Apparently, I did it a lot as a kid, to shove my emotions aside and pretend to be functioning so I didn’t draw more attention to myself.
What I do now, as the man with the Virginian accent begins to interrogate and torture me in earnest, is detach my mind from my body and think about Carter.
I’m aware of my pants being cut from me, leaving me in nothing but my briefs.
The man is an expert in using pressure points and I suppose that helps me untether from the here and now, because Carter was, too. It was an easy and effective way for him to drive me into subspace when we played and couldn’t risk being overheard by anyone else while we were stationed in the desert. He could gag me with dirty briefs or a sock or even a belt, and quickly shove me into the headspace I needed and craved, just with a press of his fingers, and doing no actual harm to me in the process.
No idea how long any of this goes on before the man transitions to using his fists. Guy’s skilled with that, too. I know now I’m very likely never getting out of this situation, but if I roll over and tell him everything he’s trying to learn, he’ll just kill me quickly.
So sue me—I’d like to enjoy this as much as possible if it’s the last “scene” I’ll ever bottom in.
It’s obvious from his questions that he only has part of my jacket, and doesn’t know anything outside of my file about my first several years in the military and spent in Germany under the colonel. He also doesn’t seem to know about many of my past activities both before and after I separated from the US intelligence world.
Part of me is tempted to string him along, but eventually he’s going to get angry and bored, and eventually I’m going to succumb to head trauma or my growing dehydration.
When everything stops, it’s a shock to my system as my body’s conditioned responses take over.
Like the erection I finally realize I’m sporting.
Whoops.
He hasn’t mentioned it, so maybe it just happened.
Then I’m aware of what I’m pretty sure are the only two other men helping my interrogator entering the room. They grab me under the arms while my restraints are unlocked from my ankles and my wrists. Then I’m roughly pulled up from the chair and onto my feet. I scream in agony because of my shoulder, but the American chuckles.
“I know it hurts, buddy. Sorry. You did put up a fight, though.” He clips the wrist manacles on me again, behind my back, leaving my feet free, and I’m literally dragged out of there. My toes barely touch the ground. These two men are larger than me, probably at least six-four or taller, and feel like solid muscle.
My interrogator has hired help, obviously.
After a few moments of being moved, I’m unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, on my knees, and the other two men back off.
Which is a good thing, because they both stink of cigarette smoke to the point I could smell it through my hood and was about to gag.
The American roughly grabs my chin through the mask and yanks my head up and back. “I don’t have time to fuck around with you much longer, Eddie. You are sorely trying my patience, son.”
It’s a lot colder out here in this much larger room, which might be a loading dock, or a warehouse space. I shiver and hope the man’s not looking at my briefs. Despite my pain, my erection’s hard and pressing against the front of them because…fuckinghell.
He sounds just like Carter. Even says thingsexactlythe way Carter used to say them when we played.
I’m starting to honestly believe I’m already dead and ended up in Hell after all. Because, dammit, the two men are aural twins, for sure.
How freaky isthat?
“I’ve told you all I know,” I say. “No, I wasn’t going to sell them real nuclear material. And yes, they made that ask after I’d already agreed to the job and accepted a deposit. If they’re already dead, then I’m sorry, but I don’t have any other info about them before their paths crossed mine. I’ve given you everything I know about my arms supplier. Good luck shuttingthemdown, because they’re backed by Orchynzki, an oligarch from outside of Moscow. He’s protected them for decades.”
He releases me. “You sure run in shitty circles, Eddie.”
“Guy’s gotta make a living.”
“So why’d you really come out of retirement, hmm? Blow through your nest egg?”
I think about saying good-bye to Carter on the sidewalk in front of the hotel a few weeks ago.
I think about reading the report in the newspaper about the police finding Elsa dead in her apartment three days later, when neighbors reported a foul odor.
I remember how I cried in relief, because I had wondered if Carter got it wrong. If, perhaps, somehow, she’d survived.
I remember the relief I felt that her death was unequivocally labelled an accidental overdose, or possibly a suicide without a note, and they wrote in the papers that she’d been under suspicion of embezzlement by her employers.
