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Lockdown - 39 by Alexander ShawSUMMARY: People stopped commenting. It makes little parts of me die inside to think that nobody cares as much as they used to (fake sobbing)...
Chapter 39 – Sorrell.
--/Day 12 23:11 Hours/--
--/Commander Sorrell's Personal Estate/--
It wasn't so much of an office, more of an interview room. It was tall, with a ceiling made of clear plexisteel, so that one could look up and out into the stars. Inside was sparse, a stylish semi-circular table, shaped like a giant C, with seven chairs around it, six on the outside, one bigger and more comfortable looking one on the inside. There was a cabinet in the left corner, with three decanters on top. It was a steel cabinet, not wooden. There was the distinct stench of a null-field over the room, no weapons fire would be possible inside this room.
"So gentlemen." Sorrell's voice was smooth and cultured, like a fine wine. "Would you like to tell me exactly how you thought you were going to get away with this?" He was sat in the larger solo chair, leant forwards, his fingers steepled before him.
"Sheer bloody chance." Davan responded, almost cheerfully. He, Tenzanin and Grissom were sat on three of the outer chairs of the desk. They hadn't been restrained or even disarmed. Sorrell knew that he was safe here, these three armed maniacs were not a threat to him, not on his turf.
"That's very honest of you, Davan, but not the answer I was looking for." Sorrell replied, his facial expression not even flickering. For some reason, and that reason being the black-cloaked psychic standing over Sorrell's shoulder, Davan wasn't surprised that Sorrell knew his name.
"No?" Davan asked innocently. "Then what exactly was?"
"Him. Shore Bound." Sorrell said, indicating with his intertwining fingers. Davan and his companions half turned, almost in unison, to look out the glass wall of the interview room, where four guards were manhandling another prisoner into the room. They forced him, struggling violently, through the door and into the chair at the furthest end of the table. Grissom's eyes narrowed. The newcomer was a Japlanian, a blue-skinned, one of the hated psychic race. He looked battered and bruised, as if the guards had let him fall onto their fists a few times before delivering him here.
"Sorry..." Davan began, eyeing up the newcomer. "Who?" He exclaimed.
"You don't know anything about him?" Sorrell asked, his voice still flat.
"Honestly? No, not really. I mean, he looks about 6' 2", so I know that about him, he's got brown hair and that, pretty bruised at the moment, so I've gathered some information on him, but not all that much." Davan rambled, mentally taking a page from Farn's book of conversation. There was a slight burning on the inside of his head, the sort of one that he was becoming accustomed to. He knew that it was Sorrell's pet psychic scanning him to verify is he was telling the truth.
"He does not lie. He doesn't know this filth." The psychic whispered, hissing the last word with a bitterness that Davan had rarely heard.
"Then that will give them plenty of time to get acquainted." Sorrell stood slowly, his expensive and well tailored suit almost glinting. He raised a single hand and motioned with two fingers at the guards outside.