| [Feb. 12th, 2010|07:37 pm] |
Genma kept his eyes closed. Kept his breathing even.
"Now, now, dear boy, don't be like that. Imahara here has been waiting ever so patiently to talk to you, and she's brought something to show you. Just cooperate with her, alright? Koto and I have worked rather hard to prepare you for her visit."
I'll just bet you have. Bastard. Where's Seijuro? What are you going to start with this time, my damn feet again? Genma braced himself. The soles of his feet were exposed. His whole body felt exposed.
"I really don't have all day," the woman -- Imahara -- complained. Something electrically cold sent a spark racing over Genma's side, snapping his muscles into a tight convulsion.
"Please, Imahara-san. I just stabilized him." Kumoto's hands touched Genma's shoulder and hip, alive with chakra, and easing twitching muscles back to calm.
"Make him open his fucking eyes and talk to me then," Imahara grated.
"Come on, Genma-san," Kumoto pleaded. "Don't you want to see your teammate? I know you were worried about him, and we've set it up so you can see him."
Genma remembered how bad Seijuro had looked. Remembered the black swelling that obliterated his eye, the crusted blood on an unstitched scalp laceration, the way his shoulder had hunched, dislocated and deformed. He remembered the horrific, haunted look on Seijuro's face.
"You bastards," he whispered.
"Really, Genma-san. He's fine. Have a look."
Despite himself, Genma opened his eyes. He was confronted with a television screen showing a ghostly grey-green night-vision picture of two men. A standing one with a brightly-glowing cigarette. A seated and bound one with wild hair. Not Seijuro.
"Want to explain how you got a message to your buddies to come get you out?" Imahara asked. Genma could feel her standing behind him.
"Magic," Genma said. And choked. Why was he answering her?
"Oh dear, you didn't mean to say that, did you?" Kumoto chuckled. "We've made some improvements to our interrogation techniques since you were last our guest. Look, your friend likes them, too. Koto, turn up the volume."
From the television came a tinny sound. Laughter. The standing man leaned in to the seated one. "Have you been tortured before?"
"You're not torturing me now."
Oh sweet fuck that wasn't Seijuro, that was Kakashi.
Kakashi on the screen choked into an eerie drugged laugh.
"I could torture you," the interrogator said mildly. "Would that make you feel better?"
Genma strained against shackles and chakra restraints. Shut up, shut up, Kakashi!
"It'd be easier." Kakashi-on-the-screen said. His voice sounded just a little slurred, definitely not quite in his control. "It's always easier, better than talking..."
"Shut up!" Genma roared. "Shut up! Don't tell him that! You'll just make it worse!"
The sound snapped off. Kumoto's white-coated figure blocked Genma's vision of the screen. "Yes, you understand that part at least, don't you, Genma-san. Answer Imahara-san's questions, though, and I'm sure we can see about making your friend there more comfortable, yes?"
"Fuck you," Genma bit.
Imahara moved around the head of the bed to stand in front of Genma. She was older, with a narrow jaw and iron-grey hair. Her skin looked mottled, as if in some long-ago youth she'd had bad acne, or maybe a disfiguring pox.
"How did you escape two years ago?" she repeated.
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