Dream and Reality (//Dunc- and me)

[Enkidu]

Nishi glared into the searing light and the light glared coldly back at her, stars of darkness speckling her eyes. Amidst the noir greys and fuzzy, indistinct lines of the floor she traced the hard lines of the table legs, the curve of the water jacket, the metallic sheen of the dispenser, and glared at the floor plates before she could could see anything more, and listened to the faint sound of swallowing. In gentle vengeance she kicked back at the bloody bottle as it nudged against her bound toecaps, the plastic crunching against the tips of her boots as Nishi nudged the hateful thing out of sight, barely resisting the need to stretch and scrabble haplessly for it as it rolled forlornly away, tantalisingly close yet irrevocably far. A minute passed before she trusted herself. She laughed witheringly.

“…Well.” She blinked, wiping her mouth with the back of a knuckle, teeth locked at the molars behind a onomatopoeic smile. “At least I won’t need to worry about Stockholm syndrome. As if I had any doubt as to you being a passably decent person. You're a saint, girl. I'll be sure to canonize you, once you're dead, of course.”

“Besides, honey. Why would I drink from anything you hadn’t drunk from yourself? Think. I’m a freedom fighter, honey; human excrement. I’m a rat and you’re a pest control officer - if you didn’t find me a particularly fascinating specimen of filth we wouldn’t be here, would we? And all you’ve got is a hunch that I have something to offer you.” She laughs again, a silent, closed lipped exhalation that had little to do with humour. She holds her eyes high, tracing the corners of your mask, searching for the barely visible inferences of your ears amongst the shroud. She displays a touch of teeth - just a line, just an edge. She’s wondering what it’d feel like to rip that mask from your face, what she could prize it off with. What would it take to cut you down from the tower that you’ve built yourself. What would it take to look you in the eyes, and see the feral mortality of your gaze? You’re not invincible honey; your shield is paper and your dignity glass. But she can’t gouge what she can’t see.

“You know - well, you don’t know; nobody who could be viewed as a scientifically valid source tends to be available for testimony - what the Sisterhood does to prisoners?” The captive trails, propping her head against her shoulder, gazing at her captor sidelong, as if she could flank her with her eyes; press behind her barriers and excavate the humanity inside. “We don’t do - well, this, actually. I can provide you with innumerable ideological, socia-historical, religious and ethical reasons why we’re not enough of a moral bastard to squander our time torturing people. Interrogations are for those who think being good at chess makes you Napoleon. It’s egotistical; self-serving. It doesn’t unearth data of any validity, that’s what they’ll tell you, and they’ll be right, as well.” Nishi narrows her eyes. You think she’s going to wink at you but she refrains. You’re reminded of an inexperienced marksman, greenly blinkering his field of vision before the iron sights. The message was universal - if she had a gun and her liberty, she’d shoot you where you stand. Perhaps that’s what she wants you to feel.

“…It’s lies. They’re good reasons, but they’re not true reasons. Critical distinction. No; the Sisterhood doesn’t waste time on interrogations because it’s a waste of habitable volume and manpower to keep a prisoner conscious, guarded and sane. Black and white, light and dark, we deal in absolutes, not arbitrary toddler-play. Decision, final and irrevocable. We ask nicely and if you confide, first time, you pass the test; you get to live about your life burning time in whatever incinerator you choose to chuck it into. You go free - not a hair pulled, not a scar dug. If you fail to comply, ta-ta, out the airlock with you. You’re a problem and you’re removable - logic and the laws of physics dictate the rest - it’s the universe’s responsibility, not ours. You can live out your life or have a free hall pass to the Goddess - we send you direct. No sadomasochistic screwing about; when you’re dead, you're dead. You don’t live a living death. Which of us is more honourable? Deceivers who dabble in antagonism and pain, or those who actually do what we bloody say we're going to do, huh? Don't answer - I don't care. You clearly think I'm important or you would have started cutting me by now; which is wonderful for me because by the time I'm done with you, you're going to start cutting yourself. ”

“Since you’re not going to release me, likely ever, unless that release is in death, what possible motivation do I have to talk turkey, Order?”

“…Go on. Say it then; I’m interested to see how many different ways you can ask me what my name is before your vocabulary fails you and you have to move back to square one. It’s keeping me tolerably interested in what you have to say.”

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

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