Interrogation Log 96851

[The_Godslayer]

File: John Pierre Martin

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Interrogation Room #69

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LSF Location Data Redacted. All Operative Information Redacted.

File Introduction: Below is the transcript of the Interrogation of John Pierre Martin, a gunner stationed in the Triumph class destroyer "Tempête". The subject was found by Bretonia Armed Forces patrols in a long-term-cryogenic escape pod found drifting on the far side of the East Leeds Smog Cloud, drifting away from the sun. Clinical Psychologists stationed on the [R E D A C T E D] diagnosed the subject with Depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Survivor Syndrome, and Insomnia. The subject is also on Suicide Watch. Agent [R E D A C T E D] proceeded with the interrogation at 0800, Thursday, February the 13th.

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Interrogation Room #69 is a well lit, soundproofed room containing a wooden table and a recording device on the table. Cameras and other recording devices are hidden in the room. Two chairs are provided at the table. The subject John Pierre Martin is escorted into the room by an armed guard, followed by Agent [R E D A C T E D] and two armed guards. The subject's guard exits the room, and the Agent takes a seat, motioning to the subject to do the same.

>Greetings. I believe this is the first time we've met. I'm Agent [R E D A C T E D], and I'm here to ask you some questions about your former occupation.<

>(The subject remains silent, taking the other seat.)<

>If there's something out of order, or if you're feeling any discomfort with discl-<

>Arrêtez vos conneries. You're here to ask questions, no? Start asking.<

>(A short pause between them)<

>Very well then. I'd like you to give me some background on how you got to your position in the Royal Navy.<

>Hmh. It was a job I didn't ask for. I worked in an arcade, actually. I took money from the machines and delivered it to the register. I wasn't very good at it at all, though, and I was eventually fired. Being unemployed, struggling to find a job even with a collage education, I truly began to despair.<

>What was the field in which you were educated, if I may ask?<

>Biomedical Engineering.<

>An applaudable choice for the modern age.<

>(A few seconds of silence before the subject continues)<

>Well, jobless and poor, I had many an hour to reflect on my position, and drown the shattered pieces of my ambitions. Genius medical scientist was far outside of my reach by this point. At some point during that time, I was contacted by my brother, who was in the navy already. He said to me "Look at you, what are you doing with your life? Our mother was in the military, our father was in the military, and they retired honorable patriots. I'm in the military, serving the crown with my life, and look at you, unemployed and destitute, bringing shame to our family. When will you get up and do what is in your blood?" I said nothing to his calls for a long time. I hated the military and everything it stood for. I swore I wouldn't follow my parents footsteps when I was just a child. And then I did exactly that. My father held a management job in the lower government, and my mother had served in both the military and the police. He was receiving his retirement pay on top of his income, and she was receiving two retirements. All I could think of was that the military had given them success.<

>You were desperate, and saw the military as a way out?<

>Oui. And it was, too. Look at me now. I'm not starving on the streets. I'm just a traitor to my country, a coward, a warcriminal, and a prisoner of war.<

>A defeatist attitude can't be good for your mental health, mister Martin. You should kn-<

>A defeat is what I suffered, and calling it anything else is simply lying. Now, if you'll allow me to continue...<

>(A short pause, before the subject takes up his story again.)<

>I made an application, and I honestly couldn't tell you what I actually wrote. I had no intention of taking the career seriously. My enlistment, my training, my effort, it was the least that I could give to them. I just wanted to get out of the slums. Eventually, while I was stationed on a battleship as part of training, I got a call. They told me that they'd found a job for me. I was to be a gunner for a Mitrailleuse turret on a newly built Battlecruiser. I thought to myself "My how easy, a few years of sitting at a control panel, protected by the best shielding and armor technology my country could provide, as my ship coasted through space, maybe threatened by the occasional pirate fighter with more bravery than sense." I was wrong, of course, but I happily accepted that position. A free ride through the military is what I expected. It was almost what I got. A few weeks later, I was introduced to my portion of the crew. Nine other gunmen, the captain, the communications officer, and the Heavy Weapon's officer. There were marine troops on board, but I never had any interaction with them. For a whole year, everything went as planned. We simply flew patrols. One day, after our hundredth successful patrol, we were informed that our ship was to immediately report to Calais Research Facility for a change of crew. That was my first encounter with the ship I'd end my career on. We were being shipped directly to the front of the war, and she was going to take us there.<

>Can you tell me what your crew was like? Your portion of the crew, that is.<

>No, I couldn't. I barely knew them. I intended to have no connections by the time I got out, and worked hard to seclude myself from them.<

>And your ship during the war? What did it do?<

>We were mid guard. We provided support for the front lines and the rear lines. The first people called for counter attacks and fightercraft suppression.<

>(The subject laughs gratingly, or mockingly.)<

>It was strange. I never understood for that time that I was actually killing people. I didn't see them at all. I just shot at ships until they exploded.<

>Warfare has a tendency to do that. So, as part of the middle guard, when the Royal Navy was retreating, you were...<

>(The subject expresses disgust at the method of questioning through facial expressions at this point.)<

>My ship was part of the group tasked with scorching Planet Leeds. The only ones who stood behind that order were the higher officers.<

>(The subject pauses at this point)<

>If it causes too much stress to continue, I can arr-<

>Arrange to un-coat your tongue from the silver it has now. Needlessly sweet tones are unneeded and unwelcome.<

>(Agent [R E D A C T E D] appears unhappy at this exclamation. Satisfied with his outburst, the subject continues)<

>After the deed was done, a shot rang out from the communication's room. The officer, who'd heard every distress call from the surface, I suppose, had taken his sidearm and killed himself. This was the proverbial straw to break the camel's back. The entire crew turned, and killed the commanding officers. I was actually put at the helm. They'd managed to mistake my avoidance for social interaction for being the "strong, silent type." Nonetheless, I told them to dive into the smog cloud behind the planet. We'd escape to the other side of the cloud, and turn ourselves in to our enemies. We honestly thought we'd make it too.<

>Did the ship fail?<

>No, we were followed. After a third of the crew had been killed, we were well understaffed. We failed to notice the bomber wing following us. On the other side of the cloud, they disabled our engines and boarded the ship. We had one last plan, though. Every Triumph had a function to make the entire power system detonate, so as to not allow our technology to fall into enemy hands. When I presented this possibility to the others, it was met with resounding agreement. The intercom system had already been sabotaged during the revolt. There would be no warning to the loyalist ships until it was far too late. Two gunboats had breached our hull, and were offloading marines. Our crew didn't stand a chance, but resisted as best they could to buy us time. The power reactor was in the lower center of the ship, and the boarding parties were at the front. We easily made it to the reactor, and set it to overload. At that point, the four men who traveled with me, one by one, offered a final salute to the ship who had carried us through the war, raised their sidearm to their jaw, and committed suicide. I was going to do the same, but...<

>But...?<

>But I was a coward.<

>Mister Mart-<

>(The subject stands, slamming the table with his fists. The guards react, but Agent [R E D A C T E D] signals to stand down.)<

>I WAS A COWARD! EVERY LAST MAN ON THAT SHIP HAD THE DEDICATION TO DIE FOR WHAT WAS RIGHT! EVERYONE BUT ME!<

>Martin, please, if -<

>I RAN, KNOWING DAMN WELL THAT EVERY SHOT I HEARD IN THOSE HALLS WAS A MAN BRAVER THAN I TAKING HIS OWN LIFE RATHER THAN FALL TO A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH!<

>Martin, if there was any oth-<

>LO AND BEHOLD, I FOUND AN ESCAPE POD! I ESCAPED! LOYALISTS AND BRAVE REBELS DIED IN THAT EXPLOSION! ONLY MYSELF, THE WORTHLESS COWARD AMONG THEM, SURVIVED!<

>(Subject kicks his chair over to a corner, faces it away from the table, and sits in it. A short while passes, and the subject's stifled sobs can be heard.)<

>Mister Martin, that's in the past now. You've already proven to not be a threat, we can offer you a new life.<

>Of course you can. Just how the Navy could, too.<

>We're in a time beyond the war. We can get you out of that cell, back to a life worth living.<

>You'll get me out the cell when that damned psychologist allows me to kill myself.<

>We simply can't allow that.<

>Then execute me. Publicly, so I may account for my crimes. Or even secretly, and simply say I died with the rest. I don't care.<

>Mister Martin, I can tell that you're a good man who was just caught up in a bad mess. None of this is your fault by any stretch of the imagination. I'm sure th-<

>Tais toi.<

>Mister Ma-<

>TAIS TOI!<

>(Agent [R E D A C T E D] sighs.)<

>That will be all, then. You'll be escorted back to your cell now.<

>(The subject is escorted back to his cell)<

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As of July 1st, 828 A.S., John Pierre Martin is psychologically rehabilitated, married to Christine Marjorie Lockland, his psychologist, with one child. He lives on Planet Los Angeles, is employed as a Biomedical Sciences teacher at the Los Angeles Institute of Technology, and is under Witness Protection from LSF agents. Agents are forbidden from direct contact with him unless under life threatening circumstances.