DISCLAIMER: Oblivion and all references thereto in this fic are the property of Bethesda Softworks. Apologies to Terence Young for the title and to Shakespeare for the random reference. Also, I am fully aware that I have exploited the use of torches in this fic. I know that, in reality, they wouldn't have worked in the way I have described.

Rated T for language.

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Private Gaius Licinius Milo stared blearily at the plate full of slop in his hand, struggling against the urge to retch. Sliding it through the grating into the cell, he raked his bracer across the bars, seeing no reason that the Breton prisoner should continue to sleep if he himself was thus deprived. He regretted the action almost immediately and withdrew his hand to rub his aching temples.

It was the kind of job that drove one to drink and, as Milo was discovering, the subsequent hangovers drastically compounded the misery.

The hail of curses from within the cell which normally followed any form of antagonism did not fall and was, by its absence, conspicuous. Milo looked through the bars--even in the mad, hellish light cast by the torches, he could see that it was empty--and swore under his breath. This was the last thing he needed. More bloody paperwork.

"What the hell happened to the Breton in cell five?" he demanded, coming through the door which connected the dungeon proper to the ante-chamber-like room where the guards were stationed.

Corporal Clodius, sitting slouched at his desk, looked up. "What d'you mean, 'what happened to him'?" he asked irritably. Milo rolled his eyes, "He ain't there, that's what I mean. What happened?"

Clodius looked uncomfortable, but offered nothing more than a non-committal shrug.

"What?" pressed Milo, exasperated, "He'd been looking poorly the last few days. Did he die during the night?"

Shrug.

"We release him?"

Nothing.

"Well he didn't just walk through the bleedin' wall! Where's the report from the last watch? They must've mentioned something."

"The last watch had nothing to report," Clodius admitted grudgingly.

"So...you're telling me that we lost a prisoner? Just--" he snapped his fingers, "Vanished into thin air? Shuffled off this mortal coil and forgot to leave a tip, did he? Not to mention a body."

When Clodius merely growled something incoherent, Milo leaned across the desk, "Well, aren't you goin' to report it?" he demanded.

"Nothin' to report," the corporal grunted.

"Oh yeah, nothin," Milo cleared his throat, puffed out his chest and continued, his voice a scathing drawl, "Can you explain to me, private, why cell 5 is empty when we have it here in our records as being currently occupied?" He deflated and his voice returned to normal, "Uh...well, not really, no sir. You see, it seems that street patrol brought in a ghost. That's right, sir, a ghost. Can't fault the lads, really, sir. He looked solid enough. But, the long and short of it is, sir, he's gone. Scarpered. Ghosts, eh? Unreliable buggers. Poppin' in then poppin' out again without a word. Never write, never send flowers..."

Clodius, well used by now to Milo's propensity for diatribes, ignored him. Out of patience and completely at a loss, Milo strode over to Clodius' desk and began rummaging through the drawers for loose sheets of parchment. It wasn't his job, but Milo wasn't about to get sent down for failing to report a missing prisoner. If Clodius wanted to get his back decorated for being a lazy sod, he was welcome to it. Milo, however, had already gotten more than his share of stripes and didn't particularly want more.

"The hell are you doing?" Clodius snapped, snatching the papers out of Milo's hands.

"What d'you think?"

"Forget it."

"What? You goin' to write it up yourself, then?"

"I said leave it. Don't need to write up no godsdamn report."

Milo was incredulous, "Don't need to write the......Gods! This is the legion we're talking about! I can't take a piss without putting my name to some bloody form." He made a grab for the papers.

Clodius lurched to his feet, glaring at Milo, "Look, it happens sometimes, a'right? Sometimes prisoners... they disappear. You don't ask questions. You don't write reports."

"Come off it, Clodius! What is this, some trick you spring on the new kids? Make'em sweat a little? As if this job ain't bad enough...Well, you got me. Alright? I fell for it. So just tell me where the damn Breton is, and I'll go an' fetch him back."

Clodius remained stubbornly silent. If anything, he looked frightened. With growing unease, Milo turned away and headed toward the door leading to the upper levels, "Fine," he conceded, "I'll talk to the sergeant."

"Not if you don't want to stand watch on watch for the next fortnight, you won't!"

Milo rounded on Clodius in disgust, "You're going to have to do better than that, Corporal."

"Not me."

"Who? Cato? One of the other sergeants?"

Clodius sat back down, and began ineffectually shuffling papers.

"The officers?"

Clodius continued to ignore him.

"How high up does this go?"

"High enough," the corporal growled.

This was becoming absurd. Cursing under his breath, Milo relented and resumed his post at the door. It wasn't worth tangling with the officers. Not when there were other ways of finding out.