The New Los Angeles Sentinels

Tales From The City 3

What Happens Off-Camera

Sometime after Independence Day and somewhere in the third world….

The world began to fade in from black. He could feel the heat of a bright lamp shining directly upon his face. He groaned as he tried to take an account of himself. Split lip. Facial bruises. At least one cracked rib.

He tried to move, but found that he was bound. Tied to a chair, arms and legs bound. Not good. That heat on his face….they took his mask.

He opened his eyes. A thin balding man in a black suit looked back at him.

“Hello there Frank. You’ve been out for quite some time. It seems that those supers did quite the job working you over, huh? We haven’t even had a crack at you yet.”

Frank Simpson recognized the man he was looking at. Agent Conners. CIA Career Spook. Constant thorn in his ass.

Agent Conners feigns sympathy as violently digs into Frank’s side, “Ooh, what terrible injuries. Our medic took a look at you; that teenager broke three of your ribs and gave you a herniated disc. The psychic and the cyborg broke your nose and jaw. Hopefully that’ll mean you’re not as talkative as you usually are.”

Frank grunted in pain, somehow managing to choke out a few words, “You can never…..stop the revolution….the will of the people….”

Agent Conners gives Frank a strong gut punch, “Can it, you lunatic. I hear you spout that same spiel every time we catch you. If you weren’t so damn hard to kill we’d have gutted you by now. Not to mention that it’d turn you into a damn martyr.”

Conners paces back and forth in front of Frank, “Now Frank, you know the routine. We need to know about the operations you’ve got going on, and what else you’re planning. We know you like to have five different plots running at once. We’re particularly interested in where you got your hands on that Pulson technology. Now you can either tell us, or we can pry what we need out of you.”

Frank simply glared at Agent Conners, who chuckled, “Every time, Frank. Every time. If only you hadn’t defected in Vietnam; you would have made such a good assassin. To think of the leaders you could have eliminated and the governments you could have toppled. The sharpest tool in a world builder’s toolkit.”

Agent Conners opens a briefcase, pulling out a variety of sharp metallic tools, several of which looked to be rusty, dull, coated in blood, or otherwise unsanitary, “I know the tools won’t pull out any information from you. We always have to resort to Psi-Division to get anything out of you,” Agent Conners turns around, a curved, bladed, multi-pronged implement in hand, “But this has just become such a tradition for us, and I find it very cathartic.”



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