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xp_logs2012-06-01 02:50 pm
x-jeangrey.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2012-06-01 02:50 pm
Genosha: In the Balance - Muted
Deafened and losing her voice due to the suppression of her abilities, a worn down Terry reveals important information to her interrogator.
For a moment, Terry's breathing was the only sound in the room -- strained and edging toward wheezing as she pulled air in and out through her stiffening vocal folds. The pad in front of her was covered in writing, but for the moment her hands were empty and gripped the edge of the chair between her knees while she sat and stared at the interrogator and tried to keep from weaving in place. The vertigo had become almost as persistent a companion as her sensory loss.
A plastic cup of water appeared in front of her, placed there by the Genoshan Magistrate who had come in.
You seem to be having some discomfort, he wrote on his own notepad. Do you need medical aid?
Terry almost laughed at that question. After days of interrogation and gradually increasing sensory deprivation, she feared that medical aid was too late for what ever the loss of her powers was doing to her body. She tried to clear her throat, and only managed a short, half-choked cough before reaching for the water with a glance at the interrogator for permission. Or perhaps to see if he would pull it away at the last minute, as she would have expected from the other interrogator. Apparently, her earlier answers earned her some leniancy, because she was allowed to drain the glass. She swallowed each mouthful slowly and with care, then shook her head to indicate either an answer or resignation to his question.
I apologise for the handling. Some of my colleagues are upset, grieving. The Magistrate's handwriting was firm, fast without being illegible. But you have been most cooperative. It is appreciated.
Terry reached for the pad of paper and scribbled out a reply. They aren't the only ones.
There was a pause and then the man wrote: Yes. That should never have happened. Believe me, we do not want any further deaths. We only want to be safe.
You should have independent observers if you want safe, Terry wrote, then put the pen down and twisted her fingers together. She moved gingerly, afraid of triggering a less congenial response. The repeated questionings and confinement and isolation had worn her down.
You are safe now. With me. He didn't smile, but there was a concerned look on his face. I can help you, Terry.
Terry scooped up the pen and scratched out the wordWhy?, the impression in the paper going deep. Real anger seeped through her resignation, flashing color high on her cheeks. But anger was not going to help, and they were not going to believe defiance. She exhaled, then stretched her fingers out before picking up the pen again and adding with less pressure, You can't help. None of us are safe.
I can help, Terry. In contrast to her angry digging into the paper, his words flowed smoothly across the page. I can help you if you help me. And you want to help, don't you, Terry?
Want to go home. The words were stark and simple, and Terry realized just how much she meant them. The force of the longing brought tears to her eyes.
Soon. If you cooperate. The Magistrate paused, and then went on. Sooner if you can think of something more we should know.
Terry almost snorted at that line. She caught herself just in time and glanced at the interrogator out of the corner of her eye, trying to read his expression. When she caught his eye she gestured at her ears and lips and shook her head, then wrote, Know about what? She put the pen down, then braced her forehead with her hand and fought against a wave of vertigo.
He frowned and shook his head. Disappointing, Terry. I thought you understood how things work here. I can help you, but you have to give me something in exchange. He lay down the pen and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms across his chest.
You said more. Don't know what know to know more. Terry tensed, pulling her shoulder up to her ear and rubbing at it.
He sat and looked at her for a long moment, still frowning, before at last reaching for the pen again: Don't play dumb, Terry. We know your people are planning something.
Terry looked up, a stricken expression on her face. How? Her pen paused, and she frowned for a moment before continuing, No more torture.
He nodded. No more torture. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at her.
Terry returned his look for another long moment, lips crimped together. "Set fire. Escape," she managed to whisper, leaning toward him to help her voice carry between them.
His face went blank, eyes boring into hers. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic case containing a set of ear plugs. "Good," he said, sliding them over the table to her. "When?"
Despite not having them in yet, Terry knew what the next question was. The entire conversation was like a dance, choreographed by the need for information. She fumbled with the case, the shaking in her hands not a symptom but a result, and tapped the buds out into her palm as she croaked, "Tomorrow."
For a moment, Terry's breathing was the only sound in the room -- strained and edging toward wheezing as she pulled air in and out through her stiffening vocal folds. The pad in front of her was covered in writing, but for the moment her hands were empty and gripped the edge of the chair between her knees while she sat and stared at the interrogator and tried to keep from weaving in place. The vertigo had become almost as persistent a companion as her sensory loss.
A plastic cup of water appeared in front of her, placed there by the Genoshan Magistrate who had come in.
You seem to be having some discomfort, he wrote on his own notepad. Do you need medical aid?
Terry almost laughed at that question. After days of interrogation and gradually increasing sensory deprivation, she feared that medical aid was too late for what ever the loss of her powers was doing to her body. She tried to clear her throat, and only managed a short, half-choked cough before reaching for the water with a glance at the interrogator for permission. Or perhaps to see if he would pull it away at the last minute, as she would have expected from the other interrogator. Apparently, her earlier answers earned her some leniancy, because she was allowed to drain the glass. She swallowed each mouthful slowly and with care, then shook her head to indicate either an answer or resignation to his question.
I apologise for the handling. Some of my colleagues are upset, grieving. The Magistrate's handwriting was firm, fast without being illegible. But you have been most cooperative. It is appreciated.
Terry reached for the pad of paper and scribbled out a reply. They aren't the only ones.
There was a pause and then the man wrote: Yes. That should never have happened. Believe me, we do not want any further deaths. We only want to be safe.
You should have independent observers if you want safe, Terry wrote, then put the pen down and twisted her fingers together. She moved gingerly, afraid of triggering a less congenial response. The repeated questionings and confinement and isolation had worn her down.
You are safe now. With me. He didn't smile, but there was a concerned look on his face. I can help you, Terry.
Terry scooped up the pen and scratched out the wordWhy?, the impression in the paper going deep. Real anger seeped through her resignation, flashing color high on her cheeks. But anger was not going to help, and they were not going to believe defiance. She exhaled, then stretched her fingers out before picking up the pen again and adding with less pressure, You can't help. None of us are safe.
I can help, Terry. In contrast to her angry digging into the paper, his words flowed smoothly across the page. I can help you if you help me. And you want to help, don't you, Terry?
Want to go home. The words were stark and simple, and Terry realized just how much she meant them. The force of the longing brought tears to her eyes.
Soon. If you cooperate. The Magistrate paused, and then went on. Sooner if you can think of something more we should know.
Terry almost snorted at that line. She caught herself just in time and glanced at the interrogator out of the corner of her eye, trying to read his expression. When she caught his eye she gestured at her ears and lips and shook her head, then wrote, Know about what? She put the pen down, then braced her forehead with her hand and fought against a wave of vertigo.
He frowned and shook his head. Disappointing, Terry. I thought you understood how things work here. I can help you, but you have to give me something in exchange. He lay down the pen and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms across his chest.
You said more. Don't know what know to know more. Terry tensed, pulling her shoulder up to her ear and rubbing at it.
He sat and looked at her for a long moment, still frowning, before at last reaching for the pen again: Don't play dumb, Terry. We know your people are planning something.
Terry looked up, a stricken expression on her face. How? Her pen paused, and she frowned for a moment before continuing, No more torture.
He nodded. No more torture. He raised his eyebrows expectantly at her.
Terry returned his look for another long moment, lips crimped together. "Set fire. Escape," she managed to whisper, leaning toward him to help her voice carry between them.
His face went blank, eyes boring into hers. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic case containing a set of ear plugs. "Good," he said, sliding them over the table to her. "When?"
Despite not having them in yet, Terry knew what the next question was. The entire conversation was like a dance, choreographed by the need for information. She fumbled with the case, the shaking in her hands not a symptom but a result, and tapped the buds out into her palm as she croaked, "Tomorrow."