Eventually there is more rattling of the door at the end of the cell block, more booted feet, and Nigel's cell door opens. Nigel stares for a moment at the group of heavily armed police standing in the doorway, then one says "Let's go Timmons - time to answer some questions." And with little more ceremony than that, Nigel is hauled from his cell, the occasional feather still stuck to him with old chicken blood, and hauled bodily out of the cell block.
Nigel is led up through the various levels of CPC in much the same manner that he was brought down, and is eventually hauled into a rather sparsely furnished room with blank walls and a blatantly obvious mirror occupying most of one wall. The only furniture in the room is a battered wooden desk with a chair behind it, and a rather fearsome looking chair set before the desk, also made of heavy wood, with an overtall back designed to come up past the level of the individual's head, and fitted out with thick leather straps on the arms, legs, and back One of the ubiquitous 200-watt lamps shines from behind the desk, directly at the chair. There's no doubt about it - CPC must buy them in bulk. It's almost amusing - the room could almost be a set from some american police show.
Unfortunately, it isn't.
Nigel is shoved into the chair by one of the cops, and a second secures his legs to the legs of the chair, while a third runs a couple of straps through rings in the bite mask and control collar to secure Nigel's head to the back of the chair and the forth stands ready in case Nigel gets frisky. As he doesn't, the officers finish their particular tasks and step out of the room, leaving only one (Nigel thinks its one anyway - maybe two if one is unusually quiet) to stand guard.
A few moments later another person enters the room and walks over to the desk. Staring into a blinding light isn't fun, and as turning his head does not appear to be an option at the moment Nigel can only squint through watery eyes to catch a glimpse of the newcomer - female, wearing a uniform, short hair, sure movements, carrying a file folder of some type..
The woman sits down, placing the file folder in front of her, and there is the rattle of wood on wood as she opens a desk drawer, pulls out some paper, sets it on the desk, and closes the desk drawer again.
"Mr Timmons, I am senior detective first class Rixa Becker of the Al Amarjan Peace Force," the woman's voice is not unpleasant, and has a a noticeable, though not overwhelming accent - Dutch or Belgian perhaps. "Your blood test results are back, and I regret to inform you that there are confirmed traces of sekklut centipede venom in your system. Under Al Amarjan law the use of Sekklut centipede venom is a Class I felony, equivalent to first degree murder, use of psychic powers without proper registration, or practice of satanism. As such the penalty is death by hanging."
She pauses just long enough for effect, not long enough for Nigel to get a word in edgewise. "Interestingly enough we also found traces of relapse in your system as well, bound to the sekklut centipede venom. A rather fascinating mixture actually. Previously we had no idea that such a combination was possible."
She flips a page, "And of course there was the 3,4,5-trimethoxy-ß-phenethylamine, more commonly known as mescaline. Very low concentrations, must have been awhile. Feeling it yet? For your information, Mr. Timmons, mescaline is a category I drug here on Al Amarja, and use or possession is punishable by up to ten years imprisonment. Still, what's ten years in prison when you're facing the hangman's rope anyway? I brought in 150 milligrams - not a lot, but enough for a light mind-altering experience. It's powdered, so I can get it through that bite mask of yours. Interested?"
Again the minuscule pause for effect. "Mr. Timmons I don't need to talk to you in order to get rid of you, and I sure don't have to plant evidence on you, if that's what you're thinking about the mescaline - I could simply pass this folder on to any judge on Al Amarja and you would be a guest of honor in the Plaza of Justice tomorrow afternoon. You wouldn't even have a trial - the law is clear about sekklut venom cases. However, I am here talking to you Mr. Timmons - I'll leave it to you to make up your own mind why. But I don't have infinite time, or infinite resources. Cooperate with me and you might be able to walk out of this building alive sometime in the near future. But if you don't, I'll walk away - I don't waste time Mr. Timmons. And if I walk away there won't be a second attempt. Factor that into your calculations of exactly how much you can get away with here in this room. "
During her speech her tone stays conversational, though firm, with none of the threatening overtones that Nigel had come to expect from CPC.
"Now, compose yourself and let's start from the beginning. How did you come to be bitten by the sekklut centipede?"
Nigel smiles inside the mask. "Well, it seems that I've gotten myelf into a bit of a sticky wicket eh? I do find all this hullaballo quite interesting, whatever secret you're trying to uncover, it must be very important. I'm also going to assume that you need some information that I posess, otherwise I would already be hanging from the hangman's noose."
"Make no mistake, I want to live. I'll cooperate with you as much as I can, but I'm afraid you probably know more about this incident than I do. I've learned from my experience back in my own country that it's better to keep my somewhat limited psychic abilities to myself. I didn't take the registration requirements seriously enough. It seems that I was in error."
"To make a long story short, I was having breakfast at the hotel, when a gentleman wearing the school uniform of my grammer school came over and sat with me. He acted as though he knew me, although I hadn't the slightest idea of who he was."
"After repeated requests to identify himself, he apparently got perturbed with me and proceeded to cause me to lose my breakfast all over the table. We got into a metaphsyic pissing contest, and he came out the clear winner. He manifested a centipede in my trousers, which resulted in a rather nasty bite to my privates. I'm assuming that is where the centipede venom came from. He then mentioned something about 'letting the stanists' have at me and left."
"I'm afraid that's about all I can tell you. It's the last I heard about it until your associates wet themselves looking at my readout on some computer screen."
"Is there anything else I can tell you? And you are correct, I am beginning to go into the early stages of mescaline withdrawl, and I would very much like a fix, but I've coped with withdrawal symptoms before, and I can certainly deal with them again if necessary..."
Rixa does not comment during Nigel's story, but her hand moves back and forth on the table, and she appears to be writing (though it's hard to tell with that damned light in the eyes).
When Nigel winds down she pulls a small plastic funnel - the kind you can find in almost any kitchen - from a drawer, steps over, shoves it through the mask and into Nigel's mouth, and pours some powder into it. "It's ground and buffered. Swallow it," she says. She then returns to the desk, and puts the funnel away.
"I'll be interested in hearing more about these psychic powers of yours - our scans missed any indications of anything other than the sekklut poisoning - I'm afraid that means more tests for you if we can reach some sort of understanding that allows you your freedom. For now, however, I'm more interested in continuing the discussion of your encounter with this possible acquaintance and your subsequent poisoning."
As she speaks, Rixa continues to write. In fact she continues to write all during the conversation. She appears to be one of those so gifted as to be able to walk and chew gum at the same time, so to speak.
"Allow me to fill you in on your situation regarding the seklut poison, and what you can expect for your future. The centipede which bit you is not, precisely speaking, the common Malaysian golden seklut, but rather a sub-variety found, to the best of our knowledge, only here on Al Amarja. We believe that they were developed and bred in captivity here, though we have thusfar been unable to locate the breeding facility or facilities. These centipedes produce a mutagenic poison, rather then the more mundane toxins produced by their common Malaysian cousins."
"This toxin has varying effects depending on the individual. The most common are severe damage to the body's respiratory and circulatory systems, or equally severe brain damage. In short, just over fifty percent of the time the poison does crippling damage to the affected individual. In addition there is around a ten percent chance that the poison will simply kill a human being outright, a ten percent chance that it will leave the victim healthy, but physically altered in some way - anything from changing the hair or eye color to rotating your upper torso 180 degrees or swapping your arms and legs. In short, you become a mutant. In about five percent of the cases there is no observed effect whatsoever. However, around twenty-five percent of the time, give or take a bit, the toxin is known to grant useful modifications - boosted senses for example, or extraordinary strength. It is because of this twenty-five percent chance that you are restrained as you are."
"Normally the effect of the seklut poisoning take effect within eight to twelve hours. However, in your case the poison of the seklut seems to have been compounded with a drug commonly known as relapse. Relapse is a fairly common street drug here, and its effect is to delay the experience of another drug for a random length of time - days, weeks, months. Risk takers rather like it, because they never know when the effects of their drug might hit them. However, relapse must be mixed with the drug it will be piggy-backing during manufacture - you cannot simply make up a batch of relapse and later on mix it with LSD. Which makes it rather interesting to us that you claim to have had this injected directly by the centipede."
"To answer any question you might have on the subject, no it is not currently possible to filter the drug out of your system. In effect the seklut poison has already been metabolized by your system. The relapse is simply holding back the effect for some period of time. In short, at some point in the next day, the next week, the next month you may find yourself with your psychic powers enhanced, or with increased stamina or the ability to rip car doors off their hinges. But what you will most likely find yourself with is a crippling lifelong injury or rapidly approaching death."
"We want information on this new type of sekklut Mr. Timmons. We want it rather badly. If your case is typical then this sort of thing could prove to be extremely dangerous and disruptive. What you need to sell at the moment is your ability to get that information. Having the Peace Force ignore a Class I felony doesn't come cheap Mr. Timmons, so I hope you are prepared to be extremely convincing."
Nigel listens intently to the woman in front of him and considers her ultimatum carefully... "Well now that would be a tough sale indeed, considering what little I know. I do know that someone other than yourself must have an interest in how this poison affects me, otherwise why go to all the trouble? If what you want is a promise or commitment to give you any information that comes my way, you can gladly have it. I'm sure you can make my life both miserable and short if I try to go back on any agreement we might make. I have a high degree of self-preservation instinct. I will do whatever it takes to get out of this predicament. I also have some vested interest in finding out the particulars of my unique situation. Is that what you wish to hear?"
"Therein lies the problem, Mr. Timmons. Under the circumstances if I were you I would likely promise almost anything in order to avoid being hanged. Promises given under duress are often insincere, or at least quickly forgotten in the event of future duress. Proving oneself trustworthy is not generally something that one does in the course of a single interview, particularly with so much weighing against you. To be perfectly frank Mr. Timmons I came in here with the intention of having you taken out and hanged tomorrow, and thus far I have not changed my mind. Given your potential usefulness, however, I thought I would allow myself, and you, the luxury of an attempt to persuade me that you were worth sparing. So far you have convinced me only that your self-preservation instinct will work equally well in the future in the event that you can save yourself by selling us out.
"Try harder, Mr. Timmons."
Nigel gives a little chuckle behind the mask. "Well, I'm afraid I'm not very good at groveling. Don't get me wrong, I fear for my life and want very much to continue living, but I'm afraid I'm rather amoral and find it increasingly difficult to exhibit anything other than disinterest."
"Well I don't have much else other than my word, and I can't say as I blame you for not taking that at face value. If you're looking for some words that will reassure you without a doubt, I'm at a loss, and I suppose you had better get your hangman's noose ready. However, since we both seem to have the same interest, namely finding out who is behind this sekklut poisoning, as well as their motive, I think it would be beneficial to work together."
"Suppose I do agree to work for you 'undercover' as it were," he continues. "If I get into the lions den and then spout out 'Guess what lads, I'm with the coppers,' what do you think the outcome would be for poor little me? Rather nasty I would think. So it only makes sense for me to keep a lid on it and it would seem that you would offer better protection than the unknown entity. I also believe in the old addage 'the devil you know if preferable to the devil you don't'. I have no idea who these people are or what they want. For all I know they could have me filleted and served at a banquet. I would also assume that you could put some sort of tracking device or rather nasty little thingy that could end my life immediately if I decide to double-cross you?"
"Have I said anything that might spare my neck from the hangman's noose?
Or should I start making my peace?
Whichever it is, I do thank you for the mescaline, it has done alot
to take the edge off. Well it seems as though the ball is once again
in your court my dear..."
The pen stops writing, and is placed on the desk with an audible *CLACK*. Rixa takes a moment to read over what is written on the pad, then returns her attention to Nigel. She does not pick up the pen again. "We'll be running more tests later, Mr. Timmons, but for the moment - please tell me about your psychic powers."
"Well I'm afraid that I'm not very impressed with my so called 'powers'. I guess they started manifesting themselves sometime after I became addicted to Mescaline. I don't recall exactly when or where they first became apparent. They mostly take the form of minor... 'adjustments' to reality. It take the place of minor rearrangements of existing matter+energy."
The pen begins to write again. "Could you cite some examples please?"
"Well, for instance the ants appearing inside the unknown man's trousers. I'm not capable of any large scale stuff, mostly minor manifestations. I can make a gun inoperable, a light turn green, etc. Please keep in mind however, that my powers are extremely unpredictable. I often don't get the desired effect, and sometimes get no effect at all.
"For instance if I tried to disable a firearm, I could inadvertantly cause it to fire. The traffic light could stay red forever, and so on. I wish I could be more precise, but I can't."
The pen continues to scribble madly, but Rixa appears able to completely ignore it as she continues. "That is sufficient for our purposes at the moment Mr. Timmons. We will be able to get more precise later. For now I believe that there is sufficient grounds to free you, given a certain understanding, which I believe that we are close to achieving."
"First, you will undergo extensive and admittedly rather unpleasant tests. This will not be particularly enjoyable for you, but are necessary for us. Second, you will be freed only on the understanding that you will supply us with information when and where required. In other words, you are being freed in order to work as an informant for us, and as an auxiliary member of the Peace Force Center for Paranormal Control. You will receive a salary of $37,398.40 per year, with full medical and dental benefits. You will also be monitored - not all the time, of course, but often enough that you should give serious reconsideration to any thoughts of disobeying or failing in your duties. We will be giving you a demonstration soon after you are freed of exactly what happens to individuals who act against our interests - I doubt that this fact surprises you, however."
Rixa stops writing, and glances down at the notepad again, then back up at Nigel. "In short, the Peace Force owns you now. You would, in truth, have been better off coming in voluntarily, but things could be much, much worse for you. Presuming that you make it through the testing period, that is. There's at least the potential that if you get yourself in trouble, and you have enough that's valuable, that the Peace Force will show up to pull your chestnuts out of the fire. You have a salary - not a great one, but not a bad one either. And while the life expectancy of your average Peace Force informer isn't great, you're likely to be dying from what your friend did to you in the near future anyway, and at least we're offering you some support to get the bastard back."
"For now I am sending you off to the labs for your tests. They should take about a week, and as I said they aren't going to be any fun. For starters, don't expect to get more than around 4 hours of sleep, total. If you want my advice, hang tough - others made it through before you. I did. Once you get out the other side, things will start looking up."
"Any questions?"
Nigel smiles grimley behind his mask. Things have taken a nasty turn,
of that there is no mistake. Still, it could be worse, and he will
be able to continue his search... and if he finds the power he is looking
for, well then this bitch would pay along with all the others. "No
ma'am, I think you've spelled it out quite thoroughly for me. Can
we get started on the testing? I'm anxious to get out of here."
They work him in teams, never less than four people in a team. He's pretty sure of that. And they never stop, he's pretty sure of that too. Other than that, there are just snippets. Brutal and extended calisthenics sessions, with any hesitation or failure punished with shock prods. Seemingly meaningless tests of memory and recall, such as reciting the multiplication tables - again with electric shocks, this time to the genitals, applied for any mistake. No sleep. Painful and humiliating medical examinations, biopsies, brain scans, GI exams. A creature, vaguely mammalian but with numerous eyes, limbs, and claws, forcing its way down his throat as he tries to scream. No time to shower. No time to use the facilities. The humiliation of his own stink. Being hosed off with a high power fire hose. Seemingly endless sessions of questioning about his life, his background, his family, his desires, his beliefs, in short every aspect of his life, by a bland individual in a lab coat. Any hesitation or mistake earns a blow to the head or shoulders from an unseen person behind him. Being worked over, with clinical precision, by four men with leather covered clubs and a keen understanding of exactly how hard they can hit without causing lasting injury. Indoctrination videos concerning the godlike benevolence of Monique D'Aubainne and the progressive justice of the government of Al Amarja. A fat, sweaty man watching from the shadows, a dachshund peering at Nigel from over his shoulder.
When he finally awakens from this nightmare of misery and weirdness, Nigel finds himself dressed in the same clothing that he wore when he was arrested. He is standing in front of Cesar's hotel with absolutely no recollection of how he got there or, for that matter, how he got clean. Every single portion of his anatomy that he cares to reflect upon - inside or out - hurts to one degree or another, and he feels both ravenously hungry and vaguely nauseous at the same time. He is both absolutely exhausted and completely wired (possibly due to some sort of artificial stimulant).
Nigel briefly takes stock of his situation, giving himself a minor self-examination before going into the dining room and ordering the largest steak they have on the menu, as well as a glass of "deep" juice.
He attacks the steak as if it's ambrosia, while downing at least two of the drug laden juices. Once he feels he's counteracted whatever stimulant was used on him, he retires to his room to contemplate his circumstances...
"The fat man and the daschund must definitely die, oh yes," Nigel thinks to himself as he prepares to sleep the sleep of the nearly dead. "As well as the bitch who got me into this mess. I'm sure the creature they implanted in me is some sort of monitoring device, so I'll have to be careful how I proceed."
After mulling the situation over for a brief period, Nigel lies back and tries to sleep... Tomorrow is another day, and he is still alive!!
*THUD* off to sleepyland Nigel goes.
To Be Continued...