“This is fucked. It’s a bloody war zone out there. The whole point of agreeing to do this was that they promised we wouldn’t be bothered.”

“That right, big guy? You know where “Pat,” is. Why don’t you go tell him your thoughts, I’m sure he’s interested.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Stop egging him on.” A third voice urged. “We know they don’t hesitate to drop bodies, you really think they’ll hesitate to put us on that list?”

Our progress was a tense, slow-moving effort. Too slow. At this rate, the diversion team was going to have to pull out without us. Whoever this group was, they were either well-organized or terrified of their leadership. Less of them had rushed to the front than expected, with a decent number of guards and other workers remaining at their posts.

We’d moved as efficiently as we could, subduing sentries as quietly as possible. It went disturbingly smoothly. After five successful encounters, I was beginning to appreciate the subtle complexities of Mile’s If I managed to get it around someone’s neck, even in the rare case they broke away after a few seconds, they were largely drained of mana and simple to subdue.

Unfortunately, the halls simply weren’t as empty as we hoped they’d be and there was just too much ground to cover. It was time to change strategy.

”Know anything about interrogation?” Miles had asked me.

I confirmed that I knew some, and he nodded, telling me that he would take the lead, and I’d play the disruptive element. Which I translated from fed to mean playing the bad cop to his good cop.

Two of the men left, leaving one—the pudgy User with a wispy combover who had advised caution, alone in his chair.

Miles pushed open a green, man-sized locker and stepped out, looking from side to side in a disturbingly accurate depiction of confusion. “Huh. Could have sworn the bathroom was in there. Did I take a wrong turn?” He asked the man.

“Hey—“ Combover started to stand.

I dropped from the metal support beams in the ceiling behind him, pushing against his throat. I kept my voice low and gruff, tapping into the same source I’d used in that first encounter with Roderick. “Bathroom’s across the hall. This is just the room you go in to shit yourself.”

“You’re gonna regret this.” Combover whispered.

Miles put a hand to his chin. “Sometimes I’m bad at judging social cues. But that sounded like a threat. Did you hear a threat?” He asked me.

“Sounded like a threat to me.”

“I wasn’t—“ Combover started.

I slammed him against the wall. He yelped, the sound cut short when I pushed the tip of my dagger against his throat. I pushed my face near him and leered. “Let's just get the weapons and armor off. In case you’re tempted to…” I pushed the dagger hard enough to draw a single bead of blood. “… threaten us again.”

With an awkward terrified bashfulness, Combover removed his weapons and armor, and emptied his inventory, all whilst trying to keep his neck as still as possible.

“You didn’t have to make him take his pants off,” Miles scolded. I glanced down. Combover was wearing a black sleeveless shirt and blue and white striped boxers that were more European than American, showing a large expanse of pasty, hair-covered thigh.

“He did that on his own. And he doesn’t need them,” I growled. “Less weight means it’s easier to carry him out of here after we’re done.”

“Oh fuck no man, please—“

Miles shook his head and looked at the man. “Don’t mind my associate. He gets a little intense from time to time.”

On cue, I roughly maneuvered the man to the nearby wooden chair and forced him down. Two of the side legs came up as he sat down too hard, clattering back downward with a thunk. I pulled Audrey’s rope from my shoulder and wrapped it around his midsection, tying him to the chair.

Combover’s pupils were blown, all black, with just a ridge of blue still visible. I wasn’t originally certain how effective this would be—it’s not like it was a particularly original strategy—but it already seemed to be working. “Don’t hurt me. I’m nobody.”

Miles pulled up a chair in front of Combover, straddling the back. He looked so casual it had to be calculated. The pose he’d chosen both asserted his dominance in the situation and opened up his body-language, giving the impression of honesty, of having nothing to hide. “What’s your name? Just your first name. So, you don’t have to worry about anyone tracking you down or naming you as a co-conspirator.”

“E-E-Emil,” The man stammered.

“Emil. Good name,” Miles nodded. “Latin. Means to strive, excel.” Suddenly, his nose wrinkled. “And what’s that smell, Emil?”

“Gasoline. They store three cans over there for the backup generators.” Emil answered quickly.

Miles was priming Emil, similarly to how I’d gotten Dane on my side. Only he was far, far better at it.

“How many Users has your group processed, Emil?”

Emil swallowed. “A few dozen, maybe more. It’s hard to say definitively. I’m not always at the forefront.”

“Of course you’re not.” Miles nodded agreeably. “You had a relatively normal life before this. No record, corporate background—Research and Development, I’m guessing, though I could be wrong. You were always the support guy. The one that made sure everything worked behind the scenes. Then, you went home on time, kissed your wife, maybe watched TV with the kids before bed if it wasn’t too late.”

“Yes.” Emil’s lip trembled.

How the fuck?

Nothing from which meant, again, Miles was operating purely on conjecture and training. He was playing a dangerous game, trying to gain rapport this way. When you cold-read, it’s far safer to make broader, more generalized statements that sound specific.

I could have gotten corporate background based on age, demeanor, and grooming. That he was married from the mismatched tan around his ring finger. But the confidence with which Miles was rattling off specific facts was beyond me. More mind-boggling was the fact that he seemed to be getting it all right.

“This isn’t the life for you, Emil. It seems obvious to me that you were press-ganged into this. So, I’m going to cut you a break. Tell us what we need to know, and we’ll leave you be. It’s information we’re after. Not you.”

Emil seemed to relax at that.

“What are they doing with the people they’re taking?” Miles asked.

The man in the chair immediately tensed, eyes flitting from Miles, to me, to the door.

I placed a hand on his head and moved it, redirecting his gaze to Miles.

“Funny thing about generators? They’re loud. See the foam on the wall? That’s soundproofing. No one’s coming to save you,” I whispered in his ear. He shivered.

Miles stared at Emil for a few moments longer, then looked to me, disappointed.

“Fingernails?” I suggested.

Emil whimpered.

“Too messy,” Miles shook his head.

“I could carve into him. Start cutting bits off.”

“How is that less messy?” Miles stared at me.

“Wait! Wait wait wait—“

“Fine.” I glanced at the water-cooler in the corner. “Come to think of it, I’m a little thirsty.”

Miles gave Emil a sad, regretful look, then stood, retrieving a grease covered cloth from the shelf and unscrewed the blue jug from the water-cooler, bringing it over and placing it neck up at Emil’s side.

Miles nodded once. Then rushed forward, pushing Emil back in his chair and placing the rag over his face. The man immediately began to make muffled sounds of alarm. I let Miles hold Emil as I traded places. Then lifted the massive jug of water, making sure it audibly reverberated as I lifted it.

“Shit. You’ll want to save your breath, Emil.” Miles said, his voice full of regret. “My partner tends to be a bit… heavy-handed.” Emil took a deep breath and stopped making noise. I let it hang there for a moment, then lowered the bottle without pouring any out.

“Ever wonder why they call it waterboarding?” I asked, as if I was genuinely curious about the answer.

“Are you not gonna, uh.”

“In a minute. Answer the question.”

Emil let out a gasp, panting.

“Etymology isn’t my strong suit, but it seems self-explanatory” Miles jibed.

“From a practical standpoint.” I mused. “Like, why does it have to be water? That’s so… limiting.”

“Not really following you.”

“Let’s experiment a little.” I walked back to the supply shelf and retrieved one of the gas cans, popping the cap open.

“No. Hey—No. That’ll blind him.” Miles said in audible alarm. But his eyes were twinkling in amusement.

“Not right away. All the more reason for him to talk sooner rather than later.”

I placed the can at Emil’s side. He’d fallen very still and quiet, trying to divine context from the conversation. The scent of gas reached him, and he started panicking, trying desperately to remove himself from the chair.

I busied myself, putting a bit of water from the jug into an empty coffee cup, then reaching into the gas can with a rolled up piece of paper. While I worked, Miles spoke in an urgent tone to Emil. “Keep your eyes shut as tightly as you can. It’s going to burn, and there’s nothing you can do to protect your ears, but you can’t open your eyes, regardless of what you do. And try to hold your breath. Breathe in the fumes too deeply and your lungs are toast.

Emil hummed a pathetic affirmative.

I held the paper saturated with gasoline up to his nose, and began to pour water from the coffee cup onto his forehead.

filled in the rest. A slow burn that started at his face, worked its way into his eyes, his ears, his nose.

The reaction was immediate. Emil began to thrash from side to side, as we both held him still. Miles was holding him still, staring at me.

”And people think I’m an asshole,” He mouthed.

”Now?” I asked.

”Give him a few more seconds, then grab the can.”

I followed his instructions and stopped, placing the coffee cup out of sight and retrieving the gas can. Miles placed a hand on my chest and shoved, whipping the rag off Emil’s face simultaneously. “That’s enough,” he growled at me.

“He can take it,” I argued.

“No, I can’t,” Emil gasped, blinking painfully, twisting in the chair to look at Miles. “I can’t take it—god that burns—I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Whatever you want to know.”

“Where are they keeping the people and lux?” Miles asked.