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| - Captain Fitzgerald stands in one corner of the room, at attention with his hands folded behind his back. The air is eerily quite. Guard stand on both sides outside the door. Brandon, one of the two captives, still dressed in the torn and blood stained NLM uniform is dragged into the room. He's not resisting, allowing himself to be lead along. His uncovered flicks eye flicks across to Fitzgerald, and then the chair, before it goes wide. "Oh no," he mutters, trying his hardest to get out of the grip. Fitzgerald remains calm at the side of the room, his gaze on the entering McDowell. A look of contentment covers his face. As the soldier drags McDowell in toward the chair, he moves his head in to whisper in McDowell's ear, "Oh yes, Princess!" He roughly twists McDowell around and shoves him in the seat. At the taunt that comes from the soldier, Brandon turns his head and looks away from the man, shutting his eye tight. With the shove, and with no where else to go, the man just goes back into the chair. "Why?" he mutters, not even putting up a fight. "The M... Mystics and me... We... haven't done anything wrong." "Oh! But you see," Fitgerald says, pausing and leaning forward a bit, "you have." He walks closer as his henchman begins strapping down the buckles. "She," he says pointing out the door, "has been working for my enemy. You on the other hand, you appear to have hiked into the wrong area at the wrong time, or were seeking to save her. Either way, you've seen too much." The soldier seems to be enjoying this as he is drawing it out far longer than it need be. The devious smirk on the soldier's face matches the wicked giggle emanating from his throat. "L... Let us go," Brandon pleads, as he looks towards Fitzgerald. "I... I won't say anything..." If the sadistic soldier or Fitzgerald looks at him, then he'll look the other way. "She won't say any... anything." He's actually trembling at this point. Fitzgerald stands over McDowell as the soldier finishes locking down the buckles on his limbs; the head strap remains to be done. Fitzgerald taps McDowell on the forehead. "She should not be your concern right now," he says, still bearing his contented smile, "I may let her go, if she survives her interrogation." He quirks his eyebrows up and smiles all the more as he adds, "I may keep her here for my own company. She is a rather lithe creature, isn't she?" He begins pacing around the room. "But as for you: I want you to tell me your name." "Grwawwl Tthhhfft" the prisoner growls in Demarese, rather submissively. He takes a deep breath and then lets his head slump forward. "I did not ask for that gibberish," Fitzgerald says, looking over to the other soldier and giving a nod, "Did I?" The soldier punches McDowell in the gut. "Now, your name please," Fitzgerald says, "In Terran." With no where to go, Brandon just Goldfishes. In other words, his eye bulges out and he sucks air in. "Brandon..." he says in Standard.”Brandon Ian Starchaser-McDowell." His shoulders slump as far as the restraints will let them. "See! That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Fitzgerald says, "I'm glad we now understand each other. Now, I would like to know what you were doing behind that tree." "I... I was out hunting, and needed to take a piss," Brandon mutters, shaking in his restraints. He lowers his head down and shuts his eye once more. "You know what it's like, yeah?" Fitzgerald leans forward, bracing himself upright by locking his arms with his hands on McDowell’s arm. He gives another nod to the soldier standing by him. As with before, the soldier makes a hard strike to captives’ gut. "Ommph," Brandon goes as another strike hits home. He flexes in his restraints and then drops back down into his chair. "I... I needed a piss... W... Which was the reason... the reason I was behind the chair," the man gasps out in defence.. Fitzgerald yells out, "Liar!", and then belts McDowell in the face. His face reddening, he spins around and storms off across the room to a small table. Stopping at a small cardboard moving box sitting under it, he sends it grinding across the concrete floor toward McDowell with a swift kick. He marches back to McDowell with table in tow and slowly removes several items, placing them on the table all while keeping his gaze on the prisoner. First the broken comm, followed by three pistols, a flak vest, and lastly, a garrote line. The redness begins to drain out of his face and asks, "Hunting was it? Care to explain these?" For the second time in as many days, Brandon's been smacked in the face. He swallows a couple of times, and then spits some blood out in Fitzgerald's direction. "I'm a professional killer," he responds, rather begrudgingly. "I... I was hunting... Your convoy for the NLM." If it was possible for McDowell to slink down, he most likely would. But the straps hold him firm and in place. "Volunteered." Fitzgerald's expression is dower until "Volunteered". The answer makes him smirk. "Volunteered," Fitzgerald said, "How noble." He runs a hand along the assortment of weapons on the table, fondling each as he slowly walks along. He spends extra attention on the garrote line, gazing at it before a devious grin forms. He picks it up gently and walks slowly around the chair until he's behind McDowell. "I wonder how many have had the misfortune of being on the other end of this line," he says teasingly, "You being a professional killer and all." "Fourteen," Brandon comments, as he closes his eyes with the man walking behind him. "It'll be sixteen once I get out of this chair and strangle you and your boyfriend." There comes a determined trashed in the chair. It seems as if the prisoner found a new bit of moral to draw on. Fitzgerald snaps the garrote line around McDowell's neck and pulls it down, holding his head back against the chair. It's tight enough to dig in, but not entirely cut off the airway. He nods three times to the soldier, who promptly deals out as many blows to McDowell's stomach. "I keep thinking we're getting along so well, and then you pull stunts like these," he says, feigning disappointment and pouting mockingly, "It hurts me so." There comes cursing in three different languages; Demarese, Zantra and Martian Latin. With each of the three blows to the stomach, the line digs into the man's neck. Brandon's coughs as he starts to suck air back into his lungs. He spits out a bit more blood, and then goes limp in the chair, most likely starting to get exhausted. "NOW,” Fitzgerald says, letting slack back in the garrote line, "What exactly is your mission here?" "I serve the light by walking in darkness," Brandon mutters, falling back onto his mantra. He closes his eyes and swallows once more. "...Contendo Quaero Compero Incessum." He takes several deep breaths. "I was running recon for the New Luna Militia... We found your convoy during a fly over." Fitzgerald stiffens. The now familiar red coming back in his face as he swings around in front of McDowell. "/I/ am the light!" he screams as he sends a full swing to the wounded side of McDowell's face, "that /fools/ and that, that insufferable Eldridge Seale are the darkness!" He punches McDowell again. "And about that recon. What did you report back to them?" A whimper follows after the blow that leaves Brandon sitting as a strange angle. He looks up to Fitzgerald and blinks several times, most likely trying to focus on the Lunite. "I reported the direction and my last location would have been tracked," he mutters, not sitting up right. "I reported Katriel's presence... Ryan isn't going to leave... Leave two of his people." He starts to slowly slump forward. "And Ace is going to come... And Taeren." "We shall see about that," Fitzgerald says his tone becoming menacing, "If you're still around to be rescued. Strap his head down." The soldier begins strapping McDowell's head down as Fitzgerald reaches for a rag and large vial of something from the table of tools. Dousing the rag in the liquid, he looks at the captive. "Don't worry," he says soothingly, almost comfortingly, "I'll make it a painless death." Brandon allows his head to be pulled back, and he closes his eyes. He bites his lower lip, but does say something. "Why Katriel?" he murmurs in a trembling voice. "Now don't you worry about her" Fitzgerald says with an arrogant smirk that turns to devious, "We'll be sure to take good care of her." He moves forward and clamps the rag over McDowell's nose as the soldier beside him begins to laugh. Brandon attempts to struggle in the chair and hold his breath. There comes a muffled cry as he tries to get himself free from his torturer. In the same breath, he takes a deep breath in from the rag soaked in the unknown solution. Keeping the rag to McDowell's face, Fitzgerald caresses the captive's head and pets his hair back with a hand. "There, there now," Fitzgerald says as if to a small child, "It'll be all over soon, and you won't have to worry about that pretty little Mystic friend of yours." The contents in the rag start to work fast, and the attempts of struggling from McDowell slowly start to cease as the chemical does it work. He's pretty much on the verge of blacking out, struggling to keep his eyes open. His protests are starting to become non-existent, until they completely stop. He watches the guard through a glazed over eye, before finally losing the fight to remain conscious. "Alright Aldervelt, get to work on that make up job you do so well at," Fitzgerald says, reaching under his uniform jacket and drawing out a concealed revolver. He empties the shells out of the weapon, and inserts 2 blanks that he promptly fires in succession. Bang! Bang! The gun goes, but nothing from Brandon. He's out cold and out like a light. The soldier goes to work, adding in a special effects wound and dousing it in a large amount of animal blood. "Done, sir," he says, "They sure didn't let me do shit like this in the NLM. This the best fuckin' job I ever had," he says with a chuckle. "Good," Fitzgerald says with a grin, "I really do love your work. Now take him to the far cell." As the soldier unstraps McDowell, Fitzgerald looks over the weapons on the table. "I fancy I may take this as a prize," he says with a mock Sivadian accent, palming the DS, "Yes, yes I think I shall." The soldier drags McDowell backwards out the door by his torso, feet trailing on the ground. Fitzgerald turns from the table and follows the soldier out the door.
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