Two years ago, Rich had applied and been accepted to Waverly Academy, a place where young boys were molded into the serious and sinister men who worked behind the scenes to ensure the prosperity and continuation of the theocratic republic known as the Ministry.

He had left before he could graduate, fled to avoid certain death, but he had absorbed its lessons well.

And right now, he was reliving his experience with Incarceration One-hundred-and-one. The tips and tricks that the skilled jailers of the Bureaus passed on to their eager students. Tricks that were useful regardless of which side of the bars you were on.

Though he wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep on the cot of his cell, he couldn't. He knew without a doubt they were watching him right now. Knew that there were two kinds of prisoners... the ones that slept soundly, and the ones that stayed awake, worried. The first kind were usually guilty; they had feared capture for so long, that when it arrived, they no longer had fear for the future. The hard part was done, and what happened next would be out of their hands.

The second kind, the wakeful and insomniac, they were usually innocent. They weren't sure why they were here, were wondering what had brought them to this point, and what kind of trouble awaited. The future was a big blank question mark, and anxiety clawed at them, kept them awake.

Sleep wouldn't provide any evidence that was usable in court, but then he was far beyond the purview of courts. Growing up in the Ministry had taught him that when men in suits got involved, the truth of the matter was irrelevant. Everybody was guilty of something.

So he sat on the cot, back to the wall, feeling every bruise and laceration and pain. He was pretty sure that the puppeted bastards had cracked a few of his ribs. It hurt to breathe, hurt on his right side, so he had to take shallow breaths and keep as still as he could.

On the upside, staying awake provided a silver lining, of sorts. If he lay down to sleep, he knew that getting up again would be sheer agony.

So he waited, closing his eyes and breathing, and listening. He had tricks and training to measure time, if he wanted. But he didn't use them. Thinking on it would only make him worry, remind him that Rotgoriel was running around unsupervised, and that nobody had the helm of the guild. Precious hours were ticking away, and the Bharstool Warmers would capitalize on that. They had traded the lives of at least two, probably more of their minions, to buy this time. They would not waste it.

He could only hope that Pat had prepared for this eventuality. The guild had officers. It was supposed to function regardless of who was around. And they'd attracted a lot of independent and motivated people to the Resistance, so hopefully...

A noise broke through the gentle rumble of the AC. A 'snik' of a door unlatching, and Rich glanced over to see the door at the end of his cell open.

A figure in a suit stepped through, and to his surprise, Rich knew the man's face.

“Mister Alvarez?” he asked.

“Hello Richard,” the short, Hispanic man said, smoothing down his jacket. For a second Rich thought someone had forced his Echo into AR mode somehow, but no, he was here in the flesh. He looked about the same as his virtual self, with the exception of a trio of small moles just above his goatee, almost hidden by his hairline.

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“I wasn't expecting you to visit,” Rich said. “Especially this soon. What day is it?”

“Good lord, you're a mess,” Mister Alvarez said, sitting down on the cot across the way. “Did they even let you clean up? Ah, don't worry. It's Thursday. Is that good?”

Rich nodded. “It's good. Same day, then.” he closed his eyes again, checked his pain-to-fatigue ratio, thought that pain was still winning. “Can you tell me why I'm here?”

“You're here because the police need answers, Richard. And they think you have some.”

“Bullshit.”

Mister Alvarez winced. “Richard, I'm sorry to hear you swear.”

“And I'm sorry that you aren't what I was hoping you'd be.” Rich said.

The man honestly looked hurt.

“Not you,” Rich corrected, “Eascan in general. I was really, really hoping that you guys were different from the Ministry.”

“Ah.” Mister Alvarez nodded, then stroked his goatee. “I'm a little confused. We've been talking through your adjustment since you've got here. You've told me of the differences yourself. Everything you've seen, everything you've done since you got here.”

“Yes. But I hadn't seen this,” Rich waved his hand around at the room. “Not here. It makes me sad to see it here. Makes me think that perhaps the people who told me you guys were just as bad as our own people were right.”

It was a lie, of course. Both sides were not the same. If this was a Ministry jail they'd have tortured him by now. But any manipulation he could bring to bear against Mister Alvarez and whatever unseen watchers were surely present was another arrow in his quiver.

And it might have worked, if Mister Alvarez hadn't spent half a year studying him.

“Richard, you know that's not true. The people guarding you are trying to figure out who's after you, and why. That wasn't a random attack. Whoever those people were, they came to your door. They killed your neighbor. They almost got you, too. And the people who are holding you here, they think you know why. And I think maybe they're right.”

“Of course I know why!” Rich regretted his shout the instant it left his lips. His head pounded, and his side pulsed a wave of pain through his chest. He coughed a bit, flinched a little when Mister Alvarez put his hand on his shoulder, even though he knew the man was just trying to steady him. “It's because I went up against a Minister. It's the same thing that haunted me for the last four years. The same god damned thing.”

“I don't know about that, Richard,” Mister Alvarez shook his head. “The people who came after you, they weren't from the Ministry. They had no connection to the Ministry. There was no reason for them to... go berserk, and come for you, the way they did.”

Rich raised his hands, let them drop. “I can't say. I don't know what happened to them or with them.”

Mister Alvarez sighed. “You truly know nothing more than what you have told the police already?”

“I truly don't,” Rich lied.

“All right.” Mister Alvarez looked him up and down. “They tell me your injuries are minor, but you are clearly in pain. I will see if they can get you some medication, some treatment.”

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps wait to thank me, hm? They want answers, and if you cannot help find them, you may be here a while.”

Rich tried not to react, but he saw Mister Alvarez's eyes flicker, and knew he'd failed. The older man smiled, and patted his shoulder again. “Do your best. You are safe here. Your family is fine. Nobody close to you has died... save your neighbor, rest her soul.”

“I didn't even know her name,” Rich admitted. “It's crazy. I feel... bad about that.”

“I believe you. Hang in there, hm?”

Mister Alvarez stood and left, the door opening for him, then latching after his departure with a solid CLUNK.

“And there goes the good cop,” Rich mouthed the words to no one in particular.

Then he lay down and slept. This treatment, the attitude displayed, the look of recognition that Mister Alvarez gave, all of those told him he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

His captors, whoever they were, certainly weren't the police.

This was a thing. And it would take a long time to resolve. And until then, he couldn't log in, couldn't fix matters. So he gave himself to oblivion, and hoped that the future would take care of itself.

He hoped that his brother could take care of himself.

Rotgoriel would be all alone now, at a very dangerous time.