Author's Note: Just an idea that popped into my head one day.
Published 9/29/16
Simon was used to security procedures. After all, he spent seven years of his life being carted around between a prison cell and whatever trifling matter the outside world needed him for. In and out, he was subjected to a thorough check to make sure his inventory was the same exiting and entering his cell, including any sneaky places he may try to hide contraband. However, this facility was far more hermetic than any he had spent time in. There were no cavity checks, thank God, but the sheer frequency of stops made him almost prefer those invasive-but-short procedures; security checked him at the airport after landing, in the vehicle to the facility, at the facility's entrance, and at least twice within the halls themselves. More undoubtedly awaited him toward the destination. Absolutely nothing was allowed to be out of place here, and a pair of stoic guards escorted him the entire time.
It was fun times for all involved.
More sincerely fun was the odd looks he got from the faculty on-hand. Perhaps it was the outfit, or the long, tousled ponytail, or the bloodsoaked reputation. Or maybe they were just concerned about a stranger walking down the halls toward some of the highest-security holding cells in the country. He strode past a pair of chattering secretaries, and smirked in spite of himself as their conversation screeched to a halt. He was used to silencing crowds with his mere presence, but once he was exonerated and his reputation as the Twisted Samurai diminished, society grew more accustomed to his presence. It was almost disappointing. Being here and scaring the crap out of total strangers just by virtue of being even more of a stranger appealed to some sense of nostalgia that he never knew he had. Still, he wanted to just get this done with and go back to LA. He had a society to re-integrate into, and people to reconnect with, especially his late master's daughter and the quaint little noodle shop he patronized years ago. The longer this took, the less time he had to just be home and start living his life again.
Simon didn't like to leave Los Angeles very often anyway; airplanes disagreed with his Eustachian tubes, and Taka grew restless whenever he was away for long periods of time. He vaguely remembered when the Chief Prosecutor tried to ship him off to Khura'in for a week. He had responded with a sentence involving some combination of "Taka", "express his discontent", and "fly across the Pacific with your cravat in his talons", and the Chief Prosecutor never broached the subject again. This particular sojourn was a special occasion, however; his talent with psychological manipulation was deemed necessary by some higher-up here at the edge of California, not to mention his prior experience with the particular individual to be subjected to it.
International spies were not just thrown in a normal prison with the rest of the thugs and creeps, after all.
The last security check was performed right outside of the holding cell. One of his escorts explained what he could and could not do when interacting with the prisoner, which Simon mostly tuned out; he had been the subject of these kinds of rule lists enough times that all he needed to do was listen for any out-of-place words that suggested something he didn't already know. There were none, so he simply nodded and stepped through the door as the other escort opened it. They would have to wait outside, as everything within was beyond their clearance.
Simon's eyes immediately scanned the room. It was dingy enough to make his old home resemble a four-star hotel, with only a dim row of fluorescent ceiling lights illuminating the room. There were no cracks in the walls or dank odors, but if anything that made the environment feel sterile and hostile. An armed guard stood to the left of the doorframe, just in case things got out of hand. In the center of the room was a long, metal table with a pair of folding chairs on either side, one occupied. The man sitting at the table wore a bland prison uniform, shackles around his ankles and wrists, and… a mask? A pathetic one that was nothing more than a piece of black cloth wrapped around his head, with crude eyeholes for vision and ventilation, but a mask nonetheless.
"What is this horseshit?" Simon opened with, looking back and forth between the guard and the prisoner.
The guard shifted somewhat. "An unfortunate concession. If he doesn't have something obscuring his face, he won't stop screaming. Sometimes he even tries to claw it off. Don't even think about trying to remove it, or you won't be able to get a single coherent word out of him."
Simon sighed in disappointment. "I trust those manacles are rigged for electric shock? Give me the controller and leave. I have no need for your protection."
"That is highly ill-advised."
"Which part?"
"All of it."
A flat monotone emerged from the man at the table. "Not that I have any intention to speak to this guest anyway, but I'm even less likely to talk if you're both in here. You'd best do as he says and leave if you want even the slightest chance of learning what I know."
Simon chuckled. "Well, guard? It seems you're outvoted."
The guard sighed, placing the remote device in Simon's palm. "Understand that this is only to be used if the prisoner attempts to assault you. This is highly unconventional, but you were recommended by the Chief Prosecutor and so I suppose we must make concessions for your… oddities." He exited the room and closed the door, leaving Simon alone with the prisoner. Something about coaxing informality from a rigid, by-the-books government worker was deeply amusing to Simon.
There was no place for amusement in his voice once he took a seat. A disgusted scowl took over, and he glared right through the eyeholes at the terrorist seated before him. "Hello, creature."
"Blackquill, right? To what do I owe this displeasu- GNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"
Simon smirked and removed his thumb from the button, letting the shock session end when he had watched enough.
The phantom's breathing returned to normal, and he returned to looking Simon in the eyes. "If I didn't know any better I'd say you have something against me."
Simon fiddled with the controller. "It's rather ironic, isn't it?"
"That I'm in shackles and you've got the remote now? That's not irony, that's simply turnabout. Now, if you're done proving them right about your twisted nature, let's get down to whatever business brought you here so we can both go home."
"Silence. I'm running this, not you, creature. I'm here for information and you will tell me what you know."
The phantom was silent. An eyebrow raised under his mask. "You're late. Every juicy detail about me has already been squeezed out. Unless you think you can solve the riddle of my name?" He closed his eyes and tugged at his sleeve. "I can promise you it's not Rumpelstiltskin, before you start guessing."
"Do my ears deceive me, or did a joke just escape the faceless specter before me?"
The phantom's eyes remained focused on Simon. "No. That was merely a sardonic remark. My 'jokes' are something else entirely."
"And just what kind of jokes does a humorless man tell? …No, I care little about your name. Perhaps even less than you do."
Almost everything that made the phantom mysterious had been dispelled by now; his true face, his hair color, his race, his blood type, his nationality… just about every identifying feature he had worked so hard to hide was now well-documented and inerasable. Only a few mysteries remained; he no longer bore fingerprints, and supposedly he no longer bore a name. The first one was easy enough to explain as an international spy, but the second was quite baffling; either he was truly never given a name at birth, or he had sincerely forgotten it in his long history of stealing others'. Even in his most cooperative moments, he simply had no answer for that question. Simon had read about many of these details as he followed the spy's incarceration, but he hardly cared. He and the phantom agreed on a very small number of subjects, but the phantom's self-assessment, that he was simply an empty abyss wearing a mask, was one of them.
Simon removed a file folder from his jacket and placed it on the table in front of the phantom. "What I am here for is something much more practical than a moniker. I'm here because we have reason to believe someone else from your organization has entered this country with ill intent. I'm here to make you speak."
The phantom simply continued to watch Simon, ignoring the document. "And just why should I say anything? Will you tickle me with that shock button until I break down and sell out a possible associate?"
"Of course not. The button's just for my benefit." Simon smirked, and held his hand against his chin. "Words can be pried from you with naught but words of my own. I understand your psyche far better than you do."
"Because your dead teacher wrote a paper about me? If Ms. Cykes truly understood me, she should have seen her death coming, she should have known I'd stop at nothing to conceal my identity. Even murder."
"I believe she did see it coming. She was never one to kowtow to threats like a coward."
"Ah, yes. Leaving behind her legacy in the shape of a traumatized eleven-year-old girl and your prison sentence. How noble of her."
"You speak of nobility when you have none to your name, or lack thereof. I have had enough of this conversation, creature. I order you to talk only of-"
"I should have just killed the little girl, too. That would have spared both of us a lot of trouble in the long run."
That was enough. In a swift motion, Simon reached across the table. He hadn't quite planned ahead whether his hand would be in the shape of a fist, claw, or blade when it reached the phantom's masked face, but he would improvise. The disrespectful animal would regret its mistake.
Clink
Simon regretted his mistake. In the space of a single second the phantom had crossed both arms, blocked Simon's attack, snared his wrist with the chain between the cuffs, and was now tugging on the ends of the chain, crushing Simon's outstretched appendage with the cold metal. Simon gritted his teeth through the pain, and grasped the loop of chain with his free hand in an effort to liberate its twin.
"Grrgh… Fool Bright-" He cursed himself for using that name. "-you will release my hand right now or I will rip your tongue from your mouth!"
"That was very foolish of you, Blackquill. Even if you style yourself like 'ye olde samurai', you're still just a civilian and a prosecutor. I'm an international spy with decades of experience in close-quarter-combat. What part of that emotional outburst seemed smart?"
Simon gave up on the chain and reached for the button with his free hand. He'd undoubtedly conduct thousands of volts himself, but he was positive he could outlast the phantom's endurance for shock torture. Maybe.
It never came to that, though. The phantom released his prisoner, and Simon glared daggers at the man while he soothed his wrist.
"There. Your girlfriend is no longer my hostage."
The daggers Simon was glaring upgraded themselves into full-sized swords.
"I must say that was very predictable, Blackquill. You claim to be a stoic man who exploits emotional weaknesses in others, yet you're no less vulnerable yourself, are you? I knew pushing the right buttons would make you act rashly, and now you're in pain as a consequence, boy."
"And just what did you hope to accomplish by earning more of my ire, creature?"
"It was a joke. You asked me earlier what kind of jokes a humorless man tells. I gave you an example."
"That was supposed to be funny, then?" Simon's eyes flashed.
"…No."
Simon cracked the joint in his wrist a few times, and then recomposed himself. He had wasted more than enough time debating with this thing, and now he had bruises to remind himself of this unpleasant conversation later. 'Frustrated' was a weak choice of word right now.
He picked up the remote and positioned his thumb over the button. "Enough of this pointless jabbering. From here on out, any attempt to veer off-topic will be punished by the Raijin himself, wrathful and pocket-sized."
"That won't be necessary. Now that I've had my laugh, I'm ready to look over this."
Much to Simon's surprise, the phantom did just that; he picked up the dossier and examined it… for all of about ten seconds. "Hmmph."
"I'm afraid I will need much more than 'hmmph' before we can go our separate ways, creature."
"Yes, I 'know' this person, insofar as two operatives of an intelligence agency can know each other. If you want to know more, perhaps we can make a deal."
Simon laughed and slapped the table with his uninjured hand. "And just what puts you in any position to make deals, friend?"
"Actually, I think you might like what I have in mind."
"Then speak."
"I can tell you all you need to know, on this condition:" he pinched the bridge of his nose through the fabric "I want my execution date pushed foward."
Simon blinked. Of all the things he expected the phantom to say during this session, that was not one of them. Once the shock wore off, he examined the phantom's eyes. They still conveyed no emotion, but their conviction was sincere. "…Heh. You blubbered on the witness stand, terrified of death, and now you expect me to believe you actively seek it?"
"It is not death that terrifies me, Blackquill. Though I still contest feeling that emotion, what I 'fear' is being hunted down by my own organization. There's a very large difference between a quick needle in the arm and being made into an example. That is why I want this to happen soon. They will not stop until I am dead, and I'd rather get ahead of that."
"Still, it is quite ironic, wouldn't you say?"
"You misuse that word again, Blackquill. A change of circumstances is not irony." The phantom slowly reached up and removed the cloth around his head, exposing his true face to the small world within the interrogation chamber. "What is irony, in its purest form, is a man who bears the label of 'phantom' yet still draws breath." He slammed his fists down on the table, and his voice came out clear. "Push forward. My execution."
Simon thought on the subject for a while. "…Unacceptable. Your fate is to live in fear and reflect upon your actions, not to escape to your peace in death."
"Interesting. Tell me, do the taxpayers know you're using their funds to keep a man alive for no reason but your own bitter amusement?"
"…Hmmph."
"Didn't you say 'hmmph' was an invalid answer in this conversation? Think rationally. They want me silenced. They will stop at nothing to do that. By prolonging my time in this world, you put everyone in this facility- everyone who has any connection to my incarceration -in mortal danger. Is that what you want, Simon?"
"Silence! Do not use my first name as if you are some close acquaintance of mine, creature. …Nevertheless, you've made your point, and caught my interest. The world will be a brighter place once you are removed it, and who am I to deny it that? Ironic, for a man who once went by the name 'Fulbright'." Simon smirked, and adopted a lighter tone. "Was that the proper use of the word, professor?"
"Ah, so it can learn. Very good."
"As generous as your offer is, this little problem of ours cannot wait for a dotard of a bureaucrat to sort you into death row. That is information we will require right here and right now."
"And you shall have it. Leave now, and put in a word for me about my deal. In the meantime, I will speak to the nice people here about this infiltrator of yours. Consider that a down payment." He replaced his mask, once again retreating from the world around him. "Once I see progress being made toward my execution, I will be more than happy to use my limited time to talk about all the less urgent secrets you people want from me. Though perhaps 'happy' is the wrong choice of words. …We will not speak again. Goodbye, Blackquill."
Simon silently stood up, pushed his chair in, and exited the room, meeting the guards.
"He will talk for you. I must return to my home."
Leaving the facility was simple enough, if lengthy. A security check every few minutes until he was out the door and on a plane headed home. Somehow, it felt slower the second time around, and the phantom's morbid sentences sat in his mind like an illness that was on the wane.
The entire flight back, Simon rubbed his aching wrist, the skin mottled with bruises. It wasn't as bad as before, but the sensation of cold, binding metal around his wrists was something he had hoped to never experience again.