One thing about most bullies is that they're actually crap at fighting. They're ambush predators and ninety percent of their effort is in intimidation. The _threat_ of violence doing most of their work for them. But ambush them instead? Most don't know how to fight back.
So taking down the target wasn't so hard when you know something about hand to hand combat, have a plan, and start the fight on your terms.
Then came the interrogation.
With a hand in his greasy hair I hold his face before the mirror on the dresser in the now-thrashed apartment. The preparation of soft wax unguent smears easily across his lips.
He sputters, curses me. Angry. Scared. Too exhausted to resist.
I began the cant. Even as I am slightly out of breath from the struggle, I get it right on the first try. The tingle in the air, down my arms: The telltales of will exerting over reality.
I see he feels it too in the widening of his eyes and realization that something _weird_ was happening. I put the recorder on the dresser in front of him, turn it on.
I ask him questions:
His name.
Where he was the night in question.
What did he do to the teenage girl living in the same building as him.
Why he did it.
He answers in Latin.
He doesn't know Latin and it shows on his face. He knows what he's confessing but not how or why he's speaking in a language he's never heard before.
Because, of course, it's an old Latin spell of truthsaying I used on him.
But that's okay.
A confession is a confession.
The cops can use translator software on the anonymous recording they'll receive. They'll verify things via other means. Justice will be served.
And if it isn't?
I'll be back.
So taking down the target wasn't so hard when you know something about hand to hand combat, have a plan, and start the fight on your terms.
Then came the interrogation.
With a hand in his greasy hair I hold his face before the mirror on the dresser in the now-thrashed apartment. The preparation of soft wax unguent smears easily across his lips.
He sputters, curses me. Angry. Scared. Too exhausted to resist.
I began the cant. Even as I am slightly out of breath from the struggle, I get it right on the first try. The tingle in the air, down my arms: The telltales of will exerting over reality.
I see he feels it too in the widening of his eyes and realization that something _weird_ was happening. I put the recorder on the dresser in front of him, turn it on.
I ask him questions:
His name.
Where he was the night in question.
What did he do to the teenage girl living in the same building as him.
Why he did it.
He answers in Latin.
He doesn't know Latin and it shows on his face. He knows what he's confessing but not how or why he's speaking in a language he's never heard before.
Because, of course, it's an old Latin spell of truthsaying I used on him.
But that's okay.
A confession is a confession.
The cops can use translator software on the anonymous recording they'll receive. They'll verify things via other means. Justice will be served.
And if it isn't?
I'll be back.