Coreplot: Interrogation

[simon_doctor]

It's not exactly a shove, the guards' nudge that sends him into the small room, but he stumbles a little anyway; a part of his brain automatically recognizes the slight unsteadiness as a residual effect of the knockout drug. The door hisses shut behind him, with that extra chunk that means it's locked electronically.

There's no one else in the room, and no furniture but a bare table and a single chair. The walls are blank and featureless, and he studies them for a moment, rubbing his wrists and wondering which one conceals the feed pickup.

And then, because there's nothing else to do, he sits down in the chair to wait.

Comments

[walk_ins]

They keep him waiting.

They're awfully good at that.

Two hours later, the door finally opens. Three men in uniform -- less than two inches' difference in their heights, virtually no difference in their builds, all with dark hair, all with slightly hooded eyes -- enter the room and stand across the table.

And they watch.

[simon_doctor]

Two hours is a long time to plan out what to be doing when his captors finally, inevitably, arrive.

He's gone through several, ranging from immediately aggressive to passive and silent to elaborately insolent. He's seriously considered pretending to be asleep; he's rather less seriously considered lunging at the first person to enter and trying to wrestle away his sidearm.

What he does is look up from his folded hands on the table, and say "Gentlemen," in an almost toneless voice.

[walk_ins]

He's met with silence.

[simon_doctor]

Silence is restful.

He wonders for a moment what would happen if he closed his eyes and pretended to drift off to sleep now, with them in the room.

If he were any more tired it might not be pretending.

[walk_ins]

"Well?"

This is the one on the left.

[simon_doctor]

"Yes?"

A touch of tone this time, but only a touch; barely enough to turn the word into a question.

[walk_ins]

"We're waiting."

And standing at parade rest.

[simon_doctor]

"So I see."

He is not frightened of these men, he tells himself.

He isn't.

[walk_ins]

"Are you going to start talking?"

[simon_doctor]

"Anything's possible."

Simon's hands are very still, folded on the tabletop.

[walk_ins]

"Yes. You know what isn't possible?" The one on the right.

The one in the center: "You making it years without help. Names. Now."

[simon_doctor]

Those very still hands tighten involuntarily, just slightly.

He should have seen this coming. It's so obvious that he can't even feel the shock of it; just a quiet internal oh.

Oh. Of course.

He has an impulse to say something like I don't know what you're talking about, and ruthlessly stifles it.

[walk_ins]

They scatter.

The one to the left takes a step to the left. The one to the right takes a step to the right.

The one in the center circles behind him.
then practice losing farther, losing faster
"Names. Places."
where it was you meant to travel

[simon_doctor]

He is not frightened of them. He's not --

They can use anything you say. They can't use your silence.

Simon keeps his mouth closed, and struggles not to turn and look over his shoulder.

[walk_ins]

One step closer comes the one behind him.

"We have all the time in the 'verse."

"You may not."

[simon_doctor]

His mouth opens to ask why's that?

He forces it shut.

[walk_ins]

The one behind him answers.

"Your sister."

[simon_doctor]

He does turn, this time.

"What about her?"

That quickly, his resolve to stay silent is gone.

[walk_ins]

"Who do you think gives the orders to administer medication around here, Dr. Tam?"

Coldly.

[simon_doctor]

"You're not serious."

[walk_ins]

"Do we look like we're laughing?"

They really don't.

[simon_doctor]

"Prisoners bound by law shall not be denied access to essential medical services --"

Simon's voice is rising angrily.

And so is he.

[walk_ins]

Two hands fall on his shoulders from behind, forcing him back in the chair.

"We're the ones with sidearms, we're the ones who give the orders, and you're the prisoner."

One is leaning forward on the table. The other is standing straight, hands clasped behind his back.

"Names."

[simon_doctor]

The firm and rational voice telling him to stay silent has decided to take the rest of the night off.

There's nothing to rein back the next fey impulse.

Cold and clipped: "Sergio Lin."

[walk_ins]

"And?"

[simon_doctor]

"He ran an installation on a world called Setebos. Would you like to hear about it?"

[walk_ins]

"No. We want more names. Then we'll go back for the details."

Two hands are still on his shoulders.

[simon_doctor]

Details. He's got plenty of details.

"Ben Mathias. Elliot Wallach. Espen Lee. Marian Smith. Jana Latham. I think you'll find those are the significant names."

[walk_ins]

"Okay."

The one leaning forward on the table looks at the one standing up.

The one standing up nods, and leaves the room.

And comes back with a tray.

On that tray is an injector.

"And now we find out just how truthful you really are."

[simon_doctor]

Simon's watching the injector.

He's meant to. He's meant to know it's coming, so the fear can start its work breaking down his resistance before the drug ever touches his bloodstream.

He knows this; still, he watches the injector.

And marshals his next set of not-technically-lies. People who've helped them: Kitty Pryde. Faith Lehane. Bernard Wrangle. Ted Brautigan. Eddie Dean.

Roland Deschain.

[walk_ins]

Left picks it up off the tray that Right is carrying. "Arm out."

The pressure that Center is exerting on Simon's shoulders is steady. Hasn't changed. Hasn't moved. Not at all.

You could write a word problem for a physics class.

If blood pressure is 130/80 mmHg, and there are a certain number of veins in the human body, and the sodium thiopental disseminates at a certain rate, and the pressure on his shoulders remains steady at 1.73 newtons, how long is it before Dr. Simon Tam either gives up and tells them everything, or gives up and screams?