugged. "I don't know. But if his own sister doesn't, who does?" "What do you make of the note?" "I'm pretty sure it's genuine, if that's what you're asking me. I'm not sure what it's supposed to mean, though," Partridge admitted. "Perhaps he knew you were going to ask Halls to go with you into Old Libria." "Ridiculous," Preston stated flatly. "Clerics can't see the future." "No," Partridge agreed. "If I had to offer an explanation right now, I'd say it was like...like a warning. Like...trust you and Halls but nobody else." "Which would mean-" "-there's a traitor in New Libria," Partridge finished. "And which begs the question, if Kernachan's out there somewhere, who's that?" Preston nodded towards where the body was being kept. "Possibly the one who tried to kill him," Partridge said, in a tone Preston couldn't help feeling was needlessly sarcastic. "Alright," he said aloud. "So somebody targets Kernachan, making him feel the need to lie low for a while, a need that's so profound he didn't even dare to tell his family what was going on. Ten to one he's fled into the Nethers, if he's even still alive." "Well, he couldn't die here," Partridge retorted. "The same body turning up a day or so after he first died would look somewhat odd, don't you think?" "You know what I mean! I was talking about-" "Preston!" Preston broke off and turned. Jurgen was striding towards the two of them, a grim expression on his face. "You are not an easy man to find," he said by way of greeting. "I've had half of New Libria out looking for you." "What?" Preston said, taken aback. "Why?" "I've got to talk to you, that's why; I sent Partridge round to your apartment to find you, but you'd already gone, so I had to try and track you down myself." Jurgen paused for breath. "Now. I am asking you as a friend, will you please stand still long enough for me to have a decent conversation with you?" Preston blinked. Outbursts like that were exceptionally out of character for Jurgen. "Alright. What's up?" "Something's happened," Jurgen said flatly. "We have a big problem." "Is this going to be another Partridge?" Preston said with a touch of asperity in his voice. "If it is, it can wait! I've had too many shocks already since I got back!" "Right, well, get ready for one more," Jurgen said brutally. "We received a communiqué from Vice-Council Hagon in Old Libria two days ago-" "Two days?" Preston interspersed. "Why didn't you tell me earlier??" Jurgen gave him a long look. "Because you stormed out in a temper before I got the chance, that's why," he said levelly, his tone giving every indication that he was doing his utmost to hang onto his temper. Preston at least had the grace not to meet his eyes. "What does it say?" he asked. Jurgen hesitated. "They...have your daughter," he said delicately. "What?" Preston stared at him, feeling his stomach shrivel. Jurgen held up his hands. "I'm just passing it on, Preston. There was a lot of diplomatic shit around the edges, but what it basically came down to was either you and I agree to hand ourselves over to the Tetra Grammaton, or she's sent down for processing." Chapter 12 >>> more Equilibrium Fan Fiction