You Better Start Talking

Athos looked up wearily as the door was pushed open. He had lost count of the number of times the men visited him. The routine was the same each time. The pompous one would be third in line. The pompous one was the leader, although he was not really the leader. Athos knew that the one with the handsome face was the leader. The leader had cold eyes. He may have been in the pay of the pompous one but he was the one that the other men looked to for orders. The other men, the pockmarked one, the young one and the toothless one were probably a mixture of criminals and mercenaries. The handsome man had picked his team well.

The young one, who had scars on his wrists from being manacled for a length of time was always first into the room. He would sneer at Athos in a way that gave away his love of inflicting pain. Athos knew the young one had been a criminal, perhaps he still was. An escapee, who was willing to take money to inflict further pain. On the few occasions, Athos had been struck by his captors it was always the young one that hit him. Athos knew the young one would not be a match for him under normal circumstances, but in his weakened state, Athos stood no chance.

The handsome one would follow, he was usually holding a gun loosely at this side. A sign that he was confident in his work but prepared for the unexpected. A sign of a man who knew what he was doing. He would position himself to the side, and Athos would have to turn his head to look at him.

The pompous one, who Athos suspected came from money but probably did not have a title, sort of flounced into the room. The way the man moved reminded him of Aramis when he was pretending to be a foppish noble when they had to infiltrate the upper classes. The thought amused Athos, but he never let it show.

The toothless one was the oldest, he had a grizzled jaw. An unkempt appearance and a scrawny look about him. Athos wondered if the handsome one saw him as an advisor, perhaps the toothless one had once been a leader of men but was too old and broken to lead anymore. But he still maintained the respect of the rest of the gang. Athos thought that was good, respecting the elders was important. Even in criminal gangs.

Pockmark, as Athos called the last one to enter the room, was the thug, the one that did the heavy lifting. Athos liked to imagine Porthos taking on the pockmarked man and winning with ease. Athos would enjoy watching that brawl. Pockmark was the one that had, single-handedly, dragged Athos to the room he was currently residing in. Athos had done nothing to assist in his incarceration. He had known he would not get away from the gang and had simply refused to move. Pockmark grabbed him around the shoulders and dragged him, with ease, to the bedroom he was now spending his days.

It was a large room, in a large house. The room needed decorating. Athos had spent the hours alone picking at the peeling paintwork and contemplating what the room might have looked like in its prime.

Thoughts of the mundane were what he turned to each time the men came to interrogate him. He would sit impassively in the hardback wooden chair as the pompous one asked his questions and the handsome one smirked in the background.

Athos and the handsome one had come to a nodding understanding. They knew that eventually the pompous one would admit defeat and defer to the handsome one to get the answers. Athos and he suspect the handsome man, were of the same opinion that the pompous one should give up and just let the handsome one get on with his job. A job he was probably being paid well for.

Even though they both knew Athos would still not talk.

'You better start talking,' said the pompous one, his attempt to sound menacing, laughable.

Athos could see the mirth and amusement in the eyes of the toothless one and the handsome one. The young one shook his head and rolled his eyes. Pockmark fisted one hand and pressed it into the palm of the other, as though readying himself for his turn at making Athos speak.

The pompous one launched into his interrogation, asking questions that Athos either could not answer or would not answer. He remained passive, staring at the wall behind the pompous one. He thought about the steps to load a musket. He thought about the satisfaction of taking a gun apart and cleaning it. He thought about sharpening his sword and main gauche. He counted the number of taverns he regularly frequented in Paris. He tried to remember which ones he owed money to. He thought about d'Artagnan and his need to watch his footwork when he reached the turning point in a fight and started to win. He thought about Aramis and Porthos bickering like an old married couple when one or the other of them was responsible for the pair getting in trouble with a landlord, or occasionally Treville.

'I give up,' said the pompous one. 'Do what you have to do.'

The pompous one was looking at Athos but talking to the handsome one. The man pushed his blond curled hair out of his eyes and stepped forward a smug grin playing about his lips. Athos knew the grin was meant for the pompous one.

The handsome one took up the spot the pompous one had vacated. They regarded each other for a few seconds. Athos could see the pompous one working out his plan of attack. At the same time, Athos planned his defence.

He may have won the first battle, but the second was going to be much harder to endure.

The End.

Whumpee: Athos