GWOT III - Rage Play
Nov. 14th, 2023 07:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT III - Rage Play
Interrogation is an art form.
But my interrogator was a chainsaw artist who fancied himself a sculptor.
He'd opened with slapping me in the face with a handgun. I suppose an ordinary person would be shocked two or three ways. Unwanted contact with the face, a cut, unfamiliar threatening object at close range, and the normal human response to angry violent confrontation.
I'd honestly thought, "What a wuss."
He'd read that, didn't like that, and had gone immediately to heavy pain.
Oh, I'd screamed, I'd pissed myself, I'd had horrific flashboacks. The latter continued as nightmares every night. I'd always had them but the double whammy of being in custody and being tortured intensified them.
Electrical torture had been the primary go-to.
I'd had a session of cut rate dental work. On the pretense of dental care for detainees, I'd been efficiently removed from my cell, strapped to a gurney, and rolled to the elevator. It had gone down two levels (no ding) and rolled me to a door labeled Dental Clinic.
Within, a drunken sot of a former dental assistant (I could smell the whiskey on his breath) had triple-checked my gurney straps, applied probes to my teeth and gums, and bore down a bit here and there.
I'd screamed and sprayed blood.
Obviously no anesthesia.
He'd then stopped and said calmly, with a slight smile on his face and what I strongly suspected was a new stain on his underwear under his filthy smock, the most chilling thing I'd heard from anyone while in Homeland custody.
"That was a small sample. Sometimes I get to do this for days."
It had been less than an hour, from the movement of sunlight through the window.
Or forever. Somewhere in there.
But on the way back, strapped to the stretcher and dribbling blood from my not-numb lips, I'd seen another door labeled "Medical Clinic."
I had a couple medical conditions. Not chronic, thank whatever you use in place of a God.
My left hand was really not happy.
It had been broken by Homeland during my arrest. Boot to the hand, meow meow. When trapped between a handgun (my own) and the thinly carpeted floor of H4 executive offices - the Client being cheap in the oddest places - mere flesh and bone has no chance to make its time.
Then, just to piss me off, the interrogator had smacked it with the butt of his handgun, having no idea he was bludgeoning a hand that was already broken.
I'd had to reset a dislocated finger, in my cell, with no assistance.
That pain had been absolutely tasty.
If only I was a masochist. Then this would be a nice vacation. A spa visit.
Now the hand was swelling up. I could see a red streak along the palm. Not blood. Infection.
So yeah, out in the real world, or even in Site's infirmary, there would be a good clean-out of the wounds followed by X-ray, or at least ultrasound. Making sure the bones were all in the right places. Then antibiotics and if we were out of those again, poultices. Packages of herbs pressed up against the wound. Sounds stupid but better than nothing.
The only cleaning of the wounds was when Homeland had kept wiping the blood away with alcohol wipes to take my fingerprints.
I'd tried since but was handicapped by a lack of hot water or soap. Cell life.
So my left hand really needed some of that medical attention stuff. Maybe Homeland had some.
The other issue was tougher.
My last physical had been before the Firecracker. That was pushing two years ago. I'd been warned that I needed to watch my diet, exercise, reduce stress and monitor my blood pressure. I was zero for four at Site, except that the infirmary vet tech we called Doctor had made me come in for monthly vitals checks. The BP had kept creeping up until my normal was in the 140s over 90s. Pre-War, high blood pressure - the most commonly undiagnosed medical condition, that carries high risks for heart attack and stroke and all sorts of secondary problems.
Now of course, my diet was awful, my exercise was screaming (which doubled as self treatment for extreme stress) and could no more monitor my own BP than fly to the moon by flapping my arms hard. The one time Homeland had taken my BP, the med tech hadn't shared it.
I knew by the burnt hair on my chest and the aching in my ribs for days afterwards that I'd had a cardiac event during electrical torture.
They hadn't run current through my chest. Sadly they were not that stupid.
But they had inflicted so much pain on me that my heart had stopped and I hadn't noticed until I woke up in my cell, not dead.
I knew they'd defibrillated me. I didn't know if they'd done chest compressions, but I strongly suspected so.
If they kept torturing me, they might manage to stop my heart and kill me.
That would be a good thing.
More likely, they'd keep damaging me and I'd start circling the drain.
I'm a systems and processes guy. My body is a system. My brain is a system.
Homeland did systems and processes too. Destructive ones.
I'd seen their internment camps - from a distance, driving past.
I'd seen their extermination camps - a little bit closer up. We'd done well not to be caught.
This was a local interrogation facility. Extract information of local useful value. Then dispose of the scrap.
They probably had a furnace in the basement that would be my last stop.
So along the way, why have a Medical Clinic?
Because you don't want someone to die too soon, in other words before they talk.
This gave me a strategy to use in my next interrogation session.
###
"Good morning, [First Name]. Anything to say before we get started?"
Important that I get the tone right. I had to put him on the defensive and shock him silly.
"Is this being recorded and does your supervisor review the recordings?"
His face darkened.
"None of your damn..."
"Fuck your incompetence, you're gonna kill me before you learn anything. Did you get my medical records?"
I'd interrupted deliberately. Yet another power move. A neat trick while chained to a table.
"I said," and my tone implied you fucking fool, "did you get my medical records? I'm not getting my medication, you've already killed me once, and I need medical attention. So when I die because I didn't get my meds, it will be your fault."
Slight pause, I didn't give him a chance to speak.
"And I'm not the first one to die in your care."
He left the room so fast there was a hole in the air where his ass used to be.
Got him.
###
It was over an hour later when someone came to get me. A cell extraction team, with a gurney.
Not how they usually moved me to a cell.
The team leader looked me over like something she wanted to scrape out of her menses pad into the toilet before dropping it in the trash.
"You want Medical? Get on the gurney."
They unlocked me, so I did.
They were careless with the gurney straps. So either they were suicidal themselves or they thought they were taking me someplace I should like.
Two levels in the elevator, no ding, and off to that door labeled Medical Clinic.
A bored med tech.
He did a patient assessment. I answered his questions, slightly anticipating them, in the casual ping-pong of a trained emergency medical technician. Important that I try to build a rapport.
When he got out the BP cuff, I thought about three things in rapid succession:
-- How I felt as a child while I was being raped.
-- How good it felt while I was fucking the VP of HR - roughly.
-- How I felt about Homeland's murder in my presence of the VP-HR. I was fuzzy on details but not on seeing her head explode.
I continued these thoughts while he inflated the cuff and applied the stethoscope.
He was frowning when he finished.
"What's your normal BP?" he asked.
"I run a little low. 110 over 70. I work out a lot, so mild bradycardia."
He blinked and took my BP again. This time I thought of my rapists fucking the VP of HR while her head exploded.
Look, the inside of my head is not a pretty place.
Neither is a Homeland interrogation site.
He frowned and wrote down both sets of numbers. He left the room.
I was still, of course, strapped loosely to the rolling gurney.
He came back in.
"I had to do a consult. I can't put you on medications here."
Well, damn, it was worth a try. Because if they gave me a dose at a time, I could shave tablets and save up towards a fatal overdose. If they were silly enough to give me a bottle, I could be out of here tonight. Feet first.
"Can you at least look at my hand?"
Second gambit.
He frowned. Got a metal small surgical tray and a clean scalpel, and some sponges.
"I'm not doing this to hurt you. But it's going to hurt. OK?"
"OK," I agreed.
With the assistance of a nearby sink and the hot water most people take for granted but was a rarity here, he cleaned and debrided my broken fingernails and tsk-tsked over my hand. Strong smelling soap first.
"This is going to hurt," he warned again as he got out a small bottle to apply a tiny amount.
Hibiclens. Normally used as a powerful disinfectant. Here used for wound care, because he couldn't get anything better.
Yeah. It hurt. But intent matters and his intent was good.
The bleeding stopped quickly. He couldn't bandage it for many reasons.
"So yeah, sorry. I put a note in your file. It won't matter. But I tried."
Then and only then did I do my tactical evaluation.
Could I break free? If I could, were there weapons at hand? Not just intended weapons, but any weapon. Any object that can concentrate force in space and time is a weapon. You may play baseball with that bat, but at close range a bat is as deadly as a shotgun.
Maaaybe.
But no. The cell extraction team was in the corridor.
I suppose in theory there are good people who work in awful places.
He'd done me no harm and some good.
But I wanted to kill him at least as badly as I wanted to kill all the rest of these pendejos if not more so.
Because he made it all possible. The pretense of medical care without the reality.
They wheeled me back, not to my cell, but to interrogation. Chained me to the table. I didn't resist.
###
My interrogator was trying to look chill and suave. I could smell the nervous sweat.
"Looks like you get a break from now on. I can only torture you one day in three."
I carefully did not smile or frown.
"And today is just not your day. Room six one nine."
I still didn't fight the team as they manhandled me down the corridor.
Sat me in that damned chair.
No plug.
A ankle strap to a right hand contact pad.
My left hand. My penis. My anus. Off limits.
Oh, this was going to hurt. A lot.
Sure enough, it did.
But a LOT less than it had in the past.
Careful.
Feeling like you're in control is the next step towards powerlessness.
Interrogation is an art form.
But my interrogator was a chainsaw artist who fancied himself a sculptor.
He'd opened with slapping me in the face with a handgun. I suppose an ordinary person would be shocked two or three ways. Unwanted contact with the face, a cut, unfamiliar threatening object at close range, and the normal human response to angry violent confrontation.
I'd honestly thought, "What a wuss."
He'd read that, didn't like that, and had gone immediately to heavy pain.
Oh, I'd screamed, I'd pissed myself, I'd had horrific flashboacks. The latter continued as nightmares every night. I'd always had them but the double whammy of being in custody and being tortured intensified them.
Electrical torture had been the primary go-to.
I'd had a session of cut rate dental work. On the pretense of dental care for detainees, I'd been efficiently removed from my cell, strapped to a gurney, and rolled to the elevator. It had gone down two levels (no ding) and rolled me to a door labeled Dental Clinic.
Within, a drunken sot of a former dental assistant (I could smell the whiskey on his breath) had triple-checked my gurney straps, applied probes to my teeth and gums, and bore down a bit here and there.
I'd screamed and sprayed blood.
Obviously no anesthesia.
He'd then stopped and said calmly, with a slight smile on his face and what I strongly suspected was a new stain on his underwear under his filthy smock, the most chilling thing I'd heard from anyone while in Homeland custody.
"That was a small sample. Sometimes I get to do this for days."
It had been less than an hour, from the movement of sunlight through the window.
Or forever. Somewhere in there.
But on the way back, strapped to the stretcher and dribbling blood from my not-numb lips, I'd seen another door labeled "Medical Clinic."
I had a couple medical conditions. Not chronic, thank whatever you use in place of a God.
My left hand was really not happy.
It had been broken by Homeland during my arrest. Boot to the hand, meow meow. When trapped between a handgun (my own) and the thinly carpeted floor of H4 executive offices - the Client being cheap in the oddest places - mere flesh and bone has no chance to make its time.
Then, just to piss me off, the interrogator had smacked it with the butt of his handgun, having no idea he was bludgeoning a hand that was already broken.
I'd had to reset a dislocated finger, in my cell, with no assistance.
That pain had been absolutely tasty.
If only I was a masochist. Then this would be a nice vacation. A spa visit.
Now the hand was swelling up. I could see a red streak along the palm. Not blood. Infection.
So yeah, out in the real world, or even in Site's infirmary, there would be a good clean-out of the wounds followed by X-ray, or at least ultrasound. Making sure the bones were all in the right places. Then antibiotics and if we were out of those again, poultices. Packages of herbs pressed up against the wound. Sounds stupid but better than nothing.
The only cleaning of the wounds was when Homeland had kept wiping the blood away with alcohol wipes to take my fingerprints.
I'd tried since but was handicapped by a lack of hot water or soap. Cell life.
So my left hand really needed some of that medical attention stuff. Maybe Homeland had some.
The other issue was tougher.
My last physical had been before the Firecracker. That was pushing two years ago. I'd been warned that I needed to watch my diet, exercise, reduce stress and monitor my blood pressure. I was zero for four at Site, except that the infirmary vet tech we called Doctor had made me come in for monthly vitals checks. The BP had kept creeping up until my normal was in the 140s over 90s. Pre-War, high blood pressure - the most commonly undiagnosed medical condition, that carries high risks for heart attack and stroke and all sorts of secondary problems.
Now of course, my diet was awful, my exercise was screaming (which doubled as self treatment for extreme stress) and could no more monitor my own BP than fly to the moon by flapping my arms hard. The one time Homeland had taken my BP, the med tech hadn't shared it.
I knew by the burnt hair on my chest and the aching in my ribs for days afterwards that I'd had a cardiac event during electrical torture.
They hadn't run current through my chest. Sadly they were not that stupid.
But they had inflicted so much pain on me that my heart had stopped and I hadn't noticed until I woke up in my cell, not dead.
I knew they'd defibrillated me. I didn't know if they'd done chest compressions, but I strongly suspected so.
If they kept torturing me, they might manage to stop my heart and kill me.
That would be a good thing.
More likely, they'd keep damaging me and I'd start circling the drain.
I'm a systems and processes guy. My body is a system. My brain is a system.
Homeland did systems and processes too. Destructive ones.
I'd seen their internment camps - from a distance, driving past.
I'd seen their extermination camps - a little bit closer up. We'd done well not to be caught.
This was a local interrogation facility. Extract information of local useful value. Then dispose of the scrap.
They probably had a furnace in the basement that would be my last stop.
So along the way, why have a Medical Clinic?
Because you don't want someone to die too soon, in other words before they talk.
This gave me a strategy to use in my next interrogation session.
###
"Good morning, [First Name]. Anything to say before we get started?"
Important that I get the tone right. I had to put him on the defensive and shock him silly.
"Is this being recorded and does your supervisor review the recordings?"
His face darkened.
"None of your damn..."
"Fuck your incompetence, you're gonna kill me before you learn anything. Did you get my medical records?"
I'd interrupted deliberately. Yet another power move. A neat trick while chained to a table.
"I said," and my tone implied you fucking fool, "did you get my medical records? I'm not getting my medication, you've already killed me once, and I need medical attention. So when I die because I didn't get my meds, it will be your fault."
Slight pause, I didn't give him a chance to speak.
"And I'm not the first one to die in your care."
He left the room so fast there was a hole in the air where his ass used to be.
Got him.
###
It was over an hour later when someone came to get me. A cell extraction team, with a gurney.
Not how they usually moved me to a cell.
The team leader looked me over like something she wanted to scrape out of her menses pad into the toilet before dropping it in the trash.
"You want Medical? Get on the gurney."
They unlocked me, so I did.
They were careless with the gurney straps. So either they were suicidal themselves or they thought they were taking me someplace I should like.
Two levels in the elevator, no ding, and off to that door labeled Medical Clinic.
A bored med tech.
He did a patient assessment. I answered his questions, slightly anticipating them, in the casual ping-pong of a trained emergency medical technician. Important that I try to build a rapport.
When he got out the BP cuff, I thought about three things in rapid succession:
-- How I felt as a child while I was being raped.
-- How good it felt while I was fucking the VP of HR - roughly.
-- How I felt about Homeland's murder in my presence of the VP-HR. I was fuzzy on details but not on seeing her head explode.
I continued these thoughts while he inflated the cuff and applied the stethoscope.
He was frowning when he finished.
"What's your normal BP?" he asked.
"I run a little low. 110 over 70. I work out a lot, so mild bradycardia."
He blinked and took my BP again. This time I thought of my rapists fucking the VP of HR while her head exploded.
Look, the inside of my head is not a pretty place.
Neither is a Homeland interrogation site.
He frowned and wrote down both sets of numbers. He left the room.
I was still, of course, strapped loosely to the rolling gurney.
He came back in.
"I had to do a consult. I can't put you on medications here."
Well, damn, it was worth a try. Because if they gave me a dose at a time, I could shave tablets and save up towards a fatal overdose. If they were silly enough to give me a bottle, I could be out of here tonight. Feet first.
"Can you at least look at my hand?"
Second gambit.
He frowned. Got a metal small surgical tray and a clean scalpel, and some sponges.
"I'm not doing this to hurt you. But it's going to hurt. OK?"
"OK," I agreed.
With the assistance of a nearby sink and the hot water most people take for granted but was a rarity here, he cleaned and debrided my broken fingernails and tsk-tsked over my hand. Strong smelling soap first.
"This is going to hurt," he warned again as he got out a small bottle to apply a tiny amount.
Hibiclens. Normally used as a powerful disinfectant. Here used for wound care, because he couldn't get anything better.
Yeah. It hurt. But intent matters and his intent was good.
The bleeding stopped quickly. He couldn't bandage it for many reasons.
"So yeah, sorry. I put a note in your file. It won't matter. But I tried."
Then and only then did I do my tactical evaluation.
Could I break free? If I could, were there weapons at hand? Not just intended weapons, but any weapon. Any object that can concentrate force in space and time is a weapon. You may play baseball with that bat, but at close range a bat is as deadly as a shotgun.
Maaaybe.
But no. The cell extraction team was in the corridor.
I suppose in theory there are good people who work in awful places.
He'd done me no harm and some good.
But I wanted to kill him at least as badly as I wanted to kill all the rest of these pendejos if not more so.
Because he made it all possible. The pretense of medical care without the reality.
They wheeled me back, not to my cell, but to interrogation. Chained me to the table. I didn't resist.
###
My interrogator was trying to look chill and suave. I could smell the nervous sweat.
"Looks like you get a break from now on. I can only torture you one day in three."
I carefully did not smile or frown.
"And today is just not your day. Room six one nine."
I still didn't fight the team as they manhandled me down the corridor.
Sat me in that damned chair.
No plug.
A ankle strap to a right hand contact pad.
My left hand. My penis. My anus. Off limits.
Oh, this was going to hurt. A lot.
Sure enough, it did.
But a LOT less than it had in the past.
Careful.
Feeling like you're in control is the next step towards powerlessness.
