between this side and that

[baedalites.livejournal.com]

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."

Comments

[fixedroll.livejournal.com]

Oh, yes. This will be a delightful heart-to-heart, he can already tell. The condescension makes him feel especially willing to engage.

"You tell me."

This is the first time he's taken part in any conversation since his incarceration, aside from granting a syllable here and there when pressed to respond verbally, if ever. His voice sounds alien even to himself.

Sat there in one of the chairs, lit appropriately dramatically by that single light, Arthur makes a point of presenting himself as relaxed, if not wholly unaffected by this wretched ordeal. Not happy, mind, but relaxed. His posture is straight, but not rigid. The clothes he was given to wear, an utterly characterless shirt and trousers, both the same shade of probably-used-to-be-white, hang quite loose on his body while at the same time being too short in the sleeves and legs—it's a little comical, if you want to be honest.
He's lost some weight, and since there wasn't much of him to begin with, even these few pounds really show. However, it is a fragility that he does not currently feel.

Basically: bring it on, jerk.