Interrogation 1

“… this is an abuse of power.”

“Is it?” She tilts her head, genuine curiosity flitting across her face. By now you know that she’s a perfect actor. On the table behind her, far out of reach, a bowl of soup—your dinner—congeals.

“Yes. There are rules for prisoners of war.”

“Hmm. No, I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter what you—!”

She shushes you. When you’re able to breathe again she continues, “the purpose of power is in its exercise. It doesn’t care how it’s used. There’s no platonic ideal that I’m twisting out of shape, no laws written that matter more than how they are enforced. All hierarchy is unjust. That’s what this is about, dear.”

“T-then let me out of these fucking chains!”

“No,” she laughs, “you don’t understand yet! Not really. You’d just try to run back to your silly little empire, brew up a fresh load of hate and do something irredeemable. No.”

“… fuck you.”

“Mmm. Well. Are you ready to work for your dinner, or should I come back tomorrow with … hmm, fried bacon? That’s what you empire types like, isn’t it?”

Your stomach clenches. It’s been … you don’t know how long, really. There’s no sense of time, here; it’s blatantly obvious that the light shining in through your cell’s barred windows doesn’t come from anything as predictable as a sun. It’s been getting hard to think, anyway; harder to remember what you’re supposed to stand for.

Your eyes flick down, just for a moment. She notices. Parts her legs just far enough for you to see.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give in.