The Cloaker's face was surprisingly pretty for a questionably malevolent law enforcer. Assumingly, it was a she, or at least by looking at the eyelashes and carefully applied mascara it was a she. Other than that simple makeup, there were a lot of other feminine features expected but were not present in the Cloaker. She did not have lips ready to be kissed. She did not have dazzling eyes to make all the boys fall lovingly in her gaze. She did not even have clear, petite skin and instead had freckles, blemishes and some pimples that probably made a terrible driver's license photo. Her most defining feature was a glint in her eyes that suggested a perseverant soul inside that could last to masochistic limits; was this what the heisters saw as self-righteous heroism or mindless courage? They didn't know.
"Well, miss, whadya ya think you're doing in the police force?"
The she-Cloaker didn't respond, only turning to spit dirty blood on the floor. It was a wonder that no teeth were on the floor. Bonnie smiled her most menacing grin behind her mask when the she-Cloaker stared back. Perhaps Jacket could soften her up first.
"So. You like to be quiet. You're also a little easy to shake, but a still tough one. Usually, most men dislocate their necks with a good punch to the jaws, but it looks like you got muscle."
Jacket brought himself back into view of the prisoner, whose eyes darted to him in pure abhorrence. His stature towered over her, taunting her, dehumanizing her to a lower level. The Cloaker steeled herself. She had seen this person in the dossier before.
"Officers, when you see this person, do not be intimidated or coerced to follow their orders. He is a master of human manipulation, so far having caused a third of our forces to go AWOL, missing, or against the oaths they originally swore on. We can assume he can convince anyone he chooses to participate in his crimes. Whatever you do, detain him on sight, or wait for backup."
Jacket brought his mask close to the Cloaker, where everything else faded away. It was just her and him; the ultimate mind game. For an observer, it would just seem that Jacket and the Cloaker were having a contest of who would flinch first, but it was really a game of will and wits. He was trying to see just how scared she could possibly be. Apparently, nothing could faze her as a full minute dragged on. Jacket let his feathery exterior continue to inspire fear in the Cloaker as he readied his tape recorder.
"What is your name?"
Nothing happened for another minute. The Cloaker already heard what Jacket's voice was like from intelligence, so she wasn't going to react to the dysfunctional combination of a calm voice and a murderous psychopath. Not meaning of course that she could hold back her fear from a monster staring at her for so harrowingly long.
"What is your name?"
Another aching minute of nothing. Jacket quickly moved out of the way, allowing Bonnie to land a heavy hit on the Cloaker's forehead. Knowing the history of the heisters, the heavy hit had more than just force behind it. When Bonnie used to stage some unofficially recognized boxing matches for fun at Glasgow, she was booed off after her punches were deemed to be too strong for her size. The truth was not that she was that strong and unrelenting, but that her lucky hits coming here and there were what made her indomitable. This punch was one of those lucky punches, striking inhumanly with as much damage as a concussion grenade launched by a bionic arm.
Damn it, I went too far already with just a punch, Bonnie thought, Maybe the power tools would be too much for her.
The Cloaker was smashed in her restraints, the 'discomfort chair' leaning back a long 30 degrees before falling forward. After cleaning her fist, Bonnie could see her eyes were literally rolling around after the discombobulation. Her nose was starting to drip blood all over the black armor. Her left cheek looked fucked up after the black bruises started to form.
After her vision regained, the chicken head reappeared. This time, there was a growing feeling of déjà vu. The men in the dark, the temperature, the lights, and the horrible abhorring feeling were still the same. However, her face didn't feel misshapen or ached. This was her first time being tortured, so was…this…actually expected in her training?
"What is your name?"
Time passed before there was a small knock at the armored door, and Houston looked through the glass to see Dallas without his mask on. Dallas, at this time here instead of ironing his used suit, was waiting at the door with a laptop. It was definitely out of the ordinary. Houston pointed to his mask, to which Dallas mouthed:
"Thanks. Bain is here. He says that he needs to see this."
Gesturing to the flimsy laptop was all that he needed to see. The one used particularly for visiting CrimeNet and exclusively allowing Bain to see eye-to-eye with the heisters. You would have the feeling that you can't and won't be able to see him like any normal boss, but it seemed easier to work with. Hell, working with Bain was easier than with his boss at the entertainment-restaurant gig (The kids that came were just spoiling themselves with terrible pizza and stupid arcade games that broke faster than Bonnie and a computer).
Houston looked behind him and saw the she-Cloaker's damned face. Shit, she looked like shit after being hit by Bonnie's fists for something like half an hour. He grimaced at the sound of dripping blood as he carefully unlatched the door's locks and slid the door open. Houston could still hear the punches from behind him as he closed the door.
"Well brother, how's it going?"
"It's not looking good. We have to hold back because maybe she won't be able to speak after being hit so much. If she does speak. Jacket says he won't have any trouble talking to her, but still no info about the radio."
"Well, what did you expect out of a guy like th-wai…what? You said, 'her'? "
Dallas's head recoiled from Houston's statement in bewilderment. This was new.
"Yeah…It's a girl."
"Um…Alright. I have to see this for myself."
"Cool. I'll be fixing up the van after what that bitch did to it. Wait, Bain, do we have other computers in the safehouse?"
"Right…Houston, we don't."
"*sigh* Looks like I can't make any extra part requests for the van. I'll be cleaning up the shop floor so we're ready for the next heist. When you guys are done, I need the laptop back, okay?"
"Got it."
With that, Houston walked across the cement and past the opening behind the movable plaster wall. Carefully, he stepped over the mess of cassette tapes in Jacket's room. There in the next space, he saw Dragan doing pushups before stopping to look up at him, Bodhi and Sokol soon coming out of their off-heist hobbies. They also acted apprehensive, as if expecting the wrath of Murphy's law.
"So…What was Cloaker like? Still…inhuman and-"
"Yeah. She hasn't said anything yet."
"Oh…I see. The force back home did reach out to women to cover more ground in the city. Not that it helped."
"Why Dragan? Girls didn't approach you with your ugly face?"
"No, ti glupi. They were too ugly for me."
"Ah! That's why you like them, older, right?"
"No Bohdi, Dragan should like them short and fiery. Like Sydney, but shorter."
"Sokol, that's exactly how you like them. Not for me bro. I'm looking for the best experience in life. Like the Ozaki 8 I'm working on."
"To be clear, my interest in women is little. I have contract to fulfill, and that is all I want to fulfil."
Right, Dragan was that type of person. But if his 'contract' was fulfilled, what would he do next? Still, as fun as it was to finally talk about women instead of the prisoner, he was getting distracted. Houston had to tell the others.
"One thing to know. The woman in there, she is a slave desk worker, or a monster."
"Hmph, right. Maybe she's one of those."
"Why not? We kill them all the time, and they act dead even before dead."
It wasn't getting anywhere. It was already getting close to midnight, or at least that was what it felt like for her after so many punches. All her training in the compound had led to this: her lights getting punched out, jabbed in the gut with a blunt hammer, and then revived with adrenaline for more pain. The darkness and men in suits seemed to surround her view from all sides, but she would not surrender to their wishes. She knew what their plans were. They wanted to make her servient and compliant. They wanted her to feel weak and helpless, and then appear like friends you could console yourself with after some 'heart-felt' chats. Basic Stockholm syndrome. The head pummeling stopped with a single bat to the gut.
"What is your name?"
Even though she had forgot the last thing the man in the chicken suit had asked her, she was roughly able to hear their codenames. Why were they talking louder as the torture passed by? Still, the chicken head had some name like 'Locket', the blue face was 'Johnny', and the man behind the table was called 'Fella'.
The chicken head looked exactly like a dossier she could faintly recall, but she couldn't remember dossiers for 'Johnny' and 'Fella', so these other interrogators were probably new in the gang. Speaking of which, 'Johnny' and 'Fella' were able to be seen talking in the mist despite her blurred vision.
What were they saying? Were they…holding back? What for? To discuss more on how to subdue her? Better yet, how they would…well, that was very possible. Surely, it wouldn't be that bad.
Jacket looked to Bonnie and Dallas. She apparently didn't simply submit to prolonged physical domination, not that it was unexpected with like-minded individuals like her.
"Am I allowed to talk privately with her?"
"Sure. Just don't let her kill herself."
"Yeah. I don't want another mess in here to clean up after. Not after what I had to see in here just now."
"Yes. I…follow."
Jacket approached from the mist as quietly as possible towards the Cloaker. It was now 15 past 12 o'clock. After an hour and a half of coercion, the Cloaker was looking very weary in her now tattered clothing. Not much was torn to reveal what was underneath for the depraved, but enough to be considered to be beyond repair. Her face was surprisingly covered with brown scabs and yellow pus-pockets, seemingly going through a strange bodily function. Usually, people in the chair would be red and black from their bodies struggling to heal open wounds and bruises on their face. You could make multiple portraits to sell on certain markets with just the fascinating expressions you could find in the chamber.
However, the unwavering woman in stealth gear just seemed stoic and motionless; her human responses bordering on dead if it were not the darting eyes. Possibly, the training she received was considerably more punishing than this, a whole other, disturbing, world beyond their hands. A world that was beyond expression and demonstration she could show that it was removed in favor of duty and sacrifice.
Truly, this operative was withholding critical knowledge for her superiors. Her fellow officers would squeal lesser valuable information with even lesser provocation. However, with this highly inconvenient perseverance and endurance, the Cloaker was starting to look like a very stubborn oyster. An oyster that would have to be tossed away, losing the pearl inside. Disappointingly, he couldn't afford to be toss away the Cloaker like the oyster.
Her apparent loyalty to the state meant she had a secret so heavily guarded that she even might mistake it as one of her own, like some secrets shared and entitled to all human beings. An error of personal judgement more likely, being one of many enforcers similarly tasked with demanding obligations. No, she could not be reasoned that her likeness could help everyone more than themselves; at this point, she could be disposed of like the rest.
If she was kept alive within the safehouse, her presence would make everyone in the safehouse too uneasy or disturbed to do their jobs. An extreme danger to all species is a predator in their own resting place, the Cloaker being one to the heisters. Key members of the gang like Dallas would not be able to retain their effective functions due to a constant traumatic presence with the Cloaker. Because the gang depended on such key heisters to direct and regulate their modus operandi, heist success and morale would decrease. The negative performance is already compounded with all heisters fearing the Cloaker (except for Jacket himself), and the integrity of the crew would collapse on itself.
Because humans are to blame others for their faults (except for a certain few, but their voices wouldn't matter), the heisters would not be able to support each other faithfully with much failure and unease. This would create a positive feedback loop with performance decreasing and the heisters blaming each other. Heisters would hold more and more easily dismissible grudges over each other's failures until teamwork was compromised.
When plots and heists are entered with inadequate cooperation, the crew is more susceptible to capture or arrest by more visible weaknesses. Bain's overseeing position wouldn't be able to mitigate any unacceptable action or treatment, despite his vast connections. If this feedback loop were to start, it would mean the end of the Payday Gang and Jacket's original goal.
She would have to be disposed of in a manner that left her harmless to the heisters and unsalvageable for outside threats. She could be blackmailed or bargained with through the hacking prowess of Bain, but would undoubtedly still reveal their operations. She could be forcefully driven insane, but even non-coherent utterings would still tell truth through police analysis. This was going to be last brush of death she would ever experience.
She would have to be silenced; otherwise the security of their endeavors would be compromised. She was indeed a troublesome person to be behind the Cloaker mask. Unfortunately, her tenacity would be her downfall if the case he would soon present to her was not convincing. A case compiled with Hoxton to find the Rat, which revealed more than just rats. There were shrews, gophers, and snakes in the police, and her a tin soldier endlessly wound up to subdue the unlawful.
He was right in her face for the 135th time, her scabs a recurring, vile smell. He wasn't going to ask for her identification anymore. Bain said after all that there was another heist prepared in case the interrogation failed. He was going to exonerate her and everyone from their future hassles.
She was readying herself for another question and 'unexpected' barrage. She steeled her eyes for another glare. The chicken head took this as a sign to continue. He stepped before the she-Cloaker, his mask placid and bloody. He kneeled and wrenched out a bloodied cassette to the wet floor, before inserting an unusually clean white cassette into his tape player. He aimed it at her, close and uncomfortable. He pressed the play button.
"Please listen to the following…You are a law enforcer. As a law enforcer, you must uphold the Constitution, community, and the agency you serve. You must also be an upstanding citizen of the United States and act for the interest of public health, which includes peace keeping and conviction of all civilians considered guilty, hereby identified as criminals.
You have not been keeping the peace.
You have been engaged and informed in legal martial justice against these criminals. The criminals have breached several forms of state and national law, which include manslaughter, smuggling, illegal weapon sale, and rampant extortion. Despite initial and continuing efforts, you have not apprehended the criminals. Massive amounts of law enforcers have been deployed to stop these criminals, but have been killed or MIA in all their attempts. There have even been reports of missing civilians and undocumented warrants that circumvent US law."
The chicken head, still staring at her, silently paused the tape and grasped another tape recorder and unnervingly shoved the device in her numb face. She could barely hear a click before she heard another panicked voice in the room. It blared in her ears.
"We are now recording."
"Good. *bell chime and footsteps* Hello? Is Jorge Calavera here?"
"Yes-Ah! NOT YOU COPS AGAIN! NO! I TELL YOU, I-"
"We don't mean any trouble. This is only a follow-up interview for documentation purposes only."
"Get the fuck away from me! GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MEEE!"
"Please calm down sir, no harm will come to you as long as you cooperate. Otherwise, we will resort to extreme measures."
"LOOK, I ALREADY GAVE YOU WHAT YOU WANT TO KNOW! Now just let me go home already!"
"Uh, right sir. We still haven't found the illegally transported contraband reported by Federal in all the possible places they could be found according to your info, so we have to conduct a follow-up interview in the crime scene in case you forgot something to say. Maybe there are…other places you haven't told us about?"
"Wait! I jus-just started working here as an intern yesterday to manage this shop on Tuesdays and Fridays! I didn't expect a drug bust to happen here and shoot up the place!"
"Yes, I see. Is your employer available at this time?"
"No. He's working from Seattle. This is just a…uh, a 'scouting location'? Yu-You know, for seeing if customers like the coffee?"
"Sir, as far as we know, your shop…er…'scouting location' has been the front for multiple drug runs, so we highly suspect this area to have extensive criminal …collusion."
"Suspected for criminal what!? I never had-wait, it's about that masked clown gang? How can this shop be connected to those assholes!"
"I'm sorry sir, but my friend says the Payday gang's escape vehicle has been seen often speeding on the street next to your shop, while pursuing officers were stopped by nearby cars not known to move, so we had to investigate if you or others are responsible for making them move. I'm sorry that we have to ask you again, but we gotta find all the witnesses and the like to find more info. So sir, you're going to have to talk with us a little more until we're sure we learned everything there is to know."
"…What…I mean-I already got five visits from people like you, and you still want more? Fucking…Why the fuck haven't you guys realized that I got nothing to do with the Payday clowns?! I'm only here for the free coffee and donuts and get paid 47 bucks every shift…I mean, isn't there not much here to show that I work with those guys? Yeah, they make lots of money that I'd like to have, but they're just so violent you know? I don't think I could live in this part of Washington with one of those freaky girl robbers prowling around, I mean that's why I live in the Flats…I already told this shit to the other cops. And they just keep getting, hostile. Just asking more and more questions, like they can't believe my shit…"
"Well…fuck. I…uh, didn't think it would be…this bad for you. *sigh* Listen. We're only going to ask-"
"Wilkins, I don't think this is going anywhere."
"Wait-what?"
"Oh…sorry sir, but I may need to…speak with my partner. *rustling* Uh, what…do you mean?"
"This witness is stubbornly offering no leads to the case, so I think we have to take him for more questioning."
"What the-What?! Are you crazy? We don't have to! We have to find intent to say we can! We still have que-"
"Yes we do. It's this interview."
"You mean-oh. Oh. Oh no. But that means-We can't do that! The higher ups have to approve this as prelim before we can take them in! This is like Noire levels of-"
"I know, but investigation means getting all the needed information that can be there. We can use this interview to allow my superiors need-to-know info for the possible chance that they can connect one detail to another, and finally capture them. They already found this guy to be innocent, but people are getting hanged for not getting anything. They already fired Hoskins for incompetence, even though I know he was just late for last week's conference. Otherwise, this means I can't let him go."
*'INCOMING CALL'*
"I have to take this. *rustle* Yes? …Yes…We need to bring him in?...Yes sir."
*'CALL ENDED'*
"Can I please go home now?"
"I'm sorry to say this, but no. Wilkins, take him out for further interrogation."
"But…*sigh*…Yes ma'am. *walking* Sorry man. The brass needs you for today."
" *walking* Hey. HEY. *thud* HEY! HEYHEYHEY! I TALKED TO YOU GUYS FIVE TIMES ALREADY! ISN'T WHAT I TOLD YOU ENOUGH!?"
"Hey wait! I'm not going to put the cuffs on, we're just needing-"
"COME ON MAN! YOU KNOW I SHOWED YOU EVERYTHING IN HERE! *rustling* YOU CAN'T DO THIS! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME!"
*RING* *RING* *RING*
"Who's on the phone?"
"IT'S my-"
*BEEP*
"Jorge? I need you at home again. We need to talk about-"
"Ma'am? Who am I speaking to?"
"…Sorry?"
"JEN!? NOOOO! NO! OH GOD- JEN? It's me! The police are taking me to jail! I don't care if this is my one phone call, but you must know that I love you and that I have nothing to do with what they're taking me in for!"
"Wait…W-what's going on there?"
*a clatter, followed by a crunching sound*
"…YOU ASSHOLE! That was a birthday-*door opening followed by stomping*…gift."
"Take him away."
"Right away ma'am."
"What! HEY! Wait! G-Get away from me! *thud* "
"Shit! That's gonna-"
"*shattering* Get away from me!"
"Suspect has a weapon!"
"GET AWAY FROM ME! I DON'T DESERVE THIS BULLSHIT!"
"Get him before he uses it!"
*smashing, punching, tearing. Inaudible cursing*
"Cut this part of the interview."
*crackle*
The recording ended with static, but it still stuck. The chicken drew back the tape recorder and unpaused the original track.
"Even though it has been suspected that the criminals could be held responsible for missing civilians, the classified interview has shown questionable behavior of law enforcement. The interviewers, Investigator Olivera and Lieutenant Wilkins, were tasked with finding and collecting info on the drug runs happening around a store in Foggy Bottom. They held Jorge Calavera for questioning for 3 days, later connecting him to other crimes in the area and appealed him for court examination after one day had passed since his capture.
Other agents like Olivera conducted similar investigations with similar outcomes, most of them surrounding civilians found close to crime-scenes. Most of the cases did not shed any light about the criminals and only seemed to inconvenience many Washington citizens, degrading the public opinion of the Washington D.C. Police Department. Scrutiny on case approvals involving the criminals can only be assumed to be lacking.
Despite the losses, no other action has been taken to stop these criminals, the only response being...an indefinite amount of law enforcers sent to their graves. There have been no attempts in the Washington Law Enforcement Agency to consider other views to explain or observe the motivations behind the crimes. An invasive assessment has shown deeply analytic insight into the criminals, but no perspective has shown any effectiveness in fighting them.
Provided, that there were a few instances that criminals were subdued and incarcerated, the money needed to imprison all of them would have statistically brought the Agency towards bankruptcy and state budget towards shutdown. The invasive assessment itself resulted in short-lived but substantial cut funding for the police force, few or little of the intelligence gathered being utilized for greater benefit."
The chicken head took a step back before turning around and fading into the mist with the other mysterious faces. Somehow, there was a tape for all of that. The Cloaker slowly eased herself lower into the 'chair' in defiance, embracing the spiky Velcro if it were reasonable self-punishment to atone for this apparently real shortcoming. She couldn't think much more about her position in all of this after the chicken-head appeared with a knife. She could tell there was a knife by how silently the chicken head stalked towards her, as if ready to cut something off her face. She eyed the approaching silhouette, expecting the worst to come. This was expected after all.
Then there it was, an arm's reach away from the Cloaker, the carbon knife brandished for a close encounter. More likely, the chicken head was going to use the knife to 'expertly convince' her to do something that maybe she couldn't refuse. Was one of her ears going to be chopped off? A nose split open? It would be far worse after the injuries she already received.
The mascot's eyes darted and stared at her, like a snake expecting some sort of reaction out of its prey. The she-Cloaker's eyes were glimmering with disturbance in the fog light, but her arched eyebrows and stiff body suggested she wasn't breaking. Even though she was looking up at the monster, it was like she was standing as high as him. Standing up to the cold, biased statement of a psychopath. Standing up for the police force and its beliefs. Standing up for the law for it was her duty.
The chicken head holstered the knife in his pocket like a toy and pulled out a black cassette tape. While the tapes were being switched, the she-Cloaker thought back to her father's tutelage and teachings. It was possible that they could help her, but now she had the weakening feeling that it wasn't going to matter. Hell especially was where she was going after hearing what the chicken head said. She wanted it that way.
Then there was a click and the chicken head was gone. She looked around, but her bruised neck was too limiting. She could see a laptop with a black screen that sat in a chair with a haunting plastic smile glistening dimly. The infamous Dallas. A hand grabbed the weakened She-Cloaker by the head with another holding a blade's edge at her jugular. She manically shook with fading strength against the hand's grip and blade like a trapped rat. The hand holding her head back released and she felt a numb yet noticeable pain in her jugular. Behind her, a button clicked.
"In the mission of capturing or securing the criminals, you have failed by being captured by the criminals themselves. Despite this failure, you still show signs of upholding the steadfast belief of preserving peace by the police force. This can only be concluded after ignoring an external perspective explaining how the Washington D.C. Police Department is responding poorly to broken law and showing no discourse. You have shown loyalty to the police force, showing acceptance of death for its endeavors. Therefore, it is assumed you have served your purpose in law enforcement by not compromising an integral part of its operations. Because you served under this will, you will see to this will's end through death."
"WAIT!"
She only saw a blue blur when she was knocked down.
There was a scuffle in the room. Someone had pulled a fast one on the plug of the lanterns.
"Oh shit! The lights-"
Dallas quickly switched on the meat locker's lights, illuminating a struggle between Bonnie and Jacket. Somehow, they clashed against each other in the dark to wrestle over Jacket's knife. Bonnie without her mask was holding back Jacket with her right arm while clutching Jacket's left arm with the knife. Jacket made strong but halting movements towards the 'discomfort chair' all while holding one of Bonnie's legs and his tape recorder repeating 'Stop' over and over.
"Damn it Jacket! I know we fucking got something out of her! I know we do!"
"Stop. Stop. Stop."
"NO! This is my third and only time I get a juicy hostage! Don't fucking waste her damn it! You-!"
"Stop. Stop. Stop."
Dallas and Bain were at an impasse as they watched two of the most perilous members of the Payday Gang wrestling each other over a knife over a Cloaker. It was bizarre seeing Bonnie as the voice of reason and Jacket as a mindlessly driven drone, but the sight itself seemed to suggest an even more absurd perspective. Sure, the wrestling reminded Dallas and Bain of primal thrashing between two animals, but that was what it was.
It was nothing out of the methodical or underhanded ways the gang operated. It was just…messy. Messy, chaotic, saddening fighting. To think that just like the firefights that they had with the cops, it might have looked like this. They shook their heads in dismay, knowing the gang in-fighting itself was expected with matters like these.
As the wrestling between Bonnie and Jacket continued, Dallas looked to the restrained Cloaker knocked down. In the corner of the freezer, an armor chest piece was cut off, a familiar sight in the urban brawls usually dealt with. It was designed so statically to uniform all Cloakers that they would all look practically the same. Wasn't there always a way though to know which uniform belonged to whom? It was crazy. He sidestepped around Bonnie and Jacket to get to the Cloaker.
"Get the fuck-Dallas! Help me restrain this mother-"
"Assistance is required. Dallas. It is impera-"
Dallas already gripped the edge of the torn-off armor piece. Flopping like a stiff set of chainmail, he observed a highlighted name in the underside of the armor.
…Ara? This bitch's name is ara? The fuck?, Dallas thought confusing himself in the dim light. The silver text was written in cursive, like it was the only personal touch in the thing, even though it was a name. Because highlighter was used on the glossy parts of the armor, some of the letters were easily smudged off. Was this first letter a k or a c? He was used to the cursive he and his brother had, but apparently this cursive was as culturally unrecognizable as Sanskrit. What idiot would even think to write this with highlighter and not expect it to be smudged by something? Either way, it looked like her name was Cara or she was Indian maybe.
Dallas looked to the flipped seat on the floor. On the back, he could see the workshop hell of a chair holding down the lethal hostage. Due to the position of heavy metal used to make it, it was pretty simple to flip the She-cloaker upwards. Then he saw what the armor was hiding.
"Jesus."
The She-cloaker's bosom just appeared…bizarre, as if it didn't belong there. The armor was tailored nicely for a female soldier, but it was clearly made as a bra to protect and cover the upper parts of a woman. Was there even some bind or regular bra that was there?
"Right...Bonnie! Jacket! Stop fighting and put down the knife so you can help me read this!"
"No. The law enforcer must be disposed of. If our operations are to remain secure, we must remove the…source of fragmentation."
"What…Shut the fuck up Jacket! We need her alive to tell the codes or some shit! I just want something out of her right now!"
Bain finished his shot behind the computer. He had to stop this fast.
"Jacket. I have taken enough measures and risks to keep the Cloaker here so we can thoroughly get info out of her. This is more secure than going to the FBI office that got new security installations."
Jacket squirmed out of Bonnie's hands before he nonchalantly kicked her back, wrenching the knife from Bonnie's grasp and standing up. He ran a thumb against the blade's sharp edge as he cocked his head towards the laptop's screen. Bonnie tried to get up, but was quickly immobilized with a shoe on her chest. Despite her brawler physique, it appeared she was out of breath.
"-huff…Get the fuck off me you mute-!"
"The Cloaker will not respond or...exchange with me or...Bonnie. We cannot expect...any other information out of her."
This was not the first time he did this. Bain briefly considered ringing a silent alarm to the rest of the crew.
"Jacket, just put the knife down. If we can't get any info out of her, then we can at least get some biometric data out of her. And no, we can't peel her skin. The scanners need a live person to be read."
Jacket glanced at Dallas inspecting the chest piece, before at Bonnie struggling under him. He faced the laptop, finally turning to look at the upturned 'discomfort chair'. Still set on gutting the Cloaker.
"Her name's Cara? Or Aran? Bain? Can you find a person named Arah in the police payroll?"
Bain sat up. He had found that name somewhere. Jacket himself seemed to know the importance of that name as he turned to Dallas.
"UH-wait…give me a sec…The latest dossier shows…no one named that. Um-okay…Where did you find that name?"
"I found it on this armor that was cut off. It's fucking shitty cursive."
Jacket carefully removed his foot from Bonnie's chest and walked over to Dallas to stare at the writing. Bonnie took a deep wheezing breath. Her lungs were that constricted under his Jordans.
"OH-huff-shit-huff-…*cough*…fucking…mute fuck."
Jacket studied the letters as if he was a deadbeat professor. Hunched over and arms behind, he examined the letters closely as his mask eye holes could provide. Despite the new promising priority on this cursive, Bain was sorely disappointed that after a long time of staring, Jacket or Dallas did not say anything. It was best to intervene before it became a minute of staring.
"Bring it to the camera. I can probably read it."
"Sure, like it's going to help."
Dallas and Jacket carefully positioned the highlighter and laptop camera until they were in view of each other. As soon as he could see the silver highlighter without difficulty, Bain quickly scanned over the collected signatures in his database and what he was seeing.
"Given that this is a woman's signature, I could find a match in an hour or less, since there's not many in the force."
The Cloaker Division compared to the other special officer divisions was the most secretive over recruitment. It was even practical to not list all of the identification for any Special Forces operative so that it could be an annuity write off. There were cases of these guys even swearing an oath to discard their names and be reborn as the agents of justice they righteously aim to be. It was interesting, but rather complicated for HR and CIU to manage. Plus, the concept of the Cloaker was started just a few years ago from a very obscure individual. A rightfully obscure one at that. Still, there had to be something about this person.
Maybe this wouldn't work out. The force was just too paranoid and tightly run this time to let the names of their shadow officers be found. It was easy to find the other special officer dossiers since their profession required not as much discretion for accountability, but you couldn't argue the backgrounds of these Cloakers when their presence effectively added a 15% chance of apprehending a criminal for an operation.
Bain reached for the shot glass and was in the process of finishing it before he saw the white highlighter through his glass. At first, the alcohol soothed Bain's throat, but then out of his control, he stopped drinking. He starred at the signature, burning it into his eyes. He set down the half-empty shot, and sat in the dark room looking at the bright monitor. Bain's cold hard hands gripped each other. He clearly wasted a terabyte of processing to search/find signatures, but that was besides a bigger issue. He really wanted to this never happen, but...
"…Goddamnit…"
Bain's really wanted to scream how he didn't sign up for this. He could use his hands to turn off the monitor, crash Crime Net, burn the gasoline behind him, and leave everything to settle down as ashes. He could easily do it in a heartbeat. He could screw everyone over and just leave the scene. He already did that before, so why not again? It was…tempting.
It was hard enough to convince civilians to work for you. Money, hard-to-purchase goods, influence, or people usually did the trick. Sometimes complicated favors that involved very high pillars of society. As for the lawful, it had to be something out of their own will. They had to be convinced not for something they lacked, but something they would choose to do. They already had a good life or good notion to act as a 'peacekeeper', which was enforced by a moral regimen of state law and common order.
You had to force them to adopt a new perspective that suited yours and their own, either by dominating them or putting them in an ultimatum. Then you could control them because they saw things the same way you saw them. However, people could hold values so high that they couldn't be held down. These special officers were a special case. The Payday Gang had never attempted to convince these types of people because they and their will were too strong of their own accord to be told to think and act differently.
For as numerous as they were, they all had their own ways of understanding the law and why it had to be protected, which makes it hard for them to be used against their better judgement. It would have to take a unique type of persuasion and understanding to convince her to work with them. As a former officer, Bain knew that working under an archive position in the force wasn't going to do the same for her.
Bain was at a mental impasse. Goddamn him! Why did he allow them to torture her! But she had the knowledge! Perhaps he could rethink...with the heisters. Bain eased himself after the mental stiffening. Maybe they could get through to her. Maybe they could convince her to show how the radio works. And then they could modify it to triangulate…no. No.
It already took a lot of effort to just find her name. A digital clock glowed the time of 1:09. For now, they had to make her sleep for tomorrow. And with Hoxton injured, perhaps she could come along for another trip to the ward.
"Guys…let's try to do this tomorrow. Finding her is going to take a while. For now, just make her comfortable."
The interrogators unintentionally flinched at the request. It wasn't the first time that Bain said those exact words, but they usually meant in context that someone was going to hurt. They already made her 'comfortable', so what else was there to do?
"Uhh…Bain? What do you mean?"
"Oh-I mean just leave her…no, uh…make her-AH! Just fix her up."
"Wait. You mean leave her alone? Sure..."
"Alright…I guess I'll go with that. I'll see you guys in the morning."
"I'll get a bottle of whiskey."
"Hey. We can't forget about her. We gotta get her to rest or something."
Jacket turned to the battered officer in the chair before switching a cassette.
"A-blunt…tool applied with force…to the base of the head-the Medulla Oblongata…can incapacitate an opponent."
"-No. Jacket, she doesn't need to be harmed anymore. Just…give her something to drink."
Dallas dropped the armor on the floor. Bain was a former police officer, but his tone appeared to be a little more considerate than what he let on. However, he did allow Dragan be a part of the gang. Still, it irked him that he was telling them to do this. The only other cops he would talk with the same amount of respect here would be the field commanders on heists or occasional pagers. Oh well, it wasn't in the best interest to kill another person for today. Now, how were you supposed to make a person sleep without hurting them? Dallas knew it at the top of his head.
"Ah….Ah! Alcohol! Bonnie, give her some of your-"
"No! I'm okay with giving stuff to her, but not my drinks!"
Dallas walked to Bonnie and whispered quickly.
"I bet you a keg that you can outdrink a Cloaker. And with the strong stuff too."
Bonnie looked at him with an incredulous look, before beaming with competitive vigor.
"I like that idea! Hey Jacket. Maybe you want to bury the bridge with a few drinks?"
Jacket stood a little confused. Abruptly, he grabbed Bonnie's mask off the floor and shoved it into her hands before pushing the armored door open.
"Okay! More for me!"
