bakerstreet | The Interrogation Meme

[Thane is a patient man; he's comfortable with the waiting and watching associated with his job. He's the steady hands and professional mannerism to handle the brutality of assassination, every single day of his life.

None of this means he enjoys brutalizing someone whose age mirrors his son's. Thane watches the Troll, bound up to the chair, bloody. So far, he hasn't said much.]

Tell me what I want to hear, and I will release you.

[He uses the tip of his rifle to hook Eridan's chin and force his gaze up.]

Tell me where to find Feferi Peixes.

[Eridan's glare meets Thane's and he sneers, lips curled up to show off purple-blood tinted fangs. He leans back in the chair away from the rifle's end.]

Howw about I tell you wwhere to find the nearest fuckin' bridge so you can jump off it.

[His laughter is brittle and pained sounding.

It's going to take more than some love taps to make him snitch on his moirail, of all trolls. The great Orphaner Dualscar would never give into such brutal tactics. And neither will his ancestor. At least that's what Eridan tells himself.]

[When the run is fired the barrel is dangerously close to the tip of Ampora's gill; the sound deafening at such short range. The man didn't so much as blink. His ink-black eyes starred, dark and empty. Perhaps it would surprise the royal troll to see how little pleasure Thane took in his task.

He leaned in close, invading Eridan's space with his heat and scent, and brought the sizzling-hot barrel of the gun closer and closer to the youth's cheek.]

Make this easy on yourself, boy. Tell me what I need to know. I will hurt you only if I must.

[Eridan can't help the yell of shock that erupts from his abused vocal chords, but he stays still, defiant, staring down the older alien with a look that can only be described as menacing and promising.]

Make it easy on yourself, bulgemunch. Let me the fuck go, an' I'll cull you quickly.

[He does his best not to jerk away from the barrel, not letting his captor see the fear that lurks in the corners of his eyes. Fef would find some way to get him out of this. She had to. ...And if she doesn't, then he'd go down fighting, as a real descendent of Dualscar.

It would surprise him to know that Thane wasn't gaining any cheap thrills from this, but then again, living in Alternia tends to warp your view of things like this.]

[They were letting her see him, but it's clear when she comes in the room that she's pretty pissed at him. Her lips pursed, she sits opposite the possible criminal.]

Why did you do that. Why?

[He doesn't see a giraffe anywhere.

Tony just holds up his handcuffed hands in front of him, attempting a shrug.]

Pep, you're going to have to be more specific. I've done a lot of things.

[She frowns at him, crossing her arms. Her face goes into a scowl.]

Tony, they gave me fifteen minutes. Now get it out or you're going to jail.

Fuck, guess I'm going to jail then. Because I didn't do anything.

[Tony just laughs dryly. Clearly, no one explained to him that this wasn't actually an elaborate prank.]

Come on, Pep. Trust me on this one thing. When have I ever let you down? Except for... y'know, that one time in Morocco.

They told me you broke into a zoo, let out a giraffe and a tiger.

[Glaring.]

What the fuck is going on?

((also available in mcu flavour.))

[When Sharon wakes up, she'll find herself tied to a chair by both her legs and her hands. Steve had ordered his men to bring Nick Fury to him, since intel had reached him that made trapping the SHIELD director possible

Instead, they'd brought her. Sharon Carter. She didn't even know he was alive, and he hadn't seen her since the day she'd apparently killed him.

It probably would've been easier if he never saw her again, he'd thought. After all he planned to make Fury tell him where his and Sharon';s children were. Instead, he was sitting across from her, waiting for her to wake up, and wondering what he was going to say to her.

She hated him and he knew it. To say that was a shame didn't even begin to cover it.]

Edited 2012-11-23 05:58 (UTC)

[she can sense she's tied up even before the veil of darkness is lifted from her head. her hands bound behind her back, she slowly moves her fingers, at least to get a baring of the situation at hand. the toes in her boots slowly move as well, finding that her legs were secured to the chair. despite the struggles and hardships she's had to endure, the past eight years have been kind to sharon carter. barely a wrinkle or gray hair graces her and it all has to do with her not wanting to look or seem old. old equals to weakness and that equals to lost of respect and even death.

sensing that someone else was there, she lets out a soft noise to indicate that she was, at least, waking up. she lifts her head up, enough that, when she casts her gaze up, she can completely see the other person.

my god. that's... that's impossible. he's supposed to be dead. she killed him herself; BANG, pulled the trigger, watched as the blood pooled around his body into a large mirror, and saw the light die in his eyes. even if he couldn't see it because of her hanging blond curls, her jaw clenched and her eyes hardened. even if she could never forgive him for what he did, she could at least take solace in the fact that he knew he had lost his country and that the woman he loved hated him, his children was lost, and that he was dead.]

[He might not be able to see her expression (and he was tempted to reach out brush the hair from her eyes; he almost did it, too, almost touched her like he had when they'd been together), he still forces himself to meet her gaze with hardened eyes. It would be difficult, he knew, but she didn't need to know much even seeing her again hurt him.]

Funny, I asked for Nick Fury, and they bring me you instead. Got you to take his place at the last minute, right? [Maybe this'll be easier, if they just talk business and not about what happened. He doesn't even want to talk about how she killed him, either.]

[even after the shock of seeing him, sharon's still able to hit him with a snide remark;] hm, sorry to disappoint, but you'll have to settle for little, ole me.

[she very purposely "forgets" to mention that she is nick fury now. that, in the eight years that have transpired, that nick fury has become much more than a name; it's become a threat, a magic key that can open anything. the name has become more of a mask, and one can simply put it on and become it. she looks up at him.]

[Yeah, two people can play at that game, he smirks right back at her.] Not disappointed. You've still got lots of useful intel. [And then he can't help it, so he does reach out and brush her hair aside so he can better see her face, and his touch is gentle.] Might take a while, though...

[she moves away from his touch. just the thought of him touching her, made her stomach churn.] happy to see me then? relieved? you're dumber than you look if you think i'm going to give you any information.

[He pulls his hand away, trying to hide his frown.] Why should I be? Not much point, since you killed me and took my kids away.

[There's a brief pause, and he doesn't expect a straight or even honest answer, but he asks her anyway:] What'd you do with them?

[her face remains its natural, stoic veneer.] that's none of your concern. next question. [brow quirked, she looks at him, expectantly.]

[One hand becomes a fist and he so wants to hit her... after everything, because he knows she hates him, he knows nothing he can do will ever change that, so what difference does it even make?

He doesn't though.] You'd say that about every question I'll ask. I could say they're my kids, too, but I doubt that'll make a difference to you.

nope. [her answer is quick and crisp. her next reply, though, is slow and forceful, only to emphasize her point;] next question or i'll start asking.

[i.e. how is he alive? how long has he been back? how is he alive? what has he done? and, most importantly, how is he alive? she didn't have to know because she's the director of shield (spoiler), but because his very existence threatened everything that she had spent the past eight years building; all the good things she, shield, the avengers, asgard, and the governments of the world have done. and in all one swift swipe, steve threatens to knock that all down.]

[He regards her for a moment, then:] How bout a trade? I'll answer one of yours and you answer one of mine. Might even give you a free question to start with.

your generosity is one to marvel at, truly. [she huffs out a frustrated sigh, eyeing the table separating them like an ocean.]

let's just skip to the end, shall we? i'm not answering your questions, release me, and, oh, go fuck yourself. [perhaps not the most eloquent thing sharon could have said, but, sometimes, vulgarity covers what modesty cannot. and, perhaps, not a statement worthy of her position, but she wasn't relying on her position here. as far as steve's aware of, she's still sharon carter, agent 13 of shield, not sharon carter/nick fury, director of shield. it simplifies things.]

[He leans back in his seat; she really didn't seem all that different. And for a moment he's silent, he knows things are going to have to get more extreme is he wants anything from her.] Were you happy? [He's certain she'll know when he was talking about.] More than you are now, I mean.

[his question actually catches her off-guard, and gives her whip-lash as she goes back to it.] that wasn't me. and that's a stupid question, fyi. [she raises her chin, determinedly.] were you happy? of course. you only had to blackmail then brainwash someone to get there.

[the words are spit from her mouth with acid and the whole stoic façade she was portraying earlier is crumbling from anger, sorrow, and rage.]

[He looked away because he couldn't look at her, not when she looked like that.] No, not really, not all the time, not once you-- [He stops; it was an honest answer. He'd only been happy sometimes, and the guilt had made it near impossible. Things had felt so much complicated after that night, and he was constantly reminding himself that he just wanted her to be happy, and when she was, it made it easier to forget it was all a lie. Sometimes.]

The whole thing was your idea. You agreed to it. And you were miserable, I was just trying to-- [He stood up, turning his back to her.] Guess it really doesn't matter now. [If he said he was sorry, he didn't think that would matter, either, so he's not even going to bother.]

[the answer he gave her surprises her too; she's pretty sure it's an honest one and she can only hear sincerity in it. sharon expected something along the lines of he was happy because he had gotten what he wanted. to hear that he wasn't always happy, even though their lives were pleasant and idyllic, surprised her. even so, it does nothing to cool her burning hatred of him.]

yeah, cos you were going to kill my friends. you would have made the same decision in my position. [~~if he had friends.~~

she frowns, the handcuffs clacking as she moves her stiff arms.] yes, none of it does. i will never forgive you. [her hatred of him and the unknown fate of their children is his punishment for everything he had committed against her. that gave her some comfort, at least.]

Edited 2012-11-24 07:49 (UTC)

That had nothing to do with you. They were in my way, they would've kept getting in my way. I took your deal because I-- [I love you, I wanted to be with you. No, he won't say it.] You just couldn't be anything but miserable, though, could you? Least you were happy after Faustus did it. That's all I wanted. [~~And for her to love him. For someone to love him.~~

He's facing her again now.] Right, cos you really wouldn't hate me if I hadn't done it.

yeah, you took the easy way out with me. and that's what you always do; instead of facing the music, instead of having to roll up your sleeves and work, you run away like a coward. [she knows that none of that has really anything to do with her either. as always, it involves her aunt or the avengers, never her. the metal of the handcuffs bounding her hands clink and clank, as she moves.]

let's get one thing straight, rogers; my hatred for you before was natural and, frankly, baseless. i hated you because you broke my aunt's heart; because she placed her trust and faith in you and you threw it in her face. i loved my aunt and you hurt her. of course, i'd hate you. what you did to me only intensified and justified it.

Edited 2012-11-24 18:46 (UTC)

Really? So you mean I should just throw away everything I think, just so you'd love me? So Peggy would've? [Yeah, that just wasn't going to happen. Why should he change to make someone love him, he thinks; why can't anyone just like him for who he is now?]

There was no chance, either way. Maybe I should just kill you, it'd be better. [Not that he'd ever do that, he had a lot in him, but he couldn't do that. Even just looking at her made him think of how nice it'd be to hold and have her laugh and smile and be happy again.

He could've done without ever seeing her again, honestly, considering everything.]

oh, you don't want to give up your ideals and principles and everything that makes you you? [she nods her head, her voice dry;] i can relate to that. [even if she's never had the fortunate of loving someone and being loved by someone, in an eros way, sharon knows that, while one should love one for who they are, they should also be willing to change for someone they love. being in love gives you confidence, makes you invincible. and if one has complete self-confidence in themselves, they would be okay with changing.

it's quiet for a few moments, the silence stretching out into infinity, before she speaks again; hard, cold, and fearless.] maybe you should. you saw how easily i killed you.

[almost two decades on the job has made sharon unafraid of death. she's in a trade where it is unsafe to love anybody or anything. they strike at that; she can't be unwilling to part with her own life if it means saving people and accomplishing a mission.]

Yeah, and neither do you. [He frowned.] Guess we'd never work together anyway. Too bad, really. [he resisted the urge to say something about how she'd been so happy before, and maybe he might even change his mind and try to convince her, but he wasn't sure there was any point. She hated him.]

Maybe. Except you've got information I need.

i'm sure the world can survive without your lamentations, darling. [she let out a soft sigh, lightly tapping the heel of her boot on the ground.

she snorted, derisively.] that you won't get.

[sharon ever so coyly shot him a knowing glance, silently telling him he'd have to resort to torture. and that'd still be all for naught. he of all people should know how strong and durable her body was. she could stand torture; she hadn't gotten to the top crying over paper-cuts. nu-uh. she barely cried after she recovered from the brainwash and realised her situation (i.e. her pregnancy).]

[His eyes narrowed at her then, at her flippant attitude, at how dismissive she seemed of her predicament, and just at everything that had happened, how she wouldn't love him, how he still felt guilty for what he did to her even though she would've hated him no matter what. This wasn't how he'd wanted any of this to go. It was wrong.

Unable to keep the anger from his face, from boiling over, he turned and hit her, barely managing to hold back enough to keep it from being too hard. And hell, part of him even wanted to do it again, but he stopped himself, instead looking down at her with dark, angry eyes.]

[she knew he was going to hit her; hit her hard, but that didn't prepare her for how hard he hit her. her head went to the side from the force of his punch, her blonde curls splashing across her face.

a sob ripped from her throat and her whole body shook.] my -- my babies! [tears began to stream from her eyes, panting out soft, little cries.]

my babies, my babies, my babies...

[He stared at her for a moment, the inevitable guilt washing over him. He hadn't expected this reaction, he'd thought she would just say something snarky again, maybe challenge him for hitting her, something that'd make the action easier for him to justify... but instead she started crying, started going on about..]

What? Sharon-- Sorry-- I--

[He knelt before her, one hand going to her face to brush the tears away, even if she would pull away.] Our children-- Where are they? [The question is asked gently.] I wouldn't hurt them, you gotta know that.

[tears still pouring down her face, sharon nuzzled into his touch.] t-they're dead, steve. god, they're dead! [the metal handcuffs holding her hands clink from struggle. her tears stop, momentarily, as she turned her head to look over her shoulder at her bound hands.]

s-steve... w-what's going on? why am i tied up? [she looked up at him, her eyes questioning. they were no longer hard and cold as they were before, but soft, warm, and wet. her tone too; the only hard trace left was from sorrow, not hatred. they were her eyes, the same eyes that had looked upon him with such love and warmth for eight months, eight years ago.]

Edited 2012-12-03 00:48 (UTC)

[He stares at her for a moment, instantly knowing what's happened from the way she leans into his hand, how her eyes change. And even though he knows he shouldn't, he feels like he's finally talking to the real Sharon Carter; or at least the one who he fell in love with; really fell in love with.

His voice cracks a little when he speaks.] W-what? How did they...? [And how would she know? How could she? Unless she somehow knows things that she shouldn't, and he's not even sure how to ask that without telling her everything. Telling her the truth.

Maybe he should.]

You, uh, you weren't yourself. I dunno if I can untie you yet or not. ]Instead he hugged her; burying his face in her shoulder to hide the tears in his eyes. He felt so confused in that moment, like two different inclinations were pulling him in opposite directions. Should he tell her the truth, would that make the real Sharon more forgiving? Should he just forget that, and hope this fantasy stuck and lasted a little longer. What they had when he was in the White House, it was the only time he hadn't felt lonely since his defection.]

[she started crying again, crying and experiencing the kind of sorrow only a mother can.] t-they were small. a-and their heads were... [a rattling intake of air.] d-deformed and grotesque. steve, my babies, my babies.

[sharon turned her head, her frown becoming more pronounced.] w-what did i do? did i... did i hurt you? s-steve, i'm so sorry. so so sorry. please untie me. please. [she leaned forward, trying to get as much of his touch as she could. she just wanted to hold him, for him to hold her and for both of them to tell each other that everything was going to be alright. she needed a comfort only steve could give her.]

O-oh god... [It's whispered, because he didn't know... and a nagging voice keeps asking him how she could know, but he barely registers it, because the pain, the hurt, is biting at him too much now. And not just because his children are gone, but because Sharon's hurt, too... and he just can't...]

You tried. [You killed me. He hates to think about it.] But it... it doesn't matter now. [And maybe he shouldn't but he can't help it. He reaches back and undoes her restraints, pulling her out of the chair and enveloping her in his arms as he drops to his knees and just holds her. He's trying not to cry now, too.] I'm sorry... I'm sorry... [He whispers, and it's really for everything, for the children, for what he did to her, everything.]

[Her cries become harder as she clings to him, her face burying in the crook of his neck.] N-no. Please forgive me, Steve. I-I... shouldn't have let that happen. [If she loves Steve as much as she says she does, as much as she believes she does, that something like this shouldn't have happened. As much as she is a realist, Sharon used to believe that her love couldn't be broken. Apparently she's wrong and this is a rude awakening for her.

But, now Steve's apologizing to her, and it doesn't sound like he's saying it to be polite or to try to comfort her. It really does sound like he's apologizing; for what she doesn't know.] W-why are you apologizing?

[A brief pause before she carefully asks, her voice still thick.] W-what did you do, Steve?

[Steve would've believed her love couldn't be broken, but it was a lie, so of course it could. And everything he'd done to her was hitting him then, as well as the fact that his children were dead; he supposed that was his punishment for the things he'd done to her.

Slowly he ran his fingers through her hair, the pain and sadness in her voice like a knife to the gut, real or not.] Wasn't your fault, Sharon... It wasn't--

I... [Oh, god, he could've told her the truth just then, the real truth, but he's not sure he has it in him, not yet...] I shouldn't have dragged you into this, shouldn't have fallen in love with you.

[face tucked in the crook of his shoulder, sharon shakes her head, her voice muffled.] no, no. don't say that steve. don't you dare even think that, you bastard. [pushing him away, she stands up; her voice is no longer cracked with sorrow, but instead with a venomous anger. was he regretting falling in love with her? there were only a few things sharon regretted in her life, but falling in love with steve and being by his side is not one of them.]

i tell you our children are dead and you respond with guilt about falling in love with me? how dare you say that to me. [that's not the type of comfort she wants from him.]

[He didn't stand when she did, his shoulders slumping as he looked at the ground, his eyes brimming with tears when he finally looked up at her. He should've expected her anger, that's how he'd had Faustus program her, to love him deeply and dearly... But it wasn't real, no matter how much he wanted it to be.]

I-- Sharon, I can't. [When he spoke his voice was soft, and it cracked with the guilt he felt, as he kept remembering how she'd been earlier; that was the real Sharon Carter, no matter how much he might wish otherwise; he still loved her, even if part of him hated her, too.] It's a lie, you're-- this isn't really you... And our kids, I guess that's my punishment for I did to you. Just-- I didn't wanna be alone. So I got Faustus to make you love me. [He looked away again, certain she wasn't going to understand; or maybe she would, maybe his words would change her back, he didn't know.]

stop it. stop lying. if you don't want me anymore, you should just tell me. not... [there's a slight note of desperation in her voice, as if she's defending her life to a court. she takes a slow swallow, trying to regroup and not make a fool of herself, even when tears begin to streak down her cheeks again and her voice begins to crack.]

not come up with some bullshit story.

[shaking her head solemnly, she moves towards the door, staying far away from him and her gaze turned from him.] let me out of here. i -- i can't even look at you.

No, Sharon, it's not-- [He watches her from his spot, biting his lip. There's really nothing he can say, he supposes, that'll make her see what he did to her. Not while she's like this.]

I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said it. [He moves toward her, his voice shaking with the remorse he felt, both for hurting her here and everything else he'd done to her.[ I do want you, I want you too much. For you to be happy.

[And he couldn't let her out, he knew he couldn't, he knew what would happen if he did. But he was so tempted to just throw it all away and let her go. He knew she'd change back, go back to hating him, and he'd be alone again. Maybe it wouldn't be long before she changed back now, too.

Slowly, carefully, he put a hand on her shoulder.]

[she smacks his hand away.] don't touch me. you don't get to touch me. [venom stains her voice and a fire begins to burn in her eyes. sharon refuses to be sad, so she'll focus on her wrath.]

now open the door before i throw you through it.

[He stared at her, the hurt clear on his face, and the guilt of it all, too. He couldn't do it... He just couldn't.

So he stepped forward, moving past her and opening the door, his mind whirling with all kinds of emotions he wish would just go away, the guilt most of all. He shouldn't feel this way, part of him is screaming, not for a woman who would never love him.

He stepped aside then, leaning against the wall. He isn't thinking straight at all, but he ignores any rational thoughts in his brain in favour a mutter:] Sorry.

[sharon disregards his apology, mumbling out a "whatever" as she passed him and out the door. her heart is heavy with emotions, but her voice and features is blank. it's odd; the hallways are empty, though she can faintly hear the marching of heavy boots off in the distance.

she doesn't know where she's walking; she just needs to get away from him and that room. she goes passed what she sure is other torture chambers, filled with dead or dying agents, but she doesn't care. sorrow and anger weighs too much on her soul to feel sympathy for torture victims.

there's enough distance between her and steve and she feels safe enough that a small smirk tugs on her lips.]

dumbass. [give sharon carter an oscar.

she hasn't run into any hydra guards, but she knows they're out there. that's why she has to be careful as she enters the hanger to steal a plane.]

[ no five please. ]

[ota except smut. age is flexible.]

Edited 2012-11-19 01:21 (UTC)

[I'm thinking 1 or 4, but the giraffe is VERY tempting. What about you?]

[whatever's more awful. ♥]

[Spy was a man who put his all into his job. For years, that job had been to steal intelligence, sap sentries, kill REDs, and terrorize said REDs with his skills, skills that he had possessed ever since he could remember. It was a good job, one he enjoyed very much. Personally, he had nothing against the REDs even though they were mortal enemies the very second he clocked. For all he knew, they could be allies if the circumstances were different.

For years the assassin allowed himself to believe this, and why shouldn't he? Day after day, week after week, month after month...it was the same thing. Kill a few REDs, complete a mission, get killed by said REDs, have them complete their own missions, repeat for infinity until closing. It was a tiring job, but not once did Spy ever complain. It was just the way things were, nothing could be done.

...and then those robots showed up, those damned metal monstrosities.

Suddenly, Spy was expected to...work with these vagabonds? The very people he had been paid to kill for years, and who he had just killed LITERALLY DAYS AGO! Obviously, his own hypocrisy wasn't lost on him, but he didn't care. He wanted information, proof that these people could be trusted, that there would not be any "screw-ups", especially to the Respawn Systems. Oh how easy it could be for one of them to sneak in and pull the plug...

And so began Spy's "digging". He spent hours of his free time looking up whatever he could on his new "teammates", trying to get any information on them, even if it meant hacking into TFIndustries...which it did. After days of searching, he finally had enough information to blackmail each of them into an interview...and the first target was the RED Medic.]

Good evening, Doctor. Glad to see you could make it.

[The room was fairly-well lit, at least there would be no problems with viewing anything. From what one could tell, this was indeed the BLU meeting room, as confirmed by the long desk with 9 chairs, four on each side, with one chair at the head of the desk...where Spy was sitting. He gestured to the German with to the chair closet to him on his right side.]

Please, take a seat.

[His tone was polite, but firm enough to say "you don't have a choice in the matter".]

((ooc: I apologize in advance for me TL;DR))

[ Likely to be the interrogator for obvious reasons, but you can try it the other way if you prefer. ]

(( hmmm. the first thing that comes to mind is pre-SHIELD when they bring her in, but if you wanted to try being the interrogator, we could do something else? maybe some kind of mind-control or a red room trigger word thing? idek. ))

[ ooc | go ahead; pre-SHIELD works for me! ]

[This is all highly unusual. And considering that organization he works for, Phil consider himself pretty well-versed in unusual, so that's saying something.

Normally, agents aren't brought in without extensive vetting, background checks, psych evals, skill assessments. But when Clint had wandered back in the safe house in Chișinău, Moldova, the very woman he was sent to kill in tow, Phil knew all the standard procedures were going to go out the window. Natalia Romanova was just as stunningly beautiful in person as she was on the grainy footage of a security camera, but everyone who had even heard of her knew what hid behind that flawless facade.

And now, back stateside, he's watching her through the one-way mirror of an interrogation room, vaguely unsettled by the feeling he has that the only reason she's still sitting there with her hands shackled to the front of the desk is because she's letting them keep her there.

Closing his eyes briefly -- he's so tired, he doesn't remember ever not feeling tired these days -- he drains the last of his coffee and nods to the psychiatrist standing beside him before heading in.

When he speaks, it's in Russian. He's a little bit rusty, but his stint in Uzbekistan has left him with a higher than passable vocabulary.] Are you comfortable?

[ The Red Room's training is hard to shake. As soon as he appears (not a surprise; two way glass is the standard with Americans, and Barton had mentioned something off-handedly), she takes him in. Trained. Skilled. Specialist, most likely; someone with high security clearance. Harried in the way he doesn't know how to balance his professional and personal life; tired because he's dedicated to his work. She knows nothing about S.H.I.E.L.D save what they wanted her to know — her focus had been on Barton. He'd been tailing her for a month; she'd seen him a week into it, hiding behind a pair of sunglasses that screamed tourist.

Her face is hard to read, but hearing Russian makes her mouth quirk, like seeing a dog do something novel. Cute, but ultimately useless. ] Yes. [ Answering in English. (Natalia's not interested in pretense these days.) Her smile isn't genuine, but it is a thin effort. ] As much as can be expected, considering.

[ She gives her restraints a light tug, as if in explanation. The metal clinks a little against the table. Her expression doesn't change. ]

Yourself?

[His face is carefully set in a bland, impersonal mask; he's gotten pretty good at it after all these years. Standing behind his chair for a moment, he curls his hands around the back, his wedding ring gleaming dully in the harsh fluorescent lights. There isn't much point to standing there and watching her, she's clearly been trained to withstand interrogation, but it's almost standard procedure by this point, and so he just waits, watching her quietly for a moment before he pulls out his chair and slides into it, folding his hands in front of him on the table.]

I am sorry about those. [Mild and pleasant, back in English.] But you understand why they're necessary. You're a dangerous woman, Miss Romanova. Some precautions are in order. [Even if he knows they'll at best only slow her down.]

So. Why are you here? [Because he's not an idiot; he knows that she let them take her in. But he wants to know why.]

[ She matches him, phrase for phrase and tick for tick. Natasha's own face is largely impassive, revealing nothing: she takes in quiet ambient points, the flare of the light (specific amount of current needed and ways to amplify it, should she need to a hurry kill, but she doesn't, that's the point) and the shine of his ring. (She doesn't give it long: a couple months at most. A year if he's lucky.

All the better for her, then.) ]

I prefer this to being drugged. [ Plain, not self-deprecating. She does nothing but blink at him for a moment, as though surprised, though it's obvious by anyone who's familiar with the way the Black Widow operates that she's thinking. Assessing her angle of approach.

Eventually, she tips her chin. ] I want to set terms. With you or Agent Hawkeye personally; I don't care who.

[Phil lets out a noncommittal hum, nodding briefly when she speaks.] Agent Barton is not authorized to set terms of any sort. [He's in for one hell of a shouting match later, this time from Fury. Phil already silently glared him into submission for breaking protocols and not only not eliminating the target but bringing her in.]

I, however, may be able to help you. I may not, you understand, but it doesn't hurt to ask.

[ It, at least, confirms what she already knows. None of this is sanctioned, which means the likelihood of her staying alive is quickly tunneling into a null point. (At least death, Natasha thinks wryly, will come quickly to her here. Last she heard, the Americans didn't use stasis pods as punishment.)]

I want to defect. [ Her pronounciation is clear and plain. Yes, she's a survivor, and there's something pragmatic in the way she states the words. (What's the saying — no love lost?) ] You can have what you like in return. Information, if that pleases you.

[His eyebrows lift a little higher, mild as can be.]

That's it? You want to come join our team and we get...anything we want in return? [His fingers tap against the metal table.] That's quite an offer. And a rather foolhardy one, if you don't mind me saying. You know very little about us.

[ Her mouth quirks. (Her sense of humor will get better, with time; Natasha doesn't clarify that they can have whatever information they like, but that doesn't mean her memory will co-operate. The conditioning chamber never was very kind in the Red Room.) ]

I want to survive. [ It sounds more forgiving than I'm ready to be done with this life, I won't squander what your agent gave to me. ] There are four people on the other side of that glass. Three are armed. One is a psychologist. You— have specialty training, but I would be faster. The body suffers when the mind does. I could escape, and you could kill me, or I can talk terms with you. I prefer the latter.

[There's a part of Phil that feels for her; she seems so young, and life clearly has not been kind to her. He'd be desperate to get out as well, if he were in her shoes, and he knows exactly what Clint saw in her that made him stay his hand. Hell, it's what Phil saw in Clint back when he first dragged the archer into legitimate government work.

He doesn't give any indication that he's surprised by her assessment.] We have no interest in killing you, Miss Romanova. All we are interested in is some kind of assurance that you're not playing us. [If you could turn your back on your people once, what's stopping you doing it again? goes unsaid.]

[ Good; at least he's not incompetent. Natasha frowns, but it's not because the question has her stumped — she's rifling through the odds and ends of her life, piecing together something tangible enough for S.H.I.E.L.D (or, hell, herself, if she were on the other side of that table) to hang onto. ]

I have a killswitch implanted in me by the Red Room. I don't know what it is. I'm sure you have— [ Her mouth quirks again. The technology or telepaths or something else entirely; Natasha's not naive. ] —the means to find out what it is. You can neutralize or keep it.

[ She sits back in her chair, hands neatly clasped together on the table. ] There's your guarantee. Will that do?

This killswitch. [He'd heard about operatives being implanted with subconscious trigger words, but he never really believed they were real. In the face of this woman's deadly serious expression, he may be starting to rethink that position.] What would it do to you?

I don't know. It's never been activated. [ There's a cutting edge to her smile then, like that's evidence in itself of how dangerous she can be — of how much sitting here and talking with him is an improvement to the other, more messy alternative.

Still, there's nothing but something mild in her shrug. ]

I would put a gun into my mouth and pull the trigger. That seems like something my employers would do.

[That wins a little smirk from him. Touché, Natalia. He doesn't seem phased by her threatening smile, though, just slightly amused.]

I see. [There's nothing for him to write on here, but there's still a sense that he's making a note of the new information with the way his head tilts a little to the left.]

I doubt that will be necessary, but your voluntary release of such information is...promising. [He nods, like he's agreeing with himself or like he's come to a decision or something, and lays both hands flat on the table.] You will be accorded a room here and probationary status. This means random checks of your bunk and your belongings, which does include the locker in the gymnasium. Mandatory psych visits occur twice a week, and you will be assigned a dedicated handler who will be with you at all times. Periodically, your status will be reevaluated and you may earn the right to more privileges.

[Finally, his bland smile fades and the look he gives her is hard, assessing.] Please remember that Agent Barton has put a lot on the line by bringing you in. Any attempts you made to sabotage your stay here would reflect...unfavorably on him.

[ it's the third time her fist connects with his jaw that his fortitude breaks. he lets his head drop limp for a moment, eyes pressing shut against the searing pain. he turns his head to the side and spits out the excess of blood that had welled up in his mouth, well away from both of them (don't say he isn't still a gentleman) so he can actually get a word out. he's been chatting her up between hits but his dry comments must not be to her liking. that's never stopped him before, he doesn't plan on letting it now.

it takes him a minute to catch his breath and roll his head back up so he can look at her, the best posture he can manage ties up like this in a chair, the most neutral expression he could possible muster against the pain. she's good at this, too good. for a sliver of a fraction of a millisecond he lets himself worry about how this will play out, but he and his country don't have the time to worry about such things. he just needs to get out of here somehow or regain the upper hand long enough to make it out of here. he can handle a few more hits in the interim. ]

Do you show all of your guests the same sort of hospitality?

[ it's not his best but he does love seeing the outrage in his interrogator's eyes in response to his casual neutrality, though this particular woman doesn't seem like she'll give in to his humor so easily. she's a challenge. bond loves a good challenge. ]

[ By the third time her fist connects with his jaw, her name is still Natalia Romanova. It all happens sometime before her defecting to the states but after she learns what it means to love — love isn't about compromise or sacrifice. Love is about teaching each other your killswitch. (Not that that matters, all in all. There is never the guarantee that you will remember.) There's less programming in her brain, towards the end, but that doesn't make her any less lethal. Her name is still Natalia Romanova and she is still KGB, every ounce the weapon the Red Room wanted her to be, and right now there is an MI-6 agent tied to a chair. Her orders: find out what he knows. The unspoken order that is always tacked on to the end: at any cost.

She's had training for this. No doubt, so has he. Her knuckles are red and there is blood in the dips between her knuckles; she smiles at him like she's in on his joke even as the fingers of her other hand hold tightly onto his jaw, face inches from his. Behind her, to the right, is a tiny tray with a row of knives, differeing in size and length and serrated edge.

Natalia's english is perfect, the pitch and cadence of her voice seamlessly American. (She's had training for that, too.) ]

Only the ones I like. [ A glass of wine and a backless dress, her tone could even be called flirtatious. Instead, she has blood on her hand and a tac-suit. ]

Aren't you enjoying yourself, Mr. Bond?

[ accents mean nothing in this line of work. bond knew she couldn't possibly be everything she seemed once he started in on his second martini. she makes for good casual conversation this natalia, has every single hair and every single lie perfectly in place, could make love to him in all the ways he needed her to for every charming, witty remark he threw to her. the performance had been flawless, yet it was still a performance. he doesn't have the heart to tell her she gave herself way. ]

I will count myself lucky then.

[ he doesn't wince, doesn't flinch against her grip on his face, the determination to look her straight in those beautiful eyes of hers unwavering even with the pain and blood to compensate for. he's done this so many times now it's practically childsplay. interrogation is second nature to him. ]

Of course. [ the perfect tone in his voice, dripping with the implication that it's for her comfort rather than his own. ] Though I did prefer drinks but, you know. Ladies' choice.

[ he saw the knives as they brought him into the room and even now the gleam of the silvery stainless steel is catching off the overhead light. he would never give her the satisfaction of glancing towards them though, not with the slow forming plan falling to place in his mind. she sees his crumbling fortitude in that row of blades, he sees his own salvation in the form of an exit strategy; they disagree on the fundamentals, just the way mi-6 and the kgb would want it. ]

[ Maybe she hadn't known, but she could have guessed. Natalia Romanova, the Black Widow, taught by the Winter Soldier — names that have weight and clout and of course that means she's near perfect, one of the best the motherland has to offer, but there are some things that come with working steadily with other people. (You're too good, Barton will tell her once, exasperated, and she might roll her eyes at him but she'd remember that one.)

Up close and her smile turns sharp, predatory, an overt show of femininity and her lack of reluctance to use it. (Is there a difference, in the end, between the lack of space between their bodies on a bed or him tied to a chair?)

Her response comes as she digs her thumbnail into that cut on his cheek, made by the round of her fists. One hand still cupping his jaw, her freehand does the work and it's almost tender — like a lover cupping the side his face. Natalia presses sharp and there's no twist of her fingers, just pushing, encouraging that bloom of red. (And maybe her expression says nothing, but her eyes look like they could say keep this up and maybe you'll surprise me.) ]

I thought chivalry was dead. But here it is, the last place I'd think to look for it.

Alive and well. Didn't get much chance to show you. Pity.

[ he can't help the grimaces that come as she presses into his wound, blood gushing once more and trickling down his cheek and onto his shirt collar. there's something about her, about the technique and the perfect accent and the way she's smiling down at him that tells him at the very least she wont be cruel for cruelty's sake. that in itself is a godsend; not that a slow, precisely executed bloodletting is at the top of his to do list. she takes this very seriously, perhaps more seriously than anything else in this moment. it's not the glory, showmanship or bloodlust that drive people like this, people like them. today james bond has met his match, he thinks.

his eyes flick down across her features, a bold mood considering the setting and his current position. it's like cocktail hour never ended. what else could he possibly do when she's holding on to him so tenderly? ]

I'm sure we'll have time enough to fix that.

[ His match; certainly, though Natalia would say otherwise. Better, she'd insist, not with bravado but with the calm awareness of someone who might not know who they are in their bones but certainly knows the extent of how far their grip can travel — how hard one has to strike to break a rib, how fast one has to tear before a mark bleeds out to death.

Her nail digs in for a second longer, then trails down the side of his cheek. It leaves a smear of crimson down his jaw, blood pooling underneath the curve of her thumbnail.

His eyes take her in and so Natalia smiles, the red bow of her lips curling into something that ratchets up the femme fatale quotient to eleven. (Some men break easier like this, need skating desire skating adrenaline and blood and almost certain death. Bond is— still a question mark, but the colors have started to seep in at the corners. The slow burn, Natalia thinks, is his game.) ]

Is it cliche to tell you that I think your time is running out?

Is it presumptuous for me to tell you I've heard that a hundred times over?

[ james would say that bravata is more than justified, that she's earned the right to make such a lofty claim with the flawless act she's put on coupled with the execution of her more honed skills. learned things like properly knotting a rope, connecting your fist so the pain blossoms but the bones are kept in place, how to pull and tug and unravel a man until he's a frayed husk unable to keep his secrets for himself, let alone his country.

007 is not so easily unmade, not even by a pair of pretty eyes or the lingering thought of what those red lips of hers could be doing if they'd handled this his preferred way. the smear of crimson on his face will just have to be from his own blood today. what a shame. ]

Lovely accent.

[ perhaps against such a provocateur bond's unwavering disposition may bend, but he's been in the chair before, been strapped to the anchor promised to sink him and experienced things beyond the simple torment of blades in his flesh. he's never broken before, he doesn't plan on breaking today so he might as well attempt to gain a little intel of his own in the process. ]

Edited (someday i will learn to type. today is not that day. :c) 2012-11-20 20:48 (UTC)

[ Oh, Bond. Natalia's mouth quirks again, like he's said something funny — he might as well have, the way she studies his expression. Yes, she's good; yes, she's a professional. But she's not so blinded by arrogance or skill that she can't recognize that she's slit open lesser men before, and the man tied to her chair won't be as easy as that. Her hand changes its trajectory, the edge of her nail now skirting the bottom of his lip like she wants to map the contours of his mouth — with, one suspects, a deadlier force than the average man hopes for. All the better to take a molar out by the roots, a nail of her hand catching between the space of tooth and gum.

Later, she thinks. Later. ]

You know better than to go fishing for information. [ It's lightly chastising, and if he looks up at her she still doesn't flinch, unmoving despite how close she is. The blades will come soon — it's an old, traditional way of doing things, but James had taught her everything and he'd taught her that no man can withstand pain when you dangle pleasure in front of him. ]

You'll have to try better than that.

Edited 2012-11-20 22:13 (UTC)

[ so she is capable of looking amused. it's almost like he's the only man on earth that matters with her looking down at him like that, bright eyes taking him all in despite the shadow her true countenance casts. torture's a funny thing when you get down to it; it's less slicing and dicing and tormenting, more picking at the wounds the captor leaves in the psyche of their victim. one can endure a great deal of agony if there's no weak point to be compromised. bond's convinced he has no exploitable weaknesses she could possibly know after just an evening. it's a dangerous assumption to make with her thumb stroking at him so hungrily but it's necessary in this line of work. positive visualization. contingency plans. holding your chin high and staring into the belly of the beast when all you have is riding on one inch of give in the rope at your wrist. ]

Wouldn't dream of it. More of a hunter myself.

[ james puts targets in his sights, aims, takes the shot. this isn't a hook being cast, and even if it were he wouldn't give her the benefit of that admission. bond knows cia and nsa well enough, how they operate, how they engage. not that it will matter either way once she makes use of the toys behind her, but with even breathing and a steady gaze he acknowledges silently that there's more standing here in front of him in stunning figure than meets the eye. ]

Little far from home, don't you think?

[ the worst his presumption will bring is a quicker blade. it's a gamble he's willing to take. ]

[ She looks amused again, though it's milder this time. (As if the trick was funny once but it's not funny the second time round.) ] So are you. [ It's said into the shell of his ear, her breath hot on his neck as she all but leans into him. Natalia uses her physicality like a weapon and all this, the overt sexuality and the hunger and the bright, sparkly lure of her eyes — all a misdirection because her skill-set might be large and expansive and in-depth, but it's true: she's only spent one night with 007, and maybe she knows this dance but she doesn't know him.

(When the night drags on, she'll change her approach. But that comes later.) ]

I know hunters. [ Her hands shift again to his tie, slowly pulling at it to draw it loose. ] You, Mr. Bond, are a mouse pretending to be a lion.

[ james' skin pricks with goose pimples at the feeling of her breath against his skin despite himself but he remains composed, heart still steady, pulse still even, smirk still irrevocably in place. there are, indeed, some perks to playing mouse a the hands of someone as skilled as natalia. he turns his head a little, a tilt outside the firing range of those crimson lips. maybe his breath on her isn't as desirably, maybe his skin skimming the crook below her ear isn't so alluring. maybe he is doing this for his own sake (like he does so many other things). natalia must know that even the hunted have their own feasts from time to time. his voice is a low murmur. ]

Then we do have something in common.

[ he breaks their staring contest momentarily to watch her fingers pull at the blue silk around his neck. the look he gives her when he looks back up at his lovely captor is the utmost suggestive. ]

Never has the mouse gotten this much attention from the lioness. Is that a promise to devour me, Natalia?

No sex, please and thank you!

Edited 2012-11-19 01:24 (UTC)

[he may not the cavalry the esteemed Mr. Stark must be expecting, but beggars can't be choosers when they've practically - okay, maybe the right word here is literally - got a gun at their head. it might not be the most dignified or flashy rescue, but damnit, Kenny's going to make do with what he has.

besides, who the hell would pass up the chance to save Iron Man? even if he wasn't his idol, there are some things you just can't turn your back on. code of the hero and all that.

when he finally approaches the door to Tony's cell after what feels like hours of running and slinking through the shadows, it almost feels too easy. no mooks standing guard, no alarms shrieking the moment he swipes the stolen keycard through the electronic lock, not even one of those laser grid security systems you always see in the movies. maybe they already interrogated him and feel like they can let their guard down. sucks to be them.

regardless, the door slides open and he slowly walks in. his eyes are sweeping the room, checking for anything that looks even remotely like a security camera, before they settle on the grown-up before him.]

Mr. Stark.

[ Beggars certainly aren’t choosers, and today, even though he doesn’t want to be, Tony is very definitely a beggar.

It feels like he’s been in the cell for years. He hasn’t been, but it’s small and dark, the temperature is poorly regulated, and the air is stale. It reminds him of Afghanistan, of the cave and a rusty old car battery hooked up to his chest by kinked, fraying wires. He hasn’t been sleeping, he doesn’t want to deal with the nightmares, and he’s tired. So very, very tired.

When the door opens, he blinks bleary eyes at the figure standing in the doorway. He wonders if it’s a hallucination brought on by sleep deprivation. He realizes that at this point, he doesn’t care. ]

The one and only.

[ He has no idea who he’s looking at, but whoever it is isn’t one of his captors. That’s good enough for him. ]

Just passing through or you dropping by to hang out?

[his expression remains stoic, carefully set and decidedly - even laughably - grim. internally, it's a completely different story.

this is Tony Stark. he's talking to Tony Stark, he's face to face with THE Tony Stark and holy shit wait til he tells Stan and Kyle about this ohgodohgodhohgod -

...ahem.]

My name is Mysterion. I'm here to help.

[he takes a step forward and moves to crouch in front of the older man, studying him.]

Are you hurt? Can you move? [and, as an afterthought, he adds an uncharacteristically respectful:] Sir?

[ Someone else – who didn’t do this kind of thing for a living and didn’t understand how remarkable people could be – might not have been impressed with the name. Or the costume. Or the fact that it was apparently going to take the intervention of another to get free of the cell. Tony isn’t someone else. And he wears a metal suit and goes by the name of Iron Man. He isn’t going to judge. ]

If it means getting out of here, I could walk out on two broken legs. Which I don’t have, for the record.

[ He’d been beaten a few times, but nothing worse than he’d ever endured and as far as he knows, nothing’s broken or irreparably damaged. Plus, he’s telling the truth. If it means freedom, there’s precious little he won’t do. ]

Could do with a little help, though, if you don’t mind.

[ He reaches out a hand, wanting help to stand. If needs must, he can do it on his own. But he’s hoping he doesn’t have to. ]

And please, call me Tony. Think you’ve earned it, getting through this place to find me.

Right. Tony.

[immediately, he wraps both hands around the man's arm, trying to pull him up. it's a little ungainly, but he is still a kid. to say that Tony has him beat in the size department would be an understatement.]

And it wasn't difficult. I've had practice climbing through ventilation shafts. Most people don't think to look above them until it's too late.

[one of the perks of being small, he guesses. without another pause, he reaches into his belt and produces a keycard identical to the one that opened Tony's cell.]

They don't think to keep an eye on their pockets either.

[ He may have been a little worse for wear, but he isn't going to let Mysterion do all the work. When he starts tugging, Tony heaves himself up, using Mysterion's momentum to help him get there. ]

True. Very true. If it's not at eye level, it might as well be invisible.

[ Before Iron Man, Tony was as guilty of this as the next person. Now that he can get up high and attack from above, he's learned. Always look up. Horror movies are good for teaching that lesson, too. ]

Good job. Now let's—Wait. Are we going out through the ventilation shafts, too?

The Interrogation Meme

Eridan Ampora || Homestuck || Open To All

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Sorry this took me a little while! Dreamwidth kept borking on me.

No problem :D

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Tony Stark | Marvel Cinematic Universe | OTA

7

Where's the GIRAFFE, missy?!

I couldn't get him to show up, sorry.

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Castiel | Supernatural | OTA

Loki Laufeyson ♚ Marvel-1999999 ♚ no Thorki

Poland | Hetalia | Open to all, time period flexible

Natasha Romanoff | mcu | ota

Katniss Everdeen | The Hunger Games

Pepper Potts || MCU ||No smut

Leah of Hel | Journey into Mystery

Kagura || Inuyasha || No smut

sharon carter / agent 13 ( marvel )

7 because he isn't sure yet

:O

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Ise Nanao | Bleach | OTA, F/M preferred if smut

Vesper Lynd ● Casino Royale

Priestess Kikyo | Inuyasha | Open to All (Bring it.)

the eleventh doctor / doctor who

kenny mccormick | south park

Jack Benjamin → Kings

⊱ ℳ ⊰ james bond (craig continuity)

RED Medic | Team Fortress 2 | OTA

Oh hello~

huehuehue

4) Can you feel the schadenfreude? ...wait, that's your line.

Phillipa Coulson (rule!63) • MCU

natasha romanoff (black widow) ⌛ marvel cinema

i just can't resist.

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