Recommendation From The Bovine
It was not until Siomha reached the very last, dimly lit room in the labyrinthine basement, where they had laid out the remains and personal articles she had been tasked to sense, that the incessant, deranged sound emanating from the prisoner finally ceased to echo in her mind. She shook her head, quelling the vibrating remnants of the scream in her bones, trying to dispel the mental disarray before it could leech her focus and strength. Turning her attention to the body of the tortured researcher, she knew this was the critical fragment of the puzzle she needed to piece together before tackling the other elements of the case. The quiet now felt cavernous, a vacuum that threatened to pull her full of noise again.
In the somber room, a separate table held an assortment of personal items, tools, and various reports, each meticulously arranged. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the tools. She approached this table as if approaching an altar, each object a sacred text to be deciphered.
Siomha preferred to engage in what was called a "cold reading," confronting each case with minimal prior information. This approach allowed her to remain unbiased, gaining a clearer glimpse into the victim's final moments without the cloud of preconceived notions. From these initial insights, she could then retrace her steps, consulting records to gather more concrete evidence, allowing facts to complement intuition.
The scholars of the Ivory Tower had rigorously instilled this passive method of divination and reading in her training. She had disciplined herself to suppress her natural instincts, wary of drawing more trouble than her unique abilities already invited. Trouble had been a constant companion since she was a street urchin plucked from the alleys, deemed worthy only because of her talent for sensing the parting psalms of the dying. Even the Ivory Tower, for all its pretensions of enlightenment, had dripped its bias like poison into her years there. As she absorbed the whispers emanating from the objects and prepared to cross-reference them with the reports, the memories of disdain directed towards her mingled with the scene before her, invading her concentration.
The scorn had followed her, even now, as she attempted to secure work in this city. She felt its oppressive weight in every bureaucratic interaction. A week prior, her interview with the Luminara branch of the Special Research Department had left her dazed. Though she had been sure of her performance, she discerned the barely veiled skepticism in the air, the silent but palpable devaluation of her skills. It was as if every inquiry she answered correctly multiplied this skepticism rather than diminished it. They looked past her words, through her, to something else they refused to articulate, but that Siomha knew all too well. She had left the interview room with her head higher than her hopes, clutching the paperwork they had reluctantly provided.
"You want to apply to the Special Research Department in Luminara?" Bessie Fireshot's grumbling voice yanked Siomha brutally from her mental escape, thrusting her back into the clutches of aggravating reality. The officer’s disdain was palpable, a roaring beast in the room. The bovine beastwoman snorted with contempt, her thick nostrils flaring like she was on the brink of an explosive charge, while her hulking form cast a judgmental shadow over the table. Her expression was a storm of disinterest and blatant impatience as she rifled through Siomha’s documents with dismissive flicks of her fingers. She believed this task to be beneath her, a waste of her oh-so-precious time. "This doesn’t seem to be in accordance with the law," she declared, each word dripping with condescension.
In her hand, she twirled a small stamp, a tool of authority she wielded with cruel hesitation, refusing to bring it down. Her smug reluctance was almost a physical presence, pressing down on the already close air. The unspoken rule that Siomha suspected she had violated was one of species, an unacknowledged prejudice that felt like a noose around her neck, tightening with every passing second.
Bessie Fireshot, with her power over recommendations, relished the opportunity to make life hell for others, savoring every moment of difficulty she imposed. She had a reputation for being ruthless, a predator who enjoyed torturing her prey. Though Siomha had never encountered this officer before today, she knew all too well the type—those who thrived on the suffering of others. This beastwoman did not differ from the rest who sought to deny her a place, to make her road more impossible, and she loved every second of it.
Even without tapping into her psychometry and mind-gleaning abilities, Siomha could feel the chasm between how they perceived her compared to others, especially pure humans. She could sense their disdain, a wall of derision that rose higher and higher. It was as if, being a pure human, she was deemed an incomplete being, a lesser entity in their eyes, someone to be obstructed, scorned, and pitied at every turn, trapped in a world that refused to accept her.
As time dragged on endlessly, Siomha felt a simmering rage building within her. The world she was trying to penetrate seemed intent on suffocating her under layers of hostility. Outwardly, she remained composed, determined to get through this excruciating ordeal by sheer force of will. Yet inside, she was screaming, railing against the injustice and the oppressive sense of futility. The irony of her situation was bitter on her tongue; her abilities made her both valuable and hated in equal measure. The oppressive sense of futility threatened to drown all hope, but she held firm, knowing that persistence was her only weapon, meager as it seemed against the weight of institutionalized bias.
Suddenly, the officer paused, her expression shifting from bored to mildly intrigued. She found something in the pile of documents that seemed to catch her interest. “Oh, this is… mental induction?”
The officer's sudden interest in her documentation carried an unsettling undercurrent. Bessie snapped the folder shut, her demeanor cooling from outright dismissal to a calculated charm. She regarded her like a spider might a trapped fly, with a smile cloaked in hidden motives and veiled intentions. “Little Wraith,” she began, her tone a condescending silk, “you see, it’s not wise for a Seer to be gallivanting all over. The kind of work you’re after can be quite challenging, even for me.” She feigned a sympathetic pause, as if there were a shared burden between them.
“But...” A predatory shift entered Bessie’s voice, transforming from coaxing to cold command. “We just happen to have a very urgent matter on our hands. Do you remember that prisoner you saw in the field? He's a murderer. We need you to penetrate his mental defenses, crack him open, and extract his confession.”
Support-class awakened were a rarity, and Seer specialists like Siomha were moreover invaluable—no one wanted to do the dirty work, the soul-crushing labor meant for others.
To Bessie, burdening Siomha with this task seemed a masterstroke. After all, the officer reasoned, no one would bat an eye if a human was harmed or perished in the line of duty. Her precious abilities were the sole reason she had been allowed the slim freedom to survive this long.
Perhaps fearing her refusal, Bessie reached out, her touch a feigned camaraderie, as if forging some deeper bond between them. “If you help our military administration office resolve this issue, no matter how rough things get for you later, I’ll make sure you get a recommendation, understand?”