Session 9: Interrogation

"And here I thought I could leave you alone for five minutes to run an errand," your Father says, offering a hand. Once you're on your feet, he immediately checks you over.

"Any breaks? Head ringin'?" he asks, already reaching for your arms.

"No. Just a stab wound," you say, lifting your forearm to show the knife gash. He leans close, squinting as if the room were a cave.

"Lord, heal my son," he murmurs, setting his palm to the cut—yellow light flares from his hand; heat blooms under your skin, erasing the pain. When the glow fades, the flesh is whole, leaving only a torn sleeve. "Which of those two stabbed you?" he asks, peering towards the door the guards have exited from.

"It wasn't them, it was him," you say, pointing to the short man who's still unconscious on the table. Your Father peers where you point, before shaking his head.

"Show me," he says, so you lead him as he fumbles through obvious rubble until he nearly trips over the bearded knife‑thrower sprawled on the floor.

"Can you not see or something?" you ask, but he merely kneels over the little man, giving the same quick exam.

"What happened?" he asks.

"I don't know, as soon as this guy saw me, he began throwing knives at me like a lunatic," you explain, thinking back to the initial panic. "He eventually tried charging me and fell off the loft. That's when you and the guards showed up."

"I see," he says, finishing his exam and rising. He steps to you without a word and tugs down your hood.

"Hey, what are you doing?" you ask, pulling back.

"Hold still," he says, not letting go. He cups your ear between thumb and finger, tracing its length and pinching the pointed tip.

"How bright is it in here?" he asks suddenly.

"What? Uh… normal," you say, baffled. "Bright enough to see, might be hard to read."

"That settles it," he sighs, releasing your ear and stepping back. "I had my suspicions but didn't want to believe it."

"What settles what?" you demand, heart thudding.

"You may want to sit," he says, already turning toward a table.

"No!" you call, grabbing his hand and keeping him planted. "We already did the long explanation. Just say it." He meets your eyes, taking that deep, bad‑news breath.

"Son… you're not fully human anymore."

"Not fully… what?" you think, blindsided that he would think, let alone say something like that.

"What do you mean, 'not fully human'?"

"If I'm right, you've been turned into a half‑elf, specifically a dark elf, or 'Gate' as they're called."

"How the hell would that even happen?" you demand, feeling a swirl of emotion welling up.

"No idea," he says, in a maddeningly casual tone. "Probably the same way we've been isekai'd here. I mean, once we've accepted that pretty much anything is on the table."

"So what? Has Mom secretly been an elf this whole time or?"

"Doubtful," he says, waving off the thought. "I think I'd noticed if she was. I mean, she certainly hasn't aged like one. Not to say she hasn't aged phenomenally, but twenty years and two kids have taken their toll. As a matter-of-fact—”

"Dad!" You shout, stopping his monologue. "Is how mom's aged really what you wanna focus on right now?"

"Good point," he says, snapping his fingers. "Thanks for stopping me before I dug myself into a hole." You stand there, statue‑still, while your mind races off a cliff.

"Okay," you finally say after processing for a moment. "In as few words as possible, what does that actually mean for me? No rambling!"

"In practice?" says, tucking his lips into his cheeks and thinking for a moment. "First, night vision. This room is near pitch‑black to me; it comes with sunlight sensitivity, but it's preferable to tripping nearly everywhere." He takes a dramatic step and barely misses a broken chair leg. "Second, racism," he says a little too casually. "Everyone's racist here, literally everyone. Keep your hood up, and not just to keep the sun out of your eyes. Don't show your ears, don't flaunt your skin color. If people clock you as Gate, trouble follows."

"As if home wasn't enough practice…" You think, remembering less than fond memories.

"Third," he adds, eyes brightening, "Gate have an affinity for spiders, and like some spiders the females—"

"And that's enough," you cut in, turning away before the 'joke' lands. Your gaze snags on the green bottle you found. You scoop it up, holding the cracked side up to prevent any more leakage. "After that stunt, I'm tempted to smash this and let you interrogate alone."

"DON'T!" your Father shouts, startling you as your grip almost slips.

"That's the loudest he's been all day," you think, freezing.

"It's mission‑critical," he says, stumbling toward you and nearly tripping on a beam. You sigh, catch his arm, and steer him toward the kicked-in doorway where sunlight streams in.

"I'm dying to hear how booze is mission‑critical," you say.

"Let me show you," he says, taking the bottle and leading the way out of the tavern and across the lane toward the ruined town hall. A back door groans open to a stairwell. You descend into a stone room lit only by a single candle, but to you it may as well be a glowing campfire. A single guard sits on a stool at the bottom, spear across his lap. As you approach, he lifts the candle to squint at the red cross on your Father's chest.

"You the ones Matt was talkin' 'bout?" he asks.

"That'd be us," your Father says, stopping at the last step. "We're here to see your prisoner." The guard eyes the bottle, then your hood, then the cross again.

"Right. You two can go in," he says, thumbing toward a heavy door banded with iron. "But I'm keepin' this open, and I'll be listenin'."

"Unnecessary," your Father says, shaking his head. "I'm sure you've heard how we in the clergy have… effective means of interrogation. And we can't let just anyone observe you, see." His words are sly, and for a moment, you see the guard's eyes go wide before his hands tremble.

"F-Far be it from me to interfere with the gods or their servants," he says in a shaky voice. "I… I'll wait just outside then. At the top of the stairs."

"Sounds wonderful," your Father says as the guard takes the steps two at a time, nearly tripping as he vanishes around a corner.

"What does he plan on doing in here?" you wonder as you wait in front of the door.

"Before we go in," your Father says, his tone stoic yet grim. "I should explain the plan."

"Oh," you say, unsure how you should feel. "You mean you aren't just going to rush in and tell me to trust you while I stand here confused?"

"You know, I've always felt your mother's unblinking faith in me is one of her best traits," he says, smiling. "I'm so glad she passed that on to you." He places a hand on your shoulder before continuing. "Long and short of the plan is we're going to walk in unafraid, sit down, have a few drinks, and chat. Make a new friend, so to speak."

"Dad, that's a stupid plan," you say, deadpan. "How would that work?"

"First of all, you catch more flies with sugar than with salt. Second of all," he says, holding up the bottle and swirling the brown liquid inside. "Alcohol clouds judgment, makes it easier to squeeze out secrets."

"And if it thinks the drink is poison?" you ask, looking up at him, "Or if I don't like the taste of alcohol?"

"Because that's what they ran off with," he says, lowering the bottle. "Sure, they mostly took supplies, but notice how not a drop of drink was left in that tavern? Obviously, some of them like it, and if our prisoner is one of them, how could a tired, thirsty drunk turn down a nice drink? Any more questions?"

"Yeah, do you have any sane plans, or are you saving those for later?"

"Such sass," he says, amused, as he picks up the key from the table. "You get that from me, though I wish you'd refine it a bit more." He tries inserting the key into the lock, but only fumbles in the dark. Eventually, he hands you the key, and you open it, only to experience instant regret.

The air is damp and musty, and body odor, blood, and other putrid scents assault your nose, nearly making you gag. A barred window at the top of the room is the only light, perfectly illuminating the room for you. Inside is a single table with chairs on either side. Chains anchor to the table, restraining its only occupant. A single goblin, just the same as the ones that attacked you last night. Its skin was the same leafy green, and its eyes burned with a yellowish glow, almost visible in the darkness. Its clawed hands were chained together and anchored to the table, just as its neck was chained to the floor.

As you enter, it jerks on the chains, snarling with its long, pointed teeth. Your Father takes no notice, stepping into the room and sitting at the table like being seated at a restaurant. "Close the door," he tells you, taking his seat. The creature continues snarling, scratching at the chains as you close the door. Your Father merely crosses his arms and sits until the goblin settles down, eyes still glaring at you. "You may have convinced the others you're nothing more than a ravenous animal, but I know better," he says, setting his helmet on the table. "I know you can understand me. I know you can reply. And I know why your band raided this village." He uncorks the bottle, bringing the cork up to his nose, sniffing with each nostril individually. "This isn't the best liquor, but it's better than nothing. My guess is you were after the booze. I can't judge, God knows what I've done at my lowest."

He pours the dark, almost black liquid into one glass, inhales again, then tosses it back. Thumping the glass on the table as he swishes and swallows. "Damn. I was hoping for a light bourbon—that's damn near Scotch. Oh well, it'll do," he says, pouring two more. "Come on, we're all friends here," he says, handing you a glass. You take it but hesitate to drink.

"Is this really okay?" you wonder. "Different countries have different drinking ages, but I'm probably under all of them."

*Clink*

"Bottoms up," your Father says, clicking your glass and downing another drink and staring at you. You relent, tossing the drink back and instantly regretting it. The liquid burns your throat and nose like fire as it falls down your throat, leaving you gagging. As it sits in your stomach, you feel it agitating to come back up. "You really don't go out to bars, do you?" he says, filling the third glass and sliding it toward the goblin. The creature shrinks back as far as the chains will let it, hissing at the drink. "Come now," your Father says, as if to a child refusing to eat their vegetables. "You saw us drink, so you know it isn't poison. I don't know what the guards did to you, but we just want to talk. Do that, and I promise the guards won't hurt you." The goblin hesitates, shifting its glare between you and your Father for a moment. When it finally clasps the glass, it doesn't drink; instead, it sniffs and laps with its forked tongue. It takes another look at your Father before downing the whole glass in one go.

"See? We're not the bad guys," your Father says, grasping the bottle. "Want another?" The goblin eagerly holds out the glass, and your Father refills it. "You too," he says, pouring you another drink. You down another glass; it's harder to keep down, but you don't gag this time, as if the first one had only caught you unaware.

"And now that we're all drinking buddies, how about introductions? You have a name?"

The goblin looks towards you, eyes softer than before.

"Nerr," it rasps, in a voice not used to speaking.

"See? I knew you could talk," your Father says, refilling Nerr's glass. "So, Nerr, does your tribe like booze? That's why you came here, right?"

"Yes," he says, downing another glass. "Boss drinks lots. Tribe gets for him."

"Oh, so you've never had booze?"

"Once. Swipe drink with Neeg. Boss find him, but Nerr hide."

"I can't imagine that went well for Neeg," your Father says, and Nerr shakes its head.

"Boss ate him," Nerr says, and you nearly spit your drink.

"Your boss ate him?" you repeat, unsure if you heard him correctly.

"Roast over fire. Whole tribe eats," Nerr explained.

"But you didn't, right?” you ask in a shaky voice. "He.. He was your friend."

"Neeg small. None left for Nerr ."

"Your boss sounds like quite the character," Your Father says, pouring Nerr another drink as if they were discussing sports. "Is he a big fellow?"

"Very big," Nerr says, accepting another drink. "Come to tribe one day. Eat old boss. Now boss eat any who fight him. Or steal drink," he says, knocking back his third glass. "See why. Very good."

"I'm glad you think so," your Father says, sipping his drink. "If you think this is good, wait till you hit a big city. Rivers of drink. Better than this." The goblin's mouth drops. Its eyes are circling, trying to picture that much of anything.

"I come to city?" he asks, hopeful.

"That's the thought. I'd love to bring you to a place where we can have all the drinks we want. But the guards fear your tribe. They won't let either of us leave while your band is out there," he says with a disappointed shrug. "Now, if you tell me where your lair is, and what traps you've set so that I can deal with them. Then we all go drink together."

"Okay. I tell." Nerr begins, spilling every detail he can. He says the band lives in a cave not far away. It's small, but enough for the tribe of 20 members. Your Father presses for traps and sighs in relief when Nerr says they've all been disabled since the boss kept triggering them.

As Nerr talks, your Father keeps pouring. After your fourth, you have to lean on the wall or risk falling; you've no idea how the little goblin has managed eight. Finally, when the bottle runs dry, your Father sets it aside.

"Alright, that's all the drink. You've been very helpful."

"Haa…" is all Nerr can manage, his head swaying and his eyes drooping.

"Now there's one more thing before we leave," your Father says, rising. He walks to the goblin's side, sets a hand on its shoulder—then grabs a fistful of patchy hair and slams Nerr's face into the table.

*THUD*

You snap from your drunken fog as orange splatter spreads into a pool.

"Dad, what are you—"

"Take out your sword," your Father orders, lifting Nerr's head to reveal a steady stream of orange draining from his now flattened nose.

"Why?" you manage, dropping your glass.

"Because you're going to kill the goblin," he says, in a cold, definitive voice.

"What?" You demand, leaning on the table to look him in the eyes.

"I said you're going to kill it," he repeats, eyes unflinching.

"Why? He told us what we wanted. Why are we doing this to him when—"

"It," your Father snaps, cutting you off. "Goblins are not people. They don't love, don't have friends; they're beasts driven by base desire."

"But that's no reason to kill him—"

"It," he corrects again, even more sternly. "And normally, no, I don't aspire to kill because we can," he says, drawing one of your rapiers and lacing it in your hands. "But in this flawed world of my own creation, there's only one way good can prevail." He guides the blade's point to the creature's chest and grips your hands tighter as you try moving them away. "By striking it down, without hesitation. Here, it's kill or be killed, and as much as I'd lock you in a guarded tower, I've neither guards nor a tower. Thus, you're coming with me, and I need to know you can protect yourself… and me." He taps Nerr's chest, as if instructing you. "The heart should be about here," he says, loosening his hands around yours. "All you need to do is thrust."

"Dad, I can't," you say, pulling the blade away, but he tightens his grip and keeps the tip poised. "He can talk," you whisper.

"So can a parrot," he snaps. "That won't stop me from turning Polly into nuggets. Now kill it."

"Dad, I—"

"YES! YOU! CAN!" he shouts, his words shaking the room, and you. Your knees wobble; your stomach flips. "It's good you're hesitating, tells me you have a conscience, that you won't just kill for no reason. That's why you begin here, not in combat. In combat, if you hesitate, you die, and I'm burying you." He pulls a crude knife from his belt, the same one from last night. "Not now, not ever."

He releases your hands, grabs the goblin's forearm, and brings the knife down. Bone snaps like a stick, and blood spurts from the stump. The goblin's body yanks back on reflex, but doesn't wake.

"There. Now it isn't whether it lives or dies, only how quickly. You want to do the right thing?" He slides your blade to the mark again. "Stab its heart and end it. They may not love, but they feel pain. Now END IT."

Orange pools, then overflows the tabletop, dripping to the floor. Your breath goes ragged; your stomach climbs into your chest. Your heartbeat drowns everything, even the dim light from the barred window. You throw down your blade, sending it clattering to the floor. You soon follow, knees giving way as gravity yanks you forward. You throw out your hands to catch yourself.

*Splash*

You look down, seeing your hands splattering in the pool of orange blood. You gag, your gut flips, and you vomit. The booze burns more coming up than going down, mixing with the blood before you. That's the last thing you see before everything goes black.