http://x_jeangrey.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
x-jeangrey.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
xp_logs2012-05-29 02:14 pm
x-jeangrey.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2012-05-29 02:14 pm
Genosha: In the Balance - Truth from Fiction
Doug is one of the first to be taken in for interrogation. Things do not go very well. Someone else is brought in to persuade him to talk.
Warning: Disturbing content. Torture, waterboarding, violence.
Doug Ramsey sat ramrod straight in a chair in what was clearly an interrogation room - a plain, almost featureless space with a table in its center and two chairs, one more comfortable and clearly for the questioner, one more severe and with eyebolts to attach manacles to, which the guards had swiftly done as they shoved him roughly into it. And then they stood by the door, waiting. Minutes stretched on, and Doug realized that this was part of the play - make him lose track of time, mess with his mind in subtle ways. Well, he'd be damned if he'd let it work. He stared straight ahead, not reacting.
After an indeterminate time, a young man walked in. He looked like Doug's age, possibly younger. Other than his youth, there was nothing distinguishing about him; short brown hair, medium brown eyes, a neatly pressed uniform. He was almost anonymous. The young man took a seat across from Doug, and sipped his coffee.
"Douglas Ramsey. You're not related to the Minnisota Ramseys, are you?"
Doug weighed the benefit of remaining completely mute. He knew that the way interrogations tended to go was that they'd start you out with completely innocuous questions, get you used to answering, and then pull the rug out from under you. "No clue," he grunted after a pregnant pause, making sure to keep his answer as short and vague as possible, and not to volunteer any extra information.
"Hmm." the man made a small, slightly quizzical noise and took another sip of his coffee. "Derek Wolfe was an interesting choice for the Broncos, don't you think? It will shore up their pass rushing, but their offensive line has a lot of key players coming back from injury; Kuper, Clady..."
Ah. Now the attempt to establish rapport and subtly demonstrate just how much they knew about him. Doug shrugged diffidently. "I'm an indifferent football fan at best," he told the other man. He rather doubted his questioner was, either, just a professional who'd done his homework on one Doug Ramsey.
"That's a shame. Not a lot of American football fans around here." He shrugged. "Well, I suppose we should just get to it then. How long have you been associated with the Brotherhood cell in Westchester?"
Game on, then. Doug shook his head. "There is no Brotherhood cell in Westchester." Of course, the best lies were the truths that the listener either could not or would not believe. The Genoshans had 'proven' to themselves that their attackers were in league with the Brotherhood, therefore they -had- to be lying when they said they weren't. The temptation was there to make a smart-aleck 'we have always been at war with the Brotherhood' reference, but this was still the opening moves of the macabre chess game, and he needed to stay ready for whatever came next.
"There have been known associates of the Brotherhood at the facility. Which, come to think of it, was originally co-founded by Magneto. This is merely coincidence?" Doug raised an eyebrow. "You ever hear of a little thing called 'defection'?" He looked across the table at the nondescript man. In a disturbing sort of way, it was like looking in a mirror of what might have been, being interrogated by himself through a mirror darkly.
"That would be an assumption. Normally, you only make those based on evidence that you trust. Considering that your group attacked the head of the Genosha state - what the world would consider a terrorist action - I'm afraid your claim that all of the Brotherhood ties just happen not to be is hard to consider as truth. I'm sure you'd understand, if our roles were reversed." He said mildly. "But let's put that aside for a moment. I see you work as an IT manager for a New York based think tank funded by Frost Enterprises. Owned by businesswoman Emma Frost, who once taught at the Xavier compound. Interesting. Just IT, Mister Ramsey? Mail servers and internet connections?"
"And kidnapping and experimenting on children is what, exactly?" Doug retorted. The memory of Rachel being strapped into the jury-rigged frame while Moreau looked on ghoulishly was still all too fresh in his memory.
"I'm sure that I have no idea what you're talking about."
He took a deep breath to center himself. Getting angry was a reaction. The other man wanted a reaction. He couldn't afford to let them get under his skin. "Manager is just a way of saying I'm the entire IT department," he said more neutrally. "It's a small office, maybe a dozen people, but that keeps me pretty busy."
"And that's all? Simply a normal office job?"
"Well, you seem to have your own preconceived notions that you're looking to validate, so why don't you tell me instead?" Show trials, enforced 'confessions', it was the same throughout all of history. The truth tended to be unbelievable, especially if the 'glorious leader' was good at covering their tracks.
The man's only response was to sip his coffee.
"I will repeat the question. This is simply a normal office job?"
There was a trap somewhere in the question, Doug was sure. But no matter what he said (and even if he said nothing), he had the suspicion that the trap would close on him. He wished he could read the other man's body language. But that too had been taken away from him. "As normal as it gets when your boss is worth millions and rubs elbows with the glitterati at a prestigious downtown club several nights a week." Of course, elbows were the least of what Emma tended to rub with members of the Hellfire Club, but this was like the mental version of a sparring match with Master Lee - redirecting, blunting attacks rather than meeting them head on.
"According to your website, Ms Wanda Maximoff is the acting President of Snow Valley. Are you saying that Emma Frost is involved actively in the day to day? And that your role is not confined solely to IT, but as a support role for Ms Frost directly?"
"Ms. Maximoff is the president, yes. Ms. Frost funds the Centre, so she likes to keep an eye on what her money is yielding. I tend to think of the person signing my paycheck as my boss. And yes, I provide some support to Ms. Frost. In an office that small, most of us tend to wear more than one hat." The questioner was good, and very well prepared. Doug felt himself hard-pressed to keep up. "It's interesting how much attention she's able to divert from her far more complex and significant holdings for a think tank. In most cases, the interaction between the doners and an institute is much less robust." He smiled slightly. "So why don't you tell me what other hats, as you said, that you wear for Ms Frost? Let's say in your average month, what might your duties include?"
"My other duties for Ms. Frost lie in the area of acting as her personal assistant at social obligations." Doug supposed the Hellfire Club counted as that, depending on how you looked at it. He wondered what the man's information on the Club consisted of, since he was sure that there was something about it in their notes.
"Isn't that quite a bit out of the role of an IT Manager? You have no background in communications, administration, or any of the normally related areas found in an executive assistant. And Snow Valley seems to be funded by a single donor and does not hold fund raising functions. So this would presumably be related either to Ms Frost's other business lines, or her private philanthropic activities. Is that correct?" He had begun to take notes, printing in a tight script. "Your personal assistant functions are not directly connected with your work as the IT Manager at Snow Valley?"
Doug shook his head. "All right. You got me. I'm actually Ms. Frost's private boytoy. I go to social functions on her arm because I'm pretty enough to suit her image. My duties serving...under...Ms. Frost have nothing to do with my work at Snow Valley." Let him make of that what he would.
"So you're saying that your additional duties with Ms Frost are primary social and sexual in nature? Is that a correct assessment?" The man made another note, his tone never changing.
"Well, wouldn't you?" Doug asked with a smirk. "I mean, if your tastes don't run the other direction."
"I find workplace relationships to be in appropriate." was the only reaction, as he turned the page over. "Now, Mister Ramsey, I've reviewed the footage of your capture. Not being a fighter myself, I asked one of our hand to hand instructors to watch as well. He's of the opinion that you've been very well trained, equal to that of the American special forces. Your level of physical conditioning is also extremely atypical for your profession."
He stopped and blinked owlishly. "You have no service record and no history of professional athleticism. So it makes me question just who trained you to be such an expert combatant and why have you made it an obvious priority to maintain those skills if all you are is an IT Manager who is sexually exploited by his older employer?"
"I'm a black belt in jiujitsu, and an instructor at my studio." Doug shrugged. "And it's not as atypical as you think. Martial arts is one of the 'acceptable' nerd hobbies." You only realized how much you tended to talk with your hands when they were strapped down, he thought idly. "I'm also a founding member of the Xavier's Institute Fight Club, which, of course, I can't talk about."
"Except none of what you displayed was consistent with jiujitsu or in fact any martial art learned at the retail level, Mister Ramsey. And certainly not at the hobby level. Your skills and conditioning are the equivalent of a special forces soldier at the height of their readiness." Again, the soft voice. "I'm going to ask you again, and I'm going to request that you not lie to me. Who trained you as an expert combatant and why has it been important to maintain those skills?"
Doug leaned forward, as if to admit some dark secret. "Criminals are a cowardly, superstitious lot," he murmured. "I must be a creature of the night, black, terrible..." "So I can assume by your response that you've decided not to cooperate and answer my questions truthfully." He gave Doug a long look and shook his head. "Disappointing, although I suppose to be expected."
The man got up and left, returning a few minutes later with a set of utensils rolled up in a napkin, as found at a cafeteria, a refill for his coffee, and a metal tool box. Two Magistrates followed him in, each one carrying a chair which they set down near Doug.
"Thank you. You can bring in the girl now. Make sure you notify Wittcombe's office as well as Chief Anderson and Minister Moreau." They left, and he started to pull some heavy brackets from the toolbox, like the legs from a disassembled table.
Doug grunted. "Please. You and I both know we were headed here from the beginning. I gave you the truth. It's not my fault you can't or won't believe it. After that, yeah, of course I was going to mouth off." And now they would see just how prepared he was for what he knew had been coming... "Wait. What girl?" he asked, the barest note of uncertainty in his voice.
"I wouldn't concern yourself, Mister Ramsey. You gave me the truth. If that's the case, than there's no reason that further investigation will reveal anything different." He came around the back of Doug's chair, and with a click, removed the back rest from it, leaving him chained into what was now a stool. He bent down and secure the backrest, although Doug couldn't see what his actual movements were, hearing only the metallic clicks.
"However, if it does turn out that you have been lying to me, I will be forced to exam each detail of your life exhaustively. And since you would have already established yourself as a liar and untrustworthy, each element will need to be confirmed through other sources; friends and co-workers. It will be an extremely long and unpleasant process, Mister Ramsey. Hardly preferable to the frank and polite dialogue I hoped we'd have. So, would you like to reconsider your 'true answers' now?"
The bottom of Doug's stomach fell out. He could handle whatever it was they did to him. He was convinced of that. And if a small doubting part of his mind suggested otherwise, it had been outvoted. Friends and co-workers...that was the lever they would use. And it was a good one. He cursed the slip of his tongue in front of Moreau when he had put a gun to Paige's head. But he was committed now. And besides, underneath his doubts, and unwillingness to have his friends used against him, there was one last underlying thought. And that was the rock that would not move.
"I. Am. Not. A. Traitor," he growled at the interrogator.
"Traitor? Traitor to what, Mister Ramsey? I haven't asked you anything that would compromise Snow Valley or the United States? Unless you have an affiliation that you've been hiding? The Brotherhood?" He got up and went to the other chair, taking the back off of it and now that Doug could see, using it to secure the legs to the floor solidly. The pieces from the tool kit were slipped and locked together, and insert between the seat of his chair and the other, so it extended out behind him. He also drew out a large bottle of water from the box and left it on the table. "Ah, no time now."
Terry was brought in, and locked down to the third chair, near the table. One of the guards brushed her hair back, and inserted strange looking earbuds into her ear canals. As they worked, the interrogator took a sip from his new coffee. "Ms Cassidy, can you hear me properly? Those are bone conduction earplugs, so you should be able to hear normally while they are in." The redhead stopped in the doorway, eyes widening in first surprise, then in confusion and fear. She hardly had time to take in the full scope of what the room held before she was jostled from behind and led and secured to the chair. Though not particularly gentle, her guards were not necessarily rough with her either, and Terry even craned her neck to allow them easier access to her ear. She tensed when the plug was first inserted, her face a flickering kaleidoscope of emotions, all undercut by wary tension. She shook her head after the insertion, shoulders hunched up in a shudder at the sensation, then looked up at the interrogator. "Yes," she answered, her voice rough and hoarse sounding.
Either they'd guessed just right, or he'd given away more than he thought. And Doug had no idea which it was. "What is she doing in here?" he asked, trying to make it sound like it wasn't killing him to see her, and know that they were about to make her watch whatever they were going to do to him. And given the size of the water bottle, he had a sinking suspicion as to 'whatever' was.
He couldn't decide whether it would have been better or worse for them to have brought Marie-Ange in instead. At least Marie-Ange had spent time with the Assassins Guild. And she'd seen what had been done to Remy. Terry was an officer of the law, he couldn't imagine what this would be like for her, on top of whatever was happening to her voice and hearing since their powers had been neutralized.
"Mister Ramsey, I'm afraid you had your chance to speak." He said, before pulling Doug backwards until he was supine against the bar, with his upper back on the seat of the second chair. Two straps locked his head in place, and when he tried to struggle, the tip of a spoon had been pressed to his eyelid, promising to remove it if required. The little man's voice never changed; never got agitated or angry or excited. Also that same pleasant, polite, conversational questioning. When Doug was secured, he stepped back, wetting the cloth but leaving it on his chest for now as he returned to the table.
"Now, Ms Cassidy. I would like you to describe Mister Ramsey's duties for me. His job, if you will, as far as you are aware of it."
Terry caught Doug's eyes the moment before he was drug back. The whites of her own grew wider around green irises and her mouth opened in surprise. She didn't know exactly what was shaping up, but she had already seen enough to know they were not following international conventions for the treatment of prisoners. That knowledge did not stop her turn to the interrogator to say harshly, "You cannot do this. There are procedures! Regu--" The spoon silenced her own raspy protests with an audible swallow.
"Technology support," she answered shortly, straining the words out. She pushed herself straighter in her seat, muscles tensed, then, to satisfy the 'as far as she was aware of it' portion, she added "Firewalls, data systems, emails, information retrieval -- I do not know what all is involved in IT." She glanced past him at Doug, then back again to stare. Any one would have prompted a level of cooperation from her, but him... This made no sense.
"And Mister Ramsey's other duties for Ms Frost? Are they limited to serving as her escort to social functions and sexual relations with her, or is there a further dimension?" He said, resuming taking notes.
Her eyes widened slightly and she flicked another quick glance in Doug's direction. "Aye. He stands around parties looking pretty and getting drunk. He might not look it, but he cleans up well enough in a suit." She pushed down the queasy feeling building in the pit of her stomach, focusing on the passage of air through her throat to help.
"And his advanced combat skills and top-level physical conditioning? Where do those skills play into his roles, Ms Cassidy?"
Terry stilled and gave the man a look of disbelief. "If you were escorting Emma Frost, would you not be keeping yourself in top condition too?" she asked, making vocal air quotes around the word 'escorting'.
"You're suggesting that personal combat training of the highest level is explainable as part of his sexual duties to his employer?" The same tone was delivered, earning nothing more than an extra blink.
"I don't know. I'm not invited to their parties," Terry replied softly. She hitched her shoulder up as far as possible and leaned her head over to try and scratch at the canal-deep itch the ear plugs were creating.
"And once again, it seems we're at an impasse regarding the truth. Allow me to explain the next steps. Ms Cassidy, from this point on, any time I think you are lying to me, I will take it out on Mister Ramsey. The further from the truth I believe you are, the longer Mister Ramsey will suffer. And once Mister Ramsey is no longer physically capable of absorbing any more abuse, we will reverse the process with you in his place. If you continue to lie to me, or more importantly, fail to convince me that you're being honest, we will start to add additional people, starting with the other young red-headed co-worker of Mister Ramsey." He got up and knocked on the door, soon after the same pair of guards appearing. "Now, I believe we can get started. Ms Cassidy, can you please explain to me Mister Ramsey's duties. His job, if you will, as far as you are aware of it."
"No, you leave her out of-"
"I do not recall asking your opinion, Mister Ramsey."
Doug shot a wordless plea to Terry with his eyes to not blame herself for what was being done, and not to give them anything on his account. The cloth draping over his face and the sound of a cracking seal on the water bottle were the last things he clearly remembered.
It was not the last thing Terry clearly remembered, no matter how much she wished it had been. When the ear plugs were clawed out of her ears after a last unsatisfactory answer, she was almost relieved to find the last of her hearing gone.
Warning: Disturbing content. Torture, waterboarding, violence.
Doug Ramsey sat ramrod straight in a chair in what was clearly an interrogation room - a plain, almost featureless space with a table in its center and two chairs, one more comfortable and clearly for the questioner, one more severe and with eyebolts to attach manacles to, which the guards had swiftly done as they shoved him roughly into it. And then they stood by the door, waiting. Minutes stretched on, and Doug realized that this was part of the play - make him lose track of time, mess with his mind in subtle ways. Well, he'd be damned if he'd let it work. He stared straight ahead, not reacting.
After an indeterminate time, a young man walked in. He looked like Doug's age, possibly younger. Other than his youth, there was nothing distinguishing about him; short brown hair, medium brown eyes, a neatly pressed uniform. He was almost anonymous. The young man took a seat across from Doug, and sipped his coffee.
"Douglas Ramsey. You're not related to the Minnisota Ramseys, are you?"
Doug weighed the benefit of remaining completely mute. He knew that the way interrogations tended to go was that they'd start you out with completely innocuous questions, get you used to answering, and then pull the rug out from under you. "No clue," he grunted after a pregnant pause, making sure to keep his answer as short and vague as possible, and not to volunteer any extra information.
"Hmm." the man made a small, slightly quizzical noise and took another sip of his coffee. "Derek Wolfe was an interesting choice for the Broncos, don't you think? It will shore up their pass rushing, but their offensive line has a lot of key players coming back from injury; Kuper, Clady..."
Ah. Now the attempt to establish rapport and subtly demonstrate just how much they knew about him. Doug shrugged diffidently. "I'm an indifferent football fan at best," he told the other man. He rather doubted his questioner was, either, just a professional who'd done his homework on one Doug Ramsey.
"That's a shame. Not a lot of American football fans around here." He shrugged. "Well, I suppose we should just get to it then. How long have you been associated with the Brotherhood cell in Westchester?"
Game on, then. Doug shook his head. "There is no Brotherhood cell in Westchester." Of course, the best lies were the truths that the listener either could not or would not believe. The Genoshans had 'proven' to themselves that their attackers were in league with the Brotherhood, therefore they -had- to be lying when they said they weren't. The temptation was there to make a smart-aleck 'we have always been at war with the Brotherhood' reference, but this was still the opening moves of the macabre chess game, and he needed to stay ready for whatever came next.
"There have been known associates of the Brotherhood at the facility. Which, come to think of it, was originally co-founded by Magneto. This is merely coincidence?" Doug raised an eyebrow. "You ever hear of a little thing called 'defection'?" He looked across the table at the nondescript man. In a disturbing sort of way, it was like looking in a mirror of what might have been, being interrogated by himself through a mirror darkly.
"That would be an assumption. Normally, you only make those based on evidence that you trust. Considering that your group attacked the head of the Genosha state - what the world would consider a terrorist action - I'm afraid your claim that all of the Brotherhood ties just happen not to be is hard to consider as truth. I'm sure you'd understand, if our roles were reversed." He said mildly. "But let's put that aside for a moment. I see you work as an IT manager for a New York based think tank funded by Frost Enterprises. Owned by businesswoman Emma Frost, who once taught at the Xavier compound. Interesting. Just IT, Mister Ramsey? Mail servers and internet connections?"
"And kidnapping and experimenting on children is what, exactly?" Doug retorted. The memory of Rachel being strapped into the jury-rigged frame while Moreau looked on ghoulishly was still all too fresh in his memory.
"I'm sure that I have no idea what you're talking about."
He took a deep breath to center himself. Getting angry was a reaction. The other man wanted a reaction. He couldn't afford to let them get under his skin. "Manager is just a way of saying I'm the entire IT department," he said more neutrally. "It's a small office, maybe a dozen people, but that keeps me pretty busy."
"And that's all? Simply a normal office job?"
"Well, you seem to have your own preconceived notions that you're looking to validate, so why don't you tell me instead?" Show trials, enforced 'confessions', it was the same throughout all of history. The truth tended to be unbelievable, especially if the 'glorious leader' was good at covering their tracks.
The man's only response was to sip his coffee.
"I will repeat the question. This is simply a normal office job?"
There was a trap somewhere in the question, Doug was sure. But no matter what he said (and even if he said nothing), he had the suspicion that the trap would close on him. He wished he could read the other man's body language. But that too had been taken away from him. "As normal as it gets when your boss is worth millions and rubs elbows with the glitterati at a prestigious downtown club several nights a week." Of course, elbows were the least of what Emma tended to rub with members of the Hellfire Club, but this was like the mental version of a sparring match with Master Lee - redirecting, blunting attacks rather than meeting them head on.
"According to your website, Ms Wanda Maximoff is the acting President of Snow Valley. Are you saying that Emma Frost is involved actively in the day to day? And that your role is not confined solely to IT, but as a support role for Ms Frost directly?"
"Ms. Maximoff is the president, yes. Ms. Frost funds the Centre, so she likes to keep an eye on what her money is yielding. I tend to think of the person signing my paycheck as my boss. And yes, I provide some support to Ms. Frost. In an office that small, most of us tend to wear more than one hat." The questioner was good, and very well prepared. Doug felt himself hard-pressed to keep up. "It's interesting how much attention she's able to divert from her far more complex and significant holdings for a think tank. In most cases, the interaction between the doners and an institute is much less robust." He smiled slightly. "So why don't you tell me what other hats, as you said, that you wear for Ms Frost? Let's say in your average month, what might your duties include?"
"My other duties for Ms. Frost lie in the area of acting as her personal assistant at social obligations." Doug supposed the Hellfire Club counted as that, depending on how you looked at it. He wondered what the man's information on the Club consisted of, since he was sure that there was something about it in their notes.
"Isn't that quite a bit out of the role of an IT Manager? You have no background in communications, administration, or any of the normally related areas found in an executive assistant. And Snow Valley seems to be funded by a single donor and does not hold fund raising functions. So this would presumably be related either to Ms Frost's other business lines, or her private philanthropic activities. Is that correct?" He had begun to take notes, printing in a tight script. "Your personal assistant functions are not directly connected with your work as the IT Manager at Snow Valley?"
Doug shook his head. "All right. You got me. I'm actually Ms. Frost's private boytoy. I go to social functions on her arm because I'm pretty enough to suit her image. My duties serving...under...Ms. Frost have nothing to do with my work at Snow Valley." Let him make of that what he would.
"So you're saying that your additional duties with Ms Frost are primary social and sexual in nature? Is that a correct assessment?" The man made another note, his tone never changing.
"Well, wouldn't you?" Doug asked with a smirk. "I mean, if your tastes don't run the other direction."
"I find workplace relationships to be in appropriate." was the only reaction, as he turned the page over. "Now, Mister Ramsey, I've reviewed the footage of your capture. Not being a fighter myself, I asked one of our hand to hand instructors to watch as well. He's of the opinion that you've been very well trained, equal to that of the American special forces. Your level of physical conditioning is also extremely atypical for your profession."
He stopped and blinked owlishly. "You have no service record and no history of professional athleticism. So it makes me question just who trained you to be such an expert combatant and why have you made it an obvious priority to maintain those skills if all you are is an IT Manager who is sexually exploited by his older employer?"
"I'm a black belt in jiujitsu, and an instructor at my studio." Doug shrugged. "And it's not as atypical as you think. Martial arts is one of the 'acceptable' nerd hobbies." You only realized how much you tended to talk with your hands when they were strapped down, he thought idly. "I'm also a founding member of the Xavier's Institute Fight Club, which, of course, I can't talk about."
"Except none of what you displayed was consistent with jiujitsu or in fact any martial art learned at the retail level, Mister Ramsey. And certainly not at the hobby level. Your skills and conditioning are the equivalent of a special forces soldier at the height of their readiness." Again, the soft voice. "I'm going to ask you again, and I'm going to request that you not lie to me. Who trained you as an expert combatant and why has it been important to maintain those skills?"
Doug leaned forward, as if to admit some dark secret. "Criminals are a cowardly, superstitious lot," he murmured. "I must be a creature of the night, black, terrible..." "So I can assume by your response that you've decided not to cooperate and answer my questions truthfully." He gave Doug a long look and shook his head. "Disappointing, although I suppose to be expected."
The man got up and left, returning a few minutes later with a set of utensils rolled up in a napkin, as found at a cafeteria, a refill for his coffee, and a metal tool box. Two Magistrates followed him in, each one carrying a chair which they set down near Doug.
"Thank you. You can bring in the girl now. Make sure you notify Wittcombe's office as well as Chief Anderson and Minister Moreau." They left, and he started to pull some heavy brackets from the toolbox, like the legs from a disassembled table.
Doug grunted. "Please. You and I both know we were headed here from the beginning. I gave you the truth. It's not my fault you can't or won't believe it. After that, yeah, of course I was going to mouth off." And now they would see just how prepared he was for what he knew had been coming... "Wait. What girl?" he asked, the barest note of uncertainty in his voice.
"I wouldn't concern yourself, Mister Ramsey. You gave me the truth. If that's the case, than there's no reason that further investigation will reveal anything different." He came around the back of Doug's chair, and with a click, removed the back rest from it, leaving him chained into what was now a stool. He bent down and secure the backrest, although Doug couldn't see what his actual movements were, hearing only the metallic clicks.
"However, if it does turn out that you have been lying to me, I will be forced to exam each detail of your life exhaustively. And since you would have already established yourself as a liar and untrustworthy, each element will need to be confirmed through other sources; friends and co-workers. It will be an extremely long and unpleasant process, Mister Ramsey. Hardly preferable to the frank and polite dialogue I hoped we'd have. So, would you like to reconsider your 'true answers' now?"
The bottom of Doug's stomach fell out. He could handle whatever it was they did to him. He was convinced of that. And if a small doubting part of his mind suggested otherwise, it had been outvoted. Friends and co-workers...that was the lever they would use. And it was a good one. He cursed the slip of his tongue in front of Moreau when he had put a gun to Paige's head. But he was committed now. And besides, underneath his doubts, and unwillingness to have his friends used against him, there was one last underlying thought. And that was the rock that would not move.
"I. Am. Not. A. Traitor," he growled at the interrogator.
"Traitor? Traitor to what, Mister Ramsey? I haven't asked you anything that would compromise Snow Valley or the United States? Unless you have an affiliation that you've been hiding? The Brotherhood?" He got up and went to the other chair, taking the back off of it and now that Doug could see, using it to secure the legs to the floor solidly. The pieces from the tool kit were slipped and locked together, and insert between the seat of his chair and the other, so it extended out behind him. He also drew out a large bottle of water from the box and left it on the table. "Ah, no time now."
Terry was brought in, and locked down to the third chair, near the table. One of the guards brushed her hair back, and inserted strange looking earbuds into her ear canals. As they worked, the interrogator took a sip from his new coffee. "Ms Cassidy, can you hear me properly? Those are bone conduction earplugs, so you should be able to hear normally while they are in." The redhead stopped in the doorway, eyes widening in first surprise, then in confusion and fear. She hardly had time to take in the full scope of what the room held before she was jostled from behind and led and secured to the chair. Though not particularly gentle, her guards were not necessarily rough with her either, and Terry even craned her neck to allow them easier access to her ear. She tensed when the plug was first inserted, her face a flickering kaleidoscope of emotions, all undercut by wary tension. She shook her head after the insertion, shoulders hunched up in a shudder at the sensation, then looked up at the interrogator. "Yes," she answered, her voice rough and hoarse sounding.
Either they'd guessed just right, or he'd given away more than he thought. And Doug had no idea which it was. "What is she doing in here?" he asked, trying to make it sound like it wasn't killing him to see her, and know that they were about to make her watch whatever they were going to do to him. And given the size of the water bottle, he had a sinking suspicion as to 'whatever' was.
He couldn't decide whether it would have been better or worse for them to have brought Marie-Ange in instead. At least Marie-Ange had spent time with the Assassins Guild. And she'd seen what had been done to Remy. Terry was an officer of the law, he couldn't imagine what this would be like for her, on top of whatever was happening to her voice and hearing since their powers had been neutralized.
"Mister Ramsey, I'm afraid you had your chance to speak." He said, before pulling Doug backwards until he was supine against the bar, with his upper back on the seat of the second chair. Two straps locked his head in place, and when he tried to struggle, the tip of a spoon had been pressed to his eyelid, promising to remove it if required. The little man's voice never changed; never got agitated or angry or excited. Also that same pleasant, polite, conversational questioning. When Doug was secured, he stepped back, wetting the cloth but leaving it on his chest for now as he returned to the table.
"Now, Ms Cassidy. I would like you to describe Mister Ramsey's duties for me. His job, if you will, as far as you are aware of it."
Terry caught Doug's eyes the moment before he was drug back. The whites of her own grew wider around green irises and her mouth opened in surprise. She didn't know exactly what was shaping up, but she had already seen enough to know they were not following international conventions for the treatment of prisoners. That knowledge did not stop her turn to the interrogator to say harshly, "You cannot do this. There are procedures! Regu--" The spoon silenced her own raspy protests with an audible swallow.
"Technology support," she answered shortly, straining the words out. She pushed herself straighter in her seat, muscles tensed, then, to satisfy the 'as far as she was aware of it' portion, she added "Firewalls, data systems, emails, information retrieval -- I do not know what all is involved in IT." She glanced past him at Doug, then back again to stare. Any one would have prompted a level of cooperation from her, but him... This made no sense.
"And Mister Ramsey's other duties for Ms Frost? Are they limited to serving as her escort to social functions and sexual relations with her, or is there a further dimension?" He said, resuming taking notes.
Her eyes widened slightly and she flicked another quick glance in Doug's direction. "Aye. He stands around parties looking pretty and getting drunk. He might not look it, but he cleans up well enough in a suit." She pushed down the queasy feeling building in the pit of her stomach, focusing on the passage of air through her throat to help.
"And his advanced combat skills and top-level physical conditioning? Where do those skills play into his roles, Ms Cassidy?"
Terry stilled and gave the man a look of disbelief. "If you were escorting Emma Frost, would you not be keeping yourself in top condition too?" she asked, making vocal air quotes around the word 'escorting'.
"You're suggesting that personal combat training of the highest level is explainable as part of his sexual duties to his employer?" The same tone was delivered, earning nothing more than an extra blink.
"I don't know. I'm not invited to their parties," Terry replied softly. She hitched her shoulder up as far as possible and leaned her head over to try and scratch at the canal-deep itch the ear plugs were creating.
"And once again, it seems we're at an impasse regarding the truth. Allow me to explain the next steps. Ms Cassidy, from this point on, any time I think you are lying to me, I will take it out on Mister Ramsey. The further from the truth I believe you are, the longer Mister Ramsey will suffer. And once Mister Ramsey is no longer physically capable of absorbing any more abuse, we will reverse the process with you in his place. If you continue to lie to me, or more importantly, fail to convince me that you're being honest, we will start to add additional people, starting with the other young red-headed co-worker of Mister Ramsey." He got up and knocked on the door, soon after the same pair of guards appearing. "Now, I believe we can get started. Ms Cassidy, can you please explain to me Mister Ramsey's duties. His job, if you will, as far as you are aware of it."
"No, you leave her out of-"
"I do not recall asking your opinion, Mister Ramsey."
Doug shot a wordless plea to Terry with his eyes to not blame herself for what was being done, and not to give them anything on his account. The cloth draping over his face and the sound of a cracking seal on the water bottle were the last things he clearly remembered.
It was not the last thing Terry clearly remembered, no matter how much she wished it had been. When the ear plugs were clawed out of her ears after a last unsatisfactory answer, she was almost relieved to find the last of her hearing gone.