Author's Note: Yeah, I had to research interrogation techniques to write this stuff. Hope I got it pretty good. Lots of hotel stuff still to do!

Enjoy!

It was James T. Gardell's job to ask questions.

That's what he kept telling himself, as he approached the office of his superior. This was his job. To protect his country by asking questions. Leave the army-people to do the following-orders and the obeying-commands! If Gardell thought something was being done wrong, he should speak out against it!

He'd still selected a time when the Director's secretary was out for lunch, though. And when there were a minimal number of other people around to hear him — in case he failed.

Gardell adjusted his tie. Then knocked on the door.

"Enter."

He came in, and the Director looked up at him. He seemed vaguely annoyed, although perhaps that was only because he seemed extremely busy.

"Oh, good," the Director said. Pulled out a form, began jotting down notes on it. "Shipped Summers over the Atlantic? Now the real trouble begins. Ria Hiskaloph — I want to know about her. Concrete information. Her organization has too many government ties, Gardell, that's the problem. We've been watching them for years, but the Pentagon won't let us send an agent undercover. And all our efforts to circumvent them come to nothing."

"Actually, about Summers," Gardell cut in. "I thought we should keep her here, Director, sir."

The Director paused in his work. Looked up at Gardell with a withering expression. "She's a terrorist. The United States does not act as a safe-haven for foreign terrorists. If she's committed a crime in Britain, she's going back to Britain."

"I know that, sir," said Gardell. "And we will send her back. But… this terrorist activity. Involving the children. It's affecting our children, too. And the Brits are keeping their mouths shut about what's causing it."

The Director took this in. Thoughtfully.

"We've got a ticking-time-bomb situation, here," said Gardell, stepping forwards. "This Torchwood terrorist group Summers is involved with — they're doing something to children. American children. If we give her up, now…"

"…we might only find out what's going on when it's too late to stop it," the Director realized. He processed it, carefully. "The Brits aren't gonna like this."

"Summers has committed an act of terror against the American people, not just the British," Gardell argued. "We have just as much right to interrogate her here, as an American terrorist, as they do over there, as a British one. And you can tell MI-5 that we'll pass on any secrets we discover."

The Director sighed. Then, "You have 24 hours. Get something out of her that we can use. If we can't, it's up to the Brits."

"Understood, sir."

And Gardell knew he had less time even than that. Because, in a situation like this one, anything could happen in the next 24 hours.

Anything at all.

Buffy didn't know what day it was.

Didn't know what time it was.

Just knew that the annoying guy in the suit who called himself Gardell kept coming in and asking her questions, always in that same calm, completely-in-control voice.

At least he was calm.

"What do you mean, I'm a terrorist?!" Buffy shouted. "Do you know how many times I've saved the world?"

Gardell was unfazed by her outburst. Calm and collected, no matter what she did. "Your associates have already confessed," Gardell said. "They say you're the mastermind behind the whole scheme. We're just trying to get your side of the story, before we convict you."

"What 'whole scheme'?" Buffy said. "What the hell are you talking about?" She leaned forwards. "Look, something's going on out there! It's a conspiracy! I'm getting framed."

"How so?" Gardell asked.

Which was even worse, because Buffy had no idea.

Was having trouble remembering what had happened yesterday… or even what had happened across her entire life, leading up to now. It kept spinning in and out of her mind, all weird and wobbly and confusing…

"I'm not a terrorist!" Buffy went back to shouting.

At least she knew she was on solid ground with that one.

"I'm perfectly prepared to believe you," said Gardell, in that totally-in-control way he had, looking at her like he was picking apart her every gesture and analyzing it in detail. "Why don't you tell me the whole story. From the beginning?"

She tried her best.

Right up until the moment the headaches struck, again. Ripping through her brain.

And Buffy collapsed.

"What happened?" Gardell asked the doctor exiting the examination room.

"We… don't know," the doctor replied. He checked his clipboard. "She claimed it was some kind of tumor. But we looked through the medical file you gave us, and found no evidence of that."

"Is she on narcotics?" Gardell asked. "Drugs of any kind? Anything that could affect her—?"

The doctor shook his head. "She's clean. It could be a long-term illness. Or some other disease. We'll know more when her test results come back."

With only 24 hours, though, Gardell didn't have time to wait.

And his deadline just kept getting stepped up. While Summers was being treated for whatever had made her collapse, Gardell had received word: the children had spoken, again. With a new message.

"We are coming tomorrow," they had announced.

When Summers was released by the doctors, Gardell gave her an hour to sleep off the effects of whatever had happened.

Then he got back to the interrogation.

Except… for some reason… when he resumed it… everything had suddenly changed.

"Let's go over this again, Ms. Summers," said Gardell, across the table from her. "You're a part of this… 'Torchwood'. Correct?"

Summers was now huddled over in her chair. Back arched, head drooped. Her eyes lingering on the floor. Hair draped over her face, so he couldn't even see her eyes.

Completely different stance to how she'd been, before.

"I don't know," Summers answered.

"You don't know?" said Gardell. "Last time, you told us…" he checked his notes, and quoted, "'I'm not a terrorist; they're trying to kill me because I work for Torchwood.'"

Summers frowned. "I think… that's right." Gritted her teeth. "My memories keep… fading in and out. Like something I can't grab."

Gardell examined Summers, carefully. Taking in her body-language and appearance. The signals she wasn't speaking out loud. The way she seemed to be sealing herself off from him.

She was acting detached and confused.

But… not the way you'd expect someone who'd been drugged to act.

"Yes," Summers decided, at last. "Yes, I… work for Torchwood. Or… I'm almost completely positive I work for Torchwood. I think. Part-time."

Gardell nodded.

"But it's not a terrorist group," Summers continued. "We save the world."

"I see," said Gardell. He'd gotten this line of reasoning from many terrorists before. People who'd decided the best way to save the world was to plant a bomb that would murder thousands. "You 'save the world'. And how do you do that, exactly?"

Summers didn't answer. Just gave a distant, distracted laugh. "Apocalypse-preventer number one. Slayer extraordinaire. That's me. I save stuff. Except Alison. She's dead. She's dead, and I couldn't save her."

Summers had dropped that term a number of times, too. 'Slayer'. Which associated her with Hiskaloph's group, who called themselves 'Slayers', as well.

"You're right," said Gardell. Putting on his best tough-face. "Alison Korjensky, age 19, terrorist and radical, recruited to your team at your request. Now dead. Because of you." His eyes bore into Summers. "Your headquarters is in ruins. Your associates have been caught and detained by the British government, and your plan's backfired."

This wasn't strictly true, but it certainly got a reaction out of her.

Summers shot up her head. Regarding him, distantly.

"They're… they've been…?" Summers shook her head. "I don't understand. I thought… Gwen and Ianto were…" She frowned. "What… what day is it?"

"I think you know," Gardell replied.

Best to keep her on her toes.

It wasn't a lie, but… well, if she thought whatever Torchwood was planning had already happened, yesterday, Gardell knew he could get more out of her. She'd talk about it as if he knew the plan, itself, and all of it was established fact.

"You've failed, Summers," Gardell told her. "Failed completely. Your plan was a joke. A laughing stock. Your friends have all turned you in, and you've been set up as the fall guy. So if you want to save any face at all, I think you'd better come clean."

Summers didn't answer.

"What was your role in this?" Gardell demanded, in a hard voice. "What part did you play in Torchwood's plan with the children?"

He was expecting her to get defensive. To jump up and shout at him, the way she'd done before. To become flustered and screaming, shouting about conspiracies and set ups.

But this time, she was… distant. Confused.

And the body-language seemed genuine. Not drugged or sluggish, just… wrong, somehow. It was utterly bizarre.

What was this?

An act?

"My children?" Summers asked. "I… don't think I have any. Or…" She put a hand up to her head. Confused. "No, I do, but they're… I mean, I thought they were off in school in California, or…"

She trailed off.

"Unison," Summers said, at last. "All the children were speaking in unison. I remember that."

"Yes," Gardell said. "Telling the world that you and your group were coming. A scare tactic. It didn't work. You're done, Summers. Torchwood's gone. It's all over."

"I remember that," Summers said, not even seeming to hear his words. "When the children all stopped. I called up Michael, and he'd seen it, too, on his way to work, when…" She stopped. Frowned. Then shook her head. "Sorry, that… I don't know why I said that. Michael… a boyfriend of mine. He died a long time ago."

This was getting him nowhere.

Here he was, with Summers — the terrorist on every catch-list in the world — and what was he getting? One interrogation filled with accounts of demons and witchcraft and conspiracies. Followed by a complete character change, as she began to turn spacey and confused, unable to even give a coherent answer!

"Like Alison," said Summers. "She died. I let her die."

Could be a long-term illness. Gardell doubted it. Summers' convulsions had been timed a little too precisely for his liking. It couldn't be a coincidence.

But the character change seemed real enough.

Shock, perhaps. Maybe the previous interrogation had reminded her about this Alison Korjensky of hers. The two had clearly been close. The memory of losing Alison seemed to have tipped Summers over the edge.

Or some perception-altering substance. Something his team hadn't managed to trace, yet. Something unlike any drug he'd seen, before.

Gardell got up from the table.

No point in going on with the interrogation, while Summers was still in the midst of… whatever-this-was. Whatever she knew, she wasn't in any state to tell it, at the moment.

A look of intense concentration washed across Summers' face. "Children of Earth," she muttered. "He said that. I'd forgotten. Back in Sunnydale — he said two-thirds of Earth's children would be lost, and I wouldn't be able to stop it."

The information came so abruptly out of nowhere, Gardell almost let his mask slip.

But checked himself, just in time.

Leaned against the table, making it all seem natural. As if he'd stood up for dramatic effect. Making sure it was clear he was in control, and knew everything.

"Who said?" Gardell asked.

"A time traveler," said Summers. A smile lit up her face. "He was so sweet. Sometimes, when I look up at the sky, I think about him and…" The smile fell. "And…" Her lips twitched down into a frown. "And nothing. I don't know. It's dark, so dark, and I can't get out. I can't… I just can't…" Her breathing grew frantic. "You won't let me out? Please don't let me out. Don't send me back!"

Gardell kept his exterior steady.

But inside, something hopeful fell back to disappointment.

There was certainly no getting anything out of her during this session.

"We'll finish this later, Summers," Gardell said. Heading out to the door. "But I can't bargain a more lenient sentence unless you tell me the truth. Gwen Cooper, Ianto Jones, and Jack Harkness have all pointed the finger at you. I'm the only friend you have left." He looked back over his shoulder. "Remember that."

Then he left.