One light shines in the middle of this cinder block and mortar-forged room. One large window lines nearly the entire north wall, tinted black so my eyes cannot see the concealed faces behind it. This may not be said about the other party. A single chair, the chair that I am chained to, and a table. Looking down at the table, I see a rather significant dent in front of where I am seated. Oh, that poor fool. To the left, a steel door barricaded from the outside to mock me in my confinement. Needless to say, I believe this room may be lacking in comfort, but, as an afterthought, I do suppose an interrogation room is meant to hinder relaxation.
After staring at the moth fluttering about the light for several seconds, a male voice beckons from a speaker, diluted by a voice-changing device, making them sound more ‘intimidating.’ “Tell us what you know!” in English but with a harsh Russian accent.
Then an irritating voice in my head gets me thinking.
“I’m irritating?”
“Yes, you are.”
“Wait, why can’t I tell the story?”
“Because you always over-embellish events.”
“Oh, c’mon Gilbert, it’s not that bad.”
“I said no.”
“Please?”
“Juno, I would like to do this as accurately as possible.”
“If you actually want people to keep reading this, then let me do it.”
“Sigh, but If you mess things up, I will interject.”
“Oh, goodie, now where were we?”
See, they know that I know the information that they are seeking. The problem is they don’t know what I know, and if they knew what I know, then they wouldn’t want to be questioning me. So, the objective? Don’t tell them what I know.
“Tell us what you know!” the voice demands again.
“I don’t know shit!” I retaliate.
“LIE! We have discovered your little organization, now, tell us what you know” This time a bit louder than before.
“Two plus two equals four.” I chuckle giddily.
“Let’s see if they have a sense of humor.”
“FOOL, we are not amused!”
“Apparently not.”
“Speak what knowledge you have, or we will use force.”
“Oooh, yay, the ‘big guy.’”
“You don’t scare me, I’m American.” Well, actually, they don’t scare me because I can do shit they can’t.
“We know your nationality; tell us what we want.”
“Your mother slept with Hitler.” This was to bring out the ‘big guy,’ you know? Rather large, intimidating, six foot five, broad shoulders, wife beater, jeans, sometimes bald, scars, etcetera, etcetera, the classic beat the info out of you kinda guy.
“Damn, jester thinks he is funny.” The speaker pauses. “Send in Ivanov, and let us see if he laughs now.” The steel door opens with a screech and slams like a gunshot. A large male, approximately 6’5”, broad shoulders, wife beater, worn jeans, and clean-shaven, approaches in what most, not me, would consider a frightening manner.
If I had some twenties, I’d stand on them.
The Russian stands over me in the chair. “I’m have some fun with you.” The Russian’s knuckles crack against my jaw. I chuckled again but with a bloody gurgle. I can taste the iron from the inside of my cheek. He kicks the chair over with me still in it.” Will you talk now puny ‘merican scum?” the large man threatens in broken English.
“I might.” I chortle out with a spittle of blood.
“Really?”
“Well, in your language,” I wipe my mouth on the shoulder of my shirt. “I believe the word is, ‘No’”
“Juno, that is not how you say ‘no’ in Russian.”
“Really? Huh, I thought it was the same in all languages.”
“No, just Spanish.”
“And, now I know, and knowing is half the battle!”
“Damn it, you capitalist dog. No toys are to be played with me!” Ivanov yells as he picks me up by the chai,r roughly placing me back in front of the metal table.
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“Whoa, their big guy, I believe you meant, “Stop toying with me.” I could be wrong. Please, feel fr-” I’m cut off by my head slamming into the dent in the table.”
“Yes, this is what was meant, now do so.”
“Still.” the same answer as last time. Nope, ain’t gonna.”
“Shut up and obey us!” The speaker buzzes with a snap, crackle and pop.
I sigh, “You, the guy behind the fancy glass.” I call out.
“Yes?” the speaker fizzles in response.
“Stop talking.” I plea. “You are making me want Rice Krispies.”
“What?” both the beef stick and the speaker resonate with the same question.
“Speak again, and I’m not saying anything until you bring me a bowl.”
“You cannot be serious?” the box cracks.
“Bowl. Milk. Rice Krispies. NOW.”
“Enough, galavanting! Give us our intel!”
“Yo, Gilbert, the hell is ‘Gallivanting’?”
“You know you make it rather hard to share the same mind sometimes.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“And you have not answered the question the not so kind Russians asked.”
“Well, maybe if they were more polite about it, I would have told them.”
“They were.”
“We’re chained to a chair.”
“Fair point.”
“I still want my Rice Krispies.”
“Tell us now!”
“Nope.” I smirk at the glass.
“Someone, get him some god damned Rice Krispies!”
“Now that you’re yelling at me, I don’t think I want them anymore; you just killed my appetite. Just up and shot it behind a fast food restaurant like a broke pimp.”
“Oh dear, I believe the metaphor is behind the barn, and it is with a horse.”
“My story, my metaphor.”
“I think I should take things from here…”
“Not yet, give it a bit.”
“Ivanov!” The man behind the glass yells.
The linebacker-like man picks me up and throws me into the fancy glass. “Ouch, that hurt,” I say with my face squished against the black pane. “Apologize.” I drop back onto the floor.
“Are you done yet, Juno?”
“Not really.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“My turn.”
“Pick. Me. Up.” My tone changes, removing the joviality from my voice.
Ivanov stares blankly at me on the floor before shifting his gaze to the window pane for guidance.
“Do as he says, Ivanov,” the modulated voice commands in the brute’s native language.
The brute picks up the chair and props me forward, aligning me, yet again, with the dent in the table.
“Activate D-cell Catalyst. Parameters include: Control: Full; Restrict: Null; Output One; Recovery Variable: Null; Codename: Atlas.”
“Request confirmed,” a female voice buzzes in my ear.
Looking in the one-way mirror, I see myself undergo a transformation. The reflection shows my long black hair losing its pigment, becoming more of a snow color. My eyes are harder to see at my distance from the reflective glass but are clearly visible to Ivanov. The lime iris fades out, leaving a white ring around the pupil. It is quite clear that Ivanov is both confused, angry, and afraid.
“You and you’re damned fancy words.”
“What the hell did you just do? Wha-what happened to your hair? And those eyes?” The hulking human states in his mother tongue.
“My colleague, whom you just met, affectionately dubs it ‘Going Ghost.’”
“I do not understand?”
“It’s an American joke and a poor one.” I clarify.
“Are you mocking me?” The brute moves in closer with a poor attempt at threatening a punch.
“Yea.”
“No.”
“Why do you sound different and look different?” The man behind the glass questions.
“Oh my, that is complicated. ”
“No matter,” Ivanov cracks his knuckles. “I will beat information from you.”
“Not needed.”
“Ivanov, hold.” the staticy voice commands.
“You would like to know everything about the organization, correct?”
“That is our objective, so yes.” fizzes the speaker.
“I will make you a deal. I will inform you of the Argonaut Organization’s whereabouts under three conditions.”
“And these conditions involve what exactly?”
“Condition one, you will wait until I have ended my story.”
“What of the second?”
“You will take everything I say within this story as truthful information.”
“How do we know that info is true?”
“Would you rather I have the other ‘me’ tell the story?”
“Please?”
“God damn it.” the electronic voice crackles a sigh, “Carry on.”
“And the final condition, I must warn you, this condition is most confusing.”
“Just tell us already.”
“The third condition is you may keep all this information if, and only if, you can retain the information after my story.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Death, destruction, fire, and usually blood.”
“I am sure that we can handle ourselves.”
“That is what they all have said, and they all have failed.”
“We are not them.”
“They all said that too.”
“Juno, shut up.”
“Well, do you agree to my conditions?”
“Do we have much of choice?”
“The choice is not mine to make.”
The crackling voice reveals a pent-up sigh. “We agree. Ivanov comes back in.”
Ivanov nods while looking me in my eyes. “Y-yes, sir,” he responds tentatively as he backs away and out the door. The door once again creaked open, then loudly banged shut.
“I will start my story when my friend and I were ‘not of the same mind,’ so to speak, at the time we were at the age of sixteen.”
