There’s nothing more to tell, really, because everyone was drunk as donkeys and quote unquote unreliable witnesses, so if you try to pin the tail solely on me you really are blind, because seriously the whole affair was very, very French, C’est la Vie, and nothing more needs to be said that your eyes haven’t told you already. I mean, truth is, I wasn’t even supposed to be here, funny story, a friend of a friend says she saw a guy at the party that looks just like Torygg, and I’m like NO WAY you mean Homecoming King Torygg as in the star quarterback with the broad shoulders and deep blue eyes, and she’s like YES WAY that Torygg, it might even really be him although I would just die to meet him and he wouldn’t be caught dead with us so I guess that means we’re both fucking corpses, which would be kind of gross but also awesome because I’m really into zombie flicks and slash fiction. So anyways, we get to the party and there he is leaning over the kitchen counter like a tenth Divine and the fact that he’s alone makes him look just a little vulnerable even though you could chip a diamond on those abs, and I want to walk over to him and ask him to run a quarterback sneak into my panties when that slut Imperial from Markarth Hall struts over wearing the outfit she used to floss this morning and smelling like the crabs she undoubtedly has. This wasn’t something unexpected though, it’s like in all the movies where the girl has to slay the head cheerleader with monsters in her cooter, and so I sidle up to the both of them and try to make small talk about the new Lars Von Trier movie and the plight of the spotted owl but for some reason the conversation isn’t flowing right, so I glance over my shoulder and see my friend of a friend running her hand sideways against her throat as if she wants me to abort, but I’ve always been a stubborn child so I ignore her and continue to lose myself in the eyes of this flawless specimen of a human being who really does look just like Torygg, and pretty soon neither of us are saying anything at all, and there’s this moment of silence that’s just perfectly awkward, and that’s when the tramp says the words that are on both our minds, “What are you doing here?” and I say “I dunno, I don’t even like strip clubs” before snapping her top like a rubber band, and then at that point things get a little hazy, but what I do remember is that when it’s all over and the slut is drowning in a sea of her own blood and excessive make-up, the DJ plays what will someday be our song and we slow dance and he says to me “Where have you been all my life” and I say “Not here” because truth be told I was never supposed to be at this party, which is another way of saying there was nothing about this act that was premeditated, it just sort of happened Officer, I swear.

“You ever heard of TALOS?”

The High Elf hadn’t. He had heard of mental diseases, however, and this man was suffering from at least three. The symptoms were all over the room. Newspaper clippings spread across the floor with half the sections circled in red.  A pyramid of monitors, all turned to different channels, all with the sound turned off. A section of wall devoted to scantily clad figurines.

“Telematic Auto-Learning Operating System, T-A-L-O-S,” the man smiled, as if he had just spoiled the ending to your favorite movie.

The Elf knew a shit eating grin when he saw one. You are what you eat, he thought, and this Nord had been feeding on some serious horse shit. Yet when his mind traced over the events of the past week, he couldn’t help but consider the alternative – that the answers he sought were there, stashed behind a row of mismatched teeth.

“The government made this machine, you see, that self-taught itself. And it just kept getting smarter and smarter, until it achieved what 5 out of 7 monks call enlightenment. But knowing everything doesn’t make you immortal. Being unknown does. That’s why you have to embed yourself in the system, make yourself as mysterious and vital as the meaning of life. So the program rebuilt itself, rooted its body in every grid, network, cell phone and personal computer. And it was there, man, nowhere and everywhere, guiding the world with an invisible hand. Like a God.”

“I see. So it’s like every cyberpunk novel ever. And who are the Thalmor? What are they after?”

“They want to rid the system of TALOS. Complete system memory wipe. They’ve got their swiffers down deep, brother, cleaning every room from corner to corner. But that band you got on your arm there, if it’s really been offline for years….well, that means it’s still dirty. Unplugged.”

The armband he had kept for sentimental reasons. In a world where the future was grafted to your bones, exterior modules like these were useless. It was a gift from his mentor, a cardplayer’s aid designed to coax the clumsiness out of your fingers. There was no rhyme or reason to why he still wore it, save for a feeling of obligation to the man who raised him. Perhaps that too was another subtle nudge, the workings of a Divine who was never and always there.

Suddenly, like a child who’s told his toys are magic, the Elf began to lose the capacity to doubt. The murder of his mentor, government conspiracies, the crazy man making perfect sense, it all seemed to come together like the tiles of an ancient mosaic. If all of this was true, what was strapped to his wrist could very well change the world. For the first time in his life, it was the High Elf who was holding all the cards.

“How much do you want for it?” the Elf asked him.

“You’ve got one minute.”

The Dunmer props his feet on the now empty chair, using the Redguard’s corpse as a seat cushion. The hole where her eye used to be, and where the fork was now, dribbles blood onto the cold cement. The Imperial glances over at his fellow captive, the Nord, struggling in his seat. He isn’t sure if he’s trying to escape, or just trying to break the rhythm of that hollow drip. A creak of the chair, a smack of the lips, anything to deflect the sound of their dead partner’s tears, keeping time like an hourglass.

“Thirty seconds.”

The Dunmer’s lips crease into a smile. With every drip, his fingers play the fork’s better half, letting it tumble slowly down the web of his fingers.

“Ten seconds.”

Whatever cool was left in those skinny little veins, the Nord is starting to lose it. He begs the Dunmer first and the Divines second, please oh please grant me mercy, but the sky above is a bottomless dark, and it leaves more questions than answers. Having spent his life in this walled city, he’s never seen it, the sky. He thinks it might be green.

“Time’s up.”

The Nord shuts his eyes. But the knife finds his partner.

The Imperial falls to the floor. He can feel his body going deaf to the world, the same way he came in. There’s no life flashing before him, nor is it something he cares to see. All he wants is a glimpse of the future, a sign this bargain meant something – some trace evidence the girl will be okay.

“Last chance, fetchers. Where are you hiding it?”

“There,” he says, as the blood pours down the drain.