Interrogation - File Lockwood ((Rhi))

[Anonymous]

Shiloh Lockwood. Age, twenty two. Gender, male. Pilot Cardinal. No record of suspicious behaviour.

Fact, that's all they were, hollow so called facts. Nothing was fact, he'd learned that a long time ago.

The other were complacent, but not Marshal. Marshal suspected everyone, even himself. Every pilot felt it sometimes, the need to rebel against a system that didn't work. There was no doubt the system was flawed, but it was the system. To fix it, you had to follow its rules, what the Gospels were doing would blow it all up and reduce society to rubble.

That could not be allowed.

He'd had Ao Guang calculate the chances that Shiloh was a Gospel. 11,223 to 1 against, based off the obvious risk of capture and the pattern of Gospel tactics. Still, he'd rip Lockwood apart before he would be convinced of 'innocence'.

No one was innocent.

"Good morning, Pilot Lockwood," he said, stepping into the lead room where Shiloh was being held. There was no trickery here, no bright lamps or imposing files. To think that things like that would break a pilot was an insult, to the pilot and their former mentor. No, the room was comfortably lit, bare except for a table and two chairs, one of which occupied by Shiloh.

With a loud scraping sound Marshal pulled back the other chair, taking a seat and setting the metal briefcase he was carrying on the table.

Placing both hands on the table in front of him the Seeker reached out with his mind, sending a single tendril of thought to the outer boundaries of Shiloh's mind.

"Lower your shields Pilot Lockwood, and we will begin. I will say from the outset, if at any point I detect you concealing or protecting anything you will be instantly assumed to be hiding treason."

[Rhi-Rhi]

The door opened and Shiloh jumped as the sheer, unsettling silence of the room was broken. He swiveled in his seat and relaxed only a little when he saw that it was Marshal and not--well, who else? Who was worse? Who knew. All he knew was he'd been ordered to report up here for questioning and his nerves were shot. Hadn't been a Pilot long and already he was busted for something.

Releasing a breath, Shiloh turned back toward the table, rested his hands on his thighs and sat straight-backed and proper-like as Marshal took a seat across from him. He was one of them now, but he felt the old suspicions creeping back in, warning him that they were just out to get you. Lock you up and shred the keycard. Didn't matter if you'd done nothing or not, everyone had done something. His hands felt clammy and he rubbed them absently on his jeans, nervous despite being certain that he wasn't guilty, though he felt strangely guilty just because he'd been accused.

Not outright, but you didn't get sent to the lead rooms and shut away in a room with a fucking Seeker just for the fun of it.

He met Marshal's eyes but didn't reply to his greeting. Don't speak unless you had to, unless you were outright asked something. Anything could be used against you.

It sounded like a good plan, but the silence lasted all of until Marshal got to the part about treason and Shiloh blurted a curse and nearly jolted out of his seat before he could stop himself.

"Whu?! Treason? Is that what this's abou--" He snapped his mouth shut, teeth clicking, and planted himself back in his seat. Oh shit, oh fuck. His eyes darted to the briefcase, and he swallowed and licked his lips. Right. Shields. Calm down. Freaking sure as fuck didn't make you look innocent, treason was an offense punishable by death, and Marshal had said to lower his shields. Right. Shields. While he liked the idea no more than the next Pilot, he drew a deep breath and let his shields down just like that, all of them, though there weren't anymore there than the average Pilot. Their absence left him feeling uncomfortably exposed, naked in a not-so-fun way, but fuck, if it was that or treason charges he was taking down those shields and liking it.

[Anonymous]

As soon as the shields were down, Marshal's army of probes advanced. He kept them oily, as uncomfortable as he could make the experience without causing actual pain. Pain would come later.

Once he was firmly lodged inside the deep memories and immediate thoughts of Shiloh's mind, Marshal unclipped his case. He opened it, laying it flat on the table to reveal its contents.

Hooks, knives and probes of all descriptions lined the case, each clean and polished, each set into the foam lining in their individual slots. On one side was a black box, no bigger than a palm, which Marshal set on the table.

A button on one side activated a single red light, indicating it was on. The box began recording, not just sound and holographic video, but also the mass of information Marshal was psychically feeding it, everything about Shiloh's bodily functions was pumped into the machine. It would assist in his review of the interrogation later.

"Shiloh Lockwood, interrogation now commencing." He paused, cold eyes staring at Shiloh for a few seconds. His voice was monotone.

"Pilot Lockwood, you are here under suspicion of treason. Your stance on this is irrelevant. You will answer questions truthfully." Another pause.

"Where did the post script to your post on the pilot blog come from?"

[Rhi-Rhi]

It was an effort not to squirm as Marshal invaded his mind, the tendrils greasy and just...he shuddered, wanting nothing more than throw his shields back up but knowing better than that. Do that and you're a suspect--not that he wasn't already since he was here. Wouldn't do much, anyway, because it wasn't like he was great at shielding, anyway. Another Pilot could brute-force 'em without breaking a sweat. To someone like Marshal, it would probably be like a hot knife through melted butter.

Then Marshal opened the case, and Shiloh went pale. Just a couple months into being a Pilot, and he was a candidate all over again. Powerless except over other candidates, at the mercy of Pilots and people stronger than him.

Nothing had changed.

Shiloh's eyes were locked on that case of 'goodies', but he tore them away and looked back up at Marshal when it registered that he'd spoken. "...Post script?" he repeated, voice quiet as he tried to keep his breathing even, but his throat felt tight. Answer truthfully, Marshal said. With those knives and probes and shit laid out before him, he kind of felt that there was a right or wrong answer and he really needed to figure out the right one.

"I..." No, 'I don't know' didn't seem like the right one. Post script. What fucking post script? "Ah...the...from the blog software...?" he hazarded. Fuck if he knew shit about computers. He pressed 'submit', his post posted.