multiversallogs | between this side and that

Who: Arthur and Special Militiaman Ben Powell.
What: An interview is had, some things are cleared up.
Where: Somewhere deep within The Spire
When: Some two weeks after leaving that party. Time is irrelevant. (Link is a little violent.)
Notes: Fascist shenanigans abound.
Warnings: General meanness seems likely.

The location of the Militia's head quarters is no secret. The Spire looms between the government buildings in Dryside and the halls of law in Coin's End. Little is known about what happens in there; the Militia has no obligation to explain itself nor is the public allowed inside. It is said that Baedal has no prison, and that's true. One way or another, the holding cells in the Spire are not intended for long term incarceration.

Ben Powell is a dedicated man. He has to be, in his position. Few of the Militia's operatives come with a name and a face attached. He's also a busy man. It's a big city after all. Still. Some matters call for a personal touch.

Two weeks have gone by since the Militia plucked a man simply known as Arthur from the streets. Time might be more difficult to tell inside of a cell than out, but that's no reason to let this drag on further.

The interview room has a sparse ad hoc sort of look to it. A table, two chairs. Single light source. That kind of thing. Powell will join Arthur in this room, and he will look pretty much exactly the same as he did at their last encounter.

"Well." This is how all great conversations start, with pointed neutrality and a bare minimum of hellos. "What have you gotten yourself into, Arthur."

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Neither does Arthur elaborate on this assumption. Other than those events directly related to the current situation, nothing he has done prior to this moment is any of the Special's damn business, as far as he's concerned. Still, his patience endures.

"To put it simply, I requested some form of compensation for a delivery of information, and what I got instead was a visit from some back-alley thugs. Who are probably being paid too much, by the way, if they have to wait for their target to already be incapacitated before taking a shot at him." They ambushed him while he was soused and he has feelings about it. He is also starting to care less about sounding formal, apparently. "Look, I get that you guys feel the need to wave your dicks around to show you're in charge, and it's more than likely this isn't personal. Just tell me what you want so I can get out of here. But don't tell me you want me to feed you information or else, because I don't work for free."

God, he's tired. And tired of things. Things such as being here and wearing this and looking at this man's face.

Edited 2011-08-28 12:39 (UTC)

"If we wanted your data, we would have it." Including any personal details, no doubt. It's not a threat, it's a statement of fact, possibly provided to support current theories or to suggest that it could be worse. No one will blame Arthur if he fails to view this as a courtesy.

"We don't, as a rule, traffic in information. If we did, our sources would be far more reliable." Not that the words of a hostile newcomer aren't valuable. Of course someone could have just said so a few weeks ago and everyone's time could have been better spent. Alas. The cruel whims of authority inconveniences us all. "I doubt that we could reach an accommodation at this point. However; your diligence and keen interest has been noted."

That, right there, that trips all of Arthur's switches at once, and it's immediately visible in his expression. His hands side apart to gesture as he speaks. Long, pale fingers, stiff with agitation. Jerky little movements.

"Are you kidding me?" He sounds...unhappy. "You've had me locked up in this rotten hole for weeks now, subsisting on some watery bullshit, nutritionally deprived, without any clothes, not knowing if I'm ever gonna get out, just so you can wander along whenever you feel like it and deign to tell me my interest has been noted?" Technically, he is now shouting. "Are you fucking serious right now? If you assholes don't even want the goddamn information, why—"

Arthur cuts himself off here to breathe deeply, as though to calm himself, sucking air in through his nose until his lungs fill, until he feels the purring rattle deep inside that has only recently come to be, cultivated by dampness and dust. He coughs into his fist. Angrily.

For some time, nothing is heard inside of the room but coughing. Agent Ben Powell appears as unconcerned by this as he is by shouting or displays of unhappiness. Unsurprised too, for some reason. He waits for the coughing to subside, expression mild. "More or less. If you think about it - which I imagine you are - that's really preferable." This could be what passes for sympathy around here.

"It's only been two weeks. Could easily have been longer, but your cohort and name was passed through." Not that anyone is doing you any favours for their own dubious reasons or anything. Powell unclasps his hands too, in his case it is the gesture of someone who's thinking about getting up. "Of course, if you wish to return to your cell until someone figures what to make of you, that can be arranged."

"No," he answers, without delay—but neither is it hurried. He just doesn't need to think about it. Who would?

There's a more sullen, almost sulky look to Arthur now that he's got his breathing back under control, a prolonged wince on top of the existing creases of ire. He looks particularly sore. One of his hands moves in a gesture aborted before it can really begin, sort of grasping at nothing, his wrist still on the table. Instead it becomes a fist. He wants to clutch his chest, probably, but will not allow the Special any further visual satisfaction if he can help it.

He should be acting more diplomatically overall—frankly, he's not taking this situation as seriously as he could. Should. Why not? He's in danger, isn't he? Doesn't any of this hurt enough to count as genuine endangerment instead of just another complication? It sure as hell sucks enough. This new urge to close his eyes and sigh into his palm is most certainly genuine, but he doesn't do that, either.

"No, just..." Just...a hand gesture, up and then down again, aimlessly dismissive. Perhaps it's an attempt at resignation. Just...whatever, Powell, Arthur is—well, he's finished shouting at you, anyway. For now.

"No?"

The Special isn't surprised or pretending to be; it's not a real question. It doesn't get to hang in the air for long either lest it invites some spare defiance. "I don't find that hard to believe." Really. He doesn't. "You're not a threat to anyone. You are, however, surprisingly resourceful. Another time, perhaps you would resist the urge to gift the greenery with your CiD." Littering. That's the real crime here.

Okay that's not fair. The real crime is annoying the Militia while the Militia was not otherwise occupied. Recent tension surrounding certain Candlelighter activities may also have been ill-timed. If there's a take away message here, it's probably there is patience in this world not meant to be tested.

"I do believe you when you say you'd rather not return to that cell," Powell says this while making actual motions towards standing up. He sounds like someone forced to acknowledge a sad and inevitable fact of life. "However, there's little to be done about that."

Powell standing up appears to trigger a reaction. The door opens to admit regular Militia personnel, here, no doubt, to escort Arthur to more familiar rooms.

(He can keep the borrowed clothes this time. He will have his own back soon anyway.)

As proven only moments ago, Arthur has very limited patience for being messed with deliberately... but, he's already chanced making this situation worse for himself by mouthing off, and so he remains quiet despite the renewed appearance of tenuous restraint in his mien. The Special's declaration has inspired in him a fresh flood of both loathing and panic; his willpower is clearly grinding in full effect against it.

He does, however, lift his eyes to lay on Powell a look which suggests that should the opportunity present itself, Arthur would at the very least have to consider doing something unpleasant to him. It may occur to one that, with the right technology, this look might be weaponized to disastrous results. Sadly, in the here and now it is only a look.

When asked to stand, he will stand, and soforth. The escorts will receive no resistance (for the moment, anyway).

It's part of the Special's job and skill set to be good at deciphering topography. Not that one would have to be in order to understand Arthur's non-verbal communication. Powell's own look and brief tip of the head may be taken as acknowledgement or more accurately as don't be stupid. The politics here may be opaque and cruel, but it could be worse.

Arthur should be perfectly safe with his escorts. They have no interest in making his day more interesting. Assuming he has no immediate complaints, the trip back should go without incident. The things he had with him to the Spire will follow some hours later.

After that, transport out of here will be arranged. It will involve a familiar hood and end up somewhere dark and unfamiliar until someone comes to claim him. He has friends. At least one of them will be notified.

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