“It looks like you have some dissention in your ranks.” Forte said with a laugh.
Paxton raised his right hand and punched Forte on his cheek. Then, before the Agent could move his head forward, he was struck again. Paxton looked down at the scared, yet defiant, look on his enemy’s face. The gash from Kaspar’s pistol whip continued to leak blood. The old veteran aimed for it with one last strike to Forte’s face. He shook the pain off of his hand and used the Agent’s shirt to wipe off the blood.
“He’s still a green horn,” Paxton said. He grinned, “But, we’re not.”
“What now?” Forte demanded. “You going to hit me some more?”
“It depends. Do you have anything to tell me?”
“I already told you, you ain’t getting nothing outta me.”
“Fine, have it your way.”
Paxton folded his arms and walked away. He took careful steps backwards. Kilbourne moved in front and started to crack the knuckles on his monstrous hands. Upon approach of the Agent, he began to rub his hands together and flexed the muscles in his arms and chest. Forte’s expression turned to complete fear, his body shook, his heavy breathing turned to fast panting.
Kilbourne landed a sharp blow to the midsection. He reached back and landed another one, this time a cracking sound rang through the room. Paxton hoped as he watched his comrade land the punch, that a few ribs were broken. Another blow to the midsection and Forte began to cry out in pain. Kilbourne ignored it. He landed a blow to the right groin…then to the other one. The punches moved up to the face, one cheek and then the other. Kilbourne then used his powerful right hand to form a death grip around Forte’s neck. What little movement the Agent could muster was spent wiggling around in the chair.
The Agent’s lips turned blue, but Kilbourne kept his grip until he felt a tap on the shoulder. He released the grip and Forte gasped for air. Paxton took to the front again. He stared down at the enemy, allowed him to catch his breath for a moment, while he fumbled around with something in his pocket.
“You got something to say to me now, don’t you?” Paxton asked.
“…Fuck…you…” Forte managed to get out.
“You want to play games, is that it?”
“No…no, games, please…”
“Okay, then, who is your next target?” Paxton demanded.
Forte looked up and, with what little strength he had left, he spit in Paxton’s face. Paxton backed away; he used his shirt collar to wipe away the white and red mixture on his cheek. He shook his head and took a tight grip to the black handle inside of his pocket. He did not want to do this, but the bastard gave him little choice. Despite the insistence that Forte didn’t want to play games, that was exactly what was to happen. He held up the handle of the switch blade for his enemy to see.
“You know,” Paxton said. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors about you. I’ve heard that you like to dig your victim’s fingernails out. Is that true?”
Silence.
“IS THAT TRUE?!” Paxton demanded once more.
Silence again. Paxton pressed down on the handle and a freshly shined blade shot up with a flicking sound. Forte’s jaw began to tremble as his interrogator waited for an answer…anything. Nothing came, so Paxton approached and took hold of the trembling index finger on the right hand.
“Last chance, bub.” Paxton said.
Forte spit in his face once more. The old veteran didn’t bother to wipe the saliva off this time. There were more pressing matters now, like getting answers. He looked back and signaled for Kilbourne to move behind. Kilbourne obeyed and held down the Agent by the shoulders. Paxton dug the sharp blade into the index finger, underneath the nail. He ignored the cries of pain and reached the end of the nail bed. With a sharp flick upward, the nail went flying into the air and landed next to Forte’s foot.
Krys stood in the back of the room and couldn’t take it anymore. She buried her face into her palms while she walked to the door. Paxton looked back to see her walk out and that thing inside of him began to eat away at his soul. It kept telling him to stop it, but he ignored it like always. The struggle within himself began once again.
He did not want to take pleasure in what he was about to do.
Kaspar heard the sound of footsteps coming from the hallway. He threw the half smoked cigarette to the ground and looked towards it. It was Krys, her head low, with nobody else to accompany her. What was going on in there?
She walked to the wall adjacent from him and leaned her back against it, head still straight down. No words came from her trembling lips. No sound except for the heavy breathing. She finally looked up and when she did, Kaspar could see tears roll down her cheeks. He walked over to her and stood beside.
Kaspar’s eyes lit up, “He’s torturing that man in there?”
“Yep, he’s using the same methods that they use. I thought we were supposed to be above that…I guess I just don’t get it.”
“If he’s not giving any answers…”
“That shouldn’t matter! He’s a human being.”
The tears continued to leak down her cheeks as Kaspar breathed in and turned his head away. He searched his mind for something to say, but since he didn’t disagree one tiny bit with what was going on in there, he remained silent. The USR…they took away Mother…they committed horrible acts against their own people. Why should it matter if the same brand of justice was brought back to them?
“It’s necessary,” Kaspar said.
“No evil is necessary,” Krys replied. She looked into Kaspar’s eyes. “You of all people should know that.”
Kaspar looked away, “If you were in that position, if you knew something the USR wanted, do you think they would spare you…that?”
“No, they wouldn’t. And that’s why we are fighting them.”
“Why stay, then? If you know this goes on?”
“I don’t know…I want to make a difference, but not at the expense of my own humanity. I don’t want to be like them…like John.”
Krys moved in and rested her head in Kaspar’s chest. Kaspar, unsure of what to do, wrapped his arms around her shoulders and just stood there. He held her and began to run his left hand down her soft hair.