Blood Impulse

Part 14.4 - NEUROFIBER INTERROGATION

Homebound Sector, Haven System, Flagship Olympia

Gaffigan's head hit the table with a resounding thud and Reeter released his grip on the prisoner by tearing a few more hairs from his scalp.

"Nagggh," Montgomery Gaffigan groaned, feeling the blood that had dripped from his nose now smeared all over his face. It starting to coagulate, thickening into slime.

"Answer the question," Reeter commanded, stepping around the side of the metal table. "What are Gives' intentions?"

Despite his predicament, bound to a chair in the Olympia's interrogation room, Monty couldn't help but chuckle. "I wasn't aware you knew how to say his name, O Great Savior."

A vein popped out on Reeter's forehead, throbbing with every thrum of his heart. He let out a roar of anger, reaching again to clasp a hand around the prisoner's abused throat.

"Subdue that blood pressure of yours, Reeter," Manhattan said, the hologram of her avatar flickering into existence in the center of the white room. "I am in no mood to deal with it."

Monty had seen at least three renditions of this argument so far during his stay in the otherwise empty interrogation room. "So," he asked Reeter, never allowing the amusement in his voice to falter, "are you like her pet or something?"

The tendons in Reeter's neck tightened, straining the collar of his uniform. "I am nobody's pet," he spat.

"And yet that lovely princess has got you on a leash."

Manhattan stepped toward the table, subduing Reeter's violent response with a simple look. "Monty," she said sweetly, "if you were to cooperate, I might be able to negotiate for your release." She met the prisoner's eyes, a perfect imitation of compassion on her face, "Please, cooperate. I would hate to see you hurt."

Montgomery Gaffigan would not be fooled by the dose of sugar in her voice. He knew a good cop, bad cop interrogation routine when he saw one, and he'd seen a dozen station security officers pull it off better than this. "I'm having fun," he said, adding a grin with the specific intention off pissing off Reeter.

Turning red, Reeter was through with patience. "You're a pathetic excuse for a human." He lunged forward and grabbed Monty's hair again, slamming his face down into the table, where he heard the nose break with a satisfying crunch. "You are the trash that I set out to exterminate."

Monty saw stars, pain exploding in his nerves, but he dutifully kept that smug grin on his face. "If I'm trash, what does that make you?"

"Leave us." Manhattan ordered sharply before Reeter could further injure the prisoner.

Reeter grunted, but did as told without question, heading for the door.

"You're totally her pet!" Gaffigan called after him, "She's even got you trained!"

The savior of the human race snarled at him, but let the door to slam closed behind him. In that brief moment when the door was open, Monty strained to hear anything, listening for notes of battle or struggle, but there was nothing: only the whine of the Olympia's engine noise and the sound of the hatch locking again.

Through the little surveillance cameras and microphones embedded in the bulkheads, Manhattan had watched the prisoner's entire stay in this room. At this point, he looked like hell. His mustache and beard were matted down with chunks of syrupy blood. His cheek and throat were turning green and purple, splotched with bruises. Still, he had spirit enough to antagonize Reeter. If it weren't for its futility, such determination would have been endearing.