Fate()
10.0
Boredom.
It is the last thing a person expects in an interrogation.
Most will think of an undeniable recital of inevitability, a lecture of motives and evidence, given by a man with a steely stare of conviction.
And sometimes popular imagination will spice it up with pain and torment. Garnish it with deviant enthusiasm. Flavor with anger, salt with threats, cook it all on the destruction of hopes. It's always that in popular culture, repeated ad-infinitum in movies, books and rumors of real life.
And yet boredom trumps them all.
That is why I always try not to be tardy to all of my clients' 'hostile interviews'. That is why I hurry myself if I expect it to be worse.
I had two thousand traffic citations to my name for excessive speeding, I have spent countless hours wasting valuable time in coffee houses, all of it just to remove this tool, neutralize it.
All because properly nurtured boredom is the most dangerous interrogation tool of all in my book. It is a simple tool, where even an incompetent with a good set of cliff notes can use, and yet by far the most effective and subtle technique an interrogator can have.
Of course, there are methods to resist, ways to counter.
Unfortunately Paige has not one of those.
I see her, sitting in the chair, her head unbowed only because of the collar around her neck. Cuffs and chains make her restrictions known as she tries to move, the gentle tinkle of metal on metal an audio reminder of her restrains.
A reminder of the power the villain has over her very being, binding her in mind as well as in body.
She can barely turn her head within the limits of her collar, and in her limited vision, only the stark walls of her cell stare back at her, the table and doorway being on her side, in her blind spot. The room is big enough to be curious, to look around, to want to explore, but small and featureless enough to evoke the feeling of being trapped.
A reminder of her capture, trapped in the hands of the villain, the inescapability of her situation.
I know from past experiences her wounds are beginning to ache, the adrenaline holding it at bay having left with the villain. I see the pain and aches take hold in her expression, the little shifts of her posture as she tries to get comfortable, attempting to sooth her wounded skin.
A reminder of her helplessness, the hint of a bleak and painful future beyond.
The bastard hidden in the body stocking has paid attention to even the little things. The bare concrete walls are impersonal, alien. The metal seat's shape is unnatural to a human body, uncomfortable and cold. Her restraints are tight, the lack of movement it cause resulting in a nagging itch to change postures, further reminding her of her restrains.
Even Paige's nakedness is a calculated move, the socially shameful undress remaining uncorrected.
It is a relentless montage of carefully crafted hints, reminders on top of reminders, minute by minute, all constructing the message the villain wants to say, helped along by Paige herself. They batter down her willpower, get past her mental restraints. They fires up her idle thoughts with wild imaginations and dark predictions, her mind working against her owner.
It weakens Paige with every tick of the seconds, both mentally and physically.
And the villain doesn't need to do anything but wait.
In the past, seeing this morbid art being played, I can maybe deal; those were strangers, acquaintances at best. Sometimes, I can even appreciate the skill of the interrogator as I watch them work on their victims.
However, this time, it's Paige in the seat.
I care about her too deeply to detach myself.
Knowing doesn't help. Knowing makes it worse, telling me what exactly is being done to her, letting me know exactly what she is manipulated into feeling, thinking.
Beside her, too near and too far, I shudder where I am, trapped far more completely inside my own prison. I feel her pain, feel her despair, as if it is all my own. It's as if I am the one being interrogated, being put to the pain, even if all I am doing is watching her from my prison.
Not for the first time, I curse my current situation, wishing I am out of the Tinkertech prison with all my heart.
Wishes being wishes, I…
Whatever I want to think of next is lost when the door opens, thrown to the wall with a bang.
The villain in the bodysuit enters.
He is not alone.
Paige jerks her head up in surprise, pulling unconsciously at her hands' buckles in panic as she strains to turn her head to the side. She's obviously afraid, unable to see who is entering, but no doubt hearing them as more men enter the room in a hurry, noisily.
At least the soldiers the bastard villain hires are professionals. Only one or two of them look at Paige with brief glances, concentrating on the door they've entered from instead.
Wait.
No.
The way they shut the door quickly, how they hold their weapons pointing the barrels at the door. The tone of the brief code words they say to each other, and even the way they're holding the villain interrogator as far from the door as they can. My observation tells me I am wrong.
They're not being professional. They're fearful of something.
It's easy to deduce why.
They're under att…
… my Tinkertech prison clanks onto the floor by the time I notice. The soldiers are lying on the ground around me, stunned and groaning.
I look behind me, where I was flung from.
The wall where the table was beside is gone. An entire wall no longer there, except for small bits in the corners of the room, the edges of the exposed bricks there bleached white.
In its place, floating in the middle of the gap is a… statue.
That's my first impression.
It's a shapely feminine form described in pure white, a moving, floating Greek statue. It does not have a head, nor arms, and its thighs appear to be a single piece ending in a sharp point, lacking any feet.
It floats soundlessly into the room, its shoulders giving me an impression of it looking right and left. Four orbs of similar white float in behind it, large spheres making a halo around its missing head.
I know this.
It's a Process.
And Paige's tied down and helpless right in front of its sickly white glow.