[The characters in this work of fiction are (still) over the age of 18.]
*
Tommy drove. Jerry sat rigid beside him, icily regarding the rainy night outside. They'd been in total silence since the journey began.
Edwina, or "Dongle," was a touchy subject with Jerry. Especially now that she was missing. Tommy was sure there was something there. He wasn't sure what exactly. The whole relationship dynamic was strange at the NCC. Of course, any relationship with the infamous Agent Heretic was bound to be complicated on its own.
Crucible and Balleraphon chirped in Tommy's earpiece reporting that they were ten minutes away.
They stopped on the street and watched.
"That's them," said Tommy.
Jerry said nothing.
The men in black suits walked into the hotel.
"When they come out, wait for me to light up, that's the signal to go in," said Tomlin. "Are you listening to me?"
Heretic was fiddling with his phone.
"Great," said Tommy. "Just great. If this fucks up, Rico's gonna...what the hell are you doing? ...Jerry?"
Jerry was staring at his phone.
"What is it?"
The man ignored him. Then he shouldered the car door open. The lifting of the handle was a formality. Tomlin watched, stunned as Heretic marched, then stormed, then charged into the hotel.
"Oh..." he said, "...christ..."
---
--DAY 2--
The day before, Edwina Bradshaw, or Case 771, had been subjected to equipment designed not to cause undue wear or bruising. Though far from merciful, they functioned with no physical action, and served to overwhelm the senses, not damage the equipment. The experience could be generously described as "gentle."
Today found her captors markedly less charitable.
She didn't remember where she woke up. Just her bonds being removed and the feeling of being hauled upright. She was damp, like they'd washed her again, and still naked except for an unfamiliar pair of heels, which she would have toppled over on if she wasn't supported by about four pairs of hands leading her in her groggy stupor to parts unknown.
She wasn't really cognizant of anything solid until she realized she was looking into the eyes of one of the black-haired, almond-eyed technicians from the previous night. She also realized the woman was supporting her dizzy head up by her chin in one hand and shining a light into her eyes with the other. She blinked, her mind clearing. Her heart picked up speed, and she started feeling jittery.
"I th...thought," she said, her tongue sluggishly returning to its duty, "you said no dru...drugs..."
"Oh," said the woman, calmly releasing her, "epinephrine is more of a medicine than a drug. You're lucky we can't hit you with the psychotropics."
She gently withdrew the needle and stood up, revealing an array of nine large monitors behind her. They were all blue for the moment. It all appeared to be part of a larger machine, which she realized was sitting on. Or more precisely, straddling. She was on her knees over what gave a passing resemblance to that sybian thing she'd seen on the internet, where she lived. She could feel that she was, in fact, sitting on an "attachment." Two in fact, already comfortably slick. She tried not to squirm.
This device was different from the ones she'd seen on the interwebz, however. Besides filling two openings instead of one, it was higher off the ground, and long like a bench, part of the assembly in front of her. Her knees and ankles were strapped to the pads, and her thighs were strapped to what could be called the "saddle," holding her firmly onto the protrusions under her, and a textured hump nestled against her clitoris. When her arms finally answered her mental roll-call, they reported that they were bound in thick cuffs behind her back, attached by a strap to a collar on her neck. Her hair had been tied back in a tight bun for the occasion. Her nipples tingled, and felt a little encumbered. A glance revealed that they were under opaque plastic suction bulbs connected to hoses, not at all like the things from yesterday. The cords led off somewhere and connected to the machine. These leads twisted together with some surgical tubing. It appeared to have a clear liquid in it. She shivered. They were IV tubes. They were using her nipples as an injection point. So that's where the adrenaline shot came from. This was just sick. She couldn't help herself frantically expressing as such.
"Of course it is," said what's-her-name. The others always seemed to be working, but she seemed to be the only one doing any talking. "We're not here to converse. The others don't even speak English. In fact the moment this thing turns on you're Case 117 again, Ms. Bradshaw, so if I were you I'd be using this time to the fullest by seriously considering my loyalties and cut right to the lies we have to shake out of you before you tell us about the Godspike. This is costly, after all. In fact I think I want you to end this more than you do. So let's take this one step at a time. Godspike."
"I don't know what that is!"
"You know, hypnosis is a cute parlor trick," said the technician, as one of her colleagues handed her a remote, "When you add things like aversion therapy or food sleep and fluid depravation, you can erase memories or even alter components of the subject's identity, and you get what we call 'brainwashing.'" She leaned on the console, expectantly.
"...I've never heard of God's Spike!"
"We know you to be a heterosexual woman, Ms. Bradshaw, is it true?"
"What? Y-yes...yes, of course, I--"
"It won't be."
