bakerstreet | The Interrogation Meme

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The Interrogation Meme

Your crimes were unspeakable, your lies were outnumbered, but finally you've been caught.
They bring you in, sit you down, and chain you up. No matter what power you have, no matter
how strong you are, you're not going anywhere so get comfy.
It's going to be a long night.

Rules
1. Post with your character, canon, and any prefs - You're the captive
2. Tag around to other characters. You're the interrogator.
3. Roll. Or, you know, don't.
3. Horribles.

RNG OPTIONS
1. Truth serum
You know this person isn't going to speak easy but you've got a surprise for them. This serum aught to loosen their lips a little.

2. Torture
The old fashion way might work best for this particular fellow. How about those nail screws?

3. Bargain
You've got something they really want, or really need. If they fess up, if they tell the truth of the matter, they'll get it.

4. Black mail
So, remember that night about ten years ago...? You know something they don't want the rest of the world to know and you're going to use it.

5. Seduction
Just because they're in chains on a chair doesn't mean you two can't have a little fun, right? Might be even more fun, come to think about it.

6. Leverage
Whether it's love, drugs, or something else -- it's hanging above your head. You're craving, aren't you? Or maybe that someone special is in danger if you don't spill.

7. WILDCARD
BECAUSE GIRAFFE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yourself?

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

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

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

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

All the better for her, then.) ]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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debts - 2012-11-21 05:48 (UTC) - Expand

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couldntdecide - 2012-11-21 20:54 (UTC) - Expand

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aren't you enjoying yourself, Mr. Bond?

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

I will count myself lucky then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lovely accent.

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

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

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

Later, she thinks. Later. ]

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

You'll have to try better than that.

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

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

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

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

Little far from home, don't you think?

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

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

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

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

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

Then we do have something in common.

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

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

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The Interrogation Meme

natasha romanoff (black widow) ⌛ marvel cinema

i just can't resist.

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2 but feel free to take it whatever direction you like

oh god LET ME LOVE YOU DEAR BOND

he is 9 kinds of new BUT I NEED THIS

hnnn i am so glad you are providing ; - ;

bond you can't flirt your way out of this (not like it will stop him)

oh bond you DO know what black widows do don't you~

he'd say it must be worth the risk with a finale like that

tut tut tut 007~

could she resist? are you his everest, miss romanova?

as in, is he gonna fall and meet his doom, because that sounds legit

that's usually the case when he's being interrogated by beautiful women