The Conquered Sun

01: Jace

There were only two rules to being an Inquisitor. One, stick to the protocol. Two, always—ALWAYS—choose the greater good. It should be easy, but not if you're facing your worst fears, which was definitely what Jace had to complete.

Jacinthe Trevion knew she was in a simulation. She was well aware of it even before the needle pricked her neck. Not that it made everything easier. The simulation was made to trick her senses into believing that what they were experiencing was real. Fearscape—that was what they called the dimension they were sent to the moment the drug in those syringes began hijacking her bloodstream.

The crowd below her began to thicken, filling the sidewalk until the blur of limbs spilt over to the streets. Jace stood sentry at the entrance of the lightrail terminal, overlooking the growing crowd. She looked down at her dial that had just signalled the five o'clock alarm. Half an hour more before her shift ended.

Trouble, it seemed, didn't think her job was over yet.

Red warning lights blinked in her vision, tainting the world in red for a moment. Notifications streamed in the side of her ocular screen, coming too fast and too many that she couldn't keep up. "Damn."

Focus, Jace told herself. Prioritise the most pressing issues. Don't panic. It was like a mantra inside her head. Willing the notification panel to hide, she focused on the tile bordering a man's face. Above it were the words UNIDENTIFIED in white block letters.

Outcastes were supposed to be myths. Or as Jace was told, they rarely went out into the city, living instead in hidden chambers along the city borders. They were a boon to the city, using up resources that should be allocated to the actual citizens who were contributing to the city's continuous survival.

Ergo, it was Jace's job to catch them. That definitely took priority.

She rushed into the crowd, bracing her arms in front of her as a shield. Each step had to be firm and grounded if she didn't want to be pushed back by their current. The crowd was growing thicker, and it didn't take long until the mop of brown hair and distinctive blue jacket disappeared from her view. She rounded her gaze, trying to find a way out. Strangers bumped against her shoulder, jostling her from her feet, intensifying. One slammed into her with so much force she stumbled backwards.

She barely felt the pain in her head. The crowd trudged on. Their muffled footsteps were deafening, growing louder and louder. And they didn't care that there was someone on the ground. Jace pushed herself up on one hand, the other holding her aching head. Her vision swam as she stood up. Must be a concussion. I have to call Gavin.

Jace pressed behind her ear, right on top of her communication implant. There was only static. No familiar ping to tell her she was connected to the network.

Her feet were leaden when she took a step forward. It took all of her strength to take one step, and it still wasn't enough. She stumbled. One of her hands shot out to grab anything to keep her upright. In this case, a stranger's arm. "Are you alright?" the stranger asked. His hands were calloused, but they gently held her upright.

She looked up and recoiled when she saw his face. The edges were fuzzy, almost dream-like in quality, but she would recognise him anywhere. She had his eyes, the same copper brown orbs that stared at her with genuine concern right now. "Dad," she rasped out.

"Jacinthe, are you alright?"

Her father, here, right now. She didn't realise how much she missed him until she saw him again. Jace stared at his face, at the lines at the corner of his eyes and lips, at the gentle slope of his nose so similar to hers, and his eyes—those copper-brown eyes that always took her breath away. Her father, here in the flesh, holding her.

He brushed his thumb over his cheek, wiping away the stream of tears Jace unknowingly shed. She was crying. She was crying.

"Dad, I missed you."

"I know, little fox. I know."

There was a commotion in the crowd, breaking the sombre moment between the two. Jace forced herself to straighten even if her body refused to. Black uniforms wove through the mess of colours. Jace recognised them. It had been her dream to wear one someday. But not today, not with her father here.

She'd been here before.

"Jarvis Trevion, you are under arrest for the murder of Mazallin Stallard."

No.

Jacinthe knew her job was to arrest him. She knew the rules. But it didn't make everything easier. There was no one she could call, no one she could reach out to.

She tried to move but found that she couldn't. Her body was too stiff, too heavy. She watched her father being led away, the crowd parting to let the Inquisitors pass, chanting 'murderer', their eyes following him until the growing darkness swallowed them up.

In the sea of strangers, she was a rock. Something cold slipped inside her boots and she looked down to the rising water. It rose steadily, quickly, lapping at her thighs, drenching her to her waist, rising higher and higher until it reached her neck. The darkness was equally persistent, shadow vignettes closing in from the edges until everything was pitch black just as the water forced her under.

She opened her eyes. It didn't make a difference. The darkness was too thick, too deep, too fluid it permeated her insides. Jace could feel them inside her—cold and clammy.

Then there was light. It was dim, like a thick layer of soot shielded her from its radiance. It was coming from above. She kicked, pushing herself up even as the liquid darkness made it hard to move her arms and legs. Up and up, the light growing brighter as she drew nearer.

The air was stale when she broke the surface. Inquisitors surrounded her, pulling her by the arms. Something clicked behind her and she knew they were restraints.

"What's going on?" she asked. No one replied. "I didn't do anything!"

She tried to wrestle free from their grip but she was too weak. Too wasted. She let herself be dragged away. Someone from the crowd yelled her name with derision. The crowd watched in silence but their gazes might as well be bullets to Jace.

There was a raised platform in the middle, and a man with salt-and-pepper hair stood there. Jacinthe recognised him as the one who arrested my father. On his chest was the insignia of the Commander, the highest rank of an Inquisitor and signified he was one of the most powerful people in the city. But even without the insignia, she knew what he was capable of. It was in the silent authority of his gait, the stiff posture of his back, the set of his shoulders, the lines of decades on his face. This was the face of the man who ordered the execution of many people.

And behind him was the chair that ended so many lives.

No, no, no. Resisting got her nowhere as they strapped her to the chair. The straps chaffed her skin with each movement. She relished the pain.

Commander Mazin Stallard stood over her, watching her struggles with a menacing glint in his eyes. His baritone voice echoed loudly when he spoke. "For your crimes against the city of Telluria, Jacinthe Trevion, designation VAI—5170717018, is hereby sentenced to death."

Something pricked her wrist. An alarm rang through her mind. She felt her body seize like it was being squeezed tight. Her throat strained to breathe. Dark spots danced over her vision, growing bigger until they swallowed her whole.