NationStates Jolt Archive

The two men were hooded and led or carried into a car. Inquisitors secured the area around the car as the men were put into it. Hundreds of people we standing at length screaming at the men on their short journey from the court house into one of the large black vans with their black windows that usually spellt inquisition. The car started its journey out from the city towards the mountains, travelling with four hoverbikes as an escort, the escort was usually not needed, noone was stupid enough to meddle with the inquisition. The motorcade went through a small town but otherwise choose random smaller roads where it travelled unnoticed. After about four hours it went into a tunnel of an underground facility and was gone.

OOC: Umm back ground? How does this concern the NS comunity?

Well, tame compared to Roanian one.

OOC: Points to Trials

IC:

The two men were carried out of the car in a lit huge chamber deep underground, the white lights covering the roof killed all shadows and Sir Scott and the Bishop were moved to two separate rooms where their hoods were removed. The rooms were well lit and the walls covered with some kind of soft tissue. In a corner stood a water Closet type toilet and on the ground a sink matched the sterile floor. The two men blinked in the sharp light and they could hear soft music coming from the walls.

Sir Scott looked around him, half in fear and half in anger. His feelings had rollercoastered during the ride and he was disoriented and sick in his stomach.

He knew that it was a classic interrogation technique; the hoods, the vehicles, the rapidity of the transit into an unknown location. Even nations with the best civil rights knew and used those techniques--even police used them. And the reason why they were used was because they worked.

He'd had no military training in his life, so he didn't know much about combatting the techniques. All he knew was that he was stuck within the bowels of the Reich, probably alone. He wondered what happened to the Bishop and hoped the man was all right. Bit of a nutter, but weren't they all?

He tried to stop his mind wandering by concentrating on something. He thought about his wife, Amanda, and their suburban home in New Sydney. It hadn't always been like that of course... both he and his wife came from very poor backgrounds. But they'd fought for everything and gotten where they wanted to be. Twenty-eight years of married life, he thought with more than a touch of pride. That was one in the eye of the divorce demon!

Of course, it might indeed be moot now. He'd heard of the Reich dungeons as a diplomat. They weren't places one came back from Fucking dammit if only they'd turn off that damned music!

He stumbled over to the makeshift toilet and threw up. That hit from behind must've shocked his system. He wiped away the gunk from his mouth and pressed the flush button, which slowly got rid of the vomit. He washed his mouth out at the sink on the floor.

Sir Scott slumped down against a wall and drew his legs up. This really wasn't going as planned, he thought wryly, trying not to picture what was about to happen.

o.o.c. I can picture what happens! "Stick him in the velvet chair!"
"Not the velvet cahir chair!"

"Yes! And get....The fluffy pillow!"


"Oh no!"

tag

God bless,

The Republic of Syskeyia

Two plates of food, looking exactly the same were put into Sir Scotts cell, through a hatch at the low end of the door. The two plates looked delicious, and the courses were exactly the same, the food was even arranged in the same way. The only thing that separated them was was a sign looking like an arrow on one of them and a sign looking like a cross on the other.

A dripping sound like small water drops on a roof could be heard almost a little louder than the music, the music that never stopped, not loud enough to be painful but not quiet enough to be ignored.

Sir Scott stared woodenly at the plates of food. With the greatest timing, his stomach rumbled and he remembered he hadn't eaten anything in ages... he also remembered the Chimaean Iesus-Desk man had told him fairly clearly not to consume anything within Iesus Christi. His exact words had been, "whatever you do, don't bloody eat or drink so much as a morself or a drop there. It's the wild west. And don't sleep with any of them."

Sir Scott had raised an eyebrow at that one.

Now he looked at the plates, and the signs. A cross and an arrow. He tried to remember what he had learned of Christian theology... not that it'd help here. The Reich tended to have their own lot of little rules.

He got up and walked to where the plates were. The smell of the food was intoxicating. He reached down and his hand hovered above the plates, his expression a rictus of indecision. Then, closing his eyes, he picked up the plate with the cross over it--and hurled it at the nearby wall. Though the plate didn't break, the food spilled onto the floor.

He picked up the second plate and did the same, feeling like he was signing his own death warrant. Then he crawled back to a corner and sobbed, without tears.

He picked up the second plate and did the same, feeling like he was signing his own death warrant. Then he crawled back to a corner and sobbed, without tears.

A flashing light that hurt his already soar eyes flashed as the door to the room brutally was thrown open. Three huge men dressed all in black rushed into the room and used stun guns on him. Sir Scott could feel the electricity make his body spasm as he was thrown into oblivion.

He woke up sitting in a chair, his mouth was dry and his body ached. He could feel the marks of straps around his arms and someone had shaved him. He wasn't sure if he had been shaven more than once, on his arm a needle mark. He still felt hungry but he knew from his soar throat that he had been forcefed while unconcious. How long he had been unconcious he didn't know. His legs was still strapped to the chair but his arms were free. The room he sat in was sterile and a small lamp provided the only light in the room. In front of him was a small table situated with a chair beside it.

The door on the other side of the room was opened and a small gentle looking man carrying a briefcase walked in. The man opened up the briefcase and removed a dossier, a newspaper and an apple. He carefully placed them on the table in front of him and sat down opposite of Sir Scott.

"Well then. I'm Herr Nilsson. I'm to be your host during your stay here, and it might be long, so you better behave. IF you treat us well, we will treat you well. Herr Nilsson looked in his dossier "I see here you didn't eat your food? And threw it all around the cell? The chef was most upset. You want something to eat?" Herr Nilsson picked up the appled and took a bite out of it.

Sir Scott glared hungrily at the apple, feeling bile rise in his throat. He swallowed twice before shaking his head, which made the room spin for a few seconds.

"No thanks," he said, his voice sounding strange and hoarse. He considered saying something more but decided that caution was the better part of valour.

"No thanks," he said, his voice sounding strange and hoarse. He considered saying something more but decided that caution was the better part of valour.

"But Herr Scott, you need to eat to keep your strength up. You have been sick and unconcious for more than two weeks. We had to force feed you after that brutal treatment those thugs gave you." Herr Nilsson bent down to collect a cheese sandwich with salad. He put it in front of Sir Scott. "Here, eat this and if your stomach agree with it I'll try to get you some soup later on. After you've eaten we'll have a little chat and I ask you some questions, is that ok by you?"

Two weeks?

The words filtered into Sir Scott's woozy mind. Two weeks. Had it been two weeks? Well... he'd thrown aside the food... But two weeks... Had he really been unconscious and sick for two weeks?

He looked down at the food in front of him. It was tempting, more than he'd ever thought something could be. His face twitched at the thought of eating. He looked at the man across the table... It had to be some sort of trick, good cop bad cop... But two weeks without proper food. If Chimaea could get him out, he had to be in a state to survive.

Yes. That was it. He had to survive this. He had to eat to survive... What was the man saying now? Questions?

A small alarm went off in the back of his muddled mind. "Quest... I'm a lawyer... I can't tell you anything that you... can't know by looking at a book."

Then he reached out for the sandwich.

A small alarm went off in the back of his muddled mind. "Quest... I'm a lawyer... I can't tell you anything that you... can't know by looking at a book."

Then he reached out for the sandwich.

Herr Nilsson smiled as he watched Sir Scott taking the sandwich. "Yes, Questions. You know nobody gets sent here without a reason. You want coffee or a cigarette before we start?" Herr Nilsson picked up a thermos and a mug and poured himself some steaming coffee.

Bring the comfy chair!!

Sir Scott broke off a bit of the sandwich and put it in his mouth. Tasting nothing out of the ordinary, he swallowed it.

He looked at the man... Herr Nilsson... as he ate. "Reason? The... Syskeyian Embassy was reason enough. Iesus... violated international law. We had to... act. Our allies. I don't smoke. When are you planning to let me go?"

He looked at the man... Herr Nilsson... as he ate. "Reason? The... Syskeyian Embassy was reason enough. Iesus... violated international law. We had to... act. Our allies. I don't smoke. When are you planning to let me go?"

Herr Nilsson leaned forward and looked him square in the eyes. "I'm not talking about that. That's politics, we don't do politics here. When did you start loosing control? When did they tell you to sacrifice your life for criminals, murderers and terrorists? You seem like a rational man, a man of intelligence."

"mind if I smoke?" Herr Nilsson picked up a cigarette and lit it. He poured some coffee in another cup and handed it to Sir Scott.

Sir Scott waves a hand vaguely and watched Herr Nilsson light his cigarette.

"Criminals are people who are guilty of a crime." he reached over and sipped the coffee. "The Syskeyians have not been proven guilty, at least... not to my liking. Justice is about giving people a fair go... and that's a noble thing to sacrifice my life over. Do you believe in justice?"

"Criminals are people who are guilty of a crime." he reached over and sipped the coffee. "The Syskeyians have not been proven guilty, at least... not to my liking. Justice is about giving people a fair go... and that's a noble thing to sacrifice my life over. Do you believe in justice?"

"Ofcourse I do, I live to see Justice prevail. But we're not here to talk about me. Do you think justice always most meet your approval to be just? When did you decide to defend the criminals? Would you sacrifice your life in your home country if you felt the courts judgement was unjust?"

"I wouldn't have to sacrifice my own life in my home country... I would just appeal it to a higher court and be able to present my reasons to them. But yes. I would sacrifice my life for justice in any nation. As for justice meeting my... 'approval'... I would never consider sending someone to death... or to prison. On hearsay and flimsy evidence. Sometimes you have to... take a stand."

Herr Nilsson looked sad as he drank the last coffee in his mug. "So the innocent lives of thousands of unarmed civilians killed by those armed Syskeyian Soldiers counts as flimsy evidence?" Herr Nilsson shook his head. We will talk again in a few days. I want you to meditate and try to remember what voiced told you to act as you did until we meet again."[/i] Herr Nilsson rose picked up his newspaper and thermos, put it in his briefcase, bowed to Sir Scott and walked out the door.

A minute went by, then the doors were savagedly opnened and three huge masked men rushed him, kicking the chair out under him. The coffee mug was thrown into the wall were it smashed spraying the ground around it with what was left of coffee. He felt his head strike the ground as a black hood was pulled over his head. His arms were bent behind his back and cuffed and he could hear the men screaming to him
"Teru Manapala huten a gorotar!"
He was smacked in the face, and lifted up in the air.
"Houri Scott! Manapalen wakari a Där Rautta"
His face was smacked again and he was led or carried or shoved in a quick pace somewhere. The men continued to talk to eachother or was it him? and then he was thrown to the ground and the hood was ripped of his face. He heard the music first and then he recognised his cell. One of the masked men pointed a gun at him while another moved towards him with a needle. The needle hovered over his left eye for a while and he could see madness in the eyes of the masked man. Then it moved away and he could feel a stinging pain in his arm and things began to feel dizzy.

"Ä ha sövd? Ge'n en spark så ha lär se" He felt the pain of a steel shodded boot in his ribs as he began to drift away. He never had seen that the walls were that bent and round before?
[

There was darkness everywhere.

As children most humans fear the dark, almost like a primal instinct to keep behind the light come sunset. When the first human had got on its hindlegs and thought, I could USE this opposable thumb, came the blinding fear of the predators stalking the night who'd love a fairly physically defenceless species.

Sir Scott knew all of this. It didn't help.

This wasn't the darkness which comes from a mere absense of light; this was childhood darkness. Darkness of the soul.

Somewhere in the pitch blackness, someone was singing.

It was barely audible, like sounds had been the time he'd temporarily lost hearing from a bad case of influenza. A kind of dulled, tinny sound. But it was singing, he was sure of it. Whether it was male or female singing, he couldn't make out. From the tone, it was someone fairly young.

He opened his eyes.

Light.

------------------

It was dark again. The blinding light had gone, replaced with the fearful darkness.

Except this time, there were voices with him.

unarmed civilians killed by those armed syskeyian soldiers

unjustifiable cause, my client seeks the maximum

i love you mike, of course i'll marry

bid you rise, sir michael scott of the order of chimaea

They were all different voices but somehow all his own voice. They came around him. And always, always the tinny sound of a child singing.

you'll never be anything you useless piece of

i can't order you to do this, i can only ask that you go to the reich...

There was something else with him. He stared into the darkness, straining his eyes... Yes... there. A patch of white.

Was it... coming closer?

advice the most extreme caution in his stance on hrstrovokia

He could see it now. It was coming closer. And closer. Sir Scott watched in mute terror.

Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye...


OOC: explanations later. enjoy my madness. :)

Herr Nilsson watched on the monitor as Sir Scott twitched and screamed in his dazed drugged state. He looked down on the file on his desk, it contained quite a lot about Sir Michael Scott. But by changing lights in the room and playing the subliminal messages Herr Nilsson counted on Sir Scott being so confused that he wouldn't know how much time or what has passed.

The world changed, shifted, as if reality wasn't in phase with time. The darkness receded, the voices blurred and suddenly--

Sir Scott uttered some words he hadn't used in a while.

The courtroom was all too familiar. On the bench, the late Chief Justice Strider - back then just Justice Strider - presided over the court, his face grave as he listened to someone speaking.

Sir Scott suddenly realised it was him speaking. Or rather, it was someone else and at the same time him--as if he was an observer inside his own head.

"...Clear in my mind that under section twelve of the Criminal Code and section ten of the Child Abuse Act, the actions of her father is plainly as... as... as cruel, as criminal--"

The prosecution lept to her feet. "Objection, your honour, counsel is using judgementive terms--"

Justice Strider banged his gavel once. "Mr. Scott, please refrain from doing so." he rolled his eyes. "If the prosecution is happy, perhaps we can continue?"

Sir Scott felt himself smile. Justice Strider didn't suffer annoyances gladly and ran his courtroom in a fairly easy manner.

As his younger self continued talking, Sir Scott glanced around the room and--

She was there. Sitting besides him, her golden hair falling around her shoulders, the carefully-placed teddy-bear clutched like a shield in her small arms.

Except she was looking up at him and her face was bruiced and bloodied and cut. One eye puffed up till it was forced closed. And she smiled at him and blood flowed through her mouth and spattered onto his sleeve and her dress and she said

stick a pin in my eye

Sometimes with all the best intentions in the world history puts you on the wrong side and you win the battle but you can never win the war...

---------------------

The funeral was small. Barely twenty people arrived as the tiny casket was lowered into the hole.

He had payed for the funeral. The press couldn't understand why, neither could his family. His wife had though.

The mother was buried somewhere else. They were going to bury them side-by-side but he had asked Justice Strider to make a personal intervention. There were no other relatives...

At a child's funeral the only mourners were social workers, policemen, lawyers and the judge. The healers who'd failed to heal.

The sun shined brightly amongst the weeping willows of the old cemetary. The headstone was dark marble and reflected the rays of the sun in ripples along its surface.

The father was indeed a drunken monster.

The mother had been a psychotic killer.

---------------------


In his cell, unconscious from the drugs he had been injected with, Sir Scott started to cry.

>tag<

*BUMP and grind.*

Sir Scott woke up in a chair in a room without a clue how he got there, Herr Nilsson sat on the other side reading a newspaper and having some coffee. He looked up from the newspaper and smiled at Sir Scott.

"Michael, nice to see you're awake. I've been worried for you it seems the guards were a bit hard on you. " Herr Nilsson looked at Sir Scott with sad eyes, full of compassion "You've been away for quite some time now. I bet your family is worried. I talked to the warden and finally got him to agree about letting you write a letter to your wife, to tell her you are alive, maybe not well, but still alive. Do you want to do that?"

Herr Nilsson pushed over a paper and a pen to Sir Scott. "I don't think it is wise to throw away the food the way you do either. The cook was most upset and probably made the guards to act out his frustration on you." Herr Nilsson tried a little smile "Nobody likes a critic eh?"

Sir Scott smiles a bit, relieved that it wasn't the guards that greeted him. How long had he been out? He could no longer separate the minutes from the hours. It could have been weeks.

He nodded at Herr Nilsson as the man pushed pen and paper towards him. His head felt like it had been stuffed with melted wax and there was a tinny ringing in his ears. He blinked a few times, grasped the pen with a shaky hand and started writing.

He wasn't sure the letter would even get past the Iesus authorities... but he needed to try. He thought about what he should tell her... Well not the truth. Whatever that had been for the past... whatever. Instead he painted a picture of a minimum-security prison in Chimaea. Polite wardens, 3 meals a day, exercise... almost like It wouldn't work of course, she could see through his words... but at least it meant he was alive.

He finished, signed it and placed it on the table between them.

"What... do you want with me?" he demanded. his voice sounded strange to his ears, sluggish, drawling. "I'm no use to you as a prisoner... why keep me here?"

Herr Nilsson reached out and accepted the paper and put it in his breas pocket without reading it.
"You see Michael, your actions last month was rather illogical. The Reich authorities was much disturbed by your actions and worried for your immortal soul." Herr Nilsson leaned forward [i]"Michael, you're a good person, I am pretty sure of that. But my superiors believes you to be possesed by deamons. Me and you both knows the stress of that moment made you act on gut instinct, and most illogical. Concerning your background I can understand why you try to protect those you believe be the victims. You have to help me out here, we don't want them to believe you are possesed, do we? I'm trying to help you"

Sir Scott stared at Herr Nilsson. "I'm not possessed... My actions... were for justice. No-one but God can judge me on that."

Sir Scott stared at Herr Nilsson. "I'm not possessed... My actions... were for justice. No-one but God can judge me on that."

Herr Nilsson leaned forward and softly put his hand on Sir Scotts Shoulder. "Michael, we both know that. But it doesn't change that you willingly risked your life for convicted murderers of children. I saw the victims after the Syskeyian Massacre and I believe God will judge the ones convicted, as God will judge you and me. I'm not here to judge you, the inquisition will do that, I'm here to evaluate you and try to make sense in what you did. Think of the children." Herr Nilsson rose from the table and moved towards the door, before he exited he turned around: "I will do whatever I can to get your message to your wife, rest assured of that."

A minute went by after Herr Nilsson had left the room, then it was abruptly opened and three men in masks grabbed Sir Scott. They stuck a needle in his leg and carried him back to his cell. That night the music in the room was mixed with screams of children and the men held his head and forced him to watch the massacre outside the Syskeyian Embassy over and over again.