It was a humid night, as Mhuoomphies forced air out his cloaca to hover pensively by the office window. It was the kind of night where a tentacle might be slick with something other than condensation.
His office was cluttered with images, each a fuzzy impression of a scene, projected from crystals floating apparently at random about the room. He reached out with a 7-tentacle, the scarred one, and spun one of the crystals. The out-of-focus image spun with it, the psychic impression of a witness, able to be seen from any angle.
The witnesses all thought they knew what they had seen, but both the perfect psionic impressions of their true recollection and long experience told Mhuoomphies otherwise. Creatures thought their memories were perfect images, ingrained forever like stone carvings. But the mind of a sentient didn’t work that way. Emotions, distractions, preconceived notions, and bigotry flavored everything any thinking creature remembered. In the flumph’s experience, many evils could be traced to different creatures having different memories of the same events.
But there were hints of the truth in the memory-crystal’s images as well. Certainly SOMETHING had happened. The image of the adolescent iron-eater, rolled on her back, antennae straight in fear and shock, were similar in most of the images. Some showed her as larger or more aggressive, but metal-users usually despised and misunderstood iron-eaters. And even those who remembered the event as the adolescent iron-eater’s fault remembered the position of her body, flipped over, wing-tail raised in defense. They might think they remembered her being the attacker, but they were fooling themselves.
The true attacker was shown in fewer memories, and the image was much more indistinct. A red cloak was featured in more than half, but Mhuoomphies was suspicious of that. There had been a great deal of blood. Sapients often added red to memories of a scene where blood had been splashed like cheap ale.
The creature had been tall… maybe. Hunched… maybe. Neither detail was shown in more than a quarter of the memory images. And one, just one, showed an arm made of a swarm of roaches jutting out from a crimson robe, rather than a cloak.
That memory was alone in that detail, but it was otherwise so crisp. And it made Mhuoomphies port outage nozzle whistle a low, sad sound. He had never hoped so strongly for a witness to be unreliable.
Because the young iron-eater had been killed, and he hoped it was either a simple hate crime, or a political gambit to convince the iron-eaters to do their mining for a smaller share of the ferrous metals they unearthed. Those were terrible reasons to kill, but there weren’t any good reasons for murder. The young iron-eater was dead, and the flumph couldn’t change that. If the reason for her death was simple, he could gain justice quickly. He would have no living help.
When an aberrant race died, none of the breathing Lamplighters took it seriously. Aboleth crime lords and cloaked gangs had eroded any goodwill bipedal vertebrates felt for all his kind. And even those who wanted to care had too many other crimes on their plate. Only Mhuoomphies had the time to investigate such crimes, and only he was trusted by anyone in the Aberrant communities.
And with iron-eaters on strike, and the dark naga pressing for full voting rights, this needed to get handled fast. Even the Metalhearts might decide…
The flumph’s office door burst opened, the brief scream of its metal lock bending and shattering the only warning before it gave way. A lurking metallic humanoid stood in the doorway, a bullseye lantern in its chest leaking light through the cracks, despite being shuttered.
“You are the Aberrant Lamplighter, Muffles?”
Two of the flumph’s starboard vents honked quietly in annoyance. He pursed his feedhole, and forced air through it to emulate the annoying, imperfect language of the bipeds. He also pooled caustics into his adamantine-tipped primespike, in case the creature was hostile, rather than just dangerously bumbling.
“Mhuoomphies.” he correct the intruder. “ArchLantern, Mhuoomphies.”
The metallic creature nodded once.
“I am Malakrut. I am a fresh forged Spark. The LawKeepers have assigned me to assist and monitor your efforts to enforce the laws of DarkStar Station, in the matter of a slain iron-eater in the abnormals district.”
Mhuoomphies felt himself relax, and sucked his caustics back into their reservoir. Of course he would be saddled with a rookie to report his every misstep.
It was Inevitable.
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Posted on February 8, 2017, in Adventure Sketch, Anachronistic Adventurers, Microsetting, Short Fiction, Silliness and tagged Experiment, Fiction, Geekery, Random Stuff, WTF. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.