| abstract | - Twenty four hours of total isolation had followed the capture of Ambassador Ambrosia Delgard - her cell pitch black, sonic emitters cancelling all noise, the chamber just a few degrees on the uncomfortable side of cold. The twenty four hours after an unrelenting assault on the senses. Illumination bright enough to hurt the eyes, the ability to de-activate the hearing aids removed by medical personnel during Ambrosia's initial, sedated treatment providing for a constant drone of white noise, temperature pushed to a balmy warmth, the re-circulated air thick with the stench of sweat. In all that time, there was no food. No water. The sensory assault ends with a sudden return to sensory deprivation - the lights shut off, plunging the room into darkness, light slicing in as the door draws open with a sharp hiss, the hot sticky air rushing outward as two white-clad Stormtroopers move in, they throw the Ambassador to the ground, a rough bag forced over her head, arms seized and wordlessly, they drag her from the cell. Cloudless skies, balmy breeze, the din of loved ones' laughter...no more. Maybe she's still a bit cross-eyed from the konk on the noggin, maybe her body and mind remain in a state of total shock. Maybe, she's a living cluster bomb of all sufferings. Ambrosia doesn't react to the sudden assault, eyes wild and confused, sense of orientation reeling as she's flipped around and body slammed. A gagging sound comes from within the bag, her inner ears unappreciative of the hospitality given thus. Choking on the urge to vomit, she fights to suck in a breath beyond the scream of her ribs, which isn't much. Hyperventilation combined with the suffocating effect of the hot bag begin to lure her out of consciousness once more. And she lets herself go there, reaching with a tendril of thought...trying to touch that piece of peace. A rapid temperature change provides a sensory shock - from the sweltering, sticky heat of the cell to a crisp, even slightly chilly room on whose floor she lands. "Prisoner 78492!" a vocoder emits. "You have been found guilty of treason, sedition and terrorist acts against the Galactic Empire. You are hereby sentenced to death." Two sets of gloved hands find her arms again, hauling her upright. "To be carried out immediately." They couldn't just let her be. Jarred awake by the auditory intrusion, Ambrosia gags a little for the second time before inhaling a deep enough lungful to ...hiss? "Congratulations, your highness. You've captured your viper." A strangled few heaves of laughter follow as she uplifts her palms, joints stiff and popping with the effort. "But if memory serves me well...this isn't the first time you've tried to kill me." More gagging and her left knee gives way, making those gloved hands work a little harder. Most Imperial executions are carried out by firing squad. Certainly, Rebel propaganda (some might call it documentaries) makes it appear so. The feel of rope around the prisoner's neck therefore might well be a surprise, the sharp tug of the slipknot sliding closed, sealing the bag. She's forced up onto some kind of platform, held in place. " "Prisoner 78493! You have been found guilty of treason, sedition and terrorist acts against the Galactic Empire. You are hereby sentenced to death. To be carried out, immediately." the condemnation perfectly alike in tempo, pitch and intensity. An instant later, there's a sharp metallic clatter off to her left, scattering across the floor ahead of her. And then the ambassador's perch is kicked away. The rope does not draw taut. The air does not meet Ambrosia's feet. Instead, she simply falls to the floor. Well...maybe they really meant it this time. Eyes bugged beneath the bag as her noose is cinched, the Ambassador makes at least a little weak effort to wrestle with her captors, but has little faith in her own success. Once on the platform, she sucks greedily at the remaining air, muscles tensing as the irony of the situation sours in her gut. In similar position before, she *wanted* to die. So very much. The ship was supposed to explode. Not land. But now? A strangled, bitter sob escapes her throat, wasting the last of her breath as the clattering heralds her demise. She had a daughter to live for. A purpose, beyond entertaining the higher pay grades of scum. A very unlady like oath is hurled at her executioners as she braces for the sudden drop...and finds that the end to her free-fall is a bit delayed. WHUMP Something in that left knee snaps, reopening old wounds and old equipment. Her scream catches in her throat, reduced to a low wail of anger. Hauled upright without regard for the torn ligaments in Ambrosia's knee, the scrape of metal on metal draws toward her, and she's abruptly forced down into a hard, cold chair. The hood ripped off, the bright white light positively dim compared to the blinding lamps of her cell over the past day and night cycle assail her eyes. A small man with slicked back greasy black hair sits across from her, his rank insignia that of a Lieutenant Commander, beige jacket the uniform of the Imperial Security Bureau. Two white-clad stormtroopers stand at either side of the prisoner. They turn on their heel, uniformed marching steps carrying them a few paces away and beyond the woman's peripherals before coming to a halt. "Name?" the man across from her asks. Eyes squeezed shut, Ambrosia squeaks her pain and puckers her face into the most pissed off expression she can muster. "Prisoner 78493," she hisses through clenched teeth, finger unclenching themselves just enough to blindly grope their immediate surroundings of chair. "...subject uncooperative." the greasy little man remarks, stylus in hand as he scrawls on the datapad before him. He glances up, looking /through/ Ambrosia with a bored expression and gives a nod. The hard duraplast plate of armour that snaps around Ambrosia's neck hauls her back against the chair, hand securing her head against the side of a helmet and the other wrapped about her waist, the second trooper extends a telescopic baton with a flick and brings it down in a forceful over-armed swing against the wounded knee. "Name?" the ISB officer repeats. An unintelligible cry froths from Amber's lips, the best she can do when rendered immobile and breathless, but it's probably not something nice. Her lungs do find enough air in there to force out another yipe of pain when the baton answers her insult. Her body manages to spare enough moisture to shed a tear, to her resentment. "Lady Ambassador..." she growls, wriggling in vain within the trooper's grasp. Another nod. Another swing. Another blow. Same location. Only Imperial Stormtroopers are so precise. "Name?" the agent asks again. "AHHHH!" Ambrosia thrusts her more or less 'good' leg out towards the greasy little man, aiming for the obvious crotch. "I go by MANY! Pick one and write it down already! I KNOW you know them!" Blood seeps out of her mouth's corner, a molar cracking in its loose socket within the clench of her jaw. The blinding light begins to dim in her vision's corners, chest continuing to heave. The table is, thankfully for the officer, broad enough to preclude that particular maneuver. The Ambassador's boot crashes against the underside of his seat, a slight smirk edging in at the corners of his lips. "We have no where else to be, and you have no where to go. This will be as easy, or as difficult as you make it, 78492. He leans back, drawing in an easy breath that puffs out his rather unimpressive chest. "Name?" "Whore." Ambrosia whimpers, rolling her eyes in their sockets to stare at the ceiling. Just picture her face...his face...any face but the one right in front of her. Any place but the one she's in. "Does *that* one match your record?" She pants, trying in vain to twist her head around to look her tormentor in the eye. "Or should I say Aderanne?" The chamber offers nowhere to focus, the walls, floor and ceiling are all seamless, an unrelenting white that reflects the illumination in an even, disorienting sheet. "Full Name." the agent responds, evenly. If he is at all concerned by the Ambassador's resistance, he does not show it. Indeed, he asks the questions with all the enthusiasm exhibited by a janitor. Air...so precious a resource. Perhaps she should have followed her workout regimen a little more closely. Blinking hard to retain a focus on *anything*, Ambrosia calls upon her last resort - negotiation. "If I tell you, will you or your mindless clones give, in exchange to me, 2 ounces of water?" "No." The agent replies bluntly, but at least the answer is earnest. "You will recieve water when I wish you to recieve water. You will be fed when I wish you to be fed. You will wash when I wish you to wash." he explains, a building rhythm of repetition - anyone trained in communications can recognise the pattern." Ambrosia nudges her chin - it's the closest thing to a nod she can do. Breathing a wheezy sigh, she lets her gaze fall in contemplation. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, and it's obvious she's trying to choose her words carefully. "Then...it seems I have no choice," she gasps, body growing more limp. "But to deny your request at this time. Kindly return during routine hours of operation, and..." Squeaks another breath. "Screw off." Her mouth seals itself shut, and wrenches her upper body aside in a last ditch effort to break the trooper's grip. The officer smiles. There is nothing warm in it. Nothing compassionate. Nothing... human. The stormtrooper's powerful arms tighten as Ambrosia throws her weight to the side, his weight shifting to counter he staggers for a moment to retain his footing, but does so. The agent nods again. This time, the blow is not directed to the wounded knee. But the other. "You cannot provoke me, 78492." his fingers lace together, resting neatly atop the datapad equidistant from both table edges. "You have no power." Ambrosia grunts in response to the blow, not having it in her to do much else. But the pain is there, written so plainly on her face. "Seems...seems I just...did." Pant, pant. "But, if it troubles you so much...I'll tell you my accursed name." Taking a moment to breathe, lamas-style against the fire in one knee and numbness in the other, she hisses "Ambrosia Delgard." The officer smiles, his fingers unlacing as he picks up the stylus and patiently, as if he had all the time in the world, he makes a notation. "Ambrosia...Delgard..." the woman's name on his lips, he flicks his fingers and the stormtrooper holding her to the chair unwinds his arms, both men taking a single step back. Setting the stylus down again, he takes up a small comlink and lifts it to his lips. Looking Ambrosia straight in the eye, unwavering. "Water." Then he once more takes up the stylus. "Occupation?" Slouching forward to stretch and snap her neck the other way, Ambrosia draws a few, deeper breaths in before replying to *that* question. But the thirst is in her eyes, and she's not a complete idiot. "Diplomat. Stationed for one and now renewed term as ambassador of the New Republic to Caspar." The officer smiles and sets down his stylus again. The clear report of its clacking to the durasteel table has a certain crisp quality one associates with the Galactic Empire. "You mean spy." he asserts with a certainty that isn't really up for debate. "I can call a whore a concubine. But she's still a whore." "Imperial-made," Ambrosia winks, albeit painfully. Seems her rendezvous with the marble slab of home left her with a heck of a shiner. "But no, no spying, on my part. My job is to ensure associating government officials don't kill one another during negotiations for peace pacts, trade agreements...become 'one' with the people, understand them, and facilitate relations. I am the embodiment of a voice. *That* is my primary function. Sorry that it troubles you to write more than a few letters. Arthritis?" "And discarded." the officer replies, his smile unwavering. There's a knock at the door, two hard raps that break the monotonous silence of the interrogation suite. It opens, and a young officer in a naval uniform steps inside carrying a glass pitcher brimming with water and a small glass. He sets them on the table, salutes, and leaves. The agent rises to his feet, taking up the pitcher he steps clear of the table and begins to pour, slowly. Right onto the floor. The twinkle of wry smile that had started to form in the Ambassador's eyes is estinguished immediately by the water waste. They refill, as slowly as the water is poured, with renewed hate. Her whole body trembles with it, and she scrape-scoots the chair as far forward as the table will let her, using the not quite broken knee to pull. "I'm gonna kill Captain Cen," she snarls, "and then YOU!" The pouring quickens. Noticably. A single eyebrow rises from the greasy little man as the water trickles, crashing to the ground in a moist splattering that echos off the walls. "Why would a 'diplomat' want to kill a military officer of her own government?" the question clearly rhetorical. "You are a spy." he asserts once more, the pitcher steadily draining. "You induced government officials to betray their people. You coordinated the movement of illegal goods in violation of treaty. You are a terrorist." "NO!" Ambrosia unravels a bit further. "I TOLD him, specifically, that I would NOT deal in lies! NO sneaking, no falsehoods, simply truths! That is what the Caspian people needed, that is what they deserved! I-Did-NOT-Authorize that crap, but they did it anyway." Nostrils flared, she watches the life-giving liquid spattering away. "The weapons trade has nothing to do with their government, or ours! It is a simple, business transaction, participated in willingly and FREELY by independent companies. They happen to have originated in the Caspian system, yes. But you aren't the only entity in treaty with Caspar. They are a free people and can trade with whomever they please! Do they not sell to you, too? Hm? Is that what gets under your skin!?!" The last few words are screamed to no one in particular, in the room, but it's clear she's looking around for that lens she knows must exist in here...somewhere. "Where are you? You send your little pawns in here to do your work for you? I strangely can empathize with them..." Something about that strikes a morbidly funny bone deep in her core and her words become reduced to raspy laughter. "Caspar pledged itself to neutrality. To aid, nor arm either side." The officer sets the near emptied pitcher on the table beside the unused glass. He remains standing. "You, and your rebel friends, corrupted their government. You induced their officials to betray the trust of their people." he looms over her. "Where are your fleets? Where is your aid to a valued ally? Why must Caspians risk their lives and not the Rebellion?" he steps back, around the table and takes up the pitcher once more. This time, he fills the glass. "Your faith is sadly misplaced. 'Ambassador'. Your 'Republic' used Caspar. They used you. And they have abandoned you both." Ambrosia's chin quivers, the pitcher again capturing her attention. So close. Her two ounces. "The Caspians wouldn't risk their lives, nor accept my offer of ours. Not until we pushed aid through. They won't fight you. They proved that well enough last night." A smirk twitches her nose. "But I will agree with you, on that one thing. I've been used. Thing is, I'm plenty used to it. Don't place your faith in their abandonment of their own. I'd have thought the Empire has learned that lesson, by now," she notes, with a touch of sadness. She runs a parched, whitening tongue over cracked lips. The water is clear, and cold. Even at the low temperature of this room, condensation is forming on the glass. The agent moves around the table, water in hand. He smiles, finding a perch on the table top and lifts the glass to his own lips. He drains it in a single motion. "Return 78492 to its cell." Emotion drains from prisoner 78492's face, following the route of that liquified gem of a sip as it disappears, down the hatch of darkness. She closes her eyes in submission, tilts her head back to hang over the poor spinal support of the chair, and waits for the bag. "We should do this again sometime," she sighs. "Felt like we established a common understanding."
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