The latest interrogation

A rarely used interrogation method is used due to the urgent need

The room was sterile, cold, and lit by a harsh fluorescent glow that made the white tiles gleam like polished bone. Private First Class Daniel Kane sat strapped to a metal chair, his body a patchwork of bandages, IV lines, and electrodes snaking across his skin. A halo-like brace clamped around his skull, its thin metal rods piercing into his scalp, anchoring him in place. Tubes fed into his arms, his neck, his chest—some dripping clear fluid, others humming faintly with electrical pulses. He looked like a patient in a trauma ward, not a prisoner in an interrogation cell. His eyes darted, confused, as he tried to piece together where he was. His head throbbed, a dull ache radiating from somewhere deep in his skull. He didn’t remember the last session. He didn’t remember much at all.


Across the table, Captain Ellis leaned forward, his uniform crisp, his voice calm but unyielding. “Private Kane, tell us about the rendezvous point. Where were you meeting the courier?”


Kane blinked, his mouth dry. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. Where am I? What happened to me?” His voice cracked, weak from disuse. He tugged faintly against the restraints, wincing as the halo’s rods pressed harder into his scalp. The bandages on his arms itched, and he felt the sting of a fresh wound beneath one, though he couldn’t recall how it got there.


Beside Ellis, a woman in a sharp gray suit—Ms. Hargrove, the lawyer—slammed her hand on the table. “This is outrageous, Captain! You’re violating protocol. This man is clearly injured. He needs medical attention, not interrogation. I demand you stop this immediately!”


Ellis didn’t even glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on Kane, cold and predatory. “The rendezvous point, Private. Coordinates. Now.”


Kane’s brow furrowed. “I don’t… I don’t remember any rendezvous. Why does my head hurt? Did something happen to me?” His voice trembled, and he squinted, as if trying to pull a memory from the fog in his mind. “Was I… was I in an accident?”


In the corner, a technician in a white coat monitored a screen, where jagged lines danced—brain waves, captured by the halo’s sensors. Other lines spiked erratically, tracking the subtle twitches of Kane’s throat muscles, picking up the faintest whispers of subliminal speech. Words he didn’t even know he was forming. The technician nodded slightly to Ellis, who gave no sign he’d seen it. They all knew the setup: the halo, the IVs, the electrodes—they weren’t medical. They were a net, designed to catch every thought, every half-formed word, every scrap of truth Kane didn’t realize he was leaking.


Hargrove stood, her voice rising. “Captain, this man is disoriented. You’re risking permanent damage! Look at him—he’s got no memory of what you did last time. You can’t keep pushing him like this!”


Ellis ignored her, leaning closer to Kane. “The courier, Private. What was the signal? What were you carrying?” His tone was flat, mechanical, but his eyes burned with urgency. Time was running out. The intel Kane carried—details of an imminent attack—was critical. They needed it within hours, or thousands would die.


Kane’s hands twitched in the restraints. “I don’t know… I swear, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My head—did you do something to me? Why can’t I remember?” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard, his throat muscles flexing. The sensors caught it: a faint murmur, barely audible, not even a conscious word. Red flare. Midnight. The technician’s screen lit up, and he scribbled a note, sliding it to Ellis.


Hargrove was pacing now, her heels clicking on the tile. “This is illegal! You’re torturing a man who’s already been through enough. I’m filing a formal complaint with the oversight committee!” Her outrage was convincing, her face flushed with indignation. But her eyes flicked to Ellis for a split second, a silent confirmation. She was part of it, playing the role of the outraged advocate to keep Kane off balance, to make him think someone was on his side.


Kane’s breathing grew ragged. “What’s wrong with me? Did you… did you mess with my head? I can’t think straight. How bad is it? Am I… am I brain damaged?” His voice was desperate now, his eyes wide with fear. He didn’t notice the technician’s fingers flying across the keyboard, transcribing the subliminal whispers: Bridge at 43.2, 78.9.


Ellis pressed on, his voice steady. “The package, Kane. What was in it? Who were you delivering it to?” He didn’t care about Kane’s questions, didn’t care about the fear in his eyes or the blood seeping through a bandage on his arm from the last session’s “accident.” All that mattered was the truth buried in Kane’s fractured mind.


“I don’t know!” Kane shouted, his voice hoarse. “I don’t remember anything! Why won’t you tell me what’s wrong with me?” His throat tightened, and the sensors caught another fragment: Eagle’s Nest. Code: Delta-7. The technician’s eyes widened, and he passed another note to Ellis.


Hargrove spun on the technician. “You! What are you even doing over there? Are you monitoring his vitals, or are you part of this… this travesty?” Her voice dripped with contempt, but her hand brushed the technician’s shoulder—a subtle signal to keep going.


Kane’s head lolled slightly, the halo holding it upright. “Please… just tell me. How bad is it? My head… it’s all fuzzy. Did you do this to me?” His eyes were glassy, pleading, but no one answered. They didn’t care about his pain, his confusion, or the trauma from the last session that had left him bruised and broken. They only cared about the fragments of truth slipping through his subliminal speech.


Ellis leaned back, glancing at the latest note. Red flare. Midnight. Bridge at 43.2, 78.9. Eagle’s Nest. Delta-7. It was enough. They had the location, the signal, the code. The attack could be stopped. He stood, nodding to the technician. “We’re done here.”


Hargrove threw up her hands. “Finally! This man needs a hospital, not a cell!” She stormed toward the door, her performance flawless.
Kane sat there, trembling, still strapped to the chair, the halo’s rods glinting under the fluorescent light. “Wait… what’s happening? Did I… did I say something?” His voice was small, lost. He didn’t know they’d heard everything.


Ellis didn’t look back. “Take him to recovery,” he said to the technician. “We got what we needed.”


As the door slammed shut, Kane stared at the empty room, the IVs still dripping, the sensors still humming. He didn’t understand what had happened, didn’t know the truth had slipped out through words he never meant to speak. All he knew was the pain in his head and the sinking fear that something was terribly, terribly wrong.


The soldiers filed out, Hargrove trailing behind, her briefcase snapping shut with a practiced click. In the hallway, she dropped the act, her face hardening. “Good work, Captain. That was close.”


Ellis nodded, already pulling out his comms to relay the intel. “We cut it too close. Next time, we push harder.”


Behind the door, Kane sat alone, whispering to himself, “What did I do?” The sensors, still active, caught one last fragment: I’m sorry. But no one was listening anymore.