Chapter Text
As soon as Wemmbu hit the floor, he knew the chase was over.
Maybe some part of him regrets not taking Spoke’s offer, even if he was only trading one prison for another — anything would’ve been better than this. At the mercy of the Law, whatever consequence this failed escape attempt earned him was his fault and his alone.
There are guards shouting at him, barely audible above the ringing of his ears. He doesn’t make a move to get up, waiting as they pin him to the rubble of the ground.
Behind the swarms of Lawmen, Wemmbu is keenly aware of one other prisoner watching him — Zam. Her expression is unreadable, lips pressed in a thin line. It was the same glance she had spared him when Spoke offered his ultimatum.
What was it? Disappointment? Sympathy, almost? Wemmbu doesn’t know. He narrows his eyes at her. She looks away.
Something bitter stings at the back of his throat. Whatever. He exhales, letting the fight leave his lungs with a breath that feels like defeat, because it is.
He’s done. It’s over. He knows it’s over, and the Law does too — LettuceK approaches him with deceptively pitying eyes and a netherite sword, the blade far too flashy to be anything but decorative. Of course, this is nothing more than a show: they both know there is no other reason to prolong this exchange.
“Well, Wemmbu,” Lettuce starts, tilting his head down. He lifts Wemmbu’s chin with two armoured fingers, warily, as if he were handling a rabid animal. “That wasn’t very smart of you, now, was it?”
Wemmbu doesn’t dignify him with a response, rolling his eyes with deliberate resentment.
Lettuce just tsks. “Where’s your little friend?”
This time, Wemmbu scoffs loudly. He wrenches away from Lettuce’s grip. “Spoke? Dude, I barely know that guy. Arrest him too or something, I don’t care.”
“And how does this work out in your favour, hmm?” Lettuce prods. Met with silence, the caracal just sighs. “You fascinate me, Wemmbu.”
“Right, right,” Wemmbu waves him off, feigning impatience. “This is the part where you send me back to my cell and go, ‘oh, Wemmbu, you weren’t supposed to do that’, and then cut down on my food rations again, right?”
Lettuce hums. “Close, but not quite.” He frowns down at Wemmbu, displeasure lined in the way his brow furrows. “Look. We’ve given you enough chances. That was your last.”
Two guards step toward him, hoisting him up in steely grips.
“This way,” Lettuce beckons. His voice is soft, but his words are anything but a suggestion. He turns to head down the prison corridor. “I know I keep saying this, Wemmbu, and it’s not my fault you never listen — but you really shouldn’t have done that. I hope you know you’ve made a grave mistake today.”
Wemmbu lifts himself up enough to steady his feet on the floor, refusing to be dragged; The Law would not take away more of his dignity than they already had today.
“Ah. Here we are.” Lettuce fiddles with a key to a cell, just as plain and nondescript as all the ones they had passed. This one, however, isn’t marked with a number; instead, a neat row prints the letters ‘REC. 01’ over the doorway.
“What, am I here for a photoshoot?” Wemmbu scoffs. The guards loosen their hold on him, and he gingerly steps into the room.
“Good guess. No.”
Wemmbu just shrugs, taking in the cell. The slate-grey walls are bare and windowless, casting the room in stark shadows — typical of any cell in the solitary wing of the Law’s prisons.
Before Wemmbu can even open his mouth to say anything, Lettuce strolls past him, flipping a switch on the wall with an airy click.
And the room is instantly blinding.
Wemmbu reels at the sudden lights that snap on from every direction at once, slamming his eyes shut. The afterimages of the glow spin behind his eyelids as he blinks. “Jeez, do you mind warning a guy before flashbanging him?”
“Apologies,” Lettuce shrugs, not even sparing him a glance. His tone is soft but flat, quietly unsympathetic.A guard hands the Law leader a tablet, and he scrolls through it slowly.
He looks up; cool green eyes find wary purple ones, and Lettuce smiles. “Right. Well, we’re on a bit of a tight schedule. There’s a lot of business we need to get to; I’m sure you’ll be cooperative after that stunt you pulled, right?”
A moment passes, then two — until it becomes blatantly obvious Wemmbu is just ignoring him. “Wemmbu. I asked you a question.”
No response. Wemmbu yawns, wide and deliberate, eyes slitted open just slightly to see frustration furrow Lettuce’s expression. He stretches his arms leisurely over his head, sleek purple hair spilling over his shoulders. “Mm, wasn’t listening. What’s up?”
Lettuce’s face smooths back into a tight smile. “I’ll make this quick, since you insist on being difficult.”
He beckons to the guards, and they lead Wemmbu onto the lone seat in the middle of the room without preamble. The only shackle they affix him to is a singular chain on his ankle — a relatively light security measure, considering the escape attempt he’d just been apprehended from.
Lettuce strolls forward, almost leisurely, one claw tapping on the carefully balanced tablet in his hands. He stops right in front of his prisoner.
“See, Wemmbu. We have our differences, but there is something I really do admire about you,” Lettuce starts, almost conversationally. “You may be a criminal, but you’re charming. Witty. Snarky. People don’t want to like you, but they can’t help but be captivated.”
Lettuce was… Complimenting him?
“I’m flattered,” Wemmbu says dryly, though his eyebrows lift in mild surprise. He shifts forward in his seat, a little intrigued.
Lettuce hums. “I have a deal for you, if you may allow me to propose it.”
“Well, I can’t really say no, can I.”
Lettuce looks up. “Of course you can, but whether or not I will honour your request is another matter.”
Wemmbu just rolls his eyes.
“Let’s continue. I understand you’re worried about your execution. While there’s no way around bringing you to justice, there are alternatives to death that I’m willing to discuss — but only if you cooperate with me here.”
“You haven’t even told me what your deal is yet. And, well. I can just try to escape again. You can’t keep me here forever, you know.”
Lettuce stares at Wemmbu impassively. “You underestimate the power of the Law. And, of course, I was getting to that.” His tone drops into a faintly displeased edge, but not dark enough to seem visibly annoyed. It’s irritating how poised he is.
“As I was saying. Have you, perhaps, ever done a news interview before?”
A… News interview.
Wemmbu’s brow furrows, caught off guard by the peculiar question. “I mean… No? What does that have to do with anything?”
“That’s alright. Do you do well on camera?”
“I don’t— I don’t know.”
Lettuce hums in that way of his when he’s running through several ideas at once, one flat note that alludes to nothing at all. Wemmbu’s become keenly familiar with the other’s mannerisms, after countless interrogations, negotiations, and, of course, fights.
“Interesting,” is all Lettuce says, drawing Wemmbu’s attention back to him abruptly. His eyes flick down to the prisoner’s obnoxious orange jumpsuit, now spotted with soot and blood. “Discard the uniform, and I don’t think this will be a bad idea at all.”
“You haven’t even told me what this idea is,” Wemmbu snaps, eye twitching. “I’m not agreeing to some stupid deal I don’t know the terms of.”
“I asked you about your experience on camera. Your experience with interviews. Your cooperation.” Lettuce glances down. “You’re not stupid, Wemmbu. I can tell you know what I’m going to ask you already.”
“I still want to know the exact terms.”
Lettuce just sighs. “If you insist.”
Wemmbu shrugs. “I- yeah, man, I do insist. I want the terms.”
Another irritated glance, but Lettuce makes no further remarks. “Fine. The gist is: in exchange for a little work you do for the Law, and depending on your performance, we shorten your imprisonment and drop the death sentence.”
“You said I was going to be in prison forever,” Wemmbu points out. “How much shorter of a sentence would I get from forever?”
“It all depends on how you do,” Lettuce reiterates. “And, before you cut me off again, I’ll explain to you what exactly I want you to do. It’s simple, really.
“I’d like for you to be interviewed on air, just talking about a few things. Reformation, discouraging Law attacks and bringing peace, things of the sort — if you catch my drift. A script can be provided if needed. You will be compensated for your time and effort in rewards like a reduced sentence and further leniency.”
Wemmbu taps his foot against the floor a few times before he speaks. “So what you’re saying is, you want to use me to record me feeding Law propaganda,” he says, with a tone of slight incredulity.
“Propaganda is a strong word. I much prefer calling it a peaceful deterrence meant to discourage enemies of the Law and rally citizens.”
The prisoner scoffs. “And what makes you think I’ll do this?”
Lettuce’s ear flicks. “You don’t have a choice, Wemmbu.”
“You can make me sit here all prim and pretty, but you can’t make me talk,” Wemmbu bristles. “You can’t make me act. You don’t have that power over me.”
“Really?” Lettuce counters, eyebrows lifting as he regards Wemmbu with a small, almost pitying smile. “What a shame, then.”
He reaches into his coat, pulling out a long, elegant feather —
— and Wemmbu’s world screeches to a halt.
No.
“Where did you get that, Lettuce.” He tries to demand. It falls short.
“What, this?” Lettuce waves the feather at him, almost triumphantly. “Well, of course, I have my ways.”
It’s a long, elegant white plume, tipped with black and lined in a ring of blue — almost like an eye. A peacock feather. The thing itself is encrusted in blood, splattered with dark royal navy.
Wemmbu only knows one person who bleeds blue.
“Where the hell is Eggchan?” Wemmbu demands, hands clenching into fists. The faux boredom has drained out of his expression, replaced with something complicated but undoubtedly desperate.
“He’s alive, and that’s all you need to know. Now—“ Lettuce continues easily. “Will you work with me?”
“Tell me where he is.”
“I can’t tell you that, but I can promise you his safety if you would just cooperate,” Lettuce persuades. By his small smile, Wemmbu can tell he already thinks he’s won.
And he has. Wemmbu exhales, the fight draining out of him. He’s tired, beyond tired. There was no point — especially if Egg would be in danger, too. “Fine. Fine.” He wants Lettuce dead. “I’ll work with you.”
Lettuce smiles at him, far too warm to be sincere. “Excellent.”