Cell Block Confessions

[Talion]

As he laid there on his stomach, fingers nearly shoved down his throat so that he could drip the more liquid parts of the stuff they called food down into his stomach, he saw the hand coming for him. It was in his nature to pull away. His head sunk down between his shoulder blades and he pulled his arms up into his chest. If he could move away further or quicker, he would have but he couldn't.

Talion could not allow another person to reach out and touch him. He just couldn't. Unless he was the one to initiate the contact he wanted nothing to do with it. It was an act of necessity to touch another person and to draw from their strength, but it was one that he did not enjoy. He didn't like the physical contact. He didn't like having to rely on others so that he could push on. That wasn't to say that he hadn't thought about it when the guy was first dropped within his cell or countless other times when he had encountered people out on the street but he usually let it end there, in a thought.

Master thought it an act of weakness. Only the weak needed to steal from the strong and healthy to survive. Talion didn't want to be like that.

So he pulled away as far as he could and he stared at the other man while some of the lumpier clumps of mush came running out of his mouth and down his chin. He tried to speak but with food and a few fingers still in his mouth it came out more as a "Mmrow," than anything else.

[Danal Church]

"Don' lissen! Take yer soul they will."

Church removed his hands from his eyes and tried to angle his head around the guard in an attempt to get a visual of the source of the statement.
It had come from the cell directly across from him and it sounded like the person was delusional...or drunk, but Church figured he could easily rule out the latter.

However strange the statement seemed, though, Church could feel a sense of urgency. As if he was attempting to warn him of something.
Church didn't believe for a second that this guard could literally snatch his soul from him, but perhaps the prisoner was attempting to tell him something else.

The statement had caught the guard's attention as well and Church realized that this egotistical idiot would likely be offended at another prisoner telling Church not to listen to him.

Church soon found that he was right.

"Ya." The guard said walking over to the cell that had called out to Church. "And your's is going to be the first one I take."

Church had a rush of adrenaline and found the strength to stand on his feet. Even though he had never met the prisoner across from him, a strange feeling of concern washed over him.
He hated seeing people being abused or bullied, he'd much rather take on the pain or violence himself.

Compassion was definently a weakness for Church and Church began to realize that perhaps compassion was a weakness in the world altogether.
Church remembered, however, that his conscious and kindness was the reason he was still alive. He had believed every word of what the Elder had told him and Church would be damned if he would let a mere beating cause him to lose his value's

Church definently did not want another ass kicking, but, at the same time, he'd feel horrible if he saw the prisoner get bludgeoned to death just for, maybe, attempting to warn him of something.

By then, the guard had reached the prisoner's cell. Church thought quickly and, surprisingly, came up with a bluff he felt just might work.

"All right!" Church yelled out, trying to keep his balance. The guard wheeled around, surprised, with a look of glee on his face. Church could tell the guard was already planning in his mind what he was going to do to Church.
"I've had enough." Church continued, his pulse elevating.

"Have you now?" the guard said, laughing through the words.

"Ya," Church responded. "I hope you're enjoying your little power trip." Church did his best to stare into the guards eyes and not appear intimidated. "Enjoy it while you can."

Church saw the guards demeanor change, he could see anger taking over.

"While I can?" the guard responded. Slowly making his way back to Church's cell "Pfft, and who's going to stop me? You?"

A feeling of horror impaled Church as he realized that the bluff was either going to work, or it wouldn't, and he would, then, get the torture of a lifetime. It was too late to turn back now.

"I wont have to." Church replied. "My people. My Government. You know, the people that made that armour you stole from me. They know that I came here, and, even though it might take them some time, they'll soon realize that I'm missing and they'll come for me."

The guard didn't appear afraid, but Church did notice his demeanor change from angry, to cool.

"So, ya, play your little games, starve me, beat me. Whatever."

Church walked over and put his face up against the bars. "Because when they do find me, they wont find it amusing how you had one of their officers arrested and nearly beaten to death for a crime you know good and damn well, I didn't commit!"

Church let a couple seconds of silence pass to let the words sink in and felt exhilaration when he could tell that the guard was actually listening, a good sign.

"And when that happens." Church continued. "This little, kangaroo court you got going on here." Church said pointing at the other cells. "Is going to have an organized, military government storming the walls of this city and liberating the citizen's you people are, most likely, oppressing."

The guard continued to stare at Church, emotionless. Church couldn't tell if the guard bought his bluff.
For all Church knew, his government was annihilated and there would be no one to ever save him from this nightmare, but the guard and this city didn't know that.
Maybe, Church could use this a leverage to get himself out of Marn. Perhaps he could negotiate his way out of here.

The guard chuckled, turned left and began walking towards the steps out of the prison. "We'll see." he said, and began walking up the steps.

Church let out a silent "huff" of relief. How he had just gotten out of that, he'd never know. When it came to other people's safety, Church always thought clearer.
That's why he had always been the best at what he did.

[Anther]

Anther stumbled back from the bars. He barely heard anything to make sense. He couldn't make sense of anything. Everything was black. He clawed in front for a grip, a hold, something but the dizziness crashed in swaying worse than a whore's ass at prime time --

The noises had stopped. He couldn't see. His eyelids had closed. He hadn't told them to. The swaying had stopped. He floated instead, soft and dreamy. His body tried to tell him it was hurting, but he couldn't feel it past the thick heavy weight that pressed in, pushing and pushing at his small measly thoughts until there was no escape.

Daimon! he tried to wake, even as his mouth parted and a thin trickle of drool spattered out.

Theogios --

Too late. He slept.

Somewhere down the line of cells, Sagath gibbered and made dire threats to anything that moved.

[Rorgue]

It was no surprise when the elf moved to avoid Rorgue's outstretched hand. He - or she - looked a pathetic, submissive thing, not at all the sort of person to try starting a fight. Then again, the sanity of all of the people in this dungeon - Rorgue included - was entirely questionable.

Before all of this trouble, it would most certainly have been distressing for Rorgue to see someone so young, and seemingly harmless, locked away in a place like Justice Hall. Now there was only a selfish sense of relief over not having anyone more intimidating as a potential cellmate. This place could definitely change a person, for the worse.

But that didn't matter now.

The only thing that mattered to Rorgue - at least while he was forced to stay conscious - was the desire to ease the sick, empty feeling in his stomach. The hunger, although it had not even been noticeable earlier, was probably the reason he couldn't sleep now. Or so he assumed.

First thing first: he had to get up off the floor. It took a few long moments, but eventually Rorgue was sitting upright, glancing around. No more food; only what the elf had been hastily shoveling into his mouth. Looking at the kid again, it seemed he was probably male, though it was always hard to tell with elves, even in decent lighting.

After a sudden short but rough coughing fit, Rorgue decided to try speaking again. His voice came out as a hoarse whisper, his throat aching from the effort, but as he still felt better now than he did when they took him outside, it was easy to ignore.

"Hey... elf," he spoke slowly, ending it with a groan. "That food..." He licked his lips, and held out his hand again. "Pass... it over." However difficult the words were to force out, he still felt the need to end his request with a polite "Please," as though it might actually help him in a situation like this.

[Gachety's Boys]

When Chet came down the stairs, the guards on duty paid him the respect of not staring. They were generally aware of who he was--one of the senior battlemages, and not one with a penchant for public drama like some of the younger mages or the more eccentric veterans. In a showing of professional restraint for which these guards were not exactly renowned, they averted their attention to other things and gave the battlemage, at most, a nod of acknowledgment.

Chet was aware these extended work hours weren't part of his punishment for earlier events--no, the overtime was just to draw him thin before he had to face the music. By this point, his little girl's birthday party had certainly dispersed, and he found himself wondering when he'd have time to get her another gift to make up for it--perhaps one of those painted canaries he'd seen for sale in the marketplace.

When he set foot on the damp stone floor at the bottom of the steps, the canary was snuffed from his mind. The air was indeed bad; the murmurs and groans of the prisoners brewed that miasma. He had been given his instructions, and he walked past the first several cells without so much as a sideways glance. He knew some of the trespassers he'd helped catch earlier were here, but he'd moved on in his mind.

Chet arrived at the cell that held Church and raised his eyebrows at the guard standing there. The guard nodded hasty acknowledgment that Chet had found the right spot.

"You should get rid of that." Chet indicated the copy of the Tattler the guard was holding at his side. The publication was barely tolerated by the governing powers in the city, and it was frowned upon for public employees to read it.

The guard gave a soft, embarrassed huff and turned his head away as he rolled his eyes in frustration. Battlemages, the guards felt, could get away with things like that if they wanted. The patriotic loyalty of battlemages, after all, was known to run deeper than anything a little muckraking propaganda could upset.

"Alright, you," said Chet. He cleared his throat as he stared in at Church. The lighting was poor, and he had to squint a bit. He frowned and adjusted the cuffs of his leather gloves. "What's your name, and do you claim citizenship of this fine city?" His instructions had been vague enough--determine where the prisoner hailed from, and whether he was merely psychotic, or else more dangerous.

[Danal Church]

Church looked up at the man that began speaking to him. He appeared to be in his late thirties, yet, had a aura about him that seemed to emit....experience.
Church thought of the word he was looking for. Wisdom.
Church couldn't tell if it was the cordial yet authoritative way he spoke, or the simple tint of gray he had in his hair that gave him this demeanor.
Probably a little of both, Church figured.

Church took note of the red gloves. He had the rather unpleasant experience with the man in the similar uniform. Church assumed the red gloves indicated a "specialist" of sort's.
Perhaps they alluded to the fact that they wielded the power of magic.

Church banished his thought's for the time being, none of that mattered. What did matter was that Marn's government had already taken interest in him.
This guard was asking him personal questions. A good sign.
Question's like this meant fear. Or at the very least, curiosity. Which Church could exploit.

Church could feel another fit from the parasite churning up in his stomach. Church felt his sense of smell heighten.
The odor of the guard's flesh wafted into Church's nostril's. Church felt his mind become numb.
He was starving, he needed sustenance.

Church cleared his throat loudly, both, to try to get himself back together, and, so the guard in front of him wouldn't think he was crazy.
If Church gave off, even a hint, of insanity. Any chance of him getting released, would likely be destroyed.

Focusing on how he would respond to the guard's question's, was the task at hand. Church needed to give direct, non descriptive replies to each of the guard's questions. As long as the guard kept asking close-ended question's, Church would only give one word answer's.

Church already greatly opposed this cities government and already felt disdain for it's employee's. However, so far this man hadn't shown any hostilities. So Church would offer the guard respect in his tone of voice.

"I am Danal Church, and, No, I do not claim citizenship."

[KoriStronghammer]

Kori came to with a splitting pain in his head, as if his head was on a forge being beaten out. He went to lift himself up, but the waves of dizziness and nausea made him change his mind. After laying on the dusty floor for a few moments, the sounds and smells of this place told him where he was. A prison. Musty scents of body odor, human waste, and the sickly smell of fear and hopelessness. Lifting his head up, he saw the bars, the guards, the place he was in. And he lost his sanity.

Rising to his feet, he jumped to the cell door and grabbed the bars. Growling like a rabid beast, he set his feet on the marble walls and began to pull. Nothing was happening, the bars and door were to firmly set into the walls. Dropping to the floor, he howled. He wasn't free anymore, he was trapped again. Hell all over again, no sweet air, no bright sun. Dark, cold stone, a small space. Rising again, he paced from the door to the opposite wall, picking up speed. Finally, he ran from the wall to the door as hard as he could in the small space, repeatedly bashing his shoulder into the door. Still nothing. He grabbed the bars and roared through them.

"Let me go you bastards! Kill me or free me! I'll drink your fucking blood from your skulls for locking me in here!"

Shaking with anger, and out of options, he smashed his head into the bars from sheer frustration. He wasn't supposed to end up like this. He was supposed to die before coming back to a prison cage. A little wobbly from all the smashing and screaming, he teetered to the corner of his cell and sat down with his legs crossed. Leaning his back against the wall, he looked across the hall to where he thought he saw a pair of eyes staring at him.

"What're you looking at? Eyes away, or I'll take them from you."

The eyes disappeared. The whispers started. Whisper, whisper, whisper. Telling him he was wrong, he would pay, he was a criminal and would be treated like one. He hunched his head between his shoulders, lifting his beard braid and chewing on the end. The whispers were new, the voice was one he had never heard before. When the screams started, those he knew. They were drenched in blood, death, and pain. They were steeped in age, and they all came from his past. His Clan chieftains and Elders had justified their actions by saying that he would not remember what he had done when he was no longer gripped by the beserkrgang, and they were wrong. So, so, so wrong. His mothers death scream, his fathers screams at finding her, his fathers death scream. The screams of the first woman he had ever killed, part of an Raging Auroch settlement party that had invaded on the Sea Bear lands.

As clan members, they had called upon Kori's clan to provide assistance in repelling the invaders. They had sent Kori and his handlers, and he had led the charge as he always did. When the men died, the women ran, for Vikung conquerors viewed all captured booty as property, for sale or for pleasure. One had picked up a mans sword, maybe her husband or sons, and raised it at Kori. He was so far gone in his rage that he didn't even use his hammer. He grabbed her and broke her spine over his knee, and he could still remember the cracking noise it made, and her screams before he kicked her face into silence. Now, those screams came back and haunted him, as they did when he had lived in that cold Northern cage.

Through the tortured miasma of his mind, one thought remained clear. Fay put me here. She couldn't leave well enough alone. She came for me, she brought me here. Rosemary abandoned me to my fate as well. Even if they come for me, I'll kill them both... Kori finished his sentence out loud, not knowing his thoughts had came out of his mouth in talk, but he roared the words just the same, only noticing when he realized his throat burned with all the anger and hate he had put into the words.

"... I'll fucking kill them!"

Rocking back and forth, slamming his back into the wall, he wanted to be hurting and angry. That's where he drew his true power from. He was an animal. And a caged and hurt animal was the most dangerous kind.

[Talion]

All around him, the basement prison was filled with noise. New people came down the stairs. The sound of a cell opening and then slamming shut. Somewhere nearby a man was screaming. Someone was crying. Words were spoken by several different voices at once and yet the only thing Talion focused on was the man who shared the same cell with him.

He had begged for food this time.

For a few moments he just laid there, with the bowl protectively wrapped within his arm. There wasn't much food within the thing. Even when it was full it hardly had enough to fill the stomach of one man. If he were to share, there was no telling how long he would have to wait before another meal. Meals were scarce as it was. At least on the streets he could try to beg or steal or hope some person took pity on him, in here it was left to the guards as to hope much or often he would eat.

However, as much as he wanted to force the remainder of the liquid mush down his mouth, he just couldn't bring himself to let the other man starve in front of him. He had been in such a situation move times than he would care to remember. He knew too well of the pains that gripped not just the stomach but the whole body when it had to go without food. There was no way to avoid it but to sleep. Though, when you were starving, you also don't have energy for much more than sleeping.

Reluctantly to pried the bowl out of his hand and slid it across the floor. "'ere." He sucked in air through his mouth once more, made a wheezing sound and then placed his head on the floor.

[Rorgue]

Rorgue was surprised to see the boy concede to his request, despite how obviously desperate the elf was to have every last morsel of the food for himself. The tiny pang of guilt that Rorgue felt over the thought was quickly overshadowed and forgotten, as his stomach rumbled loudly, sending a nauseating pain through his abdomen. Before it could get worse - if that were, in fact, possible - he managed to take hold of the bowl, and scoop what little food was left into his mouth and down his throat.

As he finished with the difficult task of swallowing, Rorgue put the empty bowl onto the floor and carefully lowered himself back down beside it. After a moment of relative quiet, he yawned and whispered, barely audible, "Thanks, elf."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought of promising to repay the boy for the kind act tried to push its way forward, but what little ability to reason Rorgue had left reminded him that there probably wasn't ever going to be anything he could do for anyone, besides his captors. Or himself, if he was lucky.

Besides, the elf was the lucky one - probably soon to be executed, rather than constantly being dragged about like a sick, old dog no one cares to feed. Maybe I'll be really lucky and die in my sleep, he thought hopefully, closing his eyes, although sleep seemed impossible at that moment.

[Gachety's Boys]

The din in the jail had swelled over the last minute as another prisoner worked his way through the initial, raging anger at being incarcerated. There were phases to this, each as predictable and inevitable as the last, not unlike the psychological stages of grief. Chet glanced around to confirm that the guards were handling the disruptive cases. He wasn't exactly their supervisor, but he was accustomed to guiding those he outranked; it was second nature. He could do their job if they failed. The real trick was that these guards could still amuse themselves tormenting the captives when the the results were so trite, so predictable.

Chet turned his attention back to the prisoner of interest and adjusted the cuffs of his stiff gloves. Church had paid notice to his gloves, but didn't seem aware of their significance. He probably wasn't lying when he said he wasn't a citizen.

The mage closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled slowly. He spent a moment trying to sort out the muck of several minds before him: cloudy masses, mostly unremarkable. There were a few snippets of magical inclinations wafting around, but they were all mere suggestions, dampened and weak and entirely unlike the sharp spots of supernatural clarity Chet encountered in the likes of the foreign shifter woman they'd electrocuted earlier.

He gave his head a slight, brisk shake, and found focus on the mind that seemed to belong to Church. Chet scrolled through the fog. He found nothing resembling an awareness of magical ability, not even an artifact of intentionally stifled magic, or the raw edges of something accidentally lost. There were other ripples, though, that looked like the imperfect seams of irreconcilable realities. Chet was, however, not versed in these types of anomalies, so he couldn't be sure. He only knew this subject didn't appear to intend to cast magic.

He opened his eyes. A few seconds had passed. "Do you know what city you are in? Tell me what point of entry you took to come into our city."

[KoriStronghammer]

Kori stood and paced the cell. He was angry, and hungry, and emotionally tired. His rage had burnt through his body, and had been replaced with a cold, simmering, ready to erupt fury. He shook his head and sat back down. There was nothing to do in here, and boredom, especially sober boredom, lead to the resurfacing of old memories. For lack of anything better to do, he undid his beard braid and the plaits in his hair, and meticulously began to braid them again. Intricate warrior braids required his utmost concentration. He finished, the one braid on his head turning into eight braids, four running down each side of his head, and his beard braid had been made to be thicker and shorter. Kori let out a sigh of frustration. There wasn't even anyone to yell at for Asathors sake!

He had no cell mate, he had a feeling that the guards wouldn't like him yelling across the jail to someone, and he had already threatened to kill the creature across from his cell. Might as well sing.... with that thought, he smiled. He liked singing. Humming a few times to warm up, he began to sing in a rich, warm, but horribly out of key and off tune baritone. He banged his fists into the ground to keep the beat, which was basically a Vikung rowing beat.

"OH!
Wind or sun, rain or gale,
We are the Vikung that hunt the whale!
OH!
Sword and spear, axe and shield,
We're not farmers, keep your field!
OH!
Blood and bones, hearts and tongues,
We scream war cries at the top of our lungs!
OH!...."

He stopped singing for a moment. "Fuck. What's that next line about. Women or beer... Ah! Got it, now where was I...
OH!
Whiskey and beer, mead and ale!
Bring it to us by the pail!
OH!
Wives are good, Virgins are fun,
But bring me a whore who can get things done!
OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

He started laughing and waited for someone to tell him to shut up. If a guard didn't he'd keep singing. If it really pissed them off, he'd for sure keep singing. If there wasn't any fun to be had, he was going to make some.

[Porter]

Porter had been monitoring the recent rise in activity that had taken place within the basement. It was rare that so many new people would enter his cells in one night. It was not to his liking. More so, it would not be to his liking.

The hours ticked away as night turned into day and that day slowly crawled on. When the sun finally disappeared behind the top of the University, that was when he would come. Until then the prisoners would just have to wait.

"Battlemage Rhozas, he will want the prisoners prepped for his arrival. Leave the questions to him, he will want to hear what they have to say for their actions."

[Anther]

"No."

Rue snorted, and turned to leave, but Yoger reached out to put his hand upon her sleeve. She glared at him, lips pulling back from her teeth. She had already begun to look at him like he was a stranger.

"You heard 'im. Alla 'em," she said.

Yoger frantically sent his eyes skittering between the man who yet stared at them and Rue. "Thanks," he said to the man, and pulled her away. The man's stare was as cold and calculating as hers, which was enough to make any man feel alone and vulnerable.

Rue looked down at his hand, moving with him grudgingly. "Yeah," he said, only to keep her from shoving him off as he searched for a spot along the downtrodden road that would shelter their words. "I heard." The half rotted door shut behind them. Rue pushed his hand away and stopped moving with him. Yoger decided to skip the opening portion of their argument and cut to the heart.

"You're all I got."
"So?" She looked at him like he was diseased, like his pleading weakness would spread to her. He swallowed both broken pride and the pieces of his old hopes.
"You gotta see this through, fair."
"Yeah?"
"What else you got to do?"
"Something worth grub. Money." But though she gave him plenty of dangerous looks, she didn't leave.

"C'mon Rue," he whispered. "See it through. For Anther." Yoger reached out and put a hand on the dirty and poorly patched jacket that covered one of her burly shoulders. She looked at it and spat.

"So good about you? I woulda gotten us money, 'n you say no. Dung stupid, 'swhat you are."

Yoger blinked. He hadn't let her sell the witchy gold statuette the woman had given her, or let her go to the place where she'd said there'd been a throne made of gold. Such things would get traced back to them, easy. Rue wouldn't believe him when he'd pointed it out.

"I'll get us grub."
"Yeah," she drew the word out, "I bet."
"C'mon," he said, unable to keep the plaintive note out of his voice. When he moved, she followed.

He walked to where the lights were fewer and the stench of garbage shadowed everything, to a place that used to be someone's legetimate business, but had become a gathering of ne'er do wells. Rue's face, when he glanced behind, showed interest. Night was approaching, the perfect time for any criminal to go chatting up his fellows and get his throat slit.

The door opened with a light push, sitting awkward on its hinges. Light would have filtered out through the uneven crack where it met its sill, which was likely why the room beyond was almost in total darkness. They interrupted a soft conversation as they entered, and though they did not hear the hiss of drawn weapons Yoger knew that only meant they'd already been drawn. He stopped partway in the doorway.

"Been talkin' at wordbidders?" Rue said stalking soft behind him. Eyes were assessing him with varying levels of discreetness, so he didn't answer her.

Yoger did, however, start reciting the opening lines of the Book of War, stumbling over the words until someone groaned and told him to shut up. He stammered to a stop, and one of the figures reclining in the murky, smoky darkness tossed a single bishan at him. It hit him in the knee.

"Go away."

Rue sneezed behind him, and wiped her face with an arm. Yoger steeled himself. "I need knowing about the Justice Hall. What's kept under it." Jeers and more calls for him to leave interrupted him, and he continued in a rush.

"I got information! I -- she -- saw who went in the Library."

Silence.

"We have something one of 'em turned to gold."

"Yeah?" A more nasal voice replied, sounding bored. "Get in, boy, with your girl. Askin' for beatsticks standin' there dither witted."

Yoger stepped in, Rue close behind, and they shut the door behind them.

[Rorgue]

Rorgue's body jerked as he awoke from a momentary lapse in consciousness. He breathed slowly, concentrating on soothing his stomach as he waited for the reflexive shock to fade. Then, as he settled, he went on listening to the singing and rambling.

The dungeon was a lot busier now than it normally was; that was clear from the noise, if nothing else. Rorgue had seen the guardhouse and knew well enough that most of the common criminals would be kept there, or elsewhere in Justice Hall. These people here were mostly magic-users and the like. With magic so feared in Marn, and most offenders put to death on sight, it was unusual for many to be brought in at once, and they never really stayed long.

Most likely they were all part of one group though, Rorgue realized eventually. His mind was sluggish at best and time seemed to be passing so slowly that, if it weren't for all the sound and movement around him, Rorgue might have wondered if it had stopped completely. It certainly seemed that way at times. On more than one occasion, he'd forced himself to start a conversation with other prisoners or guards, just to remind himself he wasn't the only one still locked up in there.

And that's how he'd learned a little about Marn, about Justice Hall, and about the way things were generally run in this city. This horrible city whose leaders were zealous hypocrites, and unforgivably cruel. Rorgue was certain that, if he ever had the chance to leave this place, he would run as fast and as far from Marn as he possibly could. From where Rorgue now sat, even a place like Pretana seemed preferable over this damned Thar.

How anyone could choose to live here was completely beyond imagining, even with the promise of an environment free of magic's taint, especially considering this place seemed to be home to far more magic than many of the magic-friendly cities Rorgue had passed through during his travels.

But, Changers, this was a depressing train of thought and -- as Rorgue coughed sharply, pain shooting through his chest and making him struggle to catch his breath back -- he wondered how he could possibly have the energy for it. He was, he knew, a beaten man. Sick and beaten, and likely to end up dead before long.

If his sanity wasn't torn from him first, anyway.

[Gachety's Boys]

Chet had long wondered if Porter was intentionally cruel, or if it just happened that he only crossed path with the entity in situations where the chips were already down.

"He wants him to himself now?" Chet lowered his hands and gazed upward as he spoke to the disembodied presence. He didn't mean to sound insolent, but he had to at least try and hide the frayed edge of weariness in his voice.

This whole exercise was as much an incarceration of Gachety as it was any of these prisoners he was asked to administer, and he knew it. Chances were, within a few minutes to being asked to leave the questions for later, he'd be reprimanded for not getting enough information out of the subject. They were going to run him in circles before he faced the boss to explain himself about the earlier incident. It wasn't that Porter was intentionally cruel, exactly--it's that cruelty could be used to inspire efficient results.

He lowered his gaze again with a huff. The subject was refusing to answer and had closed his eyes against him. So he wanted a little peace and quiet, wanted to sleep?

Chet stiffened his lips and glanced back to his mental glossary of the subject's consciousness. He raised the tip of his pinky finger and twisted it in a tight arc in Church's direction. The subject slumped onto himself as his consciousness was severed from waking. Luckily he was already sitting in such a position that he didn't crack his head too hard on the side wall, or else there'd be another thing to be cross with Chet for.

"The subject is subdued for the present," Chet sighed towards the ceiling. "Might I expect some R&R before I'm called upon again, or am I being asked to stay on retainer?"