There is no rest for the wicked.
Calave recalled the words the Guildmaster Lazav had told him once. He was being senselessly beaten by a pair of Boros officers. It was an odd time to become sentimental, looking death in the eyes. But Calave was an understanding man; he did not fear death.
Quite simply, the world needs villains.
Lazav would go on. The words echoing in his mind mirroring the echoes of his femur being broken in this basement chamber. Calave had been caught trying to steal evidence from a Boros holding facility. Someone had been arrested, and the Calave had been tasked with wiping his slate clean. He wasn't doing too well.
The world that is Ravnica exists in between the black and the white. There needs to be men and women capable and willing to make tough decisions for the good of us all.
Calave was a bit surprised by the turn of events. The Boros were zealous to be sure, but there was normally a procedure for this sort of thing. Sure someone could be expected to be roughed up, but you usually had to do something pretty heinous to be murdered in Boros custody. Calave had underestimated how high guild tensions were running these days because of that fat purple twit.
The officers handling him were out for his blood. It was bothersome, but Calave was going to die here.
There are too many moving pieces these days. The lines have been drawn in the sand. The Guilds fear showing weakness to one another, fear of showing compromise, so nothing gets done. That's what we are for; we compromise them.
We get things done.
A tingly numb feeling was beginning to cascade throughout Calave's body. He couldn't feel anything below his left knee and a glance confirmed that very little below there would have worked anymore anyway. If Calave still possessed the capacity to sigh,
Not only would his higher ups be tasked with covering up his compromised position, but they would have to send a cleaner to remove the evidence, a wiper to change the minds of anyone involved, a mole would have to figure out where they would move the evidence to, and another attempt at the evidence would be made.
Life would be so much simpler if the Guilds actually made an effort at compromise, even if it wasn't public. They could keep up appearances, but it was no well-kept secret that all 10 pieces were necessary for the maintenance of this strange machine that Ravnica had become.
When the Guilds fail to look eye to eye, we see.
One of the soldiers backhanded Calave so harshly the vision in his remaining eye blurred as though looking through a particularly dirty window.
When communication breaks down, we speak.
A punch to Calave's jaw. What little feeling remained suggested that it was broken, hanging from his face like a faulty marionette.
When no one else makes is willing to do a bad thing for a good reason, we endure.
Calave fell forward. He brought himself to his knees, and then saw a blade spurt out of his chest. The numbness overcame him. His vision failed. His breathe halted.
And then a light.
In the distance there was a light, obscured as through some sort of opaque lens.
A fish swam by, Calave figured they had ditched his body in an aqueduct or something similar.
Calave tensed, searching for feeling.
What luck, none of his limbs had been severed, this would make this simple.
He brought his hands before his face.
He counted the bones in his hand. Phalanges. Metacarpals. Hamate. Pistiform. Nothing appeared to be missing.
Calave stood up and undid a crick in his neck.
It was going to be a chore sneaking back in through the undoubtedly tighter security.
But such was the way of things.
There was no rest for the wicked.