Damian Hughes | Di(s). (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
snaketrap) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bakerstreet2012-11-18 07:35 pm
snaketrap) wrote in bakerstreet2012-11-18 07:35 pm
The Interrogation Meme
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.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.]
no subject
[ 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.) ]
no subject
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.)]