"Go through the door to your right, marked 'Interviews' and proceed down the hallway to interview cubicle 3, which will be the second door on your right. Your caseworker will meet you there. Please do not wander about."
With that the employee hurries off on other business, leaving Kyle standing there.
The door marked "Interviews" is reassuringly normal looking, though still done in that eerie "bone and chrome" motif that seems to constitute the entirety of Terminal architecture. Kyle walks through, finds a door marked "Interview Cubicle #3" without trouble, and turns the knob.
The door swing in silently, gliding without a creak as if mounted on graphite bearings. The opening reveals a room much, much larger than one would normally expect for something called "cubicle". It would even be very large for something called "office", althought the combination of curvy architecture, chrome-and bone textures, and unusual lighting make it hard to judge.
The ceiling seems to be very high, but this may be because walls blend into it in a seamless curve, and the lighting leaves it darkened. The office seems about twice as long as it is wide, the size of a small church. The floor is of a dark polished material with metallic sheen, running into the walls in sweeping curves. There is very little furniture except for a black, ultra-modern desk at the far end, a chair in front of it, and presumably another chair behind it since there is someone sitting at the desk. All light comes from two tall vertical lamps of the incomprehensible abstract scandinavian variety, standing behind the desk to either side, and a smaller articulated desk lamp, equally abstract-looking.
On the desk is a computer nerd's wet dream. A large, gleaming black computer bearing no brand name, but with the same look of smooth yet abstract design the rest of the furnishings exhibit. The keyboard is one of those curvy ergonomic creations, the mouse is replaced by a light pointer, the obsenely huged speakers are standing on each side of the desk like two black monolith waiting for the space gods. At this point, Griffon absent-mindedly notes that the muzak seems to be distilling "Also Spracht Zarathustra", albeit in watered-down form.
With the unhelpful lighting and the distance, it is hard to make out the features of the person sitting at the desk, except to note the very dark skin. But then the person stands, showing clearly the tan C&I uniform, and gestures for Griffon to approach.
"Come on in," says a feminine voice, a pleasant alto with a musical accent.
Griffon walks into the room and, standing next to the chair, says in his australian accent, "Mind if I sit?"
The woman nods graciously. "Of course, Mr. -" her glance flickers to the monitor "- Kyle." She leans forward and offers her hand. "I'm Graziella Mabinonghé, and I'll be your caseworker."
Griffon sits down and takes his hat off sitting it in his lap. He runs his fingers through his brown-blonde hair, smiling slightly.
The C&I caseworker is a a short, very dark-skinned woman of about 35, with her long hair plaited in elaborate corn rows and braids. She is quite nice-looking, if business-like; she wears no jewelry at all, no earrings, bracelets, necklace or even watch. Her accent definitely sounds African, probably from one of the areas formerly controlled by the Belgian or French.
Griffon sits on the tall black straight-backed unpadded chair, and Ms. Mabinonghé folds herself into one of those weird New-Agey stools where you half-kneel, half sit. "Please help yourself while I pull your file," she says.
Before Griffon can ask what he should help himself to, he suddenly notices the glass bowl full of mixed nuts and dried fruits that sits on the black desk, along with a black teapot and two black cups. Unsurprisingly, the teaset is of a design that would look quite appropriate in a sci-fi movie.
Ms. Mabinonghé's glance flickers back to Griffon. "Let's get started, shall we? Why don't you start by telling me why you're coming to Al Amarja."
"I just needed to get away from everything, it was getting to be too much to stay at home and just sit there. So I thought this would make a nice change of pace."
Ms. Mabinonghé looks up from her screen, and her fingers stay poised above the keyboard before starting in a frenzy clickety-click. Her gaze remains on Griffon's face. "Vacation, then, Mr. Kyle?" she says blandly.
He frowns, his demeanour changing slightly, then says "Yes, I suppose."
On the desk, a green circle of light illuminates itself next to the bowl of nuts and the teaset. In the poor light, it takes a moment for Griffon's sight to resolve the shape. It looks like a black circular pad, the kind you might put a hot plate on, or like the world's largest track-ball mouse: about and inch and a half thick and somewhat convex, ringed with the green light where the convex part meets the rim.
"Could you describe your professional activities for me, Mr. Kyle?" asks the C&I caseworker. "In some detail, if you please."
He brightens up a little bit, obviously happy to talk about something he has a great interest in. "I'm a martial arts instructor. I teach Jeet Kun Do, and some Tae Kwon Do, though there isn't as much interest in that for some reason. I've also studied Wu Shu T'Sung but I'm not nearly good enough at that to teach it."
Ms. Mabinonghé's curiousity seems piqued by this. She turns away from the keyboard and leans her arms on the desk instead, facing Griffon directly. She looks at him with interest. "A martial arts instructor? How interesting! It sounds a lot more complicated than just karate and judo, though. What are, um, Jeet Kun Do, Tae Kwon Do, and Wu Shu T'Sung? I mean, how are they different, and what do you do with them?"
As she speaks, she pours some tea for herself and for Griffon, and starts nibbling some dried fruit and nuts.
Griffon takes the offered tea, and goes on. "Well, Jeet Kun Do was created by Bruce Lee, it pretty much is just an Amalgamation of a bunch of things. I like it quite a bit. Tae Kwon Do is geared more towards throws, grappling, etcetera. Wu Shu TSung is a form of Chinese kung fu. It has its points I suppose. Jeet kun do though is the best for all around real life fighting."
"Mostly 'hard' forms, then," comments Graziella. She hits a few keys on her contoured keyboard. Next to Griffin's elbow, the circle of green starts pulsing in a slow rythm. The large computer monitor on the desk is turned away from Griffon, but its glare is reflected onto Graziella Mabinonghé's face as lines scroll down. She reads with apparent interest.
"So, Mr. Kyle, would you be able to kill with your bare hands?" ask the C&I case worker matter-of-factly, her eyes barely brushing over him before returning to the screen.
Griffon has a pained look on his face, and answers slowly: "Would I be able to, yes. Would I belikely to, no." He runs his hand through his hair again, and ceases to pay attention to the room. He's for a brief moment somewhere very far away, and from the look on his face he doesn't like the place very much. He shakes his head briefly, then is back in the room, waiting for the interview to continue.
"Mmm," Ms. Mabinonghé nods, "one would have to be extremely upset to try something like that."
She taps a few more keys, and the soft whirring of a laser printer is
barely heard through the the thickness of the desk. A page emerges
from a thin slot in the middle of the desk. The case worker picks
it up and slides it across the desk to Griffon along with a pen.
He starts working on the form silently, his jaw muscles flexing as he pauses every once in a while to think.
Name of applicant Griffon
Kyle
Age of applicant 30
Gender: Original: Male
Current: Male
Nationality: Australian
Passport Number: 547-75-2112-462
Criminal Record (List reference number and
country of issue for each):
None
Are you or have you ever been affiliated with
the following organizations (check one or more):
[ ]Alpha Rho Tau [ ]AOL
[ ]Aryan Nation [ ]Aum Shinrikyo [ ]Church of Scientology
[ ]Church of the Subgenius [ ]CIA
[ ]Citizens for Drug Legalization
[ ]Coalition Against Trafficking in Women
[ ]Delta Epsilon Theta
[ ]Exalted Order of Dream Kings
[ ]Friends of the Earth [ ]Gladstein Institute
[ ]Hermetics Organization [ ]Inagawa-kai
[ ]Kyoshin Ryu
[ ]KGB [ ]KKK [ ]League
of Women Voters [ ]Le Thuys
[ ]ManBLA [ ]MicroSoft [X]Pacific
International Tae Kwon Do [ ]pre7
[ ]Prostitutes Collective of Victoria
[ ]Queenslanders for Constitutional Monarchy
[ ]Rosicrucian Society [ ]Scissormen
[ ]Socialist Equality Party
[ ]Taliban [ ]Teamsters Union
[ ]Teletubbies Fan Club [ ]Torture Network
[ ]United Fighting Systems [ ]University
of Sydney Philosophy Department
[ ]Yamaguchi-gumi [ ]WotC
[ ]Zoroastrans
Do you have any medical condition you wish
to inform C&I of?
[X]No
[ ]Yes (name:)__________________________
Are you allergic to (check all that apply):
[ ]Alprazolam [ ]Clozapine [ ]Fluoxetine
[ ]Haloperidol [ ]Lithium
Have you ever undergone any of the following
body modifications (check all that apply):
[X]Piercings
(locations:) Left Earlobe
[X]Tattoos
(describe:) Colored Gryphon, Right
Shoulder blade
[ ]Organ transplant (organs:)______________
[ ]Artificial limb (limbs:)_______________
[ ]Blood transfusion (type and quantity:)________________________
[ ]Artificial organ, e.g., pacemaker (types:)______________________
[ ]Cybernetics (describe:)____________________________________
[ ]Does not know
Have you ever had consensual or non-consensual
physical relations of a homosexual, heterosexual, transsexual, pansexual,
autosexual, parasexual, or pseudosexual nature?
[X]Yes
[ ]No [ ]Does not know
Do you suffer from: [ ]Acquired Immunodeficience
Syndrome [ ]Epilepsy [ ]Homicidal mania
[ ]Hypertension [ ]Hypochondria
[ ]Kleptomania [ ]Lycantropy
[ ]Multiple personality disorder
[ ]Paranoia [ ]Post-traumatic stress disorder
[ ]Schizophrenia [ ]Sociopathy
[ ]Turette Syndrome
Think about the concept of necessity.
In your own words, describe what this concept represents for you.
The concept of necessity, In actuallity there
are no necessities except those three tied into
survival. Once you go past though everything
becomes what people think they need. This is
probably the reason why so many problems exist
in the world today, because people can't
differentiate between what they need, and what
they just want.
How do you plan on contributing to the Al Amarjan
society during your stay? Explain why you feel Al Amarja should open
its doors to you.
I don't know if I really have anything to contribute,
hopefully I will spend most of my time relaxing,
maybe I can set an example for the other visitors.
As to Al Amarja opening it's doors. I don't really
know, there's nothing about me that is special.
I guess just out of the kindness of it's heart.
* * *
He slides the form and pen back over to his caseworker, and says: "Some of those questions are rather odd, don't you agree?" He looks at her questioningly, half-smile on his face, giving off a charming air, obviously on accident.
"The form was tailored to your case by the computerized system," Ms. Mabinonghé comments absent-mindedly.
Her face is expressionless as she reads Griffon's answers to the form. When she reaches the end of the documents, she turns back to her keyboard and taps a new entry. She sits back in her chair to consider the response that scrolls across the screen. "Necessity," she murmurs.
The silence that follows stretches on, until she taps the return key. Immediately, the previous silence explodes into the blare of a klaxon, and spotlights hung high overhead flood Griffon's face with the incandescence of an entire stadium's lighting array. The heat and glare from the spots hit like a physical weight. Somewhere, a loudspeaker is repeating a recorded message: "Attention! Put your hands in the yellow circles and comply with your caseworker's instructions! Attention! Put your hands in the yellow circles..." Squinting against the glare, Griffon notices two yellow circles on the desk, about 15 or 20 centimeters in diameter and spaced by roughly a meter. He could swear they were not there before.
From beyond the curtain of light comes the caseworker's even voice. "I recommend you comply, Mr. Kyle. Then you can explain to me why, after I ran your passport information through the computer system, an international warrant for your arrest came up."
The white-hot spotlights paint Griffon's silhouette in shimmering relief on the dark semi-metallic floor.
Griffon's face is a classic example of what someone looks like when they have no clue what someone is talking about. He moves slowly, not wanting to have his actions interpreted as an attack by anyone, puts his hands on the yellow circles and says "What the bloody hell are you talking about?!"
"Keep your hands in the yellow circles, Mr. Kyle," answers the caseworker non-threateningly.
Griffon hears her tap again on her keyboard, and the recorded in the background cuts off. The floodlights dim slightly, from the "wall of light" setting to "midnight ball game". The intervals between klaxons stretches, until they're only heard about every five seconds.
"Let's see what we have here," mutters Graziella Mabinonghé. "Mmmmm.... Mhh-hhm... Well, this is certainly unfortunate. The warrant was issued thirteen hours ago. Apparently, you are wanted in connection with a murder which was discovered a few hours after your flight from Australia."
The soft whirring of the printer is heard between klaxons, and a few pages roll onto the black desk. Ms. Mabinonghé picks them up and starts leafing through them. "Here we are... Cynthia Margaret Penniman, aged 26..."
Griffon recognizes the name. His girlfriend of five years, whom
he just broke up with...
The page slides into Griffon's field of vision, and his slowly adjusting sight allows him to recognize the badly beaten corpse in the picture. The face has been severely battered, but there is no doubt: this is Cyndi. More pages slide across the desk as Graziella pushes them away quickly. Close-ups of bruises, dislocated joints, limbs bent at unlikely angles.
"I understand she had just broken off with you?" continues the caseworker. "At least that's what the file says. The Australian police questioned several people, but it's the friend who found her who seemed most helpful since he knew both of you so well. It says here Mr. Thomas Lee gave convincing testimony regarding the kind of injury you are capable of producing, and also on the fights you and Ms. Penniman had been having lately."
There is a brief moment of stunned silence as Griffon stares mutely at the pages. A single tear falls silently from his left eye as he looks at the pictures. He looks up at the caseworker, and says in a quiet, almost dead voice. "I didn't do it. I wouldn't ever be able to do that." His voice breaks for a moment, before he goes on. "God, who would do that to her, she never did anything to anyone." He stops, and looks down at the desk, then back up, his eyes brimming with tears that he doesn't allow to fall. "What do I do?" he asks plaintively. Almost unnoticeable, a small pool of blood is forming under Griffon's hands where he has them in fists on the yellow circles.
"Mmmm... Let's start with a polygraph test, shall we?" answers the C&I case worker. "It's fairly standard for an interview anyway. Please note that Al Amarjan equipment is far superior to what you find almost anywhere else. Prevarication is a very bad idea."
She dims the overhead spotlights some more.
"Mr. Kyle, you will slowly raise your left hand from the yellow circle and place it on the centre pad of the lie detection equipment to your left. Place your hand palm down, resting entirely on the pad, and extend your fingers so they rest flat, letting your hand relax."
The only equipment Griffon sees in the indicated location is the gizmo with the convex pad and the pulsing circle of green light. Griffon complies silently, the blood noticeable as he rests his hand where the case worker indicated.
"Now, Mr. Kyle, I am going to ask you some questions and I want you to answer truthfully. Consider your answers carefully."
As Graziella Mabinonghé speaks, the rythm of the pulsing circle of green light starts altering. The pattern becomes irregular, chaotic. The woman's clear, precise, pleasant voice enunciates the questions as she reads them off her screen, pausing to let Griffon answer each but displaying no overt reaction to his answers. The green light pulses on, its patterns varying constantly, and Griffon can detect no obvious link between the pattern and the truthfulness of his answers.
"Have you ever been accused of a crime?"
"No, not until now."
"Have you ever been convicted of a crime?"
"No."
"Have you ever committed a crime?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever intentionally harmed another living being?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever intentionally harmed another human being?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever killed a living being?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever killed another human being?"
"Yes."
"Did you kill Cynthia Margaret Penniman?"
"NO." He puts extra emphasis on the word, trying to convey his innocence.
The caseworker pauses, frowning at the new lines scrolling on her monitor, then reads off the final question. "Did you kill Elizabeth Draeger Kyle?"
Griffon has not heard this name in many years. It is his mother's name. He looks at the woman for a moment, then says "No." He doesn't recall his mother being dead. His father, yes. And he's telling the truth as he sees it.
The C&I caseworker looks at Griffon, very deadpan. "Is there something you'd like to tell me at this point, Mr. Kyle?" she says mildly.
"Not that I can think of," he says quietly, really wanting to break something.
The hitherto mild countenance of the C&I caseworker starts to become far less friendly. "I suggest you try harder, Mr. Kyle," she says drily.
Griffon's face shows his growing irritation. With his left cheek twitching dangerously he says, "Why don't you tell me which one it says I lied to, or tell me what it is you want me to say."
The caseworker stares at him. "Mr. Kyle, maybe I wasn't quite clear. To sum up: one - an international warrant for your arrest has been issued. Two - the crime was a brutal murder by someone of your capacities. Three - you have just admitted to a murder in the past. My options are to cooperate with the Australian authorities and return you to your homeland, to simply refuse you entry into Al Amarja, or to admit you. My understanding is that you prefer the third option, with, I assume, an option on the second one, but you have not given me a single reason to pick those options. Even supposing that you are not guilty of the Penniman murder - and let me point out to you that, unlike Australian justice, the Al Amarjan system is based on the assumption of guilt - why should I let in someone who admits to being a killer?"
He's incredibly silent, not moving, not even breathing it seems. Then it's as if he's collapsed in on himself. Like some ancient dying star. He looks up at her after looking down at his lap for a long moment, and tears are in his eyes, streaming freely and openly down his face. He looks into her eyes for a long moment, and then says in an emotion filled voice.
"What do you want from me!? You tell me a woman I loved, a woman that I still love is dead. You show me pictures of it, and read about it like it's not a fucking person that's laying dead somewhere, but just some piece of meat. And then you sit across from me and tell me that every person I know, all our friends, the government, you, think I did something like that!"
He's standing now, his hands resting on her desk, his weight on his arms, leaning towards her aggressively, he's almost sobbing now. "Well fine, you want to know, I'll fucking tell you! Every night I'd come home from practice and watch my dad get drunk and use my mother for a punching bag! And she just took it and took it! And finally one night I decided he wasn't going to hit her her anymore."
His voice is losing intensity, as if the telling of the thing is taking
some part of him, something that was inside, that supported him "So he
hit her, knocked her to the floor, and then I was there. And I told
him to leave, to get his things and go, that we didn't need him anymore.
And he raised his fist up, like he was going to hit me and I said 'If you
ever hit either of use ever again I'll kill you.' And he hit me,
and I kept my promise." He leans his head down, crying silently,
shoulders heaving with the effort, he flops back down into his chair, and
sobs, his face held in his hands.
Just as Special Agent Goodness steps into the room, a tremendous explosion rocks the building. Goodness is thrown across the room by the concussion, landing in a heap against the far wall. Griffin Kyle is smashed up against the desk, with the chair landing on his head. Ms. Mabinonghé is also rocketed across the room, and crashes into a filing cabinet.
The lights go out, plunging the entire room into inky darkness.
"Ah, Christ," mutters Goodness, lying upside-down against the wall. He shakes his head as he rolls over, trying to clear the ringing in his ears, and reaches groggily for his Zippo. He strikes the flint, struggling to his knees, then transfers the lighter from his left hand to his right, and reaches for his gun.
"Keep yair hands where I kin see'em, please, Mr. Kyle," he shouts over the incessant ringing in his head. For some reason, there seems to be two of everything. He tries to aim in between the twin shadowy Griffon's, but realizes he may actually be aiming at the chair.
Griffon scrambles out from under the chair as soon as the lights go out, and as he sees the man light the lighter, and go for a gun he reacts, and hops forward, raising his foot, and tries to kick the gun out of the man's hand without injuring him. "Who the bloody hell are you?!" he says after he accomplishes this.
Graziella Mabinonghé rebounds from the file cabinet with a resounding pongg! (that's gotta hurt) and performs an involuntary and graceless tuck and roll, along with the bowl of peanuts and its contents, the swedish desk lamp, the tea set (ouch! hot!), various forms and photos, the light pointer, the lie detector, and the contents of the desk's drawers. The tall lamps, the huge speakers, and the grotesquely huge monitor, having more inertia, rock on their bases and threaten to come crashing down but finally decide to remain upright - except for one lamp who decides to break from the herd and commit suicide.
Graziella starts gathering herself to her knees, dripping showers of debris, and sees the Burger jump forward to kick Agent Goodness. Without pause for reflection, she grabs the first object her hand encounters - a brushed metal pencil sharpener - and throws it at Griffon Kyle's head.
Goodness, still dizzy and seeing double, with bells in his head, watches as his gun goes spinning out of his hand. And suddenly, as Kyle moves with the momentum of his kick, Goodness sees a strange metal object suddenly appear in the dim light of his Zippo, and it seems to be coming directly at his face!
Agent Goodness takes the pencil sharpener right square between the eyes, and slowly topples backwards, barely noticing the sudden flow of blood amidst all the other problems he currently faces. "Christ on a crooked crutch," he mutters softly, once again on the floor.
Griffon sees the object hit the man, and then stops, looking around, frightened. "Everyone stop moving, and tell me what the bloody hell is happening here."
Agent Goodness mutters weakly from the floor, "Yer under arrest fer murdair, Mr. Kyle. Put yer hands where I kin see 'em. An' stop kickin' me."
As echoes of the explosion die away, a switch buried somewhere in the bowels of the Terminal decides that now is a really good time to close a certain connection, and the interview room is instantly plunged back into darkness as the sprinkler system kicks in, dowsing the lighter (and the protagonists).
The PA system also picks this moment to spring to life. There is a soft chime. "Frank Scott, to the white courtesy phone. Reverend Frank Scott to the white courtesy phone please."
"Sorry!" wails Ms. Mabinonghé just as the pencil sharpener connects with agent Goodness's forehead and the agent slumps to the floor. Then the sprinklers start spitting and the room goes dark again.
With crunch! and clang! noises, and ouch! and damn! yelps, the C&I caseworker reaches for the edge of the desk for support and propels herself to her feet. As if trying out for the rugby majors, she flings herself at the spot where Griffon Kyle was last seen, attempting a tackle. Nevermind the fact that she is about six inches shorter than the Australian and weigh about two thirds of his bulk...
Agent Goodness, sore, bleeding, angry, and now wet, begins crawling across the darkened room in the direction of what he thinks is the door in an effort to keep Kyle from escaping. "Doon't move, Mr. Kyle!" he shouts. "I've found me gun and I've got ye covered!"
Kyle sidesteps with agility, grace and speed, anticipating Miss Mabinonghé's charge... and goes ass over appetite as one of his feet tangles with the chair. With reflexes trained from years in the dojo he twists his body as he falls and attempts to roll to his feet... only to tuck and roll directly over the top of Special Agent Goodness, causing the two of them to tangle in a heap of limbs.
Miss Mabinonghé, meanwhile, continues her charge, although at the last instant she begins to wonder if she hasn't missed, as she seems to be going further than anticipated. Her musings die a-borning, however, as she ploughs into the open door of the interview cubicle.
At this very instant, the lights come on again.
Agent Goodness wraps himself tightly around Kyle's fallen form, holding on for all he's worth. "Make it easy on yerself, lad," he says, "And doon't struggle. Miss Mabinonghé, if ye'd be so kind, me gun is over there someplace, an' I'd appreciate you training it on Mr. Kyle, if ye please.
"Eh... Miss Mabinonghé? Hullo?
"Hmmm..."
From outside the door comes a resounding THUNKK!!! as Graziella Mabinonghé hits the corridor wall opposite the cubicle door, quickly followed by a plaintive "OWWW!", then by scrambling sounds as the caseworker peels herself off the wall and disentangles her limbs. "Dermo!!" she swears in a foreign language. Then she scrambles to get back into her office. Bursting through the door, she looks around, slightly disoriented. There's the tangled knot of agent Goodness immobilizing Griffon Kyle - or perhaps it is the other way around. But where is the gun?
Spotting the weapon, the C&I caseworker dives for it, sliding like one of those baseball players the Amricans like so much - and the gun slides too, lodging itself under the desk. Ms. Mabinonghé, lying on her stomach, frantically reaches under the black desk for the precious weapon.
Griffon acts instinctively, and slams his forehead into the man's face, trying to get around him, to put him in a choke hold. As he's doing this, he says: "Ms. Mabinonghé, call security, this man has a gun!"
Griffin's head slam catches Goodness smack in the nose, breaking it with a squishy *KRUK* sound, and knocking out one of his teeth at the same time. Goodness folds up like an origami crane, releasing Kyle from his hold, and Kyle has no difficulty putting him in a choke hold - at this point Goodness is barely conscious.
The C&I caseworker finally snatches the gunfrom under the desk and flip-flops like a live fish thrown in a frying pan. She trains the gun on Griffon Kyle, despite his still being entangled with agent Goodness.
"Down, boy," says the caseworker coldly. Her tone is no longer pleasant and musical, but cold and sharp as an ice sliver. Her dark face gives away nothing. "You've been told to stay put, now FREEZE, ASSHOLE!" The command cracks like a detonation.
Agent Goodness, fighting the nausea that comes from near-shock, tastes the sharp tang of blood in his mouth, and instinctively runs his tongue over the jagged edge where his tooth used to be. Head still ringing, bloody, nose broken, wet, and pinned to the floor by an accused murderer, he coughs, and, clearing his throat, says as loudly as he can, "Boyo, I've been sent here to try an' help ye sort oot the mess ye've gotten yerself inta. Bu' now, I think ye'd better finish me off, 'cause as soon as you climb off me, I'm goan ta get me gun from Ms. Mabinonghé, an' shoot you."
Griffon looks from one to the other, but doesn't loosen his hold. "Why don't one of you tell me what the bloody hell is going on, and then maybe I'll start making apologies. I'm sorry if I don't take kindly to being thrown out of a chair, then having a gun pointed at me to name just a few problems I have with that."
As the three stand (or, in Goodness' case, sag) in a frozen tableau, each notices for the first time that the muzak is playing some sort of half- music box, half-western piece (those who are Sergio Leone or Ennio Morricone fans will recognize it as "Sixty Seconds to What?", Morricone's classic accompaniment to the climactic scene in "For A Few Dollars More").
"Miss Mabinonghé," says Agent Goodness, staring at Griffon, "Come oover here, please, an' count ta five. If Mr. Kyle is na off of me, an' kneeling on the floor with his hands behind his head, shoot th' bastard." He smiles through the pain; an unsettling, bloody sight. "You air na' in control here, Mr. Kyle. Ye'air in a government office, and we are government officials. You air in no position to ask for anythin'. Every second ye fail to do as ye'air told, yer chances of livin' decrease. So SHUT YER FUCKIN' MOUTH, AND GET OFF OF ME. NOW. Or yair dead."
Without a word of argument, the caseworker stands and takes three precise steps, keeping the gun trained on an invisible dot between Griffon Kyle's eyes. Her own gaze is unblinking as she glares down the length of the barrel.
She stops a couple of meters short of Kyle's immediate reach, and keeps aiming carefully. She's close enough for Griffon to verify that the safety is off.
"Five," she says coldly.
"Four."
"Three."
"TWO."
Agent Goodness bares his teeth. "Last chance, boy."
Kyle scowls to himself, then slowly lets go of the man, raising his hands high above his head, and taking a step back. "Listen, I still don't know what's going on, but when someone barges in, and pulls a gun on me without identifying themselves I have a tendency to defend myself." He does sound sorry, though upset that it developed into this.
"On yer knees, Mr. Kyle," says Agent Goodness, finally wiping the blood
from his face. "Miss Melbinongé, would ye be so kind as to hand
me gun oover? I do thank ye."
"What's Terminal Security's number again?" she asks the agent, frowning. "Is it 1813 or 1318? I can never remember."
"1318, I believe," says Agent Goodness. "Mr. Kyle, do ye have a problem wi' understanding the English language? I've asked ye t' kneel on the floor an' place yer hands behind yer head. Now I think ye should bloody well comply, before Miss Melbinongé finishes dialin'." He points the 9mm at Griffon once again. "An' no questions, please. Just do as yer fuckin' told. I'm fast runnin' out o' patience wi' ye." He spits a gobbet of blood onto the floor.
Ms. Mabinonghé punches in the number on the sleekly designed black telephone.
"Hello, Security? We have an incident here. A first-time interviewee got rowdy with agent Goodness from DBI, but the agent has him under control now. Can you send someone to pick him up ASAP? ...What? ...No, I don't -- ...It's not -- ...Is this Security? ...um, 1318? ...No, I did! It says so right there on my telephone's display: 1-3-1-8! That's what I dialed!" A pause. "All right, don't get all huffy with me. I hope all your lines ring at once, jerk!"
She hangs up with annoyance and starts dialing again. "They thought I had dialed 911 and kept telling me to get off the emergency line, this doesn't qualify as an emergency!" she explains for agent Goodness's benefit.
"Hello, Security? ...What, you again? What does your little screen tell you this time? ...Oh, good! I get the same place, same person and now it's OK? ... Fine, fine, fine! ...Listen, bud, I've got all my calls recorded, AND an electronic log of all numbers called, and a wounded DBI agent here. If you don't get off your butt and send a pickup team right now, I garantee you your next assignment will be in Great Men. IF you're lucky. ...What?"
She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes for a second, then articulates slowly. "We have an incident in C&I briefing cubicle 13. A first-time interviewee attacked agent Goodness from DBI, but the agent has him under control now. Can you send someone to pick him up ASAP? -- GOOD. THANK you so much."
She hangs up and hisses something incomprehensible, then turns back to agent Goodness. "They're on their way."
Griffon does exactly what he's told, and says, "I don't think it's fair to say I attacked him, seeing as he was the one that pulled the gun on me, when I wasn't doing anything."
Agent Goodness shakes his head. "I'm na goin' t'debate semantics with ye, Mr. Kyle. The fact o' the matter is, yer a wanted criminal who slugged a DBI officer, an' that puts ye in a great steamin' pile o' shit. An' I DID promise ye tha' I was goin' t'shoot ye, didn't I? So supposin' ye give me a reason t' stay me hand. An' it better not have anything to do with you bein' an innocent victim in all this.
He chuckles. "Were I you, I'd've run as soon as the room blew up. Gone t' ground, as it were, tried to clear m'name. Tha's what innocent people do, isn't it? Big hero stuff an' all? But yer na a big hero, are ye, Mr. Kyle? Yer just a bully-boy, killin' women an' probably blamin' yer father fer how fucked up ye air. 'Daddy did na buy me a Bairbie doll, an' now I have issues!'. Bligh.
"So tell me, Mr. Kyle, afore th' boys come t'drag ye away to a nice, dark cell awaitin' extradition, why I shouldn'a just put a bullet in yer head an' save us all the paperwork."
He spits a bit more blood, then looks down the sight of his gun, as if daring Griffon to move.
Griffon turns his head, looking up at the man, an interesting look on his face. It's one of those blistering looks that only seriously scary people can achieve, with practice. "I'm going to tell you once." He almost growls, his teeth showing. "I didn't kill her, I wouldn't kill her, and you've been watching reruns of the fugitive way to much." He looks at the gun as it points at him "If your going to shoot me you better do it now, or keep your mouth shut, because all your going to do is make me shove that gun up your ass."
Ms. Mabinonghé raises an eyebrow at the threat. "Well, agent Goodness, would you like me to call a Terminal judge, or do you plan on using your authority to have him transferred over to CPC?"
As she speaks, she picks up Griffon's C&I form from where it came to rest on the floor and starts marking it with a red felt tip pen. "That was one screwed up psych interview," she comments conversationally. Then she looks up sharply, as if remembering something. "Damn!" she swears. "I still have some blood work and probing to do!"
Agent Goodness smiles at the thought of Miss Mabinonghé probing Kyle, but keeps his eyes on the prize. "Nah, this one isn't werth CPC's time, are ye, ye tit? Go ahead an' call the Terminal Judge. Ye wanna come oover here an' shove me gun up me ass, Mr. Kyle? C'mon. Do it. I dare ye. How fast are ye, Mr. Kyle? How brave? Oh, I've got the gun, right? Big man I am, pointin' a gun at ye an' threatenin' ye, right? C'mon, Mr. Kyle. Shove me gun up me ass. Ye pussy." His aim falls right between Griffon Kyle's eyes.
While Agent Goodness taunts Griffon Kyle, and the Australian seethes on his knees, Graziella Mabinonghé sits down on her desk (actually, she is short enough that she has to hitch up a little to sit on the black desk), and jots down a few more notes in red. Then she picks up the space-age phone again and starts dialing a new number.
"Hello, Terminal Criminal Court? Yes, this is C&I case worker Graziella Mabinonghé, employee number DCN TZ4-113I-589-C01Q. We have a situation here, an aggravated assault on a DBI agent by an interviewee. We've got Security coming in, and we're going to need a judge in briefing cubicle 13 -- that's the crime scene. ...Yes. ...Yes." As she speaks, she glances over at Kyle and Goodness, watching the evolution of the relationship, then takes a look at her fingernails.
"Mmm-hmm... Oh, that would be great. He's available? ...Great! He's the best. ...We'll be waiting for him, then."
She hangs up and turns to the two men with a cheerful smile. "Good news! We got Judge Dredd. Mr. Kyle, he says he'd like you to remember 'he is the law'"
She pauses dramatically, then winks and adds: "Just kidding. We got Judge Fang. Dredd is attached to Freedom City."
Goodness arches an eyebrow. "Fang, eh? Well, well, airn't ye the special one, Mr. Kyle? 'Bang-Bang Fang' we call him after hours at the pub. Must be yer lucky day, boy.
"So how's aboot it? Ye want me gun, or no?"
As seconds turn into minutes, and minutes into annoyance, Graziella Mabinonghé starts frowning, looking repeatedly at her watch. "It had better be because of the number of emergencies, and not because this idiot is sitting on his hands," she mutters.
She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, then gets up and walks around as Griffon Kyle continues glaring wordlessly at agent Goodness, then retruns to her desk and starts playing 3-D solitaire. After a few minutes of this, she lets out a sigh of deep boredom.
"Anybody for a game of hangman?" she asks. As no enthusiastic response follows, she grumbles: "Never mind, here's one on-line..."
Agent Goodness gives Graziella a half-smile. "Thank you, no, Miss Mabinonghé. I think I'd better be keepin' an eye on our suddenly silent friend. You did say security were on their way, then?"
As if in answer to his question, the door to the interview cubicle flies open as though kicked (which, in fact, is exactly how it is being opened) and two individuals - easily identified by their ballistic vests and submachine guns as belonging to Terminal Security -swing in to cover the room from either side of the door frame.
"NOBODY MOVE! HANDS IN THE AIR!" one screams.
"GUN! GUN!" screams the other.
The muzzles of both weapons swing with great precision towards Agent Goodness.
"DROP THE GUN! NOW!! NOW!! NOW!!" screams one.
"DROP YOUR GUN ASSHOLE!" screams the other.
"Oh fer..." mutters Agent Goodness, and carefully lowers his gun to the floor, then raises his hands above his head.
Ms. Mabinonghé carefully raises her hands in the air, promptly but without sudden movements, still holding a nail file. She looks remarkably annoyed by the scene, but stays prudently behind her desk. "That's agent Goodness from DBI," she comments, enunciating clearly.
Hi," mutters Goodness.
"ID," snaps one of the security officers. "Nice and slow."
"I am Graziella Mabinonghé from C&I," she twitches her shoulders as if to attract attention to her tan uniform, "and the man on his knees with his hands behind his head is the Scar... the tourist who attacked agent Goodness." On her screen, a little stick figure is hanging sadly from a noose, and the word "e_ecu_ioner" is blinking in large letters.
Griffon is the dictionary example of the word "still". It doesn't even look like he's breathing right now.
Neither gun wavers, but then again agent Goodness is not pinned to the wall by two streams of steel jacketed projectiles either, which is a good thing overall.
"Stand by, ye great cork-sporkers," says Goodness as he waves his right hand in a nice manner while calmly reaching into his back pocket with his left. He takes out his wallet and flips it open, revealing his DBI badge. "All kosher, ye kevlar-coated jollyboys?"
The two security guards lower their guns slightly, and redirect the muzzles in the general direction of Griffin Kyle.
"Don't get yer fuckin' boxers in a twist... sir," responds one. "Just doin' our jobs and tryin' ta get through the day without bein' ventilated."
"Hey, you look like shit, sir," pipes up the other one. "This piece of crap take a pop at you?" he motions with the gun in the direction of Kyle.
"Aye, that he did," says Goodness, looking at Griffon as he stoops to recover his gun. "A couple'a good ones, an' that's a fact."
"You're lucky Mister," says the first to Kyle. "If you had done something like that to me I would have spattered your fucking brains all over this office, and written up the paper work to justify it later."
"Dispatch," says the second, talking into a shoulder mounted microphone, "Unit #21... we have an officer requiring medical attention, C&I offices, briefing cubicle #13."
"Unit #21," the radio responds, "Officer requires medical attention, C&I offices, briefing cubicle #13. Paramedics en route."
"Thanks, dispatch. Unit #21 out." replies the officer.
"Now then Mr. Scarab," says the first officer to Kyle, "I want you to lie down flat with your nose touching the floor, arms and legs out wide." he glances over at Goodness. "You might want to step back, sir. Wouldn't want you to take a stray round after all."
Goodness complies with a nod, sagging against the wall tiredly, holstering his pistol.
At about this time a middle-aged Asian man walks through the door to Briefing Cubicle #13. He's wearing sweats and a sweatband around his forehead, and is carrying what appears to be a racquetball racquet and a gym bag. His hair is thinning somewhat, but he has a calm, steely look in his eyes that seems to indicate that he has seen it all and nothing that happens here, no matter how weird, is going to faze him. The two Terminal security men don't quite snap to attention when he enters, but they do make an effort to look professional and competent.
He sweeps the room once with his eyes, lingering for only the barest instants on Griffin Kyle, Agent Goodness, and the mess around the desk. When he speaks his accent is all american, all New York.
"I'm Judge Fang," he says. "Lets get this show on the road."
To Be Continued...