OOC: Ficlet - Interrogation
Oct. 8th, 2022 12:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
last_kallig(Warning for drugging someone without their consent and making someone believe they did something they didn't, mention of torture.)
Ibani had felt nearly naked, stepping into Cassian's time without her armor or her lightsabers. Even now, inside the base of the Rebel cell, she has pulled her Force presence tight against her skin, dimmed it to almost nothing at all, so it doesn't give her away in a universe rendered so quiet by the deaths of the Jedi. The clothes and boots she's wearing could fit in anywhere in the Outer Rim, and the vibroknife on her hip gives her a weapon, if she needs it. They'll have to do, as it's not FIGHTING she's here for.
The local Rebel cell has caught an Imperial soldier and they need him to talk, to give up vital information, on a short time table. It's an area in which she has considerable training, certainly more than any of the local cell members can claim! She could feel their bafflement when she asked them to hit up several local Spice vendors and requested a bacta injector.
Her lips quirk in an amused grin when she feels them staring as she mixes the various illegal drugs with the bacta in the injector. The Force lets her sense what each drug does, and she's mixing a cocktail that will knock the Imperial out for a bit, cause some neurological symptoms.
"Okay, I give up. What the kark are you doing?" one of the Rebels asks.
"Making something to help sell my act," she replies. "From the sound of things, pain doesn't seem like the best approach to getting this one to cooperate, not on your timetable." She carefully pours one cup of hot caf to match an identical cup whose caf has gone stone cold and gotten sludgy. "If you've got a copy of the sound that damn big ventilator for this level makes when it comes on every four hours, that would be helpful too."
She winks at the Rebel as she sashays into the interrogation room with the cup of caf and the injector. She can feel what he's expecting, pain, intimidation, threats. She sees him straighten up his posture as much as he can with his hands bound behind his back. "I am an Imperial soldier and trained to resist torture," he growls. "You won't get anything out of me, Rebel scum!"
Ibani blinks, all wide-eyed innocence. "Torture? What ever gave you that idea?" That immediately puts him off balance, which is exactly what she wants. "It's so DREADFULLY messy, and not nearly as effective at getting accurate information as the Empire wants to believe."
She sets the cup of caf near him on the table, not that he can reach it right now, but he can definitely SMELL it. She slides into the seat across from him, puts her feet up on the table. "I'm just going to drug you with one of my darling little experimental concoctions, and then you'll be so much more cooperative." She can taste his nerves, his fear, a tinge of sourness on her tongue. "You might even enjoy it," she purrs. She uncrosses her ankles, swings her legs off the table and stands. "You Imperials, always wound so tight, like you've got a stick up your ass."
"I've been trained to resist drugs as well," he sneers, tone full of contempt. He's good at hiding his emotions, schooling his body and his facial expressions, but no one has ever trained him in how to hide things from a Force sensitive. That thin sliver of doubt she can sense is opening enough.
"Oh, I'm sure you have," Ibani replies, tone breezy. "But my concoctions are quite unique in their effects." She tilts his head back with one hand, like she's checking his face for some physical sign or symptom. He stiffens under her unwanted touch. "Right or left?" she asks, tone cheerful. He snarls and spits in her face. He's got guts, at least! She tsks at him. "No preference it is, then."
His whole body is tight as she injects her chemical cocktail. "Your special concoction just looks like bacta," he says, his voice remarkably even. But she can taste his nerves, feel the fear and the doubt starting to grow as the drugs in the injection start to cause tingling.
Ibani rolls her eyes dramatically. "Of course it looks like bacta, it has bacta in it so you don't die on me! Lesson I learned after what happened to my first, er, test subject. It was like his heart exploded. But you should be fine!"
He struggles against his bonds at those words, fights them, but the sedatives win and he loses consciousness. Ibani carefully replaces the cup of hot caf with the identical cold one. "I'm going to need that ventilator sound in about 6 minutes, if you've got it!" she calls to the members of the Rebel cell.
She can feel it when he starts to come around. "Wakey, wakey!" she says, tone all bright cheer. "You kind of fainted on me at the end there, you must be a fast metabolizer!" She can see him take in the fact that the caf is cold, can see him twitch when the Rebel cell plays the sound of the ventilator for this level of the station going on a good three hours ahead of the real thing. "But we can definitely continue our conversation, you were being so VERY helpful!"
He stares at her in utter confusion. "WHAT conversation?" he demands.
"Oh, oh no. You don't remember ANYTHING?" she asks him, injecting as much genuine worry and fear as she can. "I thought I fixed that side effect with this batch."
His terror spikes, fear overwhelmingly sour, dread thick enough to choke on in the Force. He believes he's lost hours of time, and his imagination is filling in the gaps with all kinds of things he might have said, that might have happened. "I'm not, I'm not saying anything more!" he shouts at her, but he's trembling, just a little.
She leans toward him across the table. "Of course you will," she tells him, tone soothing. "Because you need us to succeed now, darling. You've already committed treason, even if you can't remember it. If we get caught and they make us tell them where we got our information from, I'll have to give them YOUR name." His face goes pale and he swallows, hard. "How exactly do you think that's going to work out for you, hm?"
She lets his imagination and his knowledge of the Empire do the work for her for a minute or two. He WANTS to save his skin, she can feel it, just needs one thing to justify it to himself before he bends. "It's not your fault that you were made to talk, right? No reason they should lose a skilled and loyal officer and probably quite a few of his mates because they'll think you are a traitor on top of everything else. You're just minimizing Imperial losses by giving us some information, doing damage control on a problem that you didn't start."
"I, yes. Damage control," he mutters to himself. Inside, Ibani grins in triumph. Got you now, you bastard, you're all mine!
Ibani had felt nearly naked, stepping into Cassian's time without her armor or her lightsabers. Even now, inside the base of the Rebel cell, she has pulled her Force presence tight against her skin, dimmed it to almost nothing at all, so it doesn't give her away in a universe rendered so quiet by the deaths of the Jedi. The clothes and boots she's wearing could fit in anywhere in the Outer Rim, and the vibroknife on her hip gives her a weapon, if she needs it. They'll have to do, as it's not FIGHTING she's here for.
The local Rebel cell has caught an Imperial soldier and they need him to talk, to give up vital information, on a short time table. It's an area in which she has considerable training, certainly more than any of the local cell members can claim! She could feel their bafflement when she asked them to hit up several local Spice vendors and requested a bacta injector.
Her lips quirk in an amused grin when she feels them staring as she mixes the various illegal drugs with the bacta in the injector. The Force lets her sense what each drug does, and she's mixing a cocktail that will knock the Imperial out for a bit, cause some neurological symptoms.
"Okay, I give up. What the kark are you doing?" one of the Rebels asks.
"Making something to help sell my act," she replies. "From the sound of things, pain doesn't seem like the best approach to getting this one to cooperate, not on your timetable." She carefully pours one cup of hot caf to match an identical cup whose caf has gone stone cold and gotten sludgy. "If you've got a copy of the sound that damn big ventilator for this level makes when it comes on every four hours, that would be helpful too."
She winks at the Rebel as she sashays into the interrogation room with the cup of caf and the injector. She can feel what he's expecting, pain, intimidation, threats. She sees him straighten up his posture as much as he can with his hands bound behind his back. "I am an Imperial soldier and trained to resist torture," he growls. "You won't get anything out of me, Rebel scum!"
Ibani blinks, all wide-eyed innocence. "Torture? What ever gave you that idea?" That immediately puts him off balance, which is exactly what she wants. "It's so DREADFULLY messy, and not nearly as effective at getting accurate information as the Empire wants to believe."
She sets the cup of caf near him on the table, not that he can reach it right now, but he can definitely SMELL it. She slides into the seat across from him, puts her feet up on the table. "I'm just going to drug you with one of my darling little experimental concoctions, and then you'll be so much more cooperative." She can taste his nerves, his fear, a tinge of sourness on her tongue. "You might even enjoy it," she purrs. She uncrosses her ankles, swings her legs off the table and stands. "You Imperials, always wound so tight, like you've got a stick up your ass."
"I've been trained to resist drugs as well," he sneers, tone full of contempt. He's good at hiding his emotions, schooling his body and his facial expressions, but no one has ever trained him in how to hide things from a Force sensitive. That thin sliver of doubt she can sense is opening enough.
"Oh, I'm sure you have," Ibani replies, tone breezy. "But my concoctions are quite unique in their effects." She tilts his head back with one hand, like she's checking his face for some physical sign or symptom. He stiffens under her unwanted touch. "Right or left?" she asks, tone cheerful. He snarls and spits in her face. He's got guts, at least! She tsks at him. "No preference it is, then."
His whole body is tight as she injects her chemical cocktail. "Your special concoction just looks like bacta," he says, his voice remarkably even. But she can taste his nerves, feel the fear and the doubt starting to grow as the drugs in the injection start to cause tingling.
Ibani rolls her eyes dramatically. "Of course it looks like bacta, it has bacta in it so you don't die on me! Lesson I learned after what happened to my first, er, test subject. It was like his heart exploded. But you should be fine!"
He struggles against his bonds at those words, fights them, but the sedatives win and he loses consciousness. Ibani carefully replaces the cup of hot caf with the identical cold one. "I'm going to need that ventilator sound in about 6 minutes, if you've got it!" she calls to the members of the Rebel cell.
She can feel it when he starts to come around. "Wakey, wakey!" she says, tone all bright cheer. "You kind of fainted on me at the end there, you must be a fast metabolizer!" She can see him take in the fact that the caf is cold, can see him twitch when the Rebel cell plays the sound of the ventilator for this level of the station going on a good three hours ahead of the real thing. "But we can definitely continue our conversation, you were being so VERY helpful!"
He stares at her in utter confusion. "WHAT conversation?" he demands.
"Oh, oh no. You don't remember ANYTHING?" she asks him, injecting as much genuine worry and fear as she can. "I thought I fixed that side effect with this batch."
His terror spikes, fear overwhelmingly sour, dread thick enough to choke on in the Force. He believes he's lost hours of time, and his imagination is filling in the gaps with all kinds of things he might have said, that might have happened. "I'm not, I'm not saying anything more!" he shouts at her, but he's trembling, just a little.
She leans toward him across the table. "Of course you will," she tells him, tone soothing. "Because you need us to succeed now, darling. You've already committed treason, even if you can't remember it. If we get caught and they make us tell them where we got our information from, I'll have to give them YOUR name." His face goes pale and he swallows, hard. "How exactly do you think that's going to work out for you, hm?"
She lets his imagination and his knowledge of the Empire do the work for her for a minute or two. He WANTS to save his skin, she can feel it, just needs one thing to justify it to himself before he bends. "It's not your fault that you were made to talk, right? No reason they should lose a skilled and loyal officer and probably quite a few of his mates because they'll think you are a traitor on top of everything else. You're just minimizing Imperial losses by giving us some information, doing damage control on a problem that you didn't start."
"I, yes. Damage control," he mutters to himself. Inside, Ibani grins in triumph. Got you now, you bastard, you're all mine!
