loch lemach gives zero fucks (cutandthrust) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-08-28 02:07:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !narrative, loch lemach |
he made an enemy of all of you; it's him, not you.
Who: Loch Lemach, feat. the defendant
What: Calculating costs (Narrative).
Where: The Royal Courts of Justice
When: Before and after Miles' trial.
Rating: PG-13 for swearing.
Status: Complete
The trials were slotted back-to-back, to keep the tax-payers happy with the swiftness of justice in Valendia. Had to flaunt their victory, make sure everyone knew crimes still got solved around town. It was all over the papers: endless accounts of how the greater good had rapped the thieves on the knuckles for their daring, the self-congratulatory diatribes of politicians and pencil-pushers that rose to the podium to take the credit for other people's work. They released updates with the latest information revealed in the trials. When someone asked how the thieves had eluded the first barriers of security protecting the citizens' money, someone else whistled and changed the topic. Bless the authorities' reticence to admit any flaw in their knowledge. Their pride was the only thing keeping Loch out of jail. None of the Kerwonians had ever found out her name. Miles had called her a contact of his confidence and handled the go-between. He'd bitched and moaned that the foreigners were none too happy with the arrangement, but he'd made them bite. They couldn't have handed her over on a silver plate if they'd wanted to, and they would want to, now that shit was getting real. They would have handed over their own mothers if that'd gotten them a day deducted from their sentence. But only Miles knew, and no Peacekeepers had come to tear down her door since she'd locked herself up the day after the heist. He hadn't said anything. Thinking of Miles behind bars, the poison she had harbored in her heart her whole life rose like bile and made her laugh in the seclusion of her workshop. Served the bastard right. His grandiloquent speeches about trust, about camaraderie — he'd refined his lies to such an extent he'd started believing them. Prison would help him sort out his ideas. She left the workshop only to attend his trial. In the back of the courtroom, she sat with the curious and the two-bit journalists scribbling away on their notebooks. She watched the man who had been sharing drinks in ballrooms with Miles Baines only a month ago hang him out to dry and choose his own neck over his now-inconvenient friendship with the defendant, and she wanted to laugh. They escorted him out, a convicted criminal, with the look of betrayal plain on his face. Where he was going, nobody gave a fuck about unflappable masks and fancy accents. He located her in the crowd and looked into her eyes, and she blew him a goodbye kiss. And she thought: how long until you hand me over? |