By the time he walks into her cell, she's been there for a week. At first they checked on her daily, tried to get information out of her daily. But after the third broken bone, inflicted
by her
, even her captors gave up the malevolent act, rolled their eyes, and left her alone to think of a better plan. She thinks they've put something in her food since then. Her urge for violence is now dim at best.
He walks into her cell.
"Close and lock, computer."
She looks up at the sound of his voice - she thinks she knows it from when they first captured her, but none of this species wears the same skin for long and she doesn't recognise the man in the corner of the dark, quiet space at all.
She's sitting on the floor in the furthest corner - naked, scowling, with her wrists on bent knees. She's unharmed so far, but she knows that won't last long now her defences have been dulled. This is the fifth time she's been taken in as many years, it's almost a routine at this point, and she hopes for a personal best in her escape time before they reach the 'sharp objects' stage.
"Good morning," the man says then, and she pauses such thoughts to pay attention. He's soft spoken, he's empty-handed, he's a little taller than her and his features are shadowed in the poor light of the cell, but she can tell he's chosen a human body. That's unusual for their kind.
"I wasn't fed yesterday," she tells him by way of greeting, then lifts her hands to pick her nails, as unbothered by her circumstances as she was by the first interrogator they sent six days ago, the one that left unconscious in the arms of his comrades. "If you're the new lunch lady, you've made a strange choice of skin."
Out of the corner of her eye, she tracks his one, two, three steps further into her cell until he's at the metal table in the centre, the only furniture. Black boots, simple leather. Larger than her size, but they'll definitely do. He's well-balanced, calm in the way he moves, no swagger. A quick flick of her gaze gives her conflicting further details: shirtsleeves of some kind, not a soldier's gear. Unscarred. Strength in his arms. Eyes on hers, blue.
She shoots him a sharp-toothed grin. "Wow, you actually look like a real human." She hasn't seen a man in a long time, even a fake one.
And the man gives her a small, soft smile that makes some part of her brain think...
wait.
"
I'm glad you think so. Would you sit on the table for me?"
She tilts up her chin and fixes him properly. He doesn't seem particularly bothered by her appraisal, and waits while she studies the set of his shoulders, the way he clasps his hands gently in front of himself. His gaze snags her attention again - he doesn't look at her body, and that's unusual too. Very
precisely
doesn't look at it. He's looking in her eyes like she's a puzzle. One he has time to solve.
"You're the next attempt to break me, then?" she asks, and she's guessed his character correctly: he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't put on airs or puff out his chest in some attempt at being menacing. He just gives her that friendly, almost professional smile again, and nods.
"Yes, you could say that."
"What method?"
"One that works better without advanced warning."
She actually almost laughs. A week imprisoned with only tedious company can have that effect.
"Fair enough."
She gets to her feet because delay won't do anything to help her, and she tries to cover the wince as her joints complain, too long spent in one, cold position, but when she looks at her captor again she knows he's seen it. That's what that look is, she realises. He's trying to learn her. Judge what he'll need to do to her.
"Didn't they show you my file?" she asks, and even after five imprisonments her body still gets nervous as she approaches the stupid table, approaches the strange man - she hasn't managed to kill that animal part of her yet, the part that fears the pain. When the man frowns slightly in question, she elaborates: "You're looking at me like you don't know how to break me yet. You'd think they'd show you my history to give you a head start."
Then she's at his side of the table, and makes herself sit on its edge - the cold of the metal bites the skin of her thighs, and he gives an 'ah' of understanding. The smile is self-deprecating this time - he is holding her gaze like a
champion
.
"I see what you mean," he says, and his voice is warm, surprisingly pleasant. When he finally moves she expects it to be to do something threatening - but he just starts turning up his shirtsleeves. "I do know your past information," he says, "but it's best that I make my own assessment. I'll be spending a few weeks with you I expect - this is just our first time together."
She bristles slightly at that, and grips the edge of the table in her palms to calm herself.
"What do I call you, then," she says. "You know, to establish a friendly relationship that makes me more likely to confide in you? You're not like the other,
nasty
interrogators, etcetera."
And unexpectedly, he grins, even laughs slightly. It's definitely an artificial skin - he's handsome in a way that can't be organic this far out.
"You can call me Alex," he said. "I won't bother to ask your real name yet."
"Alex? What did you do, go through the alphabet of human names?"
"Aaron would be higher than Alex," he replies without missing a beat, before finishing with his sleeves and straightening up to give her another smile. "Right," he says then, and she's suddenly paying much more attention, ears pricking.
This is where it starts,
that tone means.
"You have the option of being restrained, or not being. I do reserve the right to restrain you later if you choose the second option, though," he says, and he almost looks amused, something in his eyes that should make her recoil at the sadism of it all but she finds herself frowning at instead, because it isn't sadism, and if she hadn't been in a war zone away from her own species for years she might have recognised what it actually was. "I have a recommendation," he adds, "if you'd like to hear it."
"Sure," she says simply, because she doesn't know what else to do.
His eyes start studying her face again, as if even this next reaction will teach him something.
"I think you'll prefer the restraint."
She doesn't understand why her face prickles. He sees it, of course he does.
"No restraint, then," she mutters. Makes him smile, as if that's genuinely amused him. He takes a step back then, his boots clicking softly on the metal floor, and gestures with one of his hands to the empty surface of the table like this is some kind of medical appointment, like she's volunteered to be here for her own good health. She understands the request, though, and steels herself against the next flurry of fear as she swings her legs up onto the cold surface. The questions continue in her mind:
how will he hurt me with no tools? Simple force? Or will he finally shed that human mask and grow his own weaponry? Teeth, claws?
"Move down a little," he murmurs then, and for a second she thought she saw him looking at her shoulders, at her throat, at her chest, but he's smiling into her eyes when she finds them again. "You'll need to lie down, so you'll be more comfortable sitting in the middle."
Lie down?
She starts to wonder if early acquiescence is such a good idea, if she can muster an urge to defend herself after all - he's broad, he's got the bodyweight advantage, and he's smart, tools or no tools.
"You haven't told me what you want to know yet," she finds herself saying. She needs to know more, needs to know what to expect from this, even if her body feels frustratingly passive to it. "It's not much of an interrogation if I don't have a way out of it."
He nods. "Reasonable. Get yourself lying down and I'll explain."
And she believes him, somehow. Maybe it's how utterly unrushed he is, like
he's
the one that's volunteered for his good health -
I'll be spending a few weeks with you, I expect.
The table is no warmer on her shoulder blades than it is on the backs of her thighs - it's just about long enough for her body, her heels off the edge, and she grimaces at the unrelenting cold of it as she settles herself somewhat rigidly. If she relaxes, it'll likely start to warm to what remains of her body heat, but there's acquiescing and then there's
acquiescing
- she still has her pride if not her violence
.
The man with his made up name is as patient as ever. But when she rolls her head to meet his gaze where he's standing, somewhere near her hip with his own hips at table height, she finds his attention no longer fixed so judiciously on her face. She remembers her nudity again, more heavily than she expects to, as she watches his gaze take stock of her. It starts in a kind of calculated manner, a manner she's beginning to expect from him: mapping out her corners, the rise of her hip bones, the angles of her knees, the diagonal up to her shoulder, like she's a plan to be assembled or maybe - with a tightening of her gut - something to be dissected. But then there's a brief, barely-there softening of that calculation. The way his eyes start to not as much map, but snag. Drift over her stomach, her navel, the swell of her breasts. Not so much planning, as...
Then he's back looking at her face, and the smile is there but it's different. Less.
"First time seeing my species?" she finds herself saying. Then she's swallowing, because she can't quite pin down what's changed in his expression, but it's something... serious. He's not as relaxed. He holds her gaze for longer than she expected, clearly thinking through either his response, his plan, or both. In his line of work they're the same thing, she supposes. Finally, he opens his mouth.
"My hands will be a little cold, I'm afraid."
Not what she'd expected.
"You said you'd tell me what you want to know once I lay down. Doesn't really establish the trust dynamic if you lie already."
