iago mulciber will make it work. (patienceiago) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-06-10 21:53:00 |
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He knew it would only be a matter of time until they decided to question him, and so when he was retrieved from the house that the hostages were being held in, he was unsurprised. Iago had refused to consume and of the food or drink that had been made available to him; if he was going to have to take veritaserum, he wanted to be prepared for it if he could help it. He also was not surprised to see that it would be Frank Longbottom interrogating him; he supposed if someone were to torture his own wife the way he had at the Foundation Centre, he would want to be the one to interrogate the prisoner, too. Outside of the purity of their blood, however, that is where their similarities ended. Although he did not understand why Warrington had already been released -- even before the women -- and relieved as he may be to not have to be stuck alongside him as a prisoner anymore (their patrol nights were bad enough), Iago just hoped it was not because the fool cracked under pressure and gave them any information and he was no longer useful. But he couldn't waste time worrying about why Warrington had been released -- right now, he had to worry about himself. On both accounts was Iago correct. For the torture of his wife, Frank wanted to return Iago's actions in kind -- and no, that one trigger reflex of a Cruciatus that he'd hurled at him that day in the Centre did not count -- and besides the purity of their blood, there was nothing these two men shared in common. For a long time now, Frank had nursed a revulsion for these bigots low in his gut, and it rose at the thought of Iago Mulciber, a high ranking Death Eater, just sitting with the prissy, pampered fillies of wizarding Britain's most inbred families. How many answers could he give? Potentially many -- and not to pry them out of the man would be a wasted opportunity. And they had run out of time for wasted opportunities. Cut to the present: Iago Mulciber, still bruised from his encounter with Frank's fist, restrained to a chair, hands bound behind his back. A table between them; Frank sitting on the other end. There was something to be said about the interrogation rooms in the Ministry -- harsher light, for one; no group of hostage women in a nearby room, for two -- but this would have to do. "I'm sure you know why we're here," he began, lifting his gaze to meet that of the other man. "And I am sure you realise this will be a waste of your time," came Iago's reply, and he stared back across the table at Frank, his expression blank. He knew it wouldn't be enough to change anyone's mind about the interrogation, but there was little else to say. The idea of giving away any information was so absolutely inconceivable in his mind that it was hardly an option. There was very little -- if anything at all -- that would convince him to speak. So, Iago did the only thing he could do: Wait. So Iago was planning a staring game, was he? Frank, with a sigh, straightened in his chair, feeling the crack of several vertebrae as he pushed the slump out of his shoulders. Usually it was Alice and him working the interrogations together, he the Good Auror, she the Bad one, but like hell was he going to let this man set his eyes on her so soon after their scuffle. So it was just them two, then; and with a faint clink as glass met the wooden surface of the table, Frank withdrew a vial. "And I'm sure you know what this is." A moment, then he flicked the vial back into his hand, wrapping his fingers protectively around it in case Iago decided to lunge. "So you can talk, or I can drug you, but you will talk." Frank was met with nothing but more silence, Iago's mouth a thin line as he continued to watch him from across the table. He'd suspected as much, and only wished he had an antidote with him to make this easier -- but as he did not have it, he was going to have to figure out another way to keep from either consuming the potion, or from speaking at all. Without any magic, and with his hands restrained... the options Iago had were extremely limited. And once again he waited for Frank to make the next move, clenching his fists behind the chair. "Fine." The word was like a gunshot cracking through the strained silence that Frank had allowed to stretch after his previous words, proclaiming the abrupt start of the actions Iago was waiting for. He hadn't walked in here thinking this would be easy -- anything but, and harder still depending on how deep within the damned fold the man actually was -- and a stony determination made his next actions quick, forceful, and exact. The chair scraped against the floor as he kicked it back and rose to his feet, then stalked around the table to position himself behind Iago. A jerk of his wand brought the Death Eater's bound arms roughly upwards; then he was digging his elbow into space between his shoulder blades and wrapping his arm around his neck in order to clasp his still battered nose; the other hand brought the unstoppered vial to his mouth. "Drink it, then. Don't, and I'll start using your own tools against you." Voice was level; Frank meant him to believe every word. He pressed the vial to his lips, tightening his fingers around Iago's nose, blocking whatever air flow the other man was capable of. "Drink." The moment the vial touched Iago's lips, he attempted to twist his entire body away from Frank with a quick jerk to the side -- to cause Frank to spill the potion, to tip over his chair, anything -- but he had been left very little room to move, and the grip around his neck kept him right where he was. He wasn't sure how long he could hold his breath for, and the idea of Longbottom using the Imperius curse against him was laughable in his mind; he had experienced first hand that Frank was able to wield the Cruciatus Curse, but that was child's play comparatively. However, there was no room for chances. Iago was running out of air, face flushed red, and although he was repeating to himself not to breathe, his body betrayed him and forced him to open his mouth, gasping for air. He nearly choked on the potion as the liquid was poured into his mouth, and while he attempted to spit back out as much as he could, he had still swallowed enough. Inwardly Frank was thankful that the body's instincts overwrote even the most stringent of conditioning, that even a Death Eater blinded by loyalty could be forced to this simply by denying him air. The sensation of Iago's convulsing throat was transmitted through the fabric of his sleeve, past the skin of the arm that was twisted and applying constant pressure there; and when he was sure the man had swallowed some of the potion, he released him and took a step back, stoppering the delicate bottle to preserve what was left and dropping it into his pocket. There was still some left -- exactly how much, he didn't know -- but perhaps, later, it would be useful. Now, to see if the amount Iago had swallowed was effective. Another step, slightly to the side so that he was looking at him from an angle. His wand was once again in his grasp, but he didn't move to release Iago's arms just yet. "What is your full name and rank among the Death Eaters?" Iago hunched forward in the chair as soon as Frank released him, his head dropping down to his chest, the strain on his arms painful but not quite painful enough that he felt he had to force himself to sit upright. He was still recovering from the loss of air, trying to catch his breath -- there was only seconds before he knew the potion would begin to take effect, if it hadn't already, and he knew he had to start thinking fast. Do not answer. Do not answer. He tried to fight against the potion's effects, hoping that perhaps he had only swallowed enough that he could overpower it -- "My name is Iago Mulciber. I am counted among the Inner Circle." No. He refused to let this happen. He would not answer any more of the blood traitor's questions. He could not use his arms, he had no wand... there was only one way out of this situation that Iago could think of. He inhaled, deeply, and upon the exhale he pushed his tongue to the side of his mouth and bit down as hard as he could. Blood swelled up instantly, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to endure the pain as he ground his teeth together, cutting through the thick muscle until he bit all the way through. And all of the relieved satisfaction that enough of the veritaserum had been downed was dashed when Frank saw the blood. Christ, these Death Eaters and their damned, single-minded fanaticism. Fuck. A downward twitch of his wand released the hold on Iago's arms, letting them fall back down with all the weight gravity's pull exerted on them, and he sprung forward, grabbing the man's face, shoving his fingers into the hollow of his cheeks and trying to pry his jaw open. Christ, how much had he bitten off? Maybe he could still -- "Name of the leak you have within the Army of Albion?" he demanded, hoping the bastard hadn't stuck his tongue out far enough. The potion was still there inside of him, still working, and so when Frank asked a second question Iago had no choice but to respond. Blood spilled from his mouth as he tried to speak in answer, his words incoherent and mumbled. He could no longer reach the front of his mouth with his tongue to pronounce his answer properly. His body was trembling, and when he finished his attempt at speaking it was followed with a groan of pain. With a growl of mixed frustration and disgust, Frank released him, letting him slump back onto the surface of the table. Getting him to speak now would be pointless -- who knew what a gurgled jumble of sounds meant? Still -- his gaze fell to Iago's hands -- he was still able to write the truth. "Right, Iago Mulciber of the Inner Circle," he bit off in a mutter; "we'll try that again." The bonds were done away with, and a quill and sheet of parchment were conjured. "Who is the leak? Write it." With shaking hands, Iago slowly picked up the quill with his right hand, the tip of it touching the parchment, a slanted line drawn -- and then he grabbed the first two fingers with his left hand, pulling them backwards roughly, twisting with a sharp cry as he felt the bones in his fingers give way and snap. It hurt, it hurt so much -- but he repeated the action on the first two fingers of his left hand, using the palm of his right hand to push them backwards as far as he could. A helpless sort of rage unfurled in his chest, and if Frank had been anyone but himself, an Imperius would have been the next spell he cast, to force this man to write through every injury he inflicted on himself. One Unforgivable, however, had been enough, and this, no matter how much he wanted to make this Death Eater son of a bitch give him the answers he sought, was not worth casting a second. This resolve did nothing to suppress the anger, and with a curse, he slammed the heel of his palm into the mangled hand of Iago. He would have chuckled in the face of Frank's frustration had he not been in so much agony, but at least he had removed all obvious possible ways to answer Frank's questions while under veritaserum. If Frank thought of another way, well... Iago would just have to wait and see what his next move would be. The strike to his hand wasn't want he expected, and he cried out, trying to pull his hand out from under Frank's palm; but his struggles were half-hearted, weak and dizzy, although if it was from the loss of blood or the overwhelming pain, Iago could not tell the difference. Even through the sheer irritation of this having gone so bloody awry, Frank recognized a feeling of respect brought on by Iago's determination not to give anything away. Could any one of them do it? -- but it was a question he would consider later, when he could bring himself to admit to such grudging regard. Now? Now was not that time. He drew his hand away and stepped back, looking at the mess; and then his gaze landed on the tongue Iago had bitten off. "It wasn't entirely a waste of my time." The bloody pulp of a muscle was summoned into the palm of his hand. While he had no intention of letting Iago just sit there and bleed continuously, neither was he bothered enough to apply the makeshift healing abilities that he knew just yet. Iago could sit there in his own mess and keep for a short while; Frank had an owl to write first. Still bearing the tongue in his palm, he returned to his original seat and reached for the quill Iago had discarded. The single inked scratch-mark on the parchment was given a cursory look before he added his own scrawl to it, a hint of a humorless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before it faded away as he folded the sheet and conjured splints and bandages that snapped Iago's broken digits unceremoniously back into place. "You'll live," he said, standing up. The blood flow was staunched. "I'll be sure to send this proof of life along." |