by M.C. O'Neill
***
Glynna Reyliss looked haggard. Whatever she was going to say, she hadn’t rehearsed, but it was the middle of the night and her daughter was up on the worst charges she could imagine. The lady threw down her bag onto the floor without care and rushed up to her manacled spawn. The look in her reddened emerald eyes was murderous. Mother had been crying.
There was no greeting or introduction. Quen’die supposed this was all one final lecture, or rather, gloating, at her state. Mother buzzed into the speaker separating them. “You picked a terrible night for this, Dee.”
Her hold was unbreakable. “I-I don’t know what else to say. I suppose your enmity towards Lith compelled you to do this, yes? No, don’t answer, Quen’die. Heh, when I thought I had taught you about practicality versus consequence, those lessons sunk in, but as we all know by now, your act was good. It was really, really good. Color me impressed, Quen’die. Your petty jealousies and miscreant ways of coping with them may have sealed the entire earth’s fate! I know you are my daughter, and I am sorry to say that, but for the love of all elfdom, and I do mean that literally, I never want to see you again. Ever!”
Despite her declaration, Mother chewed in the frightful sight of her bound daughter. It appeared to the maiden as if she wanted to recant that statement, but that wasn’t to happen. “Right. Well, I have people who do care about me to tend to, so I have to get this show on the road. Goodbye.”
Lady Reyliss didn’t look back. Her posture was tall and proud and decisive. This made Quen’die’s heart sink as it appeared Mother was waltzing away from a mythical slain dragon in victory. Although the maiden could not see her face, Mother let out a wail loud enough to be heard through the security glass as she exited after swiping up her bag. The lonely clock on the wall announced her departure at a precise 1:00 a.m.
Some dull time after Mother left, Op’yss and Bor’gann entered the room accompanied by a labcloak who was wheeling in a small tray table with some nasty-looking blades arranged on them. “Okay, Doc, let her rip,” Op’yss boomed.
There was no preparation besides the quick, cold swab of alcohol that the labcloak applied to the maiden’s arm. A searing pain followed that as she scored a hunk of skin with something that looked like a common cheese grater. As Quen’die moaned in agony from the sharp scald, the labcloak announced that she was clean and good to go. After slapping a manapatch over the wound, everyone who was present peeled off their rebreathers.
“Let’s get this one into a holding cell,” Op’yss rubbed his tired eyes. “I think I’ve done my good deed for the day. I really want to get out of here.”
“No can do,” Bor’gann shook his head with some dramatics. “Those cells are all full. Lots of ration looters now. Everybody’s a criminal ever since martial law and we have to keep shuffling them around.”
The detective rolled his eyes to that. “Okay, then. What now?”
“We’ll throw her in a single cell in general population,” Bor’gann rubbed his chin. “Hey! We can put her in the one next to Travius! They’re perfect for each other! A real match made in the hells.”
“Let’s do it,” Op’yss nodded his head with some mirth. “I just want to get out of here after I finish filing the report. Tonight has been way too long. Fetch a female guard and let’s finish prepping her.”