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| - At the moment, Brandon's currently in the corner of his cell, which has the the sprinklers on full, sending down a rather heavy mist of salt water. He's shivering, pale, and generally looks like shit. His clothing is plastered to his body, and the same with his hair. There's a good chance that he's been woken up at some point, and actually vomitted, judging by the smell. Curled up into a fetal position on the floor of her cell, Katriel is oblivious to it all. She is securely unconscious, and in fact looking rather a lot worse for the wear. Shallow breathing and chalky complexion speaking to illness. Fitzgerald steps in from the barracks, followed by two armed guards. He stops in view of the cells holding both captives and glances at each. He then locks eyes with McDowell. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he says shaking a finger side to side, "It seems you've made quite a mess of your room. I don't understand it, we give you our room with the finest accomodations. Fine food, a firm mattress, and good security." He chuckles sinisterly before turning to one of the guards signalling for him to shut the water off. "Have you enjoyed your stay here at Chateau de PANL?" the captain teases. It takes a few moments for Brandon to register Fitzgerald's presense. He blinks several times, most likely an attempt to focus on the Captain and his cohorts. "It's fucked..." he flat out murmurs, as well as slurring his speech. When the water turns off, he slowly lifts his head and looks towards the pipes. "God damned stupid tuber fucks." Fitzgerald's face quickly changes from smug to enraged and he glares at the captive intensely. "Stupid Tuber fuck?!" he bellows, "I am far from being a tuber!" He turns to look at a guard with an impatient stare. "Get our little jokester out of there. Now!" he commands, "This man needs to be taught a lesson in respect." The soldier swallows hard and quickly moves to unlock the door. He's muttering to himself. As the door opens, he looks at McDowell. "You're fucked now," he says, offering a shrug, "I'd fuckin' start prayin' to ya favorite deity 'bout now. Shit, I'd start prayin' to all of 'em." "The Sands... It's really slipped since I was last here," Brandon mutters absently, as he slowly slips to oneside. "I asked for a god damned room... That over looks the beach... And you give me a room... With a leaky shower." His hand slowly moves out to stop his downwards trip and prop himself back up. His eye flickers up to Fitzgerald once more then his head slowly tracks across to the soldier, a moment before his fact lights up with recognition once more. "I'm expendable... We're all expendable." The whole time he's slurring his words. Fitzgerald glances back and forth between the soldiers. A look of confusion mixes in with the rage. "What is he talking about?!" he bellows before looking at the delirious captive. He moves over to him, half stomping, and picks him up by the back of the collar and slings him out into the hallway in a fit of rage. "Take him to the interview room!" he barks to the soldiers. The two soldiers shoulder their rifles, promptly take an arm each, and march him on to the 'interview' room, dragging McDowell across the plascrete floor. Yay! Free ride! Well, not like McDowell is able to do too much about his currently perdicament as he's dragged towards the room with the chair by the two guards. His legs seem give way underneath him, and he just goes limp as he dragged on in. Brandon's pretty much dragged towards the chair, which he's uncerimoniously dumped into it. He slowly starts to slump to oneside, his unconvered eye closing as it happens. "I think... Think I once had a lap dance like this," he mutters, before laughing faintly. "It... It mighta been on Antimone." The straps are then slowly secured around the pretty out of it prisoner. Reality sets in for a moment, and he rolls his head back. "Not again... Please... Not again." Fitzgerald studies the babbling captive for a moment, scratching his chin. "This one may be hard to get any more information out of," he says with a devious chuckle, "Still, my rage must be satiated." Like a drunk, Brandon's head drops forward. "Not talking," he mutters, as he continues to keep his head lowered. "Three days." "What was that?" Fitzgerald says, slugging McDowell in the stomach. "I can't understand you!" he says with a cross to McDowell's face. He follows it up with a shot to the bad cheek. Now, taking a lesson out of a rag doll's book, Brandon's head pretty much ends up at the edge of the strike. "Three days," he repeats, before looking up to Fitzgerald, and then turning his eye to looking away from him. "Three days... That was the amount of time I was giving myself to escape." As with before, his speech is slurred. "But I can't..." Fitzgerald slams another shot into McDowell's gut. "You thought you could escape?" he says with a laugh, "You fool." He puts a jab at the bad eye. "It's a good thing you hadn't. Or I would have hunted you like the dog you are." A pained grunt and then subdued whimper, and nothing more. Silence for a moment, as McDowell continues to remain slightly hunched forward, but held firmly in place by the straps. "What do... What do you want from us?" Fitzgerald backs away, his rage subsided and simply smirks. He glances at the captive slumped in the chair. "From you? Nothing," he cackles, "You've merely stumbled into my web." "Lucky me?" Brandon mutters, as he closes his eye. His takes several deep breaths, and then slowly moves to the other side. There comes a phrase in Martian Latin, before he dry heaves. He appears to be about to say something, but just holds his tongue. "Then... Can I make a request?" "A request? You know, I hate it when I'm asked questions during the interview," he says moving forward to strike McDowell in the gut with a fluid motion. "But," he grunts as the strike hits, "I will let you make your pathetic plea... purely out of amusement." "Clean clothing, access to a proper shower and toilettes, as well as food... Not that boiled seaweed crap," Brandon pleads, as he looks up to Fitzgerald though his one eye. "Restriction of psiblockers around the Mystic." He takes a deep breath, and then sighs. "I've noticed that... That the plasma weapons are not up to a safe workable standard; Your projectile weapons are sub-par." Fitzgerald retrieves his concealed revolver, placing in five rounds to leave only one chamber blank, concealing the ammo from McDowell with a hand. He spins revolver, ratcheting like some deranges wheel of luck, and looks at McDowell. "You know, you are not really in a position to make demands," he says, sounding like a scholar, "You see, to make demands, you need some sort of power to back you up." He spins the revolver again. "Do you think you have that sort of power at this instant?" he says, raising his eyebrows, his eyes widening in a inquisitive expression. "Shoot," Brandon comments, as he looks up to him with his one good eye. "I know I don't have the power in this negotation." He smiles faintly, and then closes his eyes. He shakes his head, and then looks away... And actually swallows his pride. "sorry... I spoke out of line." Fitzgerald fires the weapon at McDowell's head. Bam! Nothing seems to happen. "You had best be sorry!" he yells, "You had best remember your place!" Click. Click. Click. Bam! Yet another apparent blank. "Are we clear?!" Click. Click. Clink. "Are these all blanks?!" he yells teasingly, "Or are one of these a live round?!" Click. Click. Click. Bam! Once again, nothing. The soldiers look to each other uneasily. "Umm... uh... boss?" one of them stammers. They both slowly shift to the side of the wall near the door. With each bang of the revolver, Brandon jumps in his restraints. "Yes..." he mutters, bowing his head slightly. "It is clear. And I'll remember my place." He takes a moment to control his breathing, before speaking once more. "You won't want to hear this... But you're clipping the edge of the rounds after with each cycle through. If it gets far enough out of line, you'll blow your hand off... Or she'll blind you through metal shards." Fitzgerald reddens as he stiffens and bristles, the gun in his hands begins to shake. "Stop speaking out of turn!" he shrieks. He spins the revolver and fires. Nothing. Another spin, nothing. He spins again and it appears the third time is a charm. With a loud bang, the gun goes off. This time the gun pops up in recoil and a round goes skimming past McDowell's ear with a loud rush, and ricochets of several plascrete surfaces. "Son... son of a bitch!" groans one of the soldiers through clenched teeth. He drops to the floor, clutching his stomach. "mmm... m... medic," he cries as trained. The soldier next to him quickly comes to his aid. "Damn, sir, you shot him!" the unscathed soldier says, tending to the man's wounds. "I'm sorry," Brandon replies, still with his head hung down. He flinches at the next gunshot, but holds his silence, though his single uncovered eye floats across to the wounded soldier. Blood and a injured man on the decking, no effect on the Watcher. Oblivious to the carnage his out of turn comment made. "Just get him out of here," Fitzgerald says cooly as he looks at the wounded soldier, his rage subsiding. He turns his attention back to McDowell. "I hold you responsible for this," he says, shaking a finger at the captive in the chair, "This is your doing." The soldier picks his comrade of the floor and goes walking out with him over his shoulder. Brandon meekly looks up to Fitzgerald, with no readable expression on his face. "No disrespect sir, but if it'd been my doing," he replies, sounding slightly confused. "I would have shot him in the hip to immobilise, and then shot him in the jaw to silence him and spread confusion... With a high powered rifle. I then would have tracked the rifle across to the next target, and then followed the same procedure. If it had been my doing, he wouldn't need medical attention." Fitzgerald rushes forward fluidly, landing a hard kidney shot on the restrained prisoner. "Don't ever, ever tell me how to do things," he yells, "I know my job!" He pounds him in the stomach. "If you had not enraged me, my man would not have been shot," he says as if the logic is perfectly clear, "It is your fault!" A rather loud cry of agony is produce from the kidney blow. Brandon's whole body tenses up, and he slumps forward in the restraints. Out cold, and out like a light. He really doesn't hear anything of Fitzgerald's rant, or even the logic behind it. Fitzgerald looks at the now unconscious prisoner slumped in the chair. Turning on a heel, he simply walks out the door and closes it. A loud clang resounds as he bars it closed. Unconscious... Again. Brandon's kinda like used to the routine and doesn't go anywhere, being unconcious and all.
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