Kanrel held the file in his arms, trembling and reading through the title of it over and over again. This name has had no explanation so far. This person, who was somehow related to buying explosives and taking part in corruption, was accused of terrorism by the pages in a binder he had read at the Office of Peace.
This person had no other shape than a name on a piece of paper. He opened the file and began reading; he didn't want to wait or process the experience that he had just gone through.
The file began with just the name, and then it listed the crimes they had committed:
The murder of Hans Kemler, the murder of Yrne Wern, the murder of Shai Grand, the murder of Ulrich Dargavian...
The list of murders committed went on and on, for ninety-eight names, until the final name was that of Wiltem Torna. The other names were unknown to him; they meant nothing, and even in the planted memories, there was no mention of them. Only Wiltem Torna.
In a similar fashion, there was a list of acts of terrorism and a different list of people who had died. They, too, in a gruesome way, are no different from murder, but in large quantities—at most hundreds—in one act of terrorism.
There was no context given to any of it, just names of places and the names of victims; thousands must have died because of the actions of this one individual.
Why had they done as they did? There was no mention, no speculation, just data. Why was it here? And why was it here now?
The creature that had called themselves the Sharan of Lies and Truths must have wanted him to know all of this. For one reason or another... Was the Voice the same, Sharan? Were they the ones leading Kanrel here?
Ignar Orcun was someone who committed crimes against everyone, it seemed. But for what reason?
The locations of the acts of terror seemed at times to be something random; one of the attacks was on a plaza in the District of Iron, another at a theater in the District of Silver, but there were strikes at different Offices of Peace as well; even this tower had been one of the locations where a terror attack had happened.
Random attacks, or were they? Wouldn't there always be some sort of logic behind an action—a reason? There'd always be something—a motive, an ideology, or logic—behind an action like this, or really any action.
He would just have to figure that out. But the issue was time again. He didn't have much time. Perhaps less than forty-eight hours before the trial of Hartar Agna.
He placed the file on the floor and read the titles of the other files in the filing cabinet. They were names of people that had been on the list of victims; they were names of places where acts of terror had happened. He took out the one that was about Wiltem Torna, opened it, and began reading.
It had information about the victims, who they were, what they did, and who the people in their lives were. And then, reasons as to why they were killed...
Corruption, extortion, and the failure to abide by the vows that a member of the Office of Peace must take.
Solution: swift execution.
Note: An innocent bystander named Hartar Agna was then caught, interrogated, judged, and sentenced to death. This cannot be helped; it must happen; it had to happen.
Kanrel dropped the file and read through another file, another name, and another victim:
Yrne Wern, a member of the Domain of War and Peace, is ranked a sergeant at the Office of Peace; they work in the District of Silver; they have no close family members alive. A friend of Ulrich Dargavian.
Corruption, murder, rape—the failure to abide by the vows and morals that a member of the Office of Peace must take.
Solution: torture and slow execution.
Note: They screamed, and they screamed for mercy and for help; no help came. I wonder if they screamed as much as their victims did.
Kanrel took another file, this time one about one of the acts of terror:
Location: the Tower of Lies and Truths
A symbol of our failures and the question: Why must the truth die first?
Target: the gathering of fools at the Cafe N'Sharan.
All they do is talk about the same things; many of them take part in the death of truth; many of them profit from it; these valued members of our society look from far above and criticize the many that live below...
Solution: Purge; let fire purge them all; let fire set them free; let the truth set them free.
Date: the 31st day of the 9th month of the 1207th year of the Common Times.
Note: Let the truth be the fire that sets them free.
Kanrel stared at the file in his hands. He read through it again and again. The date was today; it had not happened yet. It was today. He dropped the file and began to run. He left the room with the filing cabinet and entered the corridor with only the doors that were open. He ran to the elevator, went inside, and pressed the button that would lead him to the floor where the cafe was.
The doors closed, and he began to pace. The buzz that the elevator made was once soothing, but now it felt too slow. It had to be quicker; the elevator was too slow. "Bling," and the doors opened.
He took a hurried step onto the floor, and there was no fire; no smoke. The cafe was like it always had been. The people were gathered around their tables, holding papers, and talking in sentences that made no sense to him. At times, they would sip coffee from their cups or take bites from cookies and other pastries.
There was nothing to indicate an attack on this cafe. They were safe. And in his mind, he had but one question: what about it? In his mind, he had already condemned all these people who had gathered here. He looked down on them; he saw them as the reason why the city below was so unequal and corrupt. They partook in the corruption of this city; they turned their blind eyes toward it and took from it; they became richer because of it; they became more powerful and richer; this was paradise for them.
So what about it? Would they not get what they deserved? Fire—should it not purge those who were worse than criminals? Should it not cleanse this earth? He pondered, but even still, he could only believe one thing; he could find only one morally correct conclusion: perhaps they would deserve it, but at the same time, two wrongs don't make a right.
These people should be punished within the laws of the city, not by the hands of a murderer who didn't care about the innocent bystanders that they might harm in their self-righteous quest for justice.
So he had to stop it. He had to find the person who was behind all of these acts of terror and murder. He searched the crowds of people and observed the many waiters who went around the cafe, bringing food and drinks to those who had ordered them.
But there was nothing out of the ordinary. So he began to walk around. He looked more closely; surely the person who was behind all of this would be more alive than the other people who were here. Surely they would be able to speak and interact with him.
So he went around, tapping people on their shoulders, trying to make contact with them, but no one would say a word. People would drift past him or ignore him altogether. He was not there; he didn't exist.
A service trolley went past him, one covered in cloth, and under it something, perhaps a cloche. He went to it and pulled the cloth away. He lifted the cloche, but beneath it was only food. Similar trolleys went around the room; most of them had food on trays and pots that had tea and coffee in them.
But a few of the trolleys were covered with cloth as well, so he hurried to another one that he saw, pulled away the cloth, and lifted the cloche, finding only food again. The people around him were talking loudly; they ignored his actions as he went to another trolley, again pulling away the cloth, and again only revealing more food.
He could not find it; would it even happen today? Was this even the correct place and the correct time? He was brought to a sudden stop. Eyes—he could feel eyes on him. Someone was looking right at him, someone who had weight to their gaze, someone who had more magic than all of the people combined here had...
Hurriedly, he looked around and tried to find this person, but he could not. No one was looking at him. And soon, he could smell it. The smell of something burning—the smell of smoke and ash. He could not find where it had begun. He could only witness the whole floor burst into flames.
Fire, everywhere. People—screaming in agony. Smoke and fire. He could see nothing. He could do nothing about it—nothing for the people that had gathered here. Nothing for anyone. Yet he did not burn; he was left unaffected by the flames and unaffected by the smoke.
But the screams. They filled his head; they filled everything. It had all happened so quickly, and it ended after mere moments. The fire dissipated. The smoke slowly cleared. All he could see was the ash that covered the floor, the charred floor, the charred ceiling, and the charred walls. Everything else was burned into nothing. There lay corpses on the ground, but one could not recognize whether there was one or more people there; they were partly just piles of ash.
There were no more tables around, no more chairs, and not a single arc of paper. There was melted metal in places where there had been cutlery.
He couldn't do anything about it. He could observe as a hundred more people died in mere moments. The screams had stopped, but he could still hear them. The fire had gone, but he could still see it. It had burned itself into his memory, and all the while, he could do nothing about any of it.
Soon, he felt the eyes again. He looked around and soon saw a figure that stood still and looked straight at him—a figure that was covered in ash. They made no movement; they just observed.
"Why?" Kanrel whispered, yet he knew the answer already. He just stared at the figure, who just stared back at him. There was silence, and with that silence, the figure disappeared; it was carried away by a wind that pushed all of the ash away from the floor, out of the many balconies that oversaw the city beneath.
If one stood outside, they could see as the wind carried the ashes of the dead away, far away.
Only Kanrel was left alone in a room that, on its walls, floors, and ceiling, showed the memory of the fire that had touched it and that had cleansed it.
It was hard to understand and process, even if it was just a memory or a vision of something that had already happened. It felt so real; it was real, once. Bothered by what he had just seen and experienced and by the anger that beat in his temples, he returned to the elevator, pressed the button that was left unharmed by the fire, and stepped inside. He had so much more that he had to read through.
He had to understand each and every single victim that had died thus far, each and every act of terror that had happened, if there were still more to come, and if this was just the beginning of another series of acts of terror.
Ignar Orcun is a murderer and nothing more. Ignar Orcun, a name he had to figure out, and a name that now had a figure and shape—they weren't just a name, they were a person.