"I think he's saving him just for that," she tells the Norwegian. "Now stay the f*ck still or I will sedate your ass. You're lucky to still be breathing and I'm going to keep as many of you alive as I can." She checks a couple of the surviving terrorists, making sure that they're not going to bleed out on the way back to base, but doesn't worry about doing anything beyond that for now.
Borax makes sure to examine all the survivors for any electronic counter-measure devices or GPS trackers.
Jackalyn's voice crackles over the radio. "Do you want me on overwatch or scouting duties?"
With Kristophe out of commission, Borax responds on the radio, "We got what we needed, we're pulling out and returning to base."
With most of the Peacekeepers stabilized and ready to be taken back for more intensive medical care, the group helps bury both their own dead and those of the enemy, before escorting the wounded back with them. "Good work out there. I guess I know why they sent you here," Sergeant Mylls says, walking gingerly; he favors his left side as he moves, and when his hand shifts you can see a bullet lodged in the Kevlar of his vest. Several other Peacekeepers assist you all in carrying the unconscious bodies of the terrorist leaders; side by side, it's obvious the two men are not only twins, but do their best to purposefully keep themselves looking as similar as possible. Their hair is cut in an almost identical fashion, and their beards are both long and curly. The two only look so different due to their means of being captured, with the first of them appearing almost asleep, while the other is battered and bruised. When your vehicle convoy arrives back at the UN Embassy, the two of them are carried off, to be seen by medical personnel before being detained in holding cells for interrogation.
Sergeant Mylls, his vest now removed, waits for the group within the old wing of the embassy for the XCOM Initiative, a few hours after they return. Several soldiers--including Sebastian--are in tow. "I have to thank you all for your help," he starts, looking to the group and then Sebastian. "We would have had worse casualties without your help, and it's doubtful we would have captured..." he pauses, not sure how to address the twins. "Whoever those two really are, anyway. Anyway, your command moves faster than mine; not long after I gave a preliminary report, I received word that my man here is to be transferred to your team immediately." He nods again to Sebastian, indicating he should step forward. "Feel free to introduce yourself, soldier."
Sebastian steps forward and stands at attention.
"My name is Sebastian Stein. My former official rank was Oberleutnant, but I'm not sure that matters now. I am pleased to officially meet you all, and look forward to 'neutralizing' more terrorist and alien scum with you."
Jackalyn nods. "Pleasure to meet you, good work back there," she says absently.
"Rosa Vasquez, LAPD SWAT. Good to meet you and welcome to our screwed up little unit. You're in for a hell of a time."
"Gavril Vasilescu. You did well." The Romanian is still clearly bothered, likely by Kristophe's wounding, but he's calmed down since the incident itself. "It will be good to have you on the team."
Borax nods at the newbie, "It's group policy that the rookies have to carry all the bags."
"That sounds inefficient and dangerous, ehm,...I'm sorry, I don't believe we've been introduced."
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Jacob lights a cigarette, nodding after Mylls' compliment "Always a pleasure, Sergeant. Gotta say I was right: there was more than terrorists there, someone owes me five bucks."
When Sebastian presents himself the Irish steps forward, offering his hand to the rookie "Don't trust him, Nietzsche, american humour is only half as good as their beer." he says smiling, a thumb pointing to Borax "Name's Jacob, resident explosion aficionado. If ye like Star Trek and that kind o' gobshite you'll be at home here." the irish seems genuinely happy to have extra muscle on the team.
"Now if we've finished the tea party, unless there's a new mission waiting I say some R&R is in order, ain't it?"
"Right, well, it seems like you'll do well enough between yourselves." The sergeant stands up with his men, nodding for them to head out. "You all can rest a while if you'd like, but the two terrorist leaders will have gone through medical and be ready for interrogation in a few hours. Obviously, you can let them sweat a little if you feel like it, just wanted to let you know." The master sergeant and his men move to leave, with Mylls turning around as he leaves the door. "Oh, and I heard from medical; Lieutenant Kristophson looks like he'll survive his injuries, but he'll be out of the field for a while; two of the bullets cracked off of his ribs and one punctured his right lung. He's got orders to avoid strenuous activity for the next two months or so, but he'll be well enough for you all to visit him later today if you want. He'll be transferred back to the US once it's feasible, so if you're interested I'd do it today or tomorrow."
"Oh, you might want to get in contact with your people; the Lieutenant was your CO, right? They'll probably want his second in command--whichever of you that is, anyway--to take over, but it might be worth making sure," the sergeant says, almost as an afterthought. "You all don't work all that much like the normal military from what I've seen, so who knows?" he adds as he walks away.
Jackalyn nods, then turns and goes back to whereever the bunks are.
"Sounds like he got off light," Rosa comments as the sergeant goes through Kristophe's injuries. "We'll get in touch with our superiors and figure out how the chain of command shifts around now. Thanks for the update sergeant." She sighs and rubs her eyes. "Alright, so who's going to be interrogating the captives and what's our game plan to make them talk?"
Gavril nods and breathes easy once he hears that Kristophe will indeed survive. The damage is regrettable, and it's a deep shame that he'll be out of the field, but at least he survived. Once the group is left to their devices he watches Jackalyn go and then turns to Rosa. "I can speak their language, might make them more willing to talk. I did not receive training as an interrogator, but I might be able to get something."
Borax nods at the sergeant, "Who knew Norwegians were so tough to kill. Still, we were fortunate to have Vasquez on the spot."
When talks turn to the interrogation, "I have no skill in this area. But Vasquez should be present in case things get out of hand. Let's also post guards inside and outside the door. We should also get a read on any politics that might be a factor should our prisoner die of complications or some world government claims him and we need to make sure he is presentable."
As the group begins to work on planning for interrogation, it's easy to contact XCOM command; they place Borax as the commanding officer for the unit, with Gavril as his second-in-command. After a few hours, someone comes to tell you all that the captives are ready to be spoken to now that they're conscious and have been treated for any life-threatening injuries. When you're ready, they will lead you to the holding cells for the interrogation.
When the team arrives, guards are posted inside and outside the door in UN uniforms, as Borax suggested. The two men are in separate rooms, both plain cement with a simple wooden table and a plastic glass full of water placed next to the prisoners. Their hands and feet are secured to the table with enough room to stretch and move but not enough to reach the door before running out of chain. The one terrorist seems almost unharmed other than the singed and blackened fabric of his shirt where Jacob blasted him with the Arc Thrower--the skin beneath is dressed and bandaged, and it seems while it isn't lethal the Arc Thrower will leave some permanent damage on its highest setting--while the other is covered in a myriad of gauze and dressing for a variety of wounds sustained in his fight with Sebastian and Gavril, along with what looks to be a heavily bandaged wound from Jackalyn's shot to his knee. A huge bruise is growing to cover the side of his face where he was bludgeoned into unconsciousness, and the two brothers both wear the exact same disinterested scowl when anyone enters the room. The two rooms are positioned between another, equipped with a set of two-way mirrors; anyone in the third room can observe the other two without being seen by the others. Those who head inside are saluted by the soldiers, who remain silent at their posts. Anyone in the viewing room can see how startlingly similar the two men appear to be, sharing the same mannerisms and even drinking or spitting on the floor as if perfect copies of each other. Neither of them raise their eyes to those of their captors, preferring to remain silent and disinterested.
With the news from XCOM command, Borax gathers everyone together in the observation room.
Borax moves over to the white board pulls the cap off a dry erase marker and starts writing as he speaks."Let's put together a plan and talk about what we expect to get out of this interrogation. First, let's talk about the questions we are going to ask. Next let's figure out what the ground rules are for extracting information and how we go about it. Third, who wants to do the asking? The rest of us should watch or listen to gauge the veracity of the answers a long with identifying the next logical questions."
Borax writes his question on the board: How are they getting their intel?
And then turns to the group...
"What else?"
Oddly, Jackalyn isn't at Borax's briefing. Nor is she at her bunk, as she suggested earlier.
The door of the interrogation room closes with nary a sound behind her as the young woman enters the chamber of the less wounded brother. Still dressed out in combat gear. Her slate-gray eyes are cold, calculating. Without a warning, she walks up to the man and pins his right hand to the table with her knife, piercing straight through the cartilage and the bone as the sharpened, serrated blade sinks into the wood of the table. She steps back, her hand bloody, and calmly asks a few questions. "This is how it's going to go. One, you're going to tell me what you're in Basra for. Two, you're going to tell me who your mole is. Three, you are going to tell me the exact capabilities of your unit. Numbers, discipline, equipment, everything. Four, you're going to tell me who your superiors are. Fifth, you will tell me where your base of operations of Basra is, and where your HQ is, if you have one. Every time you b!~!$+~! me, every time you refuse to answer, I will make a tallymark. Every hour, for every tallymark I've made, I will go and flay a five-centimeter piece of skin from the little your brother has left. Do you understand me?"
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Jacob, always distracted when serious talking is around him, watches his surroundings as well as the two-way mirror.
With an imp-like grin, the irish cuts Borax speech. "Hey, chief, you might want to do unit counting before starting the briefings in the future." he says as he nods towards Jackalyn.
"She got balls, gotta reckon. Oh, and add 'Who the f!!%'s the snitch in here?' to the board, someone's been tipping them."
"Military interrogations are a lot more visceral than police ones, aren't they," Rosa says, sounding slightly bemused. "One of my buddies got suspended just because he lost his cool and threatened to break a suspect's fingers." She sighs. "I guess I should be ready to stabilize these idiots in case they actually don't talk before we start getting rough."
Gavril steps into the briefing and is ready to plan things out, even if he isn't really used to such, but then he too notices Jackalyn in one of the rooms. Oh... câcat." The Romanian shakes his head. "Let her keep going, but I will be ready to get her out if needed. He won't like a woman showing such strength... Might make him talk. But I guess she knew that." He shakes his head and steps outside, ready to enter the interrogation room with Jackalyn at a moment's notice.
Borax nods to Gavril, "Let's see where this goes."
"'Who's your supplier' might be important. They had good hardware, it would be good to know where they got it."
When Jackalyn enters the room, the man turns his head away in disgust; while recovered enough that he might have evaded the knife had he paid attention, this action gives Jackalyn the opening she needs to drive the knife through his hand and into the table. His head whips around as his mouth twists into a snarl, growling at her in Arabic. "أنت الكلبة لا قيمة لها! كيف تجرؤ على محاولة--" he stops, the pain started to hit him as he bites back the scream, but the malice in his eyes fades into fear when her icy calm tone hits his ears. He flexes his ruined hand as she speaks and grimaces in pain. When she finishes he stares at her for a moment, then speaks in articulate but quite accented English.
"You're the ones who destroyed this city, I should be asking why you're here. You all spread the lies that we bombed our own people with 'experimental weapons', but I know that you're full of sh*t." He winces again before he moves to try and pull the knife out with his free hand, struggling with it as he tries to pry it from the wooden table. "I'm not telling you about my informant or about the rest of my men; I don't have any superiors and I'm certainly not telling you where to find the rest of my soldiers. I do not... I don't take orders from women," he says shakily, his resolve less solid than he might like to think. "Did they send you in here thinking that putting you in a position of power over me would unnerve me, get me to talk? I won't betray my followers just because some British whore tries to play hardball with me. I'm not afraid of you, so why don't you go find someone who isn't playing dress-up?" The man's voice cracks toward the end of his tirade, though whether it's from the pain of trying to pry the knife from his hand or simply a sign of cracking resolve is hard to tell. He stares Jackalyn down as he breathes heavily, his eyes locked with hers instead of looking at the bloody remains of his hand.
In the observation room, Jacob remembers having heard a story about the man they've captured, or at least the alias the brothers are going by, having been a French-born Muslim who traveled to the Middle East after self-radicalizing. He's unsure of whether or not the man is still a French citizen or if they'd try to claim him, however.
Jackalyn nods, then violently wrenches her knife out of the man's hand, intentionally deepening the wound with the serrated blade. She allows him just a moment to recover before grabbing the uninjured hand, pinning it to the table, and then slamming her knife straight through the palm once more. "That's five centimeters of skin off of your brother's back," she says quietly, before turning away from him for a moment, towards the mirror. The team can see, past the cold, calculating icy surface of her eyes, a deep well of hatred, the kind of hatred that could not be born naturally, and could only be forcefully thrust out into the world, after an act of some other unthinkable hatred was forced on it's bearer.
"You know," she begins, "The others were just like you, out in the desert. They didn't take me seriously. At least at first. Once the rest of the outpost found three of their men, gutted, entrails letting out steam up to that blue, blue sky, they got scared. They tried to hide it, a lot like you. They called me whore, they called me b$~&$, they called me &%!@. They tried to conceal their terror under all of that idiotic machismo. Every time, though, they'd eventually cave. They'd start sobbing, crying, praying. You'd think that after they realized that they were going to die, as religious men, they'd turn to belief first. But no. They always cried. I never understood it."
She turns to look over her shoulder at the man. "Am I familiar to you now? I would think so. I survived two assassination attempts before I joined the Peacekeepers, so I believe that I've become rather infamous."
The crimson-haired woman then fully turns around and stares down imperiously at the man. "Now. Purpose, capabilities, superiors, base, supply lines. Everything.
The man moves to cradle his injured hand just as Jackalyn grips his other arm at the wrist and drives the knife through is palm. Surprisingly he still chokes back the scream of pain, only gritting his teeth and staring Jackalyn down when she starts speaking; while his face remains filled with rage, her words seem to dawn on him and both fear and understanding show up as well. "I know who you are, you hunted down men like f*cking dogs. I didn't recognize you before, but I do now; there are men who serve under me who would love nothing more than to put a bullet through your skull," he says, doing his best not to give in to the obvious pain. "Maybe I ought to tell you where they are, see if one of them can't get lucky?" The terrorist breathes heavily, the blood leaking from his hand now dripping down onto his pants and eventually the concrete floor. "I won't cry for you, if that's what you're asking, you worthless b*tch. You've got a traitor in your ranks and I'm the only one who knows who it is; you won't kill me, you're not that stupid. They're the ones who told me all about this secret technology scattered across Basra, and you'll never find them without me. You need me... and I'm not talking." His voice wavers again, but he remains resolute and just stares at Jackalyn until she speaks again.
Rosa raises an eyebrow. "He's a tough one, I'll give him that. Maybe we should have someone else go in and play good cop. Because it seems like threatening him is only going to go so far. Anyone feeling particularly friendly right now?"
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"Ya may have a point, Rosa. Oi Gavril, ya were french, were ya? I think Mister Tough Guy and his brothers were too before deciding the Jihad was nice. Maybe that's ay good point to start, plus you speak arabic... and as much as it's funny to watch, Jackie may end killing him if he keeps playing dumb." comments Jacob, as he sorts through his pockets in search of a lighter. Once he finds it and lights his cigarette, the irish adds "I would volunteer, ya know how much I ike to help... but speaking isn't my forte."
Jackalyn nods, then swiftly yanks her knife out of the man's hand, brutally sawing with the serrated blade to deal as much damage as possible, then chops into his right forearm once, twice. "Your brother's skin is on you," she says quietly, before exiting.
As soon as she leaves the room, Jackalyn starts shaking and breathing hard. "Jacob? With me. I'm going to need you to hold onto my arm." she says, somewhat tremulously.
Jackalyn marches to the barracks alongside Jacob, her eyes fixed forward, her hands trembling. Once she gets to her bunk, she takes a deep breath before sitting down, rolling up her sleeve as she does so. "Listen carefully. I'm going to need you to hold my arm, tight as you can. Do you have any whisky?" she asks, as she unsheathes her knife.
"I have never been good in interrogations. I find it easier to get information from things and places than people."
When the prisoner reveals that there is a mole, Borax writes that on the board. Then writes the obvious, "who?" underneath it.
When Jackalyn emerges, Borax gives her a quizzical look. Borax is not sure what to make of Jacob's look, or rather Borax prevents himself from thinking anything. But it seems pretty clear to Borax that Jackalyn hasn't done this before.
Turning to the rest of the group,
[b]"Let's give our prisoner a moment to collect himself and consider his situation. When the next person that enters the room is not Jackalyn, he may be grateful and wish to avoid see her again.
In the meantime, let's figure out what else we want to ask. He said traitor, but he say 'they' which means that either he doesn't know that they is plural, or there may be more than one traitor."
"I'm more interested in the "why" than the who, though that's important of course. What do they gain by infiltrating us? 'How' is another? I was under the impression this organization is VERY secretive. When did they have the opportunity to learn about XCOM, much less plant a mole?"
Gavril nods at Jacob's comment on the men's nationality, and prepares to enter the room, but when Jackalyn comes out he shrugs and goes back to the prep room in the middle. At Borax's comment of 'they,' he raises a finger. "That could be linguistic, actually," he says. "Your English does not have a good single pronoun without gender like most. Probably 'they' is the best he could do, if he does not want to reveal the sex of the mole?" The Romanian shrugs. "There could be more than one, though. We must be careful."
He also shrugs at Sebastian's comments. "I would guess they infiltrated the Peacekeepers, not XCOM. Everyone here knows something about strange artifacts being here. He did not say alien--and this is what XCOM knows, yes?" Gavril taps a finger on the table. "But again. We do not know what they know. But we should not, how you say, play the hand too soon?"
He looks in on the man Jackalyn just visited. "He might work well with someone else now, yes. But maybe if we wait for her to return, he will be even more receptive? I can try to make a deal with the other." The way he says it, it isn't clear if Gavril intends to follow through on the suggested deal.
Borax respond at Bas, "I would imagine the why is fairly traight forward: money and power. Do you think there is some ideological aspect to this?"
Turning to Gavril, "Before you step in there, we should be clear on what we want to ask. We should also frame the questions as if we already know the answer and are expecting them to confirm. Also, take an ear bud."
"I agree that the traitor is probably a Peacekeeper, not a member of XCOM. But that's a lot of people to go through to find one dirty soldier. We need to get more out of these guys if we're going to have any chance of finding out who it is."
Borax nods, "We should probably keep an eye on the peacekeepers. If the traitor realizes they are in danger of being outed, they may attempt to kill the prisoners. If we were clever, we might even set a trap."
When Jackalyn leaves the room, the others in the observation room see that the terrorist seems obviously relieved. He cradles both of his hands close to his body, both of them still bleeding quite profusely. He growls slowly under his breath and curses in Arabic, but it seems his pride is wounded about as badly as he is. Rosa recognizes that even with medical training this man will probably never have much use of his hands again; without at least rudimentary medical attention he may even need them amputated as the damage and blood loss could easily lead to tissue death and infection. The guards within the room don't seem to be moving to help him, either because they are waiting to be told to or because they don't want to interfere. It's hard to tell, but after he thinks on it Gavril has a feeling that making the man wait for Jackalyn to come back, if she does, will likely be a bit more effective.
In the other room, the more heavily wounded brother seems to be coming to a bit more than he was previously. His eyes no longer look clouded over and he looks at the two-way mirror almost as if he can see through it, his face contorted in a quiet rage.
Rosa grits her teeth as she watches the man through the window. "He's going to be cripples for life," she says, half to herself. "He'll be lucky to even keep his hands if we just leave them like that." Without saying another word, she grabs her medical bag and heads toward the door. "I may not have taken the Hippocratic Oath, but leaving him like that is wrong, plain and simple."
"Go, help him. It may endear him to us. And stave off war crimes indictments."
Rosa nods and enters the interrogation room. She walks over to the table and slaps her medical bag down in the middle of it. "Hold out your hands," she orders, brusque and focused on her task. "You're going to lose fingers if you lose too much more blood. Unless you want to be an invalid of course." If he doesn't obey quickly, she simply grabs his arm and gets to work, forcing him to keep his hand still enough for her to bandage them tightly. He won't be able to move his hands for a while with the heavy bandages, but it will stop the bleeding and save him from much worse.
Rosa heads into the room and the man flinches from her touch at first, but when she wrenches his arm out and begins to dress the wounds he doesn't resist. She manages to bandage them up fairly well but it's immediately obvious that her earlier assessment is correct; even with the medical treatment he'll have poor use of his hands the rest of his life. Things like writing will be possible but difficult, but anything requiring more finessed use of is hands will be impossible.
Rosa does her work clinically and in silence, then leaves him to stew further once he's not in danger of outright losing his hands anymore.
Borax looks at the group, "Who is up next, Gavril?"