Metal Whispers
Title: Good Morning (Part II)
Word Count: 803
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Author's Note: The continuation of THIS SCENE.
"Have a seat, Quinn," she suggested, though her tone indicated she wasn't suggesting in the least. He hesitated a moment, torn between doing as he was told and making a break for the bedroom and the gun he kept beneath his mattress. In the end, the glare she leveled on him was more than enough encouragement to listen to her instructions - he dropped onto the chair opposite her, thumped the carton of juice onto the table, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I need to ask you about some information you obtained recently." She produced a stack of papers from her lap and slid them across the table to him. "Specifically, I want to know your sources for these items."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said immediately, holding her eyes. She simply smiled at him.
"You're the best data retrieval specialist in the country," she retorted. "I imagine there's very little you don't know about, these days." She gestured at the papers with the gun. "Please. I insist."
He made a show of curiously thumbing through the pages, twisting some sideways and giving others an obligatory glance. Finally, he looked up, gave her his most winning smile - which was dangerously close to becoming a sneer - and pushed the papers back to her.
"Never seen these before," he told her.
"I would strongly suggest -"
"Look," he snapped, leaning forward and folding his arms on the table. "I don't know what the fuck you did to me last night, but I have one hell of a headache and I'm really not in sunniest of moods. And I get it, you're a glorified military intelligence laptop. Good for you. But I'm a private citizen, a fucking taxpayer, and you have no fucking right to be in my home without just cause. So why don't you back the fuck off, tell me why you're here, or get the fuck out, hmm?"
"Just cause?" she asked, and twisted her head to the side, pursing her lips as she thought about it. "Okay, you want just cause." She reached into a bag sitting on the floor beside her and produced more papers, except instead of copied code and blueprints she slapped a handful of glossy photographs in front of him - eight by tens of bloodied bodies, so mutilated they were beyond recognition. "Avery Somhol and Jackson Wayburn are dead," she told him, "and the only thing they had in common was that you gave them these documents. So why don't you dig a little deeper, Mister Ross, because I'm running out of patience."
"They're..." He blinked in disbelief, his eyes moving between the photographs and her stony face. "No, no way, that's impossible, I just saw Avery -"
"Yesterday morning. When she paid you."
He could only stare at her, his stomach twisting into knots, his head pounding harder than before.
"Look," he said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts, "I might be some fucking hack, but I didn't kill them, I swear to -"
"I know you didn't," she replied. "But the police have a much different opinion." She looked at the slim gold watch around her wrist. "They filed a warrant for your arrest about fifteen minutes ago. THey should be here any minute now."
"They what?" he yelped, jumping to his feet and knocking his chair over in the process, his eyes darting for the door. He half-expected the police to kick it in any second. "But you'll tell them, right? You can overrule or override or whatever it is you -"
"Galian Intelligence Operatives do not interfere with the apprehension of suspected criminals," she intoned. "Our involvement with you extends no further than this conversation."
"Bullshit!" he yelled. "You can't fucking do this to me!"
"Then tell me you were the one that accessed these files," she said, picking up the stack of papers and waving it at him. "Because otherwise, you're useless to me."
"You want me to confess to -"
"I'm giving you a chance to save your life, Quinn," she told him. "They will not give you the same liberty. So I'm afraid you have a big choice to make."
They stared each other down for a good twenty seconds, her with that slight quirk of a smile across her lips, Quinn silently seething. He was furious for a few reasons, not the least of which was the fact his ego took a blow every time she looked at him and her eyes didn't so much as creep below his chin.
"Tick tock, tick tock," she reminded.
"Fine, you fucking terrorist," he hissed. "What do you want to know?" The smile that lit up her face made her look at least ten years younger.
"Get dressed," she told him. "We'll talk in the car."
Word Count: 803
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Author's Note: The continuation of THIS SCENE.
"Have a seat, Quinn," she suggested, though her tone indicated she wasn't suggesting in the least. He hesitated a moment, torn between doing as he was told and making a break for the bedroom and the gun he kept beneath his mattress. In the end, the glare she leveled on him was more than enough encouragement to listen to her instructions - he dropped onto the chair opposite her, thumped the carton of juice onto the table, and crossed his arms over his chest. "I need to ask you about some information you obtained recently." She produced a stack of papers from her lap and slid them across the table to him. "Specifically, I want to know your sources for these items."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said immediately, holding her eyes. She simply smiled at him.
"You're the best data retrieval specialist in the country," she retorted. "I imagine there's very little you don't know about, these days." She gestured at the papers with the gun. "Please. I insist."
He made a show of curiously thumbing through the pages, twisting some sideways and giving others an obligatory glance. Finally, he looked up, gave her his most winning smile - which was dangerously close to becoming a sneer - and pushed the papers back to her.
"Never seen these before," he told her.
"I would strongly suggest -"
"Look," he snapped, leaning forward and folding his arms on the table. "I don't know what the fuck you did to me last night, but I have one hell of a headache and I'm really not in sunniest of moods. And I get it, you're a glorified military intelligence laptop. Good for you. But I'm a private citizen, a fucking taxpayer, and you have no fucking right to be in my home without just cause. So why don't you back the fuck off, tell me why you're here, or get the fuck out, hmm?"
"Just cause?" she asked, and twisted her head to the side, pursing her lips as she thought about it. "Okay, you want just cause." She reached into a bag sitting on the floor beside her and produced more papers, except instead of copied code and blueprints she slapped a handful of glossy photographs in front of him - eight by tens of bloodied bodies, so mutilated they were beyond recognition. "Avery Somhol and Jackson Wayburn are dead," she told him, "and the only thing they had in common was that you gave them these documents. So why don't you dig a little deeper, Mister Ross, because I'm running out of patience."
"They're..." He blinked in disbelief, his eyes moving between the photographs and her stony face. "No, no way, that's impossible, I just saw Avery -"
"Yesterday morning. When she paid you."
He could only stare at her, his stomach twisting into knots, his head pounding harder than before.
"Look," he said, his voice shaking despite his best efforts, "I might be some fucking hack, but I didn't kill them, I swear to -"
"I know you didn't," she replied. "But the police have a much different opinion." She looked at the slim gold watch around her wrist. "They filed a warrant for your arrest about fifteen minutes ago. THey should be here any minute now."
"They what?" he yelped, jumping to his feet and knocking his chair over in the process, his eyes darting for the door. He half-expected the police to kick it in any second. "But you'll tell them, right? You can overrule or override or whatever it is you -"
"Galian Intelligence Operatives do not interfere with the apprehension of suspected criminals," she intoned. "Our involvement with you extends no further than this conversation."
"Bullshit!" he yelled. "You can't fucking do this to me!"
"Then tell me you were the one that accessed these files," she said, picking up the stack of papers and waving it at him. "Because otherwise, you're useless to me."
"You want me to confess to -"
"I'm giving you a chance to save your life, Quinn," she told him. "They will not give you the same liberty. So I'm afraid you have a big choice to make."
They stared each other down for a good twenty seconds, her with that slight quirk of a smile across her lips, Quinn silently seething. He was furious for a few reasons, not the least of which was the fact his ego took a blow every time she looked at him and her eyes didn't so much as creep below his chin.
"Tick tock, tick tock," she reminded.
"Fine, you fucking terrorist," he hissed. "What do you want to know?" The smile that lit up her face made her look at least ten years younger.
"Get dressed," she told him. "We'll talk in the car."