bakerstreet | The Interrogation Meme

[no smut.]

Are we comfortable mon invité?

[His tone is empty as the expression on his face. Interrogation and torture by association are not the classiest acts by what morally gray and blurred lines he follows; but that is not to say he above acts of inducing pain for information.]

Non?

[Gloved fingers pick at the restraints crossing his wrist giving test to their tightness. Not enough to cut circulation or subdue pain, but enough to keep movement down.]

[This isn't the way it's supposed to be. Mello is not the captive, he is the captor. The one who binds, the one who knows how to extract information from others like an art. This situation should not even be a possibility, let alone a reality. And yet here he is, bound at and another's mercy.]

No.

[The word is laced with disgust and Mello glares. Although he knows that being contrary isn't going to get him very far, he also refuses to play the role of compliance. He moves his wrists against the restraints and does not even bother trying to disguise the motions even as he is approached and the binds are examined. While he does so, however, his eyes never leave the man who is responsible for this, trying to get as much information as possible from his body language, needing all the ammo he can get in this state.]

[The binds are given a final tug to verify their tightness before he pulls away and stands to the side. It's precautionary above all to check these things. One has to be proficient in these dealings or a lame binding can make or break a session.

He watches and takes note of the bite in his voice. Useful later on perhaps, but anger isn't a powerful tool in the ways of prying information and he doesn't believe this man to be too short fused and stupid to slip up so. From his jacket is pulled a metal case and with a click it opens showcasing a set of cigarettes and a single lighter. The motions are practiced and in seconds there's a lit stem perched from his lips.]

I rather not resort to inducing pain. [It's not a total lie, he doesn't want to induce pain as pain often comes with dirty work.]

Is there a way we can amend the situation mon invité?

[Mello's mind works quickly, tries to develop different avenues of escape. He's only human, but he's a smart human, so there has to be some way he can work himself out of this situation. No matter what happens, however, he will reveal nothing, and he will not break.]

Really?

[Unconvinced, because Mello highly doubts that pain is on the limits list — doubts that there are limits at all. There wouldn't be for him, if the situation were reversed. He knows how a game like this is played.

He stops struggling at that question, narrows eyes and tries to read the man's intentions.]

I don't know. Why don't you tell me what you want and we'll from there?

[Mello may be able to manipulate his way out of this, but the likelihood does not seem promising. He's a good liar, but there are so many cards he does not have — so many tools that, as captive with little choice, he cannot access.]

The whereabouts of this notebook.

[There's no need to suggestion he knows more or less by being specific. It's a tool that his employers want and that is all the concerns him.]

My employers would also be very ecstatic to hear what else you have to say about it.

[Things are much easier when he can flash a revolver and play roulette or prick skin by the edge of a knife. Yet this one is experienced and worse; expecting. It comes of in the bitter tone like a taunt to do more, to rile so. His body turns letting his back be facing, the cigarette tapped and blunted to be repackaged for later.

In the corner sets a table, wheeled and wooden, atop which set an assortment of clinical devices and machines. Briefly he thinks to call in the Medic, but retorts the thought nearly fast as it comes. The captive needs to still be capable of speech and cognitive process and giving him to the hands of such madness doesn't promise them remaining.]

[At that, Mello smirks — amused despite the scenario, despite knowing that this situation is only going to go one way, with him being a victim rather than a victor. He relaxes his body, leaning into the chair and letting all tension flow away so that, if it weren't for the restraints, it would seem as though he were having a completely normal chat with an associate rather than an enemy.]

What notebook?

[He asks it to mock, not to try and plead innocence. They both know that Mello knows quite a bit about this notebook, because Mello has never kept that secret. In fact, in his negotiations, he has made his knowledge quite clear. He's always preferred a more straightforward approach to doing business, after all.

His smirk therefore does not fade as he speaks, tone almost a singsong denial.]

I don't know what you're taking about.

This is the point I'm supposed to gloat about what I'm going to do. Run over the finer détails of what is going to make you speak freely, but-

[As if mocking in return, he reaches out for the table and begins pulling it toward him. The wheels squeak with each full spin and once close enough come to a stop with one cut short. Enough illumination has fallen over the table top to give better view of the tools of trade.

Some could easily be mistaken for actual medical equipment and some very well are set aside in a pan while stewing in sterile liquid. Others are more obvious to intent being covered in cumbersome blades or drills. Yet its the small worn box that he stands closest to running a hand through some wire.]

Théâtralité is unbecoming of a spy, non? We are to reside in the shadow, not this- how you say- spotlight.

[His hand eventually reaches an end finding a wide clamp. With a squeeze he places it on the captives hand; firm, but none too tight.]

Did you know it was the French who first came up with the use of electricity as a means of torture? Guillotines were terriblement in gathering Intel as you can imagine. [He finishes by picking up another wire and running his hand through it to find its end.]

[Mello would like to think that he exists outside the realm of humanity in some ways, but the fact is, he is made of the same marrow as any other human being. Seeing torture instruments laid out before him, while expected, causes his pulse to increase. His face betrays no reaction, but it's there, beneath the surface, as he prepares for what will undoubtedly be a painful process of resistance. Despite his biological reaction, however, Mello is confident that he can keep everything he knows silenced and buried. Giving up information means losing — and if Mello loses, then there is nothing more for which he can live. His whole life has been build around trying to be number one. He'd rather be tortured to death than sacrifice the only information that matters.]

I did know that.

[As though they are having a perfectly normal conversation. It is the truth, too. Mello had studied much in his time at Wammy's. His smirk still lingers and he keeps himself poised with calmness, relaxed even as those words suggest what is to come, even as he watches the wires fingered in preparation.]

I also know that the French enjoy taking their time, so I'll prepare to be here for a while. La vérité vaut bien qu'on passe quelques années sans la trouver. Isn't that right? [His smirk stretches wider and he keeps his eyes on his captor, his soon-to-be-torturer.] I'll make it worth your while.

[ the wonderful thing about london, silva thinks, circling a small table in the middle of an expansive underground room, is that it's so easy to get lost in. cabs here, taxis there, a great rush of bodies at the tube station; nobody has a clear idea of how to efficiently move throughout the city without consulting a map. silva would go so far as to say that he knows london like the back of his hand, but that's not quite true; london's underground, however, is a different story. which is why he's chosen this place: unknown to most of the populace, abandoned since the turn of the century. spacious and old. perfect, really.

he darts a magnanimous glance at the young man tied to the chair next to the table, smiles, and selects a long, thin knife. it's been some time since he's done this: a little one on one, all the old methods. some training never leaves you. but he's sure m wouldn't have picked this scrawny newcomer to be james' new quartermaster if he wasn't adept at fielding everything life threw at him—then again, it's hard to be adept when you've lived your life behind a computer screen. afraid of flying, how quaint. and, despite a brilliant mind, physically unfit to do anything but bury that bambi nose in research and development. ]

You were very clever, to leave that path for me to find. It was so subtle. A real work of art. You should be proud.

[ it's a waste. a perfect waste of talent, q. he could be so great, but instead, he works for mi6, coding firewalls and making guns.

silva shakes his head, pursing his lips, walks over to q and forces his head back with a hand buried in his thick hair. the knife doesn't yet come into play, but the threat of it there, hanging loose in silva's other hand, should be obvious. ]

You're only one of a few people who could do such a thing. In fact, [ he muses, stroking down q's neck, ] possibly the only one. What do you say to that?

[there are so many places q might begin to pinpoint where his usually dreary and uneventful ride home went so completely and so horribly wrong. it's been over 48 hours since he's last had the opportunity to sleep in his own bed or even consider leaving headquarters what with the capture and subsequently artful escape silva single-handedly maneuvered.

and of course, q feels all too-responsible for a large portion of that. there's a part of him that feels a consistent need to impress and to please, to prove that despite his age he isn't one to be underestimated. and when the occasion arose for him to showcase such gifts in front of bond who hardly took him seriously on first glance, he knows his eagerness expanded from a foible to perhaps the second-most costly security breach in his history here at mi6.

he made a mistake.

and as if he might atone for it, he threw himself completely into bond's last request of setting that little trail of breadcrumbs, carefully perfected and customized for silva as though such an intricacy was for his eyes only. he knows it was good work, and it's why he allowed himself to go home for the night, for a change. but now q's thoughts kindly provide a hellacious series of scenarios in which he'll never make home, never even make it out of here alive. but it's hard not to when the glint of a knife flashes in his peripheral vision and the bite of coarse rope is digging into his thin wrists.

he watched every bit of silva's interrogation and his performance in front of the ministry with what security footage had captured. no matter how confidently silva might present himself or how much power he too can wield with the click of a single button, this is a broken man. unhinged, positively terrifying in his false-kindness and his slightly lilting, accented words. his praise for q might be genuine (as it should be, and as q unfortunately feels positively validated by), but there lies a poison under the surface of everything that comes from his mouth.]

Perhaps that I need a raise, if nothing else.

[he swallows hard, mouth dry and adam's apple bobbing underneath the pale stretch of his neck that silva's pulled back. his own words still sound too posh, more arrogant than he intended--but it's all nerves. he knows better than to make any real quips or threats to silva, that would be like prodding a perfectly awake and rankled python.]

You owe yourself some credit too.

Edited (r u done being dumb dw) 2012-11-19 05:28 (UTC)

[ silva barks out a laugh, his hand a steady weight against the curve of q's neck, his collarbone. there is everything sinister about it; this is intimidation, not foreplay (though the two do tend to get mixed up, at least where silva's interrogation techniques are concerned). ]

Yes? You flatter me. But this is about you. [ he pauses, trailing a curious forefinger along q's boyish, defined jawline. silva is well aware that he's the only man in the world who could have picked up those breadcrumbs, but he's not arrogant enough to lose himself in it; he would not have survived this long if he underestimated both his friends and his foes. q is neither, not really, but he is a piece to the highly frustrating puzzle that is m and her pet dog bond. ] Not me.

[ as if to punctuate that point, the hand holding the knife comes up and deftly cuts away q's cardigan and the shirt underneath, destroying buttons and fabric from belly to throat. the motion is quick, but precise, and happens before anyone has a chance to flinch; silva's hand keeps q's head steady, a steel clamp. he uses the edges of the blade to nudge away the flaps of material, to expose q's chest and stomach (vulnerable areas, so vulnerable), but he doesn't linger there, returning his attention instead to other things.

he draws back—but before he goes, he ghosts large fingers over q's ear, the lobe, up, to the ridge of his glasses—and then plucks them off unceremoniously. ]

You won't be needing these.

[ after all, not being able to see—not being able to see clearly—it's one sure way to put someone off their game and out of any conceivable comfort zone. silva tosses them over his shoulder, letting them clatter loudly on the stone somewhere. the knife is returned to its place amongst the tray of other implements, and he walks to a nearby chair, pulling it forward until he's sat facing q, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. a sigh, and he leans back. looks at his guest. ]

Where is she?

[he has the good sense not to try and get a look at the knife and where it's headed, instead sitting as perfectly still as he can at that angle. of course it weighs heavily on his mind, makes his pulse elevate and his mouth go dry with each and every idea that he can't seem to make his brain stop producing. the only thing that detracts from them is the deceptively tender way silva is cradling the back of his head, and even then q knows it's just another way to throw him off.

all of this comes down to something deviously psychological and intricate that silva has planned. bond was right--he's been ten steps ahead of them this whole time. maybe he even planned this too or knew what to expect.

not such a clever boy.

the words have been burning ever since they blinked to life on that screen, truly needling away at his confidence and frankly making him want to second guess his every move. there's nothing q would rather do less at this moment than discuss himself or his work today, but of course that's exactly what silva wants. it's all just a roundabout way to get to them. to her.

he wonders if silva has mentally declared him the weakest link in this puzzle, and bitterly he finds he can't really blame him. at least q has enough restraint not to flinch or to let out any of the breaths he's been holding in at both intimidation techniques. first the slice of the knife exposing his pale skin stretched taut over a too-thin ribcage. second the glasses plucked from the bridge of his nose, echoing too-loud in his ears. he's horribly nearsighted, and as such he can do little more than blink several times and strain to try and see the man's face as he finally sits.

at least his voice holds steady, even if it sounds soft and timid in comparison to the rich, purposeful way even the littlest words sound coming from silva.]

Did you change your mind? I thought we prefaced this by saying it was about me.

[ there is a pause (a short one) and the slip of a hand against a clothed thigh as silva settles. here, away from all technology and computers, everything is so sharp, real, physical; if there's one thing q and silva may share, it's a certain dependence on technology to do their work for them. not all the time, of course. but most of the time. in his youth, silva had enjoyed this—the cold, calculated torture, the prising of information from clenched jaws and ragged screams, and, sometimes, dead hands. but as he grew older—as he'd had a plate fitted for his mouth, as he'd felt his old, loyal self peel back like flayed skin, flake away inside like ash, the burning (reassuring) need for m's retribution consume him—it became exhausting, so trivial, when most everything of importance could be conducted over network connections and a few well-placed digital trip wires.

but some things are necessary. some things never change. there were many ways to go about this; capturing q, bringing him here... was really only one of a few options, but indeed the most satisfactory, especially after m's escape from the hearing and how things were meant to be. silva never claimed to be completely calm or collected, in his way, despite honey-sweet theatrical appearances. he never aimed to be predictable, either, and despite the skill with which q laid down that charming yellow brick road, silva has simple preferences: two birds, one stone.

when things go wrong someone usually pays. ]

It's about you, and MI6. [ silva inclines his head in what could be seen as respect, or condescension. ] You are linked to her. Just like every other agent. Ever since the first keystroke, ever since you pledged to protect her—you are just another one of her pawns. All lined up—you see?—in little rows, like good soldiers.

[ there's a smile in his voice, though whether it's fake or not is impossible to tell. ] Ready to be sacrificed at a moment's notice.

As much as I appreciate the... tremendous effort, [ he continues, drawing his chair forward, ] I would prefer not to chase shadows. You can either tell me now where she's gone, or I will break all of your fingers. And then I will find out anyway.

What will it be?

[truthfully, q doesn't know what to expect. there is the fear of pain, of tortures he cannot fathom and likely was never fully trained for, and of the things he cannot anticipate. but this should be no surprise to anyone who knows or at least has observed q--his entire world is focused around things he can easily control all from the comfort of his preferred environments. he needn't take a hand off his mug of earl grey or step foot outside headquarters on a good day, and that's just the way he likes it.

it's the things that he cannot predict and control that gnaw at him--like silva. like silva's entire run today, the thing was nearly flawlessly executed. q can admire from an outside standpoint just how much time and careful planning must have gone into it, the only thing he can't admire is the fact that it was his fault the plan was set into motion in the first place (at least that's how he feels about it).

the hand on his thigh brings him back once more to the harsh reality of the situation, and all he does in response is blink a bit more rapidly--the one little tic he's never been able to control too well.

it is about him now, because he's become a player in this game. not a main one, but without his help bond and m wouldn't have been able to make such a clean getaway. and yet he wonders if silva really even needs this interrogation or if he's doing it simply to flex his power once more. bond's safe-house is symbolically fitting--will be even more fitting when silva eventually finds his way there (and meets his end; q is counting on it). but that all seems so far away now. right now it's just the two of them, just him and silva.]

You know the protocol, lived through the worst of it if the updates on your file are correct.

[he's not asking to have his fingers broken or to be beaten and bloodied, but they both know q won't hand them over. after his misstep today...frankly he almost feels like he's somewhat deserving of it.

and yet it's inevitable--q knows that bond's decision to return to skyfall after all these years is an intentional choice, a final destination. he doesn't need to hide, he and m just need time to prepare for the colossal showdown that must occur.]

Honestly I'm surprised you haven't made an educated guess on the matter already. [it's not flattery--just genuine sentiments on the matter. q can respect all the things that make silva such a worthy opponent, and that's no less than his keen sense of weaving his personal touches into his plans like a work of art or a story that needs to be told.]

Edited 2012-11-26 07:44 (UTC)

[ no, he doesn't need to do this. he doesn't need to do anything (except kill m.) he could have spent the night tracking breadcrumbs in the glow of his computer screen, fingers splayed across a keyboard, eyes wide and darting. but if there's one thing silva doesn't like, it's seeing wasted potential in the hands of someone he detests; catching q had been the soothing alternative to the failure of the ministry shoot-out. he might not need it, but he wants it, and he (almost) always gets what he wants. if he had more time, he could break q. break him and remake him. but time is running out, and there's only so much one can do before the torture becomes redundant and meaningless.

instead of answering, silva swallows up the words with another smile, crisp and cool. if that comment hits a nerve, it doesn't show; instead, the hand on q's thigh squeezes and travels upwards, until the tips of his fingers are resting on the curve of q's bare hip, underneath the flaps of fabric, his thumb resting dangerously close to the seam of q's trousers. it's an intimidation technique, one silva tends to use often—it's inherent in his dramatic presentation to use this kind of psychological warfare on people, to press until it hurts. the threat of violation is always worse than torture played straight. sexual overtures are merely part of his arsenal. but they are very real.

with a soft noise of consideration, silva lets his eyes drop to q's zip, and with both hands, reaches to undo the button with deft, careful fingers. but he stops there—nothing exposed, the zip still done up, silva's hands ceasing their movement to rest lightly (hotly) on both of q's thighs. ]

Guessing only gets people into trouble. [ he hums in appraisal, rubbing at the fabric, the muscles beneath his palms, looking once more into q's face to gauge his reaction. ] Truth is most valuable. Didn't your mother ever tell you that?

[ abruptly, silva rises completely from his seat, walks around q until he's behind him. he leans forward until his mouth is at q's ear, his hands drifting until they reach the spot where q's wrists are bound, where his fingers are all curled together. almost tenderly, silva takes the forefinger of q's right hand in a light grip, as if assessing it. ]

You don't need to tell me, of course. [ he murmurs it, still and ominous, his breath stirring the curls of q's hair. ] But you still won't be able to type in the morning.

[ he snaps the bone with a vicious, crushing pull, and tugs until he can feel the break separate fully. ]

One down.

[he can't see well enough to follow silva's movements, but when he feels the hands trailing along his lower body he doesn't need to in order to guess where this could be headed. he can't fight the way his body immediately tenses or the way he swallows thickly, mouth dry and holding in a shaky breath. silva just wants to intimidate him, that's all. and though he doesn't doubt that this could progress to places q doesn't want to think about, can't ever be properly prepared for, he also holds onto the hope that there just isn't enough time. the clock is ticking, bond and m are probably in scotland already and silva's here. wasting his time. looking for easy access to the answer when q knows he's brilliant enough to get it all on his own.

so this is for fun then. maybe punishment, a stress reliever. perhaps time isn't really on his side after all. the realization makes him shudder just enough to be noticeable, silva's fingers on his leg even hotter in contrast. but his stomach twists with dread when they slip away and he becomes blurrier than before, disappearing behind him entirely.

no.

he's too busy trying to calm himself down to answer the question--no, his mother didn't ever tell him that because q has never relied on guessing either--too busy trying to remind himself that a broken finger takes six to eight weeks to heal depending on the type of fracture. too busy hoping this won't last very long because he refuses to allow silva to hear the word skyfall from his lips even if they're bloodied and cracked and abused. his eyes squeeze shut, hands trembling because he can't fucking stop himself when silva's pressed against him and lulling him into a false sense of security with his tender words and light touches. but q remembers the girl bond mentioned briefly--severine, wasn't it? silva would sooner cut off his hand entirely while whispering sweet nothings in his ear than let him off the hook because he finds him interesting, or respects their shared talents.

he doesn't want to scream when it happens, he wants to stay strong and unshaken and prove that he can take this like any of mi6's other fine agents. but much like his entire career of firsts, this is another one. they warned him about it all of course, but how likely is it a member of q branch is going to be kidnapped over a double-oh? not very, they chuckled while listlessly reciting protocols and coping methods that don't mean a damn thing right now because it hurts.

he bites his lip first, tries to swallow the pitiful wail that bubbles up in his throat, but all he succeeds at is adding the metallic taste of blood to his mouth and it makes him want to retch. and he absolutely can't stifle the cracked scream when silva tugs, reinforces his work with a dedicated thoroughness. his eyes are wet underneath the lids, and he doesn't want to open them because he doesn't have his glasses to hide behind any longer.

maybe if he keeps them shut he can convince himself this is a horrible dream, he's fallen asleep at his desk after an exhausting day of failures and adrenaline rushes. (but he can't can he, not when the pain keeps him grounded and aware).

six to eight months and a splint. six to eight months. six eight. six eight six eight six eight. 110. 1000. 110 1000 110 1000 110 1000.

q doesn't have a response, just mutters the dull binary quietly to himself in between shaky breaths.]

Edited 2012-11-27 07:59 (UTC)

[ so easy. one little broken finger and already he's bored, already he knows it won't be a challenge. q's counting in binary and they haven't even got to the good part yet—a trained agent wouldn't bat a lash at a broken bone, not with miles upon miles of far more horrifying tortures to experience. this is nothing. this is child's play. ]

Shh, shh. [ he noses against q's cheek, exhales the placation against the juncture of jaw and neck, pressed close enough to smell the sweat springing from q's pores. another humming noise, a pitying sound, and he's pressing a soft, lingering kiss to q's jugular, feeling his pulse flutter with pain and adrenaline. ] We're not done yet.

[ it's remarkably easy to keep going. one by one. two. three. four. until all ten of q's fingers are at harsh, stomach-turning angles, mangled and crooked and beginning to bruise darkly at the knuckles. silva admires his handiwork for a moment, blinking heavy-lidded and slow while his own fingers rest on the insides of q's wrists. the question comes softly, a gentle inquiry, though he knows q's mind must be reeling with pain; it's likely he'll never receive an answer before he goes hunting for it himself, but there's something to be said about learning through repetition. ]

Where is she?

[he tries so hard to hold himself back--the second crack isn't as bad as the first he attempts to assure himself. just remember, six to eight months. q keeps his eyes squeezed shut, hoping to whatever entity may or may not exist that it'll just be the one.

but then six to eight months becomes six fingers, then eight, and then ten and his face is wet with tears, throat raw and voice cracked from finally giving in and screaming because there's nothing else he can do. his hands are shaking, each tremor shooting jolts through his hand. the pain is so excruciating that he doesn't even register silva's voice in the middle of it. the false soothing and the lips on his skin should be another thing to shudder at and jerk away from, but instead he just lets his head loll downward so he can try to hide under his hair (not that the tears aren't easy to see, tracked all the way down his cheeks).

he's angry with himself for giving in so quickly, for not being able to block it. he's angry that his head is swimming and his hands are on fire but he can't coax himself into losing consciousness.

but he won't be angry at himself for failing. he has to answer. has to prove he can do this--he's not going to break (yet). his voice is ragged and low, but silva's close enough that he should be able to make it out.]

Not here, obviously.

[ silva laughs at that, heavy and abrupt. ha! no, she isn't.

leaning back, he grabs q's head, fists his hair and yanks at his scalp so his neck cranes, throat bared. no hiding is the unspoken command, reinforced almost tenderly as the pad of his thumb swipes the wetness from just under q's closed eyes, smearing it over his cheeks. quiet little tuts escape his mouth, concerned, like a mother looking over her bruised son; both knees scraped from playing too rough on the jungle gym, tear-stained and shamed into asking for help—look at what you've gotten yourself into. ]

I had hoped— [ he drops his hand, shoves q's head forward again and walks away, a short distance. ] —that perhaps you wouldn't disappoint me in the flesh. That perhaps all your hidden physical qualities would make up for your [ he waves a hand ] technological blunders. MI6 does have a nasty habit of employing strong, stoic types, after all. I'm sure 007 would have at least made at least one attempt to escape by now. But you... you're not putting up much of a fight at all, are you?

You made it so easy. You must have wanted it, subconsciously. Everyone wants to know what it's like to be a real agent. So glamorous. Sex and drink and death. Well, here we are. This is it.

[ his hand hovers over the tray of tools, fingers dancing above them, as if teasing the air about which he's going to pick. after a moment, he selects a scalpel. it's small, the blade short and sharp and curved, deceptively minuscule. when he returns to the chair he'd drawn up close to q's legs, he's sure to sit quietly, closely, contemplatively. if q could see clearly, he would be able to identify the scalpel between silva's fingers; but other than an oppressing quality to the atmosphere, other than his proximity to q, silva keeps his hands to himself. not even their legs touch, not even as silva raises the blade and looks at it in a parody of curiosity.

then, he lets out a camp little sigh, speaks casually. ]

Do you enjoy it? Your job.

[he swallows hard, head swimming and vision blurring as silva yanks his head back with little resistance. there is nothing he wishes for more than the bliss of unconsciousness, but q knows silva would find terrible ways to wake him and repeat the process over again. it's excruciating--all of it. his hands are still shaking, goddamnit, and he wonders if the anxiety and dread and worry of what's next curling in his gut might kill him first.

it doesn't hurt as much now to be chided and insulted like this, but q knows these are the things that are meant to stick with him when all is said and done (hah, how optimistic of him--thinking he'll be getting out of this alive or anytime soon). these are the words that will stab at him like a knife of self-doubt in his side, words that will be the root of nightmares and cold sweats and more lingering terrors that won't just take six to eight months to heal.

he's not james bond. he's just a letter.

(he's a boy, not even a clever one at that.)

no, he thinks, no it's not true. because if q gives up now then everything goes to shit and he may as well bare his throat again and let silva snap his neck and just fastforward to the end now. and if nothing else, it's true that he enjoys his job. he'd like to go back to it truthfully, and they'll catch on soon enough. they'd miss him--they wouldn't be as well off without him.

(he is a clever boy after all.)

his stomach twists again at the flash of steel, the recognition of a scalpel, but q has subsisted all day on nothing but tea and he doubts there would be anything but liquid to empty onto the floor if he had the energy. his voice sounds positively wrecked, cracked and pitifully small compared to silva's still deep and dramatic timbres. but even silva and all ten of his broken fingers can't rid him of the conviction and the undertones of pride when he murmurs one little word in response.]

Yes.

Edited 2012-11-30 11:53 (UTC)

[ silva nods in mock understanding, one, two three. q's pride—even bond's pride, in england, in his work—it's all so trite and predictable and pathetic, built on the kind of trust and faith that governments of any kind can never truly possess without collapsing. silva knew the feeling once, would have given up his life for m. (not for england. m.) it's like speaking to an ignorant, brainwashed child; blinded by his pride, q won't consider the myriad of far more entertaining options open to him. patriotism is such an inhibitor.

if silva had room for true disappointment, he might consider that a loss. but he doesn't want competition; he'd crush it like an ant under the heel of his boot like nothing, because it's nothing, rival geniuses are nothing to do with his personal vendetta, and q is just a blip on the radar with a few good ideas. still, talent wasted is talent lost, and silva so does hate to waste things. ]

Yes? So you knew what you would be giving up. Your identity, your friends, your entire life. Your given name. All for dull computer security work you could do in your sleep. Making guns and radios and gadgets.

You're young. It might seem exciting to you now, but your interest will fade. There's so much more you could do with your talents than work for wrinkled old bitches who would rather run away than face their sins. And when you are no longer of use... [ he clicks his tongue, his lips. ] She'll bury you with the rest of her skeletons.

[ he pauses then, shifting forward. the scalpel flashes in the dim light and comes to rest on q's hip, blade pressed—but not cutting—into taut pale flesh, stretched over bone. ]

Unless... you prefer being told what to do. Perhaps independence is not for you.

Do you like taking orders, Q?

[it isn't that q won't consider them (he has), it's just this is what he's chosen. if he wanted it's likely he could do as silva has and bring worlds to a grinding halt at his fingertips, but he's never been so presumptuous. something about saving the world rather than destroying it is more appealing, not to mention lets him sleep as well as he can on the nights he's allowed. certainly mi6 has its share of fuck ups and ghosts of botched missions, failures...why, q can attest to this now with silva before him and the guilt still weighing heavy in his gut from this afternoon.

but the bottom line is, he's content where he is.

silva's attachment to m is something else. q's not her favourite, doesn't even know her that well (not like him, or even bond for that matter). but he does respect her, and for that reason he feels compelled to respect her decisions. silva was operating beyond his means, she'd said, and if his skill is any indication, this wasn't something he picked up post-survival for fun.

everybody needs a hobby.

there are several things he might dryly manage to bite out--quotes from oedipus, quick psychological evaluation of his obsession...but they're all likely to get him strangled or worse. he just shakes his head slightly, still looking down because he doesn't care to see what mocking silva has in store for him.]

Forgive me, Mr. Silva, but you say that as though you won't bury me first.

[the blade is what finally earns his attention though, specifically since he attempts to ball his hands into fists to brace for the worst and...well, he won't be doing that again, not given the agonizing twist and the choked off noise he barely muffles. there's a correct and incorrect answer to this, he knows there is. but he just swallows hard, trying to focus through his blurred vision on the cold and unforgiving metal pressed there against his otherwise pristine skin. he chooses his words carefully, but finally settles on something neutral. simple fact, no more no less.]

Not always. I--don't suppose you'd be here if that were the case all the time. [he did defy protocol for that, lest they forget.]

Edited 2012-12-01 03:58 (UTC)

A burial, [ he says, pressing a little harder with the blade until blood wells up under it, ] would be too kind.

[ silva considers a rivulet of red that crawls from the thin wound, catches it with his thumb, and smears it on the skin—like he'd done with q's tears, a sheen of itchy salt under his eyes. nothing but careful blankness shows in his face, not even a smile; his eyes flick up to q's bent head, appraising him in their dead way. in so much pain and yet still conscious enough to backtalk, still fighting the good fight.

there is nothing about this now that is not a game. silva knows he won't get the information he's asking for; that makes q a plaything, a time waster. there are layers here that could work in his favour, later—words, mind games, pain. but now it's just a matter of how much q can take, how much he can amuse, before silva's fingers begin to itch toward a keyboard.

he shifts forward yet again, splays his other hand heavy on q's other hip. ]

Try to stay still. This may sting a little bit.

[ then, he begins to carve.

when he's done, a palm-sized calavera is cut deep into q's side, oozing blood from its precise, angry edges. it's approximately the same configuration as his laughing computer graphic—blunt teeth, hollow eyes. perhaps a bit more jagged, a bit more manic. but it's beautiful, in its way. and it's silva's mark—it will heal nicely, but without skin grafts, q will carry the scars for the rest of his life. (and if not those, then the memory of them.)

silva doesn't find ownership to be a particularly thrilling thing. he bought severine as a means to an end, knowing her position would help rather than hinder—and provide a release on the side. she had already been branded with the triad's mark; he didn't need to reinforce any rules. she knew the stakes, and played along, because she had no choice. but he does like reminders. he likes reminding people what he can do—what has been done to him. and every time q dresses, even when he closes his eyes to sleep at night, he will know who held his life in their hands for that single point in time.

(that is why death is too kind. memory is the worst punishment. silva knows that more than anyone.) ]

[ah, he was afraid of that. and as silva knows and probably wants q to know...surviving is much crueler than the efficiency and kindness death would afford. the question slips from "if" now to "when"--when will he be done here? will he let him go?

hope is a very peculiar thing--hope is the tiny undercurrent q holds onto every time bond or any other agent is out risking their lives, chattering or grunting and breathing hard in his ear. so long as he can hear those things, they're alright. they'll make it. anything is better than the last painful, ragged breaths (sometimes there are noises, too) that lead up to dead silence.

but now hope seems like a way to further this torture--something about the way it breeds eternal misery, isn't that what they say? it's never seemed more applicable than now as q watches the metal flash beneath the too-bright lighting as it lowers further and further down until it's touching his skin and then slicing into it. it's a completely different pain than the one he experienced before, but it hurts in its own worse ways. he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood again, trying miserably so to keep himself from making any noises. he's already furious with himself for turning into a whimpering, vulnerable mess from before--for letting silva watch him fall apart so easily.

and yet between the pain of his fingers and the sharp sting of the scalpel, wet with blood he knows must be seeping and oozing out the cuts, it's all so overwhelming. a gasp here, a swallowed groan there and he feels like he's losing it all over again.

all he had wanted was to save the world, once when he was much younger. how naive.

(he doesn't want this.)]

[Would love to play scenario 2 being done to him!]

[Males only for anything sexual.]

[ no smut please ]

[And so guess who walks into the interrogation room, Mukuro? Why it's your dear sister Junko Enoshima, Super High School Level Fashion Model. ...Well she walks in, but as she walks in she's holding one of her newly designed Monobear models in front of her.]

Upupupu...Mukuro-chan. Do you know why you're here you ungrateful bastard? Do you?

[ Mukuro stops struggling as soon as she sees her sister. It's a sign that there's no weakness in these restraints; Junko's too good for that. ]

I don't. And I don't assume that you'll just explain it, will you?

[ She knows her sister's mind games a little too well, honestly she's just hoping that it won't get boring too quickly. That's the problem with being over familiar with one person: the despair grows tired and old after awhile. ]

[And after a moment Junko puts down the robotic bear and immediately her personality changes, like the flick of a switch.]

Naturally I should. After all, it will do us no good to conduct business if you are unaware of the circumstances regarding your presence here. Are the restraints to your liking?

...Ah, no, no. That doesn't matter. Sorry but the restrains are necessary. I don't know if I can properly predict your reaction. ...But I'm excited to see what will come of what I have to say.

You could have done them a bit tighter, but they'll be fine.

[ Looks like it'll be the same as usual. Oh sis, you'll never change. ]

Go ahead, then. If you're excited about it then it must be something that's worth my time.

[. . .]

oh. ...sorry. i really did try my best. please forgive me. please please please forgive me. im not good with ropes like you are. sorry. sorry sorry sorry...

But, lets get down to business. I have information that would be interested in. Actually, you will be interested in it. It is information about you after all.

I would hope it's about me.

I'm kind of looking forward to it, so please don't let me down.

I'm looking forward to it too! I want to see your face twist up and curl into the sweetest expression of true despair!

[With that she pulls out a piece of paper from her coat pocket and reads it.]

"Special Report: Mukuro Ikusaba, student of Hope Peak's Academy, the Super High-School Level Soldier, is currently being reported to be a special member of the Super High-School Level Despair organization. However it has been decided that she is not committed to the cause of spreading despair as much as her allies. As a result she will be ex-communicated.

She will be appearing tomorrow for a television broadcasting, in which she will announce her resignation from the organization and publicly commit suicide in front of a live audience. This is an order from the leader Super High-School Level Despair, Junko Enoshima."

Edited 2012-11-19 03:27 (UTC)

[he will try to bribe anyone and everyone]

[all those movies where the protagonists walk it off after getting pistol whipped in the face? total bull. as Kenny has discovered, getting smacked in the mouth with a gun isn't something you can just turn the other cheek to. he actually wouldn't be surprised if a few of the bones in his cheek were broken. that area of his face is completely numb, a dull, sharp throb ebbing in and out, pulsating like a heartbeat as he's dragged by his cape down the corridor to what he assumes are the holding cells. his mouth is in no better shape, but the one thing he can confirm - the one upside to all of this - is that at least his jaw isn't broken; he's perfectly able to open his mouth to spit out a particularly big glob of blood right as his captor stops to open one of the doors before shoving - actually, throwing - the boy inside.

there's a split second where he thinks he sees a figure standing in the corner of the cell, an adult, but then his head connects with the floor and there's nothing but pain.

looks like he isn't the only one due to get drilled for information.]

[There is, indeed, an adult in the room, cozy in his corner and what parts of his suit they left him with. Slacks, his long-sleeved button-up shirt, and nothing else. There's no strip of cloth hanging loosely under his collar, his tie having been ripped in the "search for information" or whatever the hell they'd say to sweeten up their tactics. None of his bones are broken, considering Justin Hammer had sung like a bird (when appropriate, of course, and only about certain things) so far. But what the hell a little kid had to do with anything was beyond him.

He didn't move with the door opened, just remained against that corner with an arm crossed and his hand at his mouth, fingers running along his gums—oh, he'd been abused. Not to the extremity he could have been, but there had been blood in his mouth and he was in the process of making sure it had all gotten out. The last thing he wanted to do was poison himself with swallowing blood, and the opposing corner already had a splatter of what he'd spit out before. His ribs ached, there was a fresh bruise on one eye (hidden behind his glasses, of course), and a little cut near his hairline that had already stopped bleeding, but overall? He was fine. Would be fine. And he stayed there and fine until the door had been shut and he couldn't hear footsteps anymore. They were watching. They always watched. There was a camera in the just above Justin's head and in the one opposing him. They must have had blind spots, but it wasn't worth it to hide in one just to piss them off.

He had no idea why they threw a little kid in with him. Was it a test? Were they trying to see what sort of man he was, how he'd deal with it? Was the kid actually an assassin in disguise? It could have been ten thousand things, but that didn't stop Justin from crossing to him and getting down on one knee the moment he figured it safe, that the door wouldn't open again and he'd get his ass handed to him for daring to show some compassion. Or what amounted to it in his book.]

Hey, hey, you okay? Can you hear me? You didn't... [There's a thing with superheros, he knows: they wear masks. And this little guy is wearing a mask. He's a kid, sure, but if he's...Justin just leaves it on, turning him over to see what sort of injuries he's got, making sure he's not dead.] You with me? You awake?

[something sharp rubs against the inside of his cheek as his breathing slowly begins to even out. when he coughs again, a wet, shuddery sort of hacking noise, another burst of blood comes gushing out. tentatively, he reaches into his mouth with one finger and pokes at his now apparently broken tooth, his gums stinging at the contact. great, now he'll have to go to the dentist. he hates going to the dentist. seems like every doctor he's ever met has been either a) awe inspiringly stupid, or b) awe inspiringly stupid and dangerous. either way, even if he walks out of this alive on the first try it's going to be a shitty experience all around.

his vision blurs a little more before Kenny's finally able to focus on the face in front of him. the very familiar face. what can he say - you don't easily forget a face like Justin's no matter how badly out of it you happen to be at the moment. the guy could give giraffes a run for their money in the looks department.

the question was, what was he doing here?]

I'm fine.

[as Kenny McCormick, his voice has a nasally sort of quality to it. Mysterion's, on the other hand, is guttural and throaty and the fact that he's talking through a mouthful of blood doesn't diminish that at all. either way, he hopes that Justin is stupid enough not to recognize him by voice alone.]

You're the VIP prisoner those men out there were talking about. [it's stated matter-of-factly, not posed as a question. blue eyes sweep over the other, critically.] You're Justin Hammer, aren't you?

[It's not that Justin's stupid, it's that the last person he's expecting is any kind of kid. In fact, on the list of things he was expecting, this wasn't on it at all. Oh, maybe SHIELD would have gotten around to finding him sooner or later, but sending a kid to the sort of place he was in wasn't what he expected. And with that outfit, well...he couldn't imagine SHIELD would go to a level like that.]

Yeah, I'm Justin Hammer. VIP? Don't know so much about that. [Of course he does, the bastard's a billionaire. He's trying for humor, though, and the faintest of smiles crosses his face as he tucks a few stray hairs behind the kid's ear. God, what the hell was going on out there? He didn't have a kid in his life, had lied about a nephew, but he wasn't about to let him roll over and die or anything as miserable. The way he held him, however, wasn't as coddling as a parent have been, but instead a manner to keep his head off the floor and more comfortable than he would be just sitting in the corner.] Who're you?

That doesn't matter.

[he's not looking at Justin right now; rather, his eyes are staring pointedly at the ceiling behind him, at the security camera blinking in their direction. that would make things a little more tricky.

when Justin goes to fuss with Kenny's hair, the boy raises a hand to gently bat the other's hand away. his voice grows a little quieter, eyes still on that camera.]

All you need to know is that I'm here to help. So, think harder: what did those men want from you?

[he has a pretty clear idea already, but it would help to hear Justin's side of the story. Kenny overheard a few snippets where the words leverage and Stark were thrown around, so of course he's jumping to the worst possible conclusion.]

[Justin doesn't have to look up to know where Nameless Little Boy Wonder is looking, knows exactly where his eyes are at. The hand batting him away, well—he's not a parent by any stretch of the imagination, but the last thing he wants is some little kid in bloody agony on his behalf.

His job considered, it was something he knew had happened before, would again, wouldn't stop until there was no more need for men like him. Men who made a living selling the most dangerous weapons they could make, he thought they might be around forever. And while that was a disturbing thing to see up close—a kid like this one was—it wasn't about to stir up some deep-held secret insecurity about his job and what he did and mindless drivel. And even if it had, he wouldn't have made it apparent, considering...

Well, he was the adult.]

What anyone wants, I guess. Money. Guns. Money and guns, I don't know. A big black jet with a bedroom in it for all I know.

[no smut]

[ three days they've had her in this godforsaken hole in cairo, and for three straight days they've gotten nothing but russian responses and stony glares. they've kept her watered well enough but something tells him that wouldn't make much of a difference for someone like her. he hasn't exactly done all his homework on this "black widow" but he only had to be in a room with her for two minutes to piece together she is a professional that is taking this more seriously than she lets on. ]

Go to the rendezvous and tell Tanner she caved.

[ she hasn't of course but the other agent just nods, grabs his gear and leaves without another question. bond's methods have always been frowned upon but he gets results well enough and that's rather the point, isn't it?

tied to a chair, the black widow seems harmless enough but he didn't spare the precaution of well-tied ropes attaching her arms and lets to the chair. not that it will do much if she really wants to get free. ]

My apologies for the accommodations. And My partner. He isn't used to playing host.

[ it's casual and charming, like they're having mutually enjoyed conversation over drinks and not two spies pitted against each other by their handlers. ]

[ getting herself captured would have been an embarrassment to the program, to russia, if it hadn't been exactly what she'd intended. it hadn't been what her handlers had wanted (go the femme fatale route, they'd suggested, he has a weakness for women who know how to handle a gun) but it had felt predictable and boring in a way that left a bad taste in her mouth. so they'd taken her in instead, dragged her into a room and spent three days trying to get her to confess to what she'd been doing there, what she was after and why the russians were encroaching on their territory.

two men leave the room and one comes back; the more seasoned one, if her skills of observation are worth a damn. she rolls her neck from side to side, stretching out the muscles before she opens her eyes and fixes him with an unimpressed stare. ]

Я полагаю, сейчас вы собираетесь сделать это до меня?

[ he watches her intently, steely expression only melting a little in quiet amusement when she asks about him making it up to her. the relationship between the russians and the english is such that his making it up to her the way he'd prefer to would be frowned upon. then again, who exactly she works for and where their loyalties lie is something that has escaped mi6. she doesn't carry herself like the usual government employee; then again that is the mark of someone who's doing this job correctly. ]

Something tells me you wont go in for my preferred methods.

[ james slides a chair over to where she's sitting, eyes always fixed on hers even with that faint hint of a smirk on his face. in the last 72 hours he's said and done very little by the way of getting the black widow to talk and done nothing but observed. the other agent tried everything short of physical harm in an attempt to get her to talk to no avail, but james has known this whole time none of that would work. not with this one. she's the type of captive they don't train you for, so following the book isn't going to help in this situation.

he takes a seat in the chair in front of her, at eye level, close enough for comfortable conversation but not close enough for her disarm him too quickly if she decides to slip free. it's a calculated placement but he executes it casually without breaking their eye contact. ]

The green ones never know how to handle these situations. Then again, how often do you find a spider tangled in its own web?

[ its clear they wouldn't have her here if she didn't either a) want something from them or b) require intel on the agents in place in egypt. of course, there is always option c) set up. he would really love to give her the benefit of the doubt (and not have it try to murder him as a result). ]

[ a slow smirk spreads over her lips, like a flame melting wax, as he speaks his retort and takes a seat in front of her. it's a little of columns a, b, and c; the exact goal wasn't totally clear (in some cases, it's not; in some cases, they only tell you enough to get you to do the job well, or to their satisfaction, she'd question it but she knows what end that would lead to). ]

Если бы я хотел, что бы я пошла с другим подходом.

[ her shoulders shift and roll, but there's no move to escape her restraints. not yet. ]

Шпионаж это сложная игра. Вы уверены, что Вы не тот, кто был пойман?

[ bond sits back in his chair as the smirk spreads on her expression, his own mirroring hers though lacking the hint of malice. where the black widow is all icy demeanor and deadly determination, 007 exudes a charm and calm that makes what he does look deceptively easy. ]

Just let me know if you change your mind later.

[ an honest invitation at the most inappropriate time, one he's fairly certain will go to waste. she hasn't even broken character to speak to him in english, there's no way she'd let herself slip up enough for his usual interrogation techniques to become useful.

he looks down at his watch, fiddling with it for a moment to set a timer. ]

We have approximately 45 minutes before 0011 returns from the rendezvous. There he will drop your image and we will figure out who you are and who you work for without this. Or, Black Widow, you can give me the information I need and I can see what can be done about the intel you've sat in a chair for 72 hours attempting to get.

[ he's perfectly capable of calling off the search, telling 0011 to fall back and tell tanner they were held up. it's no protocol, but bond's more concerned with the results rather than the means he gets them by. ]

Edited 2012-11-20 07:53 (UTC)

[ the corners of her lips turn up the slightest bit, indicating that she's not entirely dismissive of the idea. it's a tease, meant to keep things playful and interesting even if she has no intention at taking him up on his offer. his hand moves to his watch to set it and she thinks, for a moment, that it's some kind of gadget he's fiddling with (his reputation precedes him, she'd read of his fondness for toys), but when nothing goes off her focus goes back to his face.

the smirk freezes and starts to fade when she tells him where his partner is headed and what he's going to do once he arrives. it's possible he's bluffing, and it's going to take them a while to retrieve anything useful, but once they start looking, it's incredibly likely that her handlers are going to write her off as a loss. on the off chance they do go in after her, things are going to get messy. for both sides.

she doubts the intel she's after is worth that much trouble. and if she's going to catch hell for changing up the mission anyway...

it takes a long time for her to come to a decision. when she finally reaches one, her shoulders roll back and square off, her gaze is leveled at him, and the only hint of russian when she speaks to him is in her accent. ]

What information do you need?

[ it's not a promise that she'll give it to him. that all depends on what he's looking for from her and why he and his employers want it. ]

[ bond keeps his eyes fixed on her while she mulls over the options in her head. he's not sure how well tracked she is, whether she has a partner, what to expect if they do release her or kill her. she does though, and thats what matters when his cards are on the table. ]

Why is the KGB so keen on trailing us?

[ he's straight to the point and his voice is all confidence, no doubts, even though he can't be entirely certain at this point. so she knows russian; it doesn't tell anyone anything but her being fluent in russian. sometimes grasping at straws and proceeding with confidence gets you the information you want, and it's worked for him well enough in the past. ]

[ she's earned the privilege to go out on solo missions at this point in her career (she should have, she's only been at this since childhood), but they'd been keeping track of her movements up until she'd destroyed the earpiece they'd sent her in with; right after she'd disobeyed their orders by taking a different approach than they'd instructed. at this point, they're probably waiting for her to check in or for a sign that the mission's gone sideways. ]

They want your connections. To see if they can impress them by doing your job better than you can. They've still got a lot of enemies out there.

[ she doesn't add that she doesn't work strictly for the KGB, that she's part of a separate branch. that's not something she's giving up unless it's absolutely necessary. ]

Edited (for icons also sob i have no idea what i'm doing) 2012-11-22 03:51 (UTC)

And they actually believe getting surveillance information will prove that?

[ of course they do. people behind desks always think it's so easy to knock an agent down, to worm their way into an op without the slightest understanding of what doing that will entail. MI6 is in the business of covering james' tracks, and he's very capable of leaving them. his name is known, a little too know if he were honest, but people are in place to keep that name from becoming a household term from langley to moscow. just the same way the black widow is a feared name despite being shrouded in mystery.

but james doesn't so fear, and he doesn't trust administrators. ]

It's customary to offer to buy a drink before you try and get in bed with someone.

[ it's presumptuous and poor form on the kgb's part to attempt this relationship with MI6, but entirely something M would send him to do in a heartbeat.

bond reaches slowly into his pocket to get out his secured mobile, keeping an eye on natasha the entire time. it rings once or twice before 0011 picks up. ]

She's talking. Yes. Cancel the rendezvous. Make yourself busy while I finish up.

[ It's a sign of trust though should anything go awry he's more than capable of handling it. he is the one that got her in the chair in the first place, afterall. ]

Edited 2012-11-22 07:49 (UTC)

They believe in showing over telling.

[ the joke about customs makes her lips curl up at the corners in spite of herself, though it doesn't last for very long. she watches and listens as he dials his contact, trying to hear what he's saying on the other end of the line. there's not much she can make out, but what she can hear is pretty much what she expected to. ]

And how do you intend to finish things?

[ she suspects it's not in a way that either side will be entirely thrilled with. ]

Misinterpreting "showing" leads to wars. They haven't learned that lesson yet I see.

[ you'd think one cold war under the world's belt and everyone would be a bit more careful.

when the call is done bond places the phone back in his pocket and stands from his seat in front of her, dragging the chair back over to its original spot. he grabs a knife off the table, standard issue military from 0011's kit, and carries it over to natasha. james bond is a gambling man and he's not quite sure if this is the best course of action but he doesn't see the outcome of this ending poorly for him. the black widow is an oversight; watching the movements of another organization isn't foul play. besides, if she does use what she's seen against him he'll be eager to see how it plays out.

not strictly by the book. M will have to forgive him his recklessness, as always.

he rounds behind her in the chair and leans down, shifting the knife to the rope at her legs first. ]

Cleanly.

Edited 2012-11-26 20:52 (UTC)

They're stubborn.

[ and insane, going the way they expect different results and reactions to the same actions that muddled their names in the past. but how they operate has never been her concern; she's been taught not to question things, that it's not necessary for her to know more than what they tell her. she doesn't like it but she puts up with it, because she does know what happens when you ask too many questions, has seen it happen to a girl or two before her. they decide you're more of a liability than an asset, they damage you in a way that makes you useless to them, and if you're lucky you end up operating in intelligence or training, usually with the younger girls because they're who they can trust you to help shape and mold. if you're luckier, your death is a quick one, but you're more likely to suffer.

they want you to learn from your mistakes, even if you don't have time to take the lessons to heart.

he kneels in front of her and starts to work at cutting her free. she watches, careful to stay still and not twitch, because although she has no intention to break free, she knows that any shift of her muscles or limbs could be interpreted as an attack and she really doesn't want her legs to be sliced up on account of misinterpretation. ]

That would be a small miracle.

_{( He still doesn’t know quite what he was thinking. His orders had been clear: Target: Black Widow. Terminate. The same kind of mission he’d been on so many times before. And he’d never missed his target. Until now. Now he’s in a secure SHIELD base on an island just east of Japan, the closest one to Moscow. Has it really only been twelve hours ago that he was standing on a snowy rooftop and waiting for the chance to let his arrow fly? It feels like so much longer. There’s a cold sweeping through him, more bitter than the Russian snow. It cuts him down to his bones.

It’s protocol, to have her restrained. It doesn’t feel right, or good, but it’s protocol. So far all else on this mission has gone horribly wrong, so he has to at least make a show of it now. Now, while he risks his career—which is basically his life—on a hunch, the hunch that Natasha Romanoff is more than she seems and better than everyone thinks she is. Clint doesn’t like being wrong, and he never plans to be. But even as he steps into the room he puts on a cold mask, his eyes hard. This has to be done right, or it cannot be done at all. )}

Ms. Romanoff. Nice to see you again. I take it you understand what’s going to happen, now?

[ she's not sure, exactly, when everything goes wrong. at what point during the mission she'd gone from having the upper hand in the situation to completely losing her grip on it, and she's had a lot of time to try and calculate it. in the end, it doesn't matter. knowing the exact point in time she'd lost isn't going to change the outcome of the story; it's not going to save her life.

she's come to terms with it by now, the knowledge that her life is going to end soon, that it's going to be because she screwed up and the man send to kill her had taken advantage of the moment of weakness. it hasn't occurred to her yet that if he hasn't killed her already, there may be a chance that he's not going to at all.

(because she'd failed, and if you failed in this business you were as good as dead, and if you were lucky it was by the hands of your enemies and not your handlers.)

he comes back into the room and she looks up at him. the mask is impenetrable, or maybe she's too tired to try to see through it. she'd rub at her eyes if her hands weren't bound behind her back. ]

You're going to put a bullet in my brain. Or a knife in my throat.

[ they're at too close of a range for him to use what she's noticed is his preferred weapon, unless he plans to slit her throat with an arrowhead. ]

_{( Clint just inclines his head, at that. Sure, there’s a knife tucked away in his left boot and a handgun strapped to his side. But the bow and quiver were left outside, and he hasn’t drawn either of the weapons he has. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to have to. There’s an itch in his brain that he can’t scratch, something going on with him that he doesn’t understand. Sitwell’s voice echoes in his ears—You brought her with you? Why isn’t she dead?—and now, like a few hours before, he doesn’t have an answer. Why is Natasha Romanoff still alive? A question for the ages.

He stands a few feet away from her, directly in front of her, with his arms crossed over his chest. He has strong arms, necessary for pulling back a bowstring and useful for cracking necks. He’s done both plenty of times, as he’s sure she’s aware. Hawkeye may not be as famous a codename as Black Widow, but in the circles they run in his MO is well known. She would’ve put the pieces together as soon as the first arrow had flown. But it hadn’t landed, he reminds himself again, and this isn’t that type of interrogation—is it?

Clint clears his throat. )}

I’m going to tell you something, and then I’m going to ask you a question. I’m not going to lie to you, and I expect you to return the favor. Deal?

_{( His voice is even and inflectionless. But it’s also rough and good-natured in the way his usual speaking voice is. Not quite the clear, authoritative tone of an army officer, too natural to be a spy’s practiced tones. )}

Edited 2012-11-20 02:29 (UTC)

[ she stares at him for a few long moments, and it's as intimidating as a glare from a woman bound to a chair who believes she's about to die can be. the statement, question, and how the words sounded when he spoke them are chewed on and raked over in her brain.

for the first time since she was taken in, it occurs to her that he might not want to kill her, even if those were his orders. she knows that the people behind his orders aren't the only ones who want her head on a pike, but if he's been able to get as close as he has, they have to be the one who want it the most. so why the change? why is he dropping the mask?

eventually she nods, careful not to break eye contact. ]

Deal.

Edited 2012-11-20 17:59 (UTC)

_{( Clint nods in turn, glad to be able to. He doesn’t turn away from her, but his eyes look a little distant when he speaks, next. It doesn’t much affect his credibility, as it’s an almost imperceptible shift, but it is habitual. He can focus on anything, pick out details. But for some reason at this moment he doesn’t want to look at her too closely. )}

I’m not going to kill you.

_{( The words tumble out of his mouth, flat. He knows she probably won’t believe him—he wouldn’t believe himself if he was in her situation. But he had to put it out there. And, message delivered, he continued on with his question. )}

How much loyalty d’you have to your superiors?

[ it's a subtle shift in his expression, only in his eyes, but she's watching closely enough to notice. she's not sure what it means and she doesn't have much time to process it, because soon after she spots it, he tells her he's not going to kill her.

it's true, she doesn't believe him. she knows what such egregious disobeyal gets you, and that he'd be so reckless to save her life when he knows she would have killed him without blinking if she'd managed to get the upper hand is baffling. she's still wrapping her head around the words when he asks his question, and then she has something else to think about.

it takes her a long time to think about it and even longer to answer. is she particularly loyal to the red room, to the people who raised her and shaped her into the perfect tool for their box, their favorite weapon? what she feels towards them feels more like duty than it does loyalty, but it's not as if she has many other options.

it's not as if they've allowed her any. ]

I don't know anything else.

That’s not much of an answer.

_{( He doesn’t know what he was expecting. Saving her life had been a grand gesture, born of adrenaline and exhaustion and sheer insanity. What had he been expecting? That she’d automatically shift her loyalties? That she’d see him as some sort of savior? No, of course not. That could never be. Maybe this entire thing was a mistake, and they’d never be able to be sure of one another. Maybe he should have just killed her when he could have, to stop her from killing him the moment she had the chance. )}

And if you did? If you had another option, what then?

[ it's true that it's not much of an answer; she probably wouldn't accept it if she were in his place, but it's the truth and she doesn't have a better one for him. she shrugs, as much as her restraints allow. she can feel them cut into her wrists, can feel her joints start to stiffen as the amount of time she spends tied to a chair increases, but the pain is processed and pushed to the back of her mind as little more than an afterthought. ]

It's honest.

[ and it is. it's what she'd promised.

she looks up at him at his next question, eyebrows raised in mild surprise. he can't be offering what she thinks he is: that she work for him, for the people who want her dead. if his handlers don't kill him for it, he'll have surely made an enemy of the red room and the kgb, and once you've landed on that list, they make sure to cross you off of it pretty quickly.

still, having another option sounds better than death. or trying to evade them on her own. ]

It depends on what that option offered.

[ if it's more of the same, if she's moving from one prison to another, she'll pass. ]

Edited 2012-12-03 03:27 (UTC)

_{( She’s difficult to read, even under his perceptive gaze. He usually doesn’t handle this kind of work, interrogations and information. But he has to admit that there’s a certain power to it, to being the one person in the room standing and unbound.

He doesn’t like it.

Clint has never really craved power. He let himself be taken in by SHIELD so that he’d be directed, told where he could do the most good. Even if the paths that took him down were dark, the weight of final decisions would never rest on his shoulders.

Until now.

He makes a slow circuit of the room, his back turned to her at intervals. When he’s directly behind her, staring at the opposite wall, he speaks. )}

What options do you think there are? You were pretty high on our list, Ms. Romanoff. They don’t call me in unless you are.

So tell me—in my position, what would you offer?

((I'd be game for something - probably AU though? Or maybe a con? I'd be good for mostly whatever.))

(( Caught together, or are should one be interrogating the other? Only way the latter would work is if they are either running a con or they don't know one another. :\

I'm down for something though, and AU does make things easier. ))

((Caught together'll be more complicated to write - AU it? Parker's probably the more likely one to get caught.))

(( Eliot won't hurt Parker though... not unless he doesn't know her. I can swing that? Could probably even pull out my Moreau's Eliot for it. It's just... a really tough scenario to do with two people close to one another. ^^;; ))

((Yeah, it definitely is :P But I got so excited seeing another Leverage character, I had to take advantage!! :P Pre-Leverage then? I usually play Parker pre-team in games anyhow.))

(( Then I guess Parker stole something from someone she shouldn't have, and he sent his best man to get it back. Meet Eliot when he's still working as a mercenary. Start us off? ))

It's a small room, and the only reason that's discomforting is because she's chained here. Three solid walls, a solid roof, and a solid looking door with no visible lock - it'd be on the outside, if they wanted to keep her in here. And they probably wanted to keep her in here. Her fingers don't recognize the locks on the handcuffs behind her back, chained to the chair, and it's not like she has anything she can pick them with anyway. Someone went well out of their way to make sure all her tools had been taken, and she can't get to her bra like this. And not with the security camera in the corner either, staring down at her ominously.

A few tugs on the cuffs prove that they're stronger than normal, and she scowls at herself, scolding herself for getting caught. What an idiot she was, and after all the times Archie told her... Whoever had gotten the jump on her, drugged her with something, and brought her here. The muss in her head was clearing from whatever it was, but if she was being realistic, she didn't know what she was expecting. Who could've caught her? And where the hell was she?

The bare room must have a camera watching over her, hidden and unnoticeable, for not long after she returned from her drugged state, the door clicked and a large man walked in. He wasn't big in height or muscles, but he commanded a presence and a coldness in his eyes that warned her from trying anything with him.

Walking in, the door closed behind him and he was left in the locked room with her.

He didn't speak yet as he pulled the chair from a corner and dragged it in front of her. He then sat down in it, half leaned forward but as a man who was in perfect ease with what he was doing. Confidence poured from him, as did danger.

"You stole somethin'."

The last time she'd gotten caught was in France, but that had been by the police and she'd been out of the prison they'd stuck her in, in a few months. This didn't look like any prison she knew, and the guy who walked in didn't look like any regular kind of law enforcement officer. In fact, he looked downright... dangerous. Unconsciously her jaw clenched, her fingers ghosting over the cuffs around her wrists; this was what Archie had been worried about, she realized, not getting caught by the authorities but by something much worse.

The noise of the chair dragged made her stiffen, her muscles tensing as he came closer, watching him with suspicion and unease.

"I've stolen a lot of things."

It's a small room, and the only reason that's discomforting is because she's chained here. Three solid walls, a solid roof, and a solid looking door with no visible lock - it'd be on the outside, if they wanted to keep her in here. And they probably wanted to keep her in here. Her fingers don't recognize the locks on the handcuffs behind her back, chained to the chair, and it's not like she has anything she can pick them with anyway. Someone went well out of their way to make sure all her tools had been taken, and she can't get to her bra like this. And not with the security camera in the corner either, staring down at her ominously.

A few tugs on the cuffs prove that they're stronger than normal, and she scowls at herself, scolding herself for getting caught. What an idiot she was, and after all the times Archie told her... Whoever had gotten the jump on her, drugged her with something, and brought her here. The muss in her head was clearing from whatever it was, but if she was being realistic, she didn't know what she was expecting. Who could've caught her? And where the hell was she?

((OOC: I'm not sure which journal you're using?))

[There will be spoilers.]

[no smut.]

[it's not that Francis wants to be here. it's not that he wants to have Clint tied up and locked away, because he doesn't. but if it means getting to see his dad again ... if it means getting his family back ... well

for the moment the teen doesn't really know what to do, so he just pokes Clint with an arrowhead, face drawn, eyes narrowed]

Wake up, old man.

[Clint's eyes open slowly. Whatever he's been given has momentarily dulled his senses and made him somewhat unaware of the world around him.

It takes a full minute for him to catch on to where he is, but more importantly to figure out who's holding him there. The why still seems a mystery.

All he can do for the moment is glare.]

[Francis meets that glare with a momentarily pained look, then quickly schools his expression, rolling his eyes instead]

Comfortable?

What do you think?

[He will break you, child.]

Whatever. This doesn't have to take long, okay? I just need some information and then you can go.

[whatever that means, considering he doesn't even know where they are right now, but details]

What do you want?

[Other than apparently to die horribly, which you might when Clint gets out of this.]

What I want doesn't matter. But you have something someone else wants. All you have to do is tell me where it is and I won't hurt you.

Do you think I care if you hurt me? You're a kid. You're not going to do it.

[Francis swallows, staring, then grabs an arrow, pressing the tip to Clint's hand hard enough to break skin]

Don't do this, dude. Just do what I ask, okay?

Ouch.

[It's deadpan, and even though it hurts, he grabs the tip fo the arrow.]

You're not made to do this.

Doesn't mean I can't or won't.

So, what? You're just going to stand there and hurt me?

If you don't tell me what I need to know, yeah.

[he literally has no idea what he's doing]

Do you want to maybe ask something?

[frowns, grabbing his arrow back]

There was a stone. A blue stone. Where is it?

[Clint flicks the tip of the arrow with a finger as Francis pulls it away.]

I haven't seen a blue stone.

Yes you have. Look, just tell me where it is, okay?

I don't know where it is. I'm here, it's not.

You just said you hadn't seen one. [Francis grips the arrow tighter, walking around behind Clint and holding the tip to the back of his neck] So where did you see it?

I didn't.

[Francis swallows, screws his eyes closed, and presses the tip harder into Clint's neck, just below his ear] I'm not asking again.

[Clint's breath forces itself out in a hiss, but he stays calm.]

You're a fucking idiot, kid!

I'm not a kid! You don't know anything about me, so just- would you just listen and tell me where it is?

I don't know. You're persistent, but no means no.

He said you'd say that. [Francis walks back around, still holding the arrow tip against Clint's neck, but he pulls it away to stab at Clint's hand instead] You don't know what's at stake, okay? He said you'd try to lie to me.

Look. Fuck you, and everything you stand for. You're trying to get me, and it's not going to work. I've got nothing. So stop before I kill you.

I'm not afraid of you. [leans in, adding pressure to the arrowhead slicing through the top of Clint's hand] Why are you such a stubborn jerk?

Because you're wrong.

No, I'm not! [leans in hard enough the arrow slices through Clint's hand, but Francis isn't even looking, jaw jutting out and staring Clint down, probably closer than he really should be] He wouldn't lie to me about this!

Who wouldn't?

[because he doesn't know any better] Modi.

[SON OF A FUCKING BITCH.]

[THAT SILENCE IS NOT ENCOURAGING] Look, all you have to do is tell me, and I tell him, and we both get what we want, okay?

Except for the part where I don't know, you've got a sound suicidal plan.

I'm not - look, I'm trying to save someone here, okay? I'll do whatever it takes.

Forget you. I'm not saying anything because I don't know.

[Francis' eyes widen a bit, a decidedly frightened look overshadowing everything] You have to. You have to know! I can't get him back if you don't know so tell me!

[oops grabbing for Clint's neck]

I. Don't. Know.

[He chokes it out; even if it's a lie he can tell it straight faced.]

You have to! [punches him, still gripping his neck] Don't do this to me!

You're doing it to yourself! Who are you even trying to save?

My dad.

[That stops him from struggling for a moment.]

Your dad's dead.

He said he could bring him back. Said he could fix it so he didn't die. He just needs to know where the stone is.

He can't.

Stop lying.

Your father is dead!

[Francis aims another punch at Clint's face, looking every bit like a lost teenager instead of the leader he keeps trying to be] He doesn't have to be! I can save him this time if you'd just help me.

Do you think you can?

[He just takes the hits, and when he gets a chance, he spits blood in Francis' face.]

[Francis yanks the arrow out of Clint's hand, holding it to his chin] I'll do whatever it takes.

Then kill me. See if that helps.

[the arrow presses tighter to his throat, drawing blood, before Francis realises what he's doing and draws back, terrified] That's not - I don't want to kill you!

[He practically snarls.]

You're almost there.

[he stares at Clint, eyes wide, then tosses the arrow to the side. a moment later he clutches his head] This isn't what I wanted.

You never even tried to fight it, did you?

Fight what?

Him. Modi.

[he doesn't quite understand] It's not like he attacked me or anything. But he's powerful, right? He said he's like Torunn! Why would he lie about that?

He's not lying about what he is, but he's lying about what he can do.

Why? Why would he lie- [Francis clutches his head again, groaning through the pain, and grabs for the front of Clint's shirt] Why should I believe you...?

Because you know me better than you know him.

I- [he grimaces, head hurting, but drops his hands and starts untying Clint] I'm sorry.

Sorry? [Because once he's free, he's knocking this kid out.]

Yeah. [and there! free] Sorry. I just wanted him back.

[It'd been a while since Bobbi had seen her husband. She'd been MIA, caught while undercover, digging deep into the bowls of AIM. They knew who she was, of course, and the weren't going to let her off easy.

No. They were going to brainwash her.

She thought she'd been immune to that sort of thing, but she thought wrong. It was Clint's bad luck that he'd come to find her, only to be faced with her essentially beating the snot out of him, and taking him down to the interrogation room for questioning.

She didn't even recognize him. Not really. She felt like she knew him, and like there was something she should remember about him, but whatever it was, it didn't matter. He was the enemy right now, and he had information she needed.

And she needed a test subject. Everything was going to work out perfectly.]

Wakey, wakey, Agent Barton.

I'm awake, Bobbi.

[His eyes fly open and he quickly scans the room for weapons, exits, anything that will help him. All he can really see is her.

This was a rescue gone awry, something that never should have happened as it did and that he's sure to regret until his dying day. He suspects today is that day, though.]

[Bobbi raises an eyebrow at him, but lets the recognition pass.]

We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Personally, I'm hoping you choose the hard way.

I don't think there's any other way. Not with you.

[He's staring at her, hoping that somehow he'll be able to get through to her. They can't take her away from him. Not entirely.]

How's your day been?

Good enough. The only thing that could make it better is a new test subject.

Oh, wait. [She's got a mini lab set up, and some syringes. She's ready to go.] Christmas came early.

Your hair looks nice like that, baby.

[God, this is going to hurt. And he's probably not going to survive. He knows that. He knows he's going to die at the hands of the only person he's ever truly loved.

Kinda sucks.]

I'm not even going to ask.

[Because it's probably just a diversion tactic.]

Listen, Barton. I like you, if only because you're good looking. So you can take comfort in the fact that I'm not going to completely ruin you.

You don't need to ask. Remember the part where we're engaged? At all? It's probably worth thinking about.

That works better as a diversion when the person you're trying to divert has actually met you.

[But she leans in close, and strokes his cheek.] But like I said, you're an attractive man. I could see it happening.

[She can't be that gone, She can't be. That touch chills him to the bone.]

I asked you to marry me one month and seventeen days ago. You said yes, but I thought you'd punch me instead.

Sounds like something I'd do. Maybe we have met.

[She turns around and heads back to the mini-lab.]

Well, if you have, we'll find out. This new compound I'm working on? It's designed to bring up old memories. It should be a good way to get some information.

Now, here's the catch. Nobody's survived a dose yet. But you, Agent Barton, you're made of strong stuff than the average man. I like that about you. I'm rooting for you.

You're not going to break me, Bobbi.

[A deep breath, and he begins the routine. Name, rank, serial number.

She can't break him. She can't. He won't let her. He's invested too much in this, in SHIELD, in the Avengers. He won't let that fall.]

[Oh, she'll make him talk. She doesn't care how long it takes. And she's going to play on his feelings to get there.]

Clint, baby. [Her voice changes completely, and she gently strokes his cheek, then his arm, and gives him an injection with a small dose of of the serum. She speaks quietly, into his ear.] They've been doing things to me. Just cooperate, and we'll be out soon.

[He cringes. She'd never ask him to do that. She knows he'd rather die than cooperate with an enemy, no matter what.

It's starting to hurt. Really hurt. His body aches from the injection, and his arm starts to feel as though it's on fire. The real pain, though, is knowing that he may never get her back.]

Whatever you say, sweetheart.

Please, baby. Take me home. Get me out of here.

[She's not sure if it'll work or not, but she doesn't actually need it to. She chemical she's injected into him will do its job soon enough.]

Where's Nick?

Nick's where he always is: working.

[And his head's starting to feel a little fuzzy. Had she really said no one's survived this, or was he imagining that line?]

[She strokes his cheek again. She may or may not have been lying when she said it. And she's tweaked the formula since then.]

But where? I need to find him.

Where he was when you left.

When I left what?

When you left SHIELD.

I can't remember anything, baby. I need you to remind me.

That's... [He winces.] ...your problem.

Clint.

[Her voice is low. Intimate. She's still close to him.]

Do you really love me?

[He looks into her eyes, and he takes a long, slow breath.

This is a hard decision to make, and he knows that if he makes it out of this alive, he's going to have to face the word he's about to say with all the grit and determination that got him where he is today.]

No.

[Not this. Not like this. Not this woman. This isn't Bobbi.]

Well, now you're just lying.

[Bobbi stops trying, and snaps back to mad scientist mode.]

It's interesting, how you're resisting. [She makes some notes.] Does it hurt more when you do?

It's kinda easy to lie. I've been doing it for so long.

[That much is true enough.

And he won't answer directly, but it hurts like hell. His brain feels like it wants to jump out of his ears.]

I'll take that as a yes. I wonder if you're able to lie because I only have you a half dose, instead of a full dose.

[She has another syringe, and she holds it up in front of him.]

Now, the ultimate question. What happens when I mix it with Sodium Pentothol? Think you'll still be able to resist if I shoot you up with two truth serums?

[He's convincing himself that he's telling the truth. That's the only way around it.

But this? Likely lethal.]

Well, if you want me dead, go on.

[She just laughs.]

No, not yet. I want to know more about how we're supposedly "engaged."

Did they take your ring?

[She holds up two ringless hands for him to see.]

I don't have any rings for anyone to take.

Did you leave it at home?

A ring I don'y have? Sure.

Hey, Bobbi? You better go ahead and kill me. I'm really not into this side of interrogations, and you know I'm not gonna talk that easy.

Yeah, but I like you. I want to keep you around for a while.

I don't really care. If you don't kill me, I'd kill myself before I'd talk.

[Because he can feel the stuff starting to work at him.]

Oh, Mr. Barton. Don't go that far. Maybe I should inject you with some happy serum. Perk you up a bit.

It's something I'm still working on.

So is this stupidity permanent? I mean, how badly did they screw you up?

What do you mean?

This brainwashing BS.

Well, if I have been brainwashed, I probably wouldn't know about it. That's the whole poit of brainwashing.

It's kind of a shame. You sound like an idiot.

Oh, I do not. Mad scientist, yes. Idiot, no.

Mad scientist? In your dreams. You're a hack.

Actually, I'm neither. I'm just someone doing my job. Just like you.

Then do it.

My job isn't to kill you, it's to torture you. You've really pissed some people off.

I've spent my entire life doing that.

Well, this time it's back to bite you in the ass.

You still sound like an idiot. So you want to know where Fury is? I don't know where he is.

That's fine. It shouldn't be too hed to find him. He'll be sitting here next.

Good luck with that.

Thanks.

Now. Let's talk about you. How'd you find out where I am?

I tracked some radio signals.

Why are you here?

To rescue you.

Why?

Because Barbara Morse--who you really aren't, by the way--is kinda important.

Barbara Morse, born and raised, right here. Sorry to bteak it to you.

Except you're some kind of brainwashed puppet. Sorry.

Ouch. You're hurting my feelings.

Good.

[He closes his eyes.]

Name, rank, serial number. Do I need to repeat that again?

No, I have all of that.

How did you get in here?

Front door. Didn't you see the bodies?

That was all you on your own?

Nice job.

Thanks. I thought it'd make a good first impression.

According to you it isn't a first impression, though.

Maybe you should get your stories straight.

On the people holding me. You're already impressed.

I have to admit, it's a quality I look for in a man.

But now you're going to try to wrench stuff out of me.

I'm just doing my job.

Now. Why are you really here? What is SHIELD after?

You. I want my fiancee back.

What else?

That's really all I needed.

Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you.

Yeah. I bet you are.

I actually kind of am. I'm not that horrible.

I don't know anymore.

You poor baby.

I'm starting to not like you very much.

Listen, I'm not really a sadist. You don't have the information I need, obviously, so I'm going to let you go.

[She starts undoing his bonds.]

You'll have to find your own way out. If you can.

Yeah? I can do that.

[He's skeptical, though.]

You think so?

[Except things are really starting to hurt and he's really getting dizzy.]

Yeah. I'm good.

Do you want a shot of adrenaline?

Not really, no. I want whatever you stuck in me out of my system.

Well, the only way to manage that is to flush it out.

And that's gonna take a while.

Yes, it will.

So are you really turning me loose?

[He closes his eyes. This isn't getting better at all.]

If you can make it.

I can sure as hell try.

[But that's about the time he crumples into a uselessly pained ball.]

Breathe, Barton. That's the worst of it.

I can't...

[He coughs, holding his arm.]

Oh, you can. Just a few more minutes and you'll be golden.

Bobbi, why?

Give me a good reason not to.

Because you love me?

[She kneels down, and looks him in the eyes.]

You're very convinced.

You've said it so many times and now I want it to be true.

[Dammit, now the stuff is working at him.]

When did I say it?

Back at my place...

I don't remember any of that.

You don't remember?

Clearly.

I want to marry you, Bobbi.

You're not lying.

I'm not lying. You're perfect.

I don't think I am who you think I am.

You were Barbara Morse.

I still am.

You're not the woman I love.

That's what I've been trying to tell you. I don't even know you.

You should. We're engaged, Bobbi.

Well, then you'd better live through that serum so you can prove it.

Just kill me.

This is more fun.

Bitch.

Can't argue that.

Then stop.

Stop being a bitch?

Yeah.

God, my head...

Is it wearing off yet?

No... Not... No.

It should, soon.

Or kill me.

I hope it doesn't.

Liar.

Why would I want you dead? I don't have any good reason to kill you.

What do you want from me?

Information. A test subject.

I want to leave. I want to get you back.

Then survive.

Ugh.

[He closes his eyes and curls up into a ball.]

You've made it much longer than anyone else so far.

[Well. He's passing out now.]

The Interrogation Meme

thor odinson; mcu

john watson | sherlock

Mello | Death Note | OTA

7

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

CAL TRASK ➝ east of eden [modern au]

Robin | Teen Titans | OTA

Ziva David | NCIS | OTA

Eyal Lavin | Covert Affairs | OTA

q ☎ james bond ☎ ota

2 & 5!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

Kain Highwind | Final Fantasy IV / Dissidia 012

Geir Dagnasson | Scion OC

Mukuro Ikusaba | Dangan Ronpa

4

no subject

1/2

no subject

no subject

1/2

no subject

no subject

1/2

no subject

shannon carter ★marvel comics ★ ota

Ky Kiske | Guilty Gear | OTA

Nikita | Nikita | OTA

Greg Lestrade | Sherlock (bbc)

Michael | Nikita (CW)| OTA

Justin Hammer | MCU

7

BUT WHERE IS THE GIRAFFE???

FINE, HERE

you give me great joy

no subject

no subject

Frank Pritchard | Deus Ex: HR

natasha romanoff ( black widow ) ⌛ marvel cinematic

7 because i can | grab natasha from whenever i guess! or make her au. idk spies.

who knows au/pre-canon i guess and by the way I LOVE YOU

I LOVE YOU TOO <33, cr i never knew i needed like burning

ugh it's delicious where has it been all my life

i dont know how i didn't think to just make a bond and throw him at her sooner

oh well you're doing it now and it's glorious!

short tag

hdu i demand novels with every tag (no it's lovely <3)

GOD CAR SO DEMANDING <333 lol bond don't get cocky, natasha might be able to break you.

WHATEVER I DO WHAT I WANT also i'm a hypocrite (hahaha she will if he tries to get fresher)

Re: WHATEVER I DO WHAT I WANT also i'm a hypocrite (hahaha she will if he tries to get fresher)

no subject

screw numbers i do what i want

yes, embrace the freedom!

i feel free as a bird

very appropriate!

i thought so

no subject

no subject

no subject