Shirahime (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} shirahime) wrote in ![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} taintedquill,@ 2007-08-05 05:31:00 |
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Efforts in Futility
Title: Efforts in Futility
Author: Shirahime
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters: Alfred Bester
Prompt: 005 - Power
Word Count: 903
Rating: PG
Summary: One interrogation in a string of many.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don’t own Babylon 5 or its characters, and I’m not making money from this story.
The room had four dull grey walls, a table and two chairs the only sparse furnishings. But this room wasn’t made for its aesthetics, but for function. The bare walls were fairly soundproof, and their bland appearance was as forbidding as those who utilized the area.
On either side of the table stood two blood hounds, ready for whatever orders their master had for them. In one of the chairs sat a rogue, freshly captured, hands bound behind his back. He breathed heavily, nearly exhausted from the less than kind treatment he’d received recently as well as the drain from attempts at keeping his opponent at bay. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and trickled down his cheek as he glared at the black clad figure across the table.
Alfred Bester met the man’s angry gaze with amused disinterest. He actually wanted this over so that he could go after bigger fish, the resistance leaders that this underling had the names of. Annoying, that the rogue put up such a struggle, but it was only a matter of time.
“You must know that this is all very pointless,” Bester told the man, the strain of keeping his blocks up at full visible in the rogue. In contrast, the psi cop’s features hardly showed his exertion as he pressed against the other man’s blocks forcefully, bowing them inward as if in demonstration of his words. “You’re only a P-10, an admirable psi rating to be sure, but inferior to mine nonetheless.” He leaned forward in the chair to gaze pointedly at the man, the kind expression on his face belying what lay behind dark eyes. “Why not stop this? We won’t blame you for being led astray, as long as you prove your loyalty to the Corps and tell us what we want to know.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, the rogue didn’t trust himself to speak, not wanting his voice to waver. It was no secret what the outcome of this battle would be. The truth of things was all too clear in the dark eyes trained on him from across the table. Yet-
Alfred sighed. “I suppose that I should admire the loyalty that you’re demonstrating to the values that you believe in.” He frowned. “A shame that it’s misplaced.” The man smirked at the fact that he could say the same to the psi cop.
His face becoming a mask of concentration, Alfred ignored the stray thought gleaned from the rogue. The man had eyes, yet still couldn’t see the truth that was right in front of him. Perhaps a re-education camp would sort that out, but first…
The rogue braced himself, his blocks a brick wall behind locked steel doors, then another wall behind the first, bricks piling up higher and higher, the layers as thick as he could make them. A nagging and sinking feeling as the psi cop’s force didn’t increase, as if Bester was giving him a head start, a lull before the coming storm. Was he being played with, or shown a form of kindness?
Then, it came at the rogue from behind the dark and piercing stare, tendrils sharper than daggers, stronger than steel, merging to become one. The door was pierced by the Bester’s psi, the rent extended until warped metal split in two. The bricks that lay behind it were not chipped away at, but plowed through, faster and faster as the rogue tried to build them up. The man didn’t give in yet, the head start allowing him to keep up until…
The psi cop’s voice in his mind, low and dangerous, not the lure of comfort it had offered the time before. This is useless. You’re only delaying the inevitable…
The force of the telepath’s psi pushed forward at the center of the man’s blocks, warping the center of the wall, bricks splitting as they were forced from their position inward. The rogue’s body trembled where he sat in the chair, his head lolled back onto his shoulders. Bester’s eyes were dark, his lips slightly parted. A raised hand slightly extended, gloved fingers flexed.
Useless… Give me the names, then the pain will be over…
He reinforced the wall with metal struts, then more brick, then more steel, then-
Are they worth the suffering that you’re going through?
Behind the last wall, a box that the rogue forced the information into, closed it, locked it, dropped it inside of concrete, then steel, then encased it in-
The last wall exploded inward, shards of brick scattering, some striking the sealed box, then that force, not tendrils now, but crushing, cracking, splitting the layers around the box, then the container itself, the words spilling out, the precious names and places that the rogue was ultimately unable to protect. As consciousness waned, the rogue only had enough time to wonder if the others had made it out of their hiding place before darkness rose to claim him.
Sighing, Alfred stared across at the other man as his head lolled forward. He motioned to the bloodhounds, who moved in concert to hoist the man and take him back to his cell. Rising from his seat, he straightened his dark jacket, pushing the chair in closer to the table before following the bloodhounds out. So many times, and it’s always the same. A pointless fight all for naught, just for the sake of pride.
End
Title: Efforts in Futility
Author: Shirahime
Fandom: Babylon 5
Characters: Alfred Bester
Prompt: 005 - Power
Word Count: 903
Rating: PG
Summary: One interrogation in a string of many.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don’t own Babylon 5 or its characters, and I’m not making money from this story.
The room had four dull grey walls, a table and two chairs the only sparse furnishings. But this room wasn’t made for its aesthetics, but for function. The bare walls were fairly soundproof, and their bland appearance was as forbidding as those who utilized the area.
On either side of the table stood two blood hounds, ready for whatever orders their master had for them. In one of the chairs sat a rogue, freshly captured, hands bound behind his back. He breathed heavily, nearly exhausted from the less than kind treatment he’d received recently as well as the drain from attempts at keeping his opponent at bay. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and trickled down his cheek as he glared at the black clad figure across the table.
Alfred Bester met the man’s angry gaze with amused disinterest. He actually wanted this over so that he could go after bigger fish, the resistance leaders that this underling had the names of. Annoying, that the rogue put up such a struggle, but it was only a matter of time.
“You must know that this is all very pointless,” Bester told the man, the strain of keeping his blocks up at full visible in the rogue. In contrast, the psi cop’s features hardly showed his exertion as he pressed against the other man’s blocks forcefully, bowing them inward as if in demonstration of his words. “You’re only a P-10, an admirable psi rating to be sure, but inferior to mine nonetheless.” He leaned forward in the chair to gaze pointedly at the man, the kind expression on his face belying what lay behind dark eyes. “Why not stop this? We won’t blame you for being led astray, as long as you prove your loyalty to the Corps and tell us what we want to know.”
Lips pressed into a thin line, the rogue didn’t trust himself to speak, not wanting his voice to waver. It was no secret what the outcome of this battle would be. The truth of things was all too clear in the dark eyes trained on him from across the table. Yet-
Alfred sighed. “I suppose that I should admire the loyalty that you’re demonstrating to the values that you believe in.” He frowned. “A shame that it’s misplaced.” The man smirked at the fact that he could say the same to the psi cop.
His face becoming a mask of concentration, Alfred ignored the stray thought gleaned from the rogue. The man had eyes, yet still couldn’t see the truth that was right in front of him. Perhaps a re-education camp would sort that out, but first…
The rogue braced himself, his blocks a brick wall behind locked steel doors, then another wall behind the first, bricks piling up higher and higher, the layers as thick as he could make them. A nagging and sinking feeling as the psi cop’s force didn’t increase, as if Bester was giving him a head start, a lull before the coming storm. Was he being played with, or shown a form of kindness?
Then, it came at the rogue from behind the dark and piercing stare, tendrils sharper than daggers, stronger than steel, merging to become one. The door was pierced by the Bester’s psi, the rent extended until warped metal split in two. The bricks that lay behind it were not chipped away at, but plowed through, faster and faster as the rogue tried to build them up. The man didn’t give in yet, the head start allowing him to keep up until…
The psi cop’s voice in his mind, low and dangerous, not the lure of comfort it had offered the time before. This is useless. You’re only delaying the inevitable…
The force of the telepath’s psi pushed forward at the center of the man’s blocks, warping the center of the wall, bricks splitting as they were forced from their position inward. The rogue’s body trembled where he sat in the chair, his head lolled back onto his shoulders. Bester’s eyes were dark, his lips slightly parted. A raised hand slightly extended, gloved fingers flexed.
Useless… Give me the names, then the pain will be over…
He reinforced the wall with metal struts, then more brick, then more steel, then-
Are they worth the suffering that you’re going through?
Behind the last wall, a box that the rogue forced the information into, closed it, locked it, dropped it inside of concrete, then steel, then encased it in-
The last wall exploded inward, shards of brick scattering, some striking the sealed box, then that force, not tendrils now, but crushing, cracking, splitting the layers around the box, then the container itself, the words spilling out, the precious names and places that the rogue was ultimately unable to protect. As consciousness waned, the rogue only had enough time to wonder if the others had made it out of their hiding place before darkness rose to claim him.
Sighing, Alfred stared across at the other man as his head lolled forward. He motioned to the bloodhounds, who moved in concert to hoist the man and take him back to his cell. Rising from his seat, he straightened his dark jacket, pushing the chair in closer to the table before following the bloodhounds out. So many times, and it’s always the same. A pointless fight all for naught, just for the sake of pride.
End