Genosha: In the Balance - Tit for Tat

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

Haller is questioned and his mental state causes an attempt to medicate him. His response provokes a rather sharp reaction.

Warning: Violence, Mention of child death.



"Mister... Haller?" The interrogation room was bare; only a table and a pair of chairs, all anonymously institutional. The chair he was sitting on had slots for restraints, but the guards had simply removed his shackles and left him to sit. A few minutes later, the door opened, and a woman about his age came through the door. Unlike the guards, she wore a suit with an ID badge clipped to her lapel. An open file folder was in one hand, and a briefcase in the other. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting."

It took the room's occupant a moment to respond. He didn't look up from the tabletop until well after the woman had seated herself, and when he did there were a handful of seconds where he appeared to be replaying the last minute or two before responding. When he finally did it was in a slow, oddly flat tone.

"I don't have anywhere to be."

"Well, that will hopefully change very soon." The woman began to pull out papers from the file, arranging them on the table as she sat. "Mister Haller, I'm glad to inform you that you will be released and extradited back to Muir Island shortly. We've contacted UK authorities, who will take charge of you at Heathrow for transportation home to Muir. We just need to complete some paper work, fill in a few details, and you'll be free to go."

The young man gave her a long, blue stare. It wasn't piercing, exactly, but uncomfortably direct. "I don't know why they'd want me," Haller said. His hands had not moved from their position across his lap since he'd first been unshackled. "I'm not a UK citizen. I haven't lived there in years."

"Muir Island is still listed as your treatment centre, Mister Haller. I'm sure they can make arrangements for you once you arrive." She pulled out a pen and swivelled the paper around. "I just need you to sign where I've indicated. Now, I know that you've been listed in residency at your father's private institution for several years. Can you describe briefly what your day to day routine and treatments involved? If you can remember, of course."

Haller didn't even glance down at the paper offered. "I'm an employee. I believe you know this. My own therapist works out of Manhattan and has no affiliation with the Institute." He blinked, very slowly, then added, "Normally my office hours are between 9 and 4."

"Of course you are." The woman said brightly. "So how about that daily routine? Do you know what kind of medication that you're given at the start of each day by the nurse?"

For a long moment there was only silence, then a subtle change entered the detainee's expression. Until now, the affect had been flat as flat as his voice -- totally devoid of expression. Now it became thoughtful, and while his gaze was still direct it was because of focus, not a lack of concern for the other party's comfort.

"You know, our jobs have a lot in common," he said, and the flatness in his voice, too, had been replaced by a certain pensiveness, as if a thought had just occurred to him. "We both work by getting people to talk to us."

"It's always nice to meet new people, and to see old friends. Wouldn't you be glad to see-" She checked her notes. "Moira and Nate again? I bet you will. Now, those pills. Did they have a specific colour? Red or blue maybe?"

"It's not hard. People like to talk about themselves. And if you can't get them to share, you can provoke a reaction by giving them something they want to deny." Haller continued as if she hadn't said anything, but some of the inflection had begun to drain from his voice at the names. Still, he nodded at the folder she was perusing. "Interesting. I never thought of it that way."

"Now Mister Haller. You know very well that questioning someone who is not mentally competent is hardly a priority. With your history of psychological issues, I'm afraid you can't be held responsible for your association with a terrorist group. After all, we're not Texas." She said, with a laugh. "Since you're unfit to be tried and not a Genoshan citizen, our only option is to repatriate you to a facility familiar with your care that doesn't have ties to international terrorism."

The interrogator's parry seemed to extinguish the detainee's brief flicker of engagement. He sat back again, face once more blank as he appeared to consider her words. His eyes drifted down to the paper she'd placed before him.

"That's nice of you," he remarked. "What does my treatment matter?"

"Considering your history of violence, I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable with your proper medication, right?"

His nod was conciliatory. "And self-harm. But I'm not on medication. Currently I rely on cognitive therapy. In the past I had some response to clonazepam as an anti-anxiety."

"I'm afraid that we can't trust that." The woman got up and knocked on the door. Two man came in through the door, dressed in medical whites. "I think a hundred milligrams of thorozine every eight hours is likely best until we get you back on the plane."

Haller offered no response. He watched placidly as the two men fanned out to approach him, one to either side, while the woman returned to her position across from him at the table. Her eyes briefly dropped to her notes, perhaps considering what next to say.

The attack came with speed that came only of blind disregard for personal safety. In an instant the unrestrained prisoner had surged across the table and directly at the interrogator, nearly vaulting off the surface to bear her down with the full weight of his body. They hit the ground hard in a painful tangle of limbs and chair, and though the guards had begun to react the moment he'd made his move his hands were already locked around the interrogator's neck. He held his face inches from hers, his blank expression now a rictus of rage.

"This is what you bring us?" Haller snarled as the contents of the file rained around them, tightening his grip until the woman could feel her pulse pound in her skull. "Go back to Muir? To tell them you murdered their daughter?"

He was not expecting her to bury her pen into the inside of his wrist, paralyzing the nerves as blood sputtered from the puncture. The two guards wrenched him off, almost dislocating his shoulder as they did so. As they hauled him away, the woman leapt to her feet far more smoothly than just a functionary and drove a knuckle punch into his throat and another into his solar plexus. Winded, he had his head wrenched back as she grabbed his hair, and slammed her fist hammer-like down on his face, breaking his nose.

"Fucking terrorist scum. That's just the reaction we expected." A kick exploded in his testicles. "Throw him back into his cell. Take his clothes."

"What about the wound?"

"If he bleeds to death, he bleeds to death." She paused. "Just make sure you get my pen back."

The prisoner didn't reply. After a beating that vicious he could barely move. But he was making a noise: a sickly wheeze that bubbled the blood at his broken nose and mouth. It was briefly interrupted by a fit of vomiting, then returned.

It was laughter.

Still laughing, Haller was dragged away, and his only retort -- a feeble dribble of bloody bile spat at her feet -- didn't even splash her shoes.