Knife's Edge
by WendyH
~ Part two ~
Disclaimers in synopsis
~ Six weeks ago ~
"How can I answer any of your questions, when I don't even know who this Peter Caine is?" Barely able to stand, he heard his voice crack and break in defeat. Peter Caine, how he had come to hate that name. To the exhausted man, Caine was a curse and the cause of all of his pain. "Don't you think if I knew what you wanted to know, I would have told you by now?"
"Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't," the voice riddled.
Nothing he said seemed to make the slightest difference to his tormentor's routine, nor did it change the monotonous and repetitive questions that he was interrogated with.
Moving out from behind the light, the man the captive had come to know as Quinn dropped his spent cigarette, crushing it under his boot. Nodding to the two men who up to now had only a casual need to restrain the weakened prisoner, he watched with some satisfaction as they roughly manhandled the exhausted man's arms, pulling them back until they strained the arm sockets, extracting a muffled cry.
Physically drained by days of abuse, the captive did his captor's work for them by dropping to his knees in exhaustion. With their brutal grip digging into his bruise-covered body, he could nothing but stay on his knees and wait for the next phase of his torment.
"How about we vary the routine a bit and you just answer my friend's questions -- or should I just get on with kicking the shit out of you, as usual?" The deep voice questioned as he paused to light another cigarette. "Though I am hoping you will be your usual stubborn ass of a self; I do so enjoy our dates."
Hearing the grating voice, full of its own self-importance, the tortured man drew on his last remaining sense of self-respect and renewed his struggle against the iron hands that held him down. "Well, I hope you brought flowers and chocolates, because I don't know *shit*." He didn't know where this last trace of bravado came from; all he knew was that he wanted it all to stop, but every time they pushed, something inside made him push back.
Quinn chuckled as he took the cigarette from his lips and blew on the end, flaring the fiery red tip. "Well, then, shall I lead?"
The captive closed his eyes to the sight of the cigarette as it came closer, but while he could shut the image out, he couldn't separate himself from the pain as his chest was used as an ashtray. The hazel eyes snapped open, glaring at his tormentor, "You...should play another...record. I think...we've already danced to this one before," he hissed, referring to his battle-scarred torso.
"So we have," Quinn smiled, withdrawing the cigarette. "But you just don't seem to be able to get those steps just right, do you? We ask the questions, you answer them." He sneered as he flexed his fingers until the knuckles cracked. "I think you're going to need some more lessons. Now, about Peter Caine?"
Hearing the name again, the captive man started to buck against the arms that held him. "You can give me as many....damn lessons as you...want; it won't...change anything. I don't know this Peter... Caine and just in case you were wondering...I haven't met the...damn tooth fairy, either."
"Well, that's a pity about that last one, because I think you're going to need some dental work." A punch connected with the younger man's jaw that would have sent him reeling if it weren't for the arms that forcibly held him in place.
Gasping for air and spitting blood from his mouth, the prisoner deliberately targeted his assailant's shoes. He couldn't contain the satisfied grin as his blood splattered its pattern onto Quinn's obviously expensive alligator boots.
Quinn glared at the blood that now stained his expensive shoes. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that," he snarled as he grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and began to rain blow after blow into the young man's face.
"Enough!" The voice behind the light angrily demanded. "You know, Mr. Quinn, rendering him a walking vegetable somewhat 'defeats' my purpose!"
"My purpose would be send that smart-ass to Hell, but you're the boss," he sneered, as he gestured for his men to take the now unconscious and bloodied man away, before pausing to stoop and wipe the offending blood and spit from his boots with his handkerchief.
The room was thrown into darkness as the spotlight was turned off, and normal light was restored. The inquisitor, his ponytail hanging over the front of his right shoulder, rose from the chair where he had been sitting and walked to the closed window. "As you said Mr. Quinn, I'm the 'boss'. Anyway, no need to take it so personally," he grinned, apparently more than a little amused by his associate's animosity.
As the electric blinds began to rise, Quinn joined his boss as they looked out at the surrounding countryside. "Personal, you should talk. You're planning the death of a member of your own family, how more personal can you get than that?"
Turning to study the man beside him, Quinn shook his head, "You know, you are very strange, Caine, but I suppose that comes from being raised by men intent on taking over the world by claiming some self-decreed divine right. One would guess that would tend to warp anyone sense of reality."
"You weren't here when 'The Brotherhood' took its first breaths of life, Mr. Quinn, when we battled the Shaolin to gain the 'power' that is ours by right. The Sing Wah had the power within their grasp until 'Kwai Chang Caine' sent the Dark Warrior back to his realm. His power was real and the book of Shambala is to all Sing Wah, an undeniable fact. We of 'The Brotherhood', have seen it. Touched it. But what Bon Bon Hai and the Sing Wah failed to do when they had the chance, was read the fine print," Damon smiled as he continued to gaze through the window. "Failed to see past their own desires and see that there was more power to be found from within, than from without."
"And that means what exactly?"
Damon turned to face Quinn, "It means, I will have the Shambaq and all the power that he brings with him."
"Oh, don't tell me, this Shambaq was born to be some warped Shaolin Jedi-knight...Come to the dark side of Shaolin, Luke." Quinn mocked in a deep Darth Vader-like voice.
Without warning, a blade appeared in Damon's hand and within an instant, its sharp edge was pressed to the skin of Quinn's throat. "Never mock the 'Brotherhood', never mock me, Mr. Quinn," Damon hissed into his right hand man's face, ensuring Quinn got the message by nicking the skin. "Never, 'ever' mock me."
KFKFKFKFKFKFTLC
The cell door was wrenched open, and the awakened, but injured man's abused body was unceremoniously thrown in. The door was slammed shut and bolted behind him, leaving him just as bewildered as he always was after these encounters.
Forcing his arms to move, he weakly attempted to push himself up
from the floor. It always amazed him how they never broke anything, just managed in painful ways, to bend it a little. Weakly pushing away the tray of food that had been left for him, he managed to raise himself to his knees, though breathless from the effort.
As he wrapped his arms around his bruised body, the hopelessness of his situation drained his last vestige of strength. Without a sound, his head fell forward, his body rocking to and fro.
"What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?" he moaned, before he threw his head back and screamed, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"
[end part two]
by WendyH
~ Part two ~
Disclaimers in synopsis
~ Six weeks ago ~
"How can I answer any of your questions, when I don't even know who this Peter Caine is?" Barely able to stand, he heard his voice crack and break in defeat. Peter Caine, how he had come to hate that name. To the exhausted man, Caine was a curse and the cause of all of his pain. "Don't you think if I knew what you wanted to know, I would have told you by now?"
"Maybe you would, maybe you wouldn't," the voice riddled.
Nothing he said seemed to make the slightest difference to his tormentor's routine, nor did it change the monotonous and repetitive questions that he was interrogated with.
Moving out from behind the light, the man the captive had come to know as Quinn dropped his spent cigarette, crushing it under his boot. Nodding to the two men who up to now had only a casual need to restrain the weakened prisoner, he watched with some satisfaction as they roughly manhandled the exhausted man's arms, pulling them back until they strained the arm sockets, extracting a muffled cry.
Physically drained by days of abuse, the captive did his captor's work for them by dropping to his knees in exhaustion. With their brutal grip digging into his bruise-covered body, he could nothing but stay on his knees and wait for the next phase of his torment.
"How about we vary the routine a bit and you just answer my friend's questions -- or should I just get on with kicking the shit out of you, as usual?" The deep voice questioned as he paused to light another cigarette. "Though I am hoping you will be your usual stubborn ass of a self; I do so enjoy our dates."
Hearing the grating voice, full of its own self-importance, the tortured man drew on his last remaining sense of self-respect and renewed his struggle against the iron hands that held him down. "Well, I hope you brought flowers and chocolates, because I don't know *shit*." He didn't know where this last trace of bravado came from; all he knew was that he wanted it all to stop, but every time they pushed, something inside made him push back.
Quinn chuckled as he took the cigarette from his lips and blew on the end, flaring the fiery red tip. "Well, then, shall I lead?"
The captive closed his eyes to the sight of the cigarette as it came closer, but while he could shut the image out, he couldn't separate himself from the pain as his chest was used as an ashtray. The hazel eyes snapped open, glaring at his tormentor, "You...should play another...record. I think...we've already danced to this one before," he hissed, referring to his battle-scarred torso.
"So we have," Quinn smiled, withdrawing the cigarette. "But you just don't seem to be able to get those steps just right, do you? We ask the questions, you answer them." He sneered as he flexed his fingers until the knuckles cracked. "I think you're going to need some more lessons. Now, about Peter Caine?"
Hearing the name again, the captive man started to buck against the arms that held him. "You can give me as many....damn lessons as you...want; it won't...change anything. I don't know this Peter... Caine and just in case you were wondering...I haven't met the...damn tooth fairy, either."
"Well, that's a pity about that last one, because I think you're going to need some dental work." A punch connected with the younger man's jaw that would have sent him reeling if it weren't for the arms that forcibly held him in place.
Gasping for air and spitting blood from his mouth, the prisoner deliberately targeted his assailant's shoes. He couldn't contain the satisfied grin as his blood splattered its pattern onto Quinn's obviously expensive alligator boots.
Quinn glared at the blood that now stained his expensive shoes. "Oh, you shouldn't have done that," he snarled as he grabbed a handful of the prisoner's hair and began to rain blow after blow into the young man's face.
"Enough!" The voice behind the light angrily demanded. "You know, Mr. Quinn, rendering him a walking vegetable somewhat 'defeats' my purpose!"
"My purpose would be send that smart-ass to Hell, but you're the boss," he sneered, as he gestured for his men to take the now unconscious and bloodied man away, before pausing to stoop and wipe the offending blood and spit from his boots with his handkerchief.
The room was thrown into darkness as the spotlight was turned off, and normal light was restored. The inquisitor, his ponytail hanging over the front of his right shoulder, rose from the chair where he had been sitting and walked to the closed window. "As you said Mr. Quinn, I'm the 'boss'. Anyway, no need to take it so personally," he grinned, apparently more than a little amused by his associate's animosity.
As the electric blinds began to rise, Quinn joined his boss as they looked out at the surrounding countryside. "Personal, you should talk. You're planning the death of a member of your own family, how more personal can you get than that?"
Turning to study the man beside him, Quinn shook his head, "You know, you are very strange, Caine, but I suppose that comes from being raised by men intent on taking over the world by claiming some self-decreed divine right. One would guess that would tend to warp anyone sense of reality."
"You weren't here when 'The Brotherhood' took its first breaths of life, Mr. Quinn, when we battled the Shaolin to gain the 'power' that is ours by right. The Sing Wah had the power within their grasp until 'Kwai Chang Caine' sent the Dark Warrior back to his realm. His power was real and the book of Shambala is to all Sing Wah, an undeniable fact. We of 'The Brotherhood', have seen it. Touched it. But what Bon Bon Hai and the Sing Wah failed to do when they had the chance, was read the fine print," Damon smiled as he continued to gaze through the window. "Failed to see past their own desires and see that there was more power to be found from within, than from without."
"And that means what exactly?"
Damon turned to face Quinn, "It means, I will have the Shambaq and all the power that he brings with him."
"Oh, don't tell me, this Shambaq was born to be some warped Shaolin Jedi-knight...Come to the dark side of Shaolin, Luke." Quinn mocked in a deep Darth Vader-like voice.
Without warning, a blade appeared in Damon's hand and within an instant, its sharp edge was pressed to the skin of Quinn's throat. "Never mock the 'Brotherhood', never mock me, Mr. Quinn," Damon hissed into his right hand man's face, ensuring Quinn got the message by nicking the skin. "Never, 'ever' mock me."
KFKFKFKFKFKFTLC
The cell door was wrenched open, and the awakened, but injured man's abused body was unceremoniously thrown in. The door was slammed shut and bolted behind him, leaving him just as bewildered as he always was after these encounters.
Forcing his arms to move, he weakly attempted to push himself up
from the floor. It always amazed him how they never broke anything, just managed in painful ways, to bend it a little. Weakly pushing away the tray of food that had been left for him, he managed to raise himself to his knees, though breathless from the effort.
As he wrapped his arms around his bruised body, the hopelessness of his situation drained his last vestige of strength. Without a sound, his head fell forward, his body rocking to and fro.
"What do you want? What do you want? What do you want?" he moaned, before he threw his head back and screamed, "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"
[end part two]
