Murder?
Vance weighed the word in his heart. His arms tensed, as if lifting Magamar’s struggling body. He heard the burp of automatic weapon fire again and flinched. Then Magamar’s struggling ceased. Vance could not tell if the weight of Magamar’s body had become immeasurably heavier or lighter.
Vance seized control of his mind and refocused it on the paper in front of him. It was his after-action report to the Council. Without having to be asked, he had made it a habit to report to the Council in writing the events of each mission since the strangeness began.
“How do I report this?” he asked himself aloud. His reports were typically cogent and terse. It did not take him inordinately long to draft and triple-check them. But in this report, Vance’s descriptions were floridly meandering.
“‘The friendly Town Elder invited us into his well-maintained home.’” Vance knew he could trim the language later. He was stalling. The key issue was no longer the mysterious mountain, nor even the highly powerful psychic, Tamara. The key issue was Magamar’s death.
“Should I report this? What would the Council would do with the information?” Vance had never before asked that question. It had always been good enough that the town, their collective will expressed through the Council’s edicts, was of one mind.
Taylen had once called Vance a lemming who would blindly walk off a cliff if everyone else did it. Vance could not find the insult in that, because it was true, save for following “blindly.” He would knowingly walk with his neighbors into certain death if they all agreed.
An image broke unbidden into Vance’s mind: Taylen Myers (Kris) disappearing in a neon puff of light and being replaced by a lemming. A small, peach-colored being with green hair, inexplicably wearing a purple shirt and holding a pick-axe. Odd creature. Then Taylen walked sideways off a cliff.
Vance seized the reins of his mind again. Why should he inquire as to the Council’s decision-making? If they handed him over to OSR, the Village would only be weakened. And what further machinations would OSR conceive? It was already too much for him: Dimensional recursions, time wars, and mountains where there had not been mountains. Now the Elders were called OSR? And now they are divided among themselves between cultists and infiltrators?
Vance had to simplify the issue: the Village needed to be rid of OSR – all of them – no matter the cost.
Then, Vance experienced an unfamiliar flash of insight: His thoughts had not been disjointed. In fact, they were quite focused on one question.
Murder? Vance weighed the word, but it would not settle on his heart. Magamar had been an active threat to West Village. Now he was not. The nuances were for others.
Yet he could not yet bring himself to voice his thoughts aloud.
I killed a man in premeditation.
I did so under a false guise of giving him aid, amid combat against a common threat.
And I will let another, his loyal compatriot, take the blame for my actions.
Can I live with this?
Vance picked up the page of the report partially detailing Magamar’s death. Then he picked up the other pages of his report. He opened a drawer to retrieve a book of matches.
“I can learn to live with this.” He stood and walked to an empty metal bin. He dropped the papers inside, struck the match, then tossed it after, burning the entire report.
“I can live with this.”