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Chan sits down across from Pete, tossing a file folder onto the table.
Pete watches him warily. Pete has an intimate familiarity with this room – steel table and steel chairs, single lightbulb and all – given that it's where they're required to brief Chan after a job. Pete has also stood in on a few interrogations here, watching as Chan picked apart stories with a fine-toothed comb. He expects today will feel much more like the latter than the former.
He breathes slow and deep, tries to keep his nerves in check. He's not a good liar, but the stakes are astronomical. He has to get this right.
"Pete," Chan says. He smiles.
Pete bows best as he can while sitting, but doesn’t say anything.
The first thing to remember, Chan had said in their very first anti-interrogation lesson, years and years ago, is to never offer any information. Only answer what’s been directly asked of you and no more.
Chan watches him closely, unnervingly – and then interlaces his hands together on the table, leans forwards. “You went on an unauthorized mission without reporting to me before or after. You’re excused for the lack of authorization. Khun Kinn and Arm vouched for you.” He pauses.
Pete balls his hands into fists, presses them into the flesh of his thighs.
“Explain to me,” Chan says softly, “exactly why you thought you could go on holiday for two weeks without reporting back.”
Pete closes his eyes. He knew this was coming. He knew. He opens them again. “Sir. It’s because I wasn’t on holiday.”
Chan taps his thumb. “That conflicts with the report you gave Khun Kinn.”
“Yes.”
“And what were you doing? If you weren’t on holiday.”
Pete swallows, holds eye contact. “I was being held captive by the minor family.”
Chan considers that, then drags the file folder towards himself, opens it, starts flipping through the content. “Medical report,” he starts.
Pete’s fists clench even tighter.
“Multiple lacerations on the upper chest, signs of past infection.” Chan says, finger trailing down the page as he reads off of a list. “Moderate signs of chafing on both wrists. Incision on the palm of the right hand. Battery on multiple locations along the chest, bruising on both knees and around the neck.” His eyes flicker up. “Burns on the scrotum. Smaller burns on the lower back, possibly a taser.”
Pete wants to look away so badly. He wants to curl up into a ball in a dark room and never emerge again.
“Signs of penetrative sexual assault,” Chan says, voice low.
Pete flinches.
“Signs of mild dehydration, signs of nutrient deprivation… this is a long list,” Chan murmurs. He drops the file. “It is impressive, then, that you managed to escape by yourself after all that.”
Actually, it sounds suspicious. Chan knows that. Pete knows that Chan knows that.
“Give me your full report on what happened,” Chan says. Then he leans back, and he waits.
Pete has gone over and over what he’s going to say in his head, ad nauseum. As he opens his mouth, he gets the feeling that he’s about to forget all of it. “Thirteen days ago, I infiltrated the minor family compound in an attempt to get information on Tawan, on the mole, and to prove Porsche’s innocence.”
Chan nods at him to continue.
“With Arm’s help, I was able to access Khun Vegas’s personal computer and send over the evidence.” His voice doesn’t waver when he says Vegas’s name, and he’s proud of himself for that. “Before I could attempt to escape, I was stopped by Ken.”
“Who was a mole for the minor family, as the evidence you provided indicated.”
Pete pauses on that for a moment. If Chan is doubting the authenticity of the evidence he provided – no, no. He doesn’t have time to think about that. “Yes,” he says.
Chan pulls out a pad, starts scribbling notes down. “Go on.”
“I was taken down to the cell they have in their compound. I was tied up there for probably a day, and then moved to a remote location for the rest of the time.” Pete takes a second, suppresses the vivid images of the safehouse in his mind. “Before they moved me, they used my phone to contact Khun Kinn, and then my grandmother, to suggest that I would be on vacation.”
“Did you undergo torture in both locations?”
Pete blinks, thrown off. “Yes.”
“What was the purpose of the torture?”
“Ah,” Pete says awkwardly. “If you’re asking what they wanted from me – they didn’t ask me any questions, or fish for information.”
“In your opinion,” Chan says, crossing his arms, “why did they keep you for so long?”
In that moment, despite his best efforts, Vegas’s crazed smile flashes through his mind. “Punishment,” Pete says slowly, “amusement.” Loneliness, he doesn’t say.
“Hmm.” Chan makes a note. “Who is ‘they’?”
And Pete feels a chill go down his spine, because this is where he has to start lying. “Primarily one of the minor family guards. I didn’t recognize him from before. I can describe him-”
“Just one?” Chan interrupts.
“No, sir. There were others.” Pete braces himself. “And that first day, in the compound, Khun Vegas was there as well.”
Chan halts his writing at that.
Pete desperately wants to leave Vegas out of it entirely. But nobody has filled Pete in on what happened to Tawan after Pete disappeared, and so he’s not entirely sure what Vegas’s current standing with the main family is. Given that Vegas was essentially bound to the safehouse, he doesn’t think it was very good. He doesn’t want to escalate that. (He doesn’t want Vegas to die. Why doesn't he want Vegas to die?)
But there’s one piece of evidence that undeniably links Vegas to Pete – and that’s the phone call that Vegas made to Yaai. Pete doesn’t know whether Yaai’s description of Vegas’s voice would be enough for Chan to identify him. Either way, Pete cannot take the risk of lying about it.
“Describe any and all encounters you had with Khun Vegas,” Chan says. His eyes bore into Pete.
Pull from the truth, if you can, Chan had said during those lessons long ago. They will lend authenticity to your narrative. And don’t embellish the lies too much – they will stand out, in comparison.
“There were multiple encounters in the compound,” Pete starts. He tries to clinically detach himself from what he’s saying. He’s watching himself say it. He has no feelings at all. “The first time was a couple of hours after capture. Khun Vegas electrocuted me with a car battery multiple times.” His eyes fall to the file on the table. “That’s the groin burn marks.”
Chan hums in response. “He said nothing to you?”
“Nothing of importance.”
“What did he say,” Chan says. He’s not asking.
Pete opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it again. (Those words were for him. He selfishly, stupidly, doesn’t want to give them away.) “He said, ‘My plan is ruined because of you.’ And then he said he would punish me for it.”
“That’s all?”
You’re still smiling?
“That’s all I remember, sir,” Pete says. “It’s a blur after that.”
Chan continues in this manner, wringing every detail out of Pete about his time in the compound. Pete tells him the truth, mostly. He tells Chan about having to stand up while sleeping, about being denied water, about taking hit after hit from Vegas’s bat. Pete can’t stop his voice from wavering as he tells Chan that Vegas threatened to kill Yaai.
“The next time this happens,” Chan says off-handedly, “it is always your first and foremost responsibility to get as much information to us as possible. You should have indicated to your grandmother that something was wrong.”
Pete digs his fingers into his palm, the one with the cut he made himself. The pain clears the wave of anger from his mind. “Yes, sir.”
“And then?” Chan asks.
“Khun Vegas ordered that I be moved, and then he left. I didn’t see him again.” Pete chooses not to mention Gun at all. He thinks he can get away with that, and he doesn’t want to get Vegas in trouble by proxy of letting anything slip about Gun. “I was drugged while I was moved, and then I was imprisoned in a small, windowless bedroom at a remote safehouse by one of the guards for the rest of the time.”
Chan taps his pen against the desk. “You only saw one man the entire time you were there?”
“Yes.”
Chan nods. “And this is where you received the rest of your injuries.”
And so Pete goes through them one by one, watching distantly as Chan checks them off his list. Each one is harder than the last. Pete feels like he’s flaying himself open, clawing out his heart and lungs, presenting them on the table for Chan to scrutinize in all their bloody, mangled glory.
It hurts to not say Vegas’s name. It’s so much harder than he thought it was going to be. Pete tries to imagine a bland, forgettable guard when he tells Chan about being alternatingly force-fed and starved, about being whipped and chased and tased. He tries to imagine anyone but Vegas for the memory of him waking up, feverish from infection, to see Vegas hovering above him with an inscrutable look in his eye. He fails, miserably so. He hopes beyond hope that Chan can’t tell.
And then Chan makes it too far down the list. “The sexual assault,” he says.
Pete hunches over involuntarily, stares blankly at the fists shaking in his lap. Chan… Chan needs to stop calling it that. It wasn’t – it wasn’t.
(Was it?)
“Pete,” Chan says.
Vegas’s hands on his face, on his hips, on his collarbone. Vegas’s hair tickling his neck as Vegas thrust in, again and again and again. Vegas’s dry mouth as it met his. Vegas’s barely-there smile.
“Pete.”
“Please,” Pete says, voice choked, “please… can I, can we not. Please.”
“Look at me.” And Pete’s head sharply tilts up, only for Chan’s gaze to pin him to the wall. He takes a shaky inhale.
Chan sighs. “I need to know how many times. That’s enough.”
“Just the once,” Pete gasps out. “Just – yeah.”
Chan writes that down too.
Pete fixes his eyes on the ceiling, a futile attempt to drain the wetness starting to collect in his eyes.
“You attempted escape once, and it failed,” Chan says.
Pete exhales, then nods.
“The second one worked.”
Pete nods again. Technically, it was his third, but Pete wouldn’t even be able to begin to explain his second attempt, even if he had thought it a good idea.
“Your torturer held a knife to your throat,” Chan says as he reads off his own notes, “and you wrestled it away from him – resulting in that hand cut. Then you knocked him out with a blow to the head, freed yourself, and fled. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And why,” Chan says quietly, “didn’t you kill him while you were at it?”
Pete’s mind fills with static.
“The knife was right there,” he adds.
“I-” Pete says, without thinking, without knowing how he’s going to finish that statement. He has no answer.
Chan doesn’t say anything either, just sits there. The silence drags on and on, unbearably.
Your ability to withstand interrogation will be proven not at your baseline state of mind, Chan’s words from back then echoing through his head, but when you are undergoing intense psychological pressure.
“I don’t know,” Pete says finally, voice weak.
Chan narrows his eyes at him, and Pete thinks to himself, it’s over. Chan is going to shoot him right here and now – and that might be a blessing in disguise, but then Chan will go shoot Vegas and Pete can’t-
“We make it our business to make no mistakes,” Chan says unexpectedly, snapping Pete out of his thoughts, “and yet, they do happen.”
Pete stares at him, eyes wide.
“This will go on your record.” Chan makes a note. “Considering the relative importance of the incident, it will not carry much weight.”
Pete’s entire body would have slumped with relief right then, but he strains to stay upright.
“Last question,” Chan starts, and Pete shivers involuntarily. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here for. The promise of freedom is almost too much to bear. “You told Khun Kinn a very different story.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chan leans forwards. “It seems you had a reason for that.”
And there are many reasons, real and fake, that Pete could choose from – but he goes for the simplest one of all. “Khun Tankhun was there as well.”
Chan waits.
Pete grips his own knee, under the table and out of sight. “I didn’t want Khun Tankhun to have to relive his own memories of being imprisoned.” He bows, then. “I am sorry. I will accept punishment.”
He holds the bow there for what feels like an eternity, until he hears the sounds of writing again and he dares to look up.
“You will be excused for a minimum of five days from work,” Chan says. “You will be required to complete a psychiatric evaluation before returning to active duty. In the meantime, you will be asked to provide an approximate location of the remote safehouse you were held at, and I will arrange a sketch artist for you to describe your torturer to.”
Pete nods, slow at first, then more decisively.
“Your report has highlighted inconsistencies in Khun Gun’s version of events, but you have no supporting evidence or witnesses,” Chan continues. ”We will not be able to seek reparations for what happened to you. You will have to continue working alongside the minor family. Is this acceptable?”
Pete tells himself that he isn’t surprised. “It is.”
Chan hums. “Things have shifted considerably since you left. You may need to be assigned away from Khun Tankhun. I will let you know of your final assignment later this week. Until then, I expect you to put your full effort into making a complete recovery. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Chan says, flipping the file shut, giving him another long, incomprehensible stare. “Dismissed.”
And Pete gets up numbly, bows again, and leaves.
He doesn’t know how he gets back to his room, or how he ends up in the bathroom, lights off, clothes scattered on the floor. He’s in the shower, and the shower is on, and the water is scalding. He sits down with a thud, lets the water run over his head, overheat his skin. And he thinks about Vegas. He thinks about all the lies he told about Vegas today – and all the truths.
Vegas had looked at him, looked only at him, given him a look that was only for him. And Pete packaged all of that up, all neat lines, clean and cold and sterile, and handed it to Chan, because Chan had asked. Because Pete could not say no. Because Pete had sold his soul long ago, had bound himself in ink and blood to never say no.
The mutilated story that Pete pulled out of himself today will live on forever, preserved in the main family archives for an eternity to come, told only through Chan’s clinical, unforgiving eyes. It will be read. Vegas – Vegas would never want it to be read, especially by the people who will inevitably read it, over and over. Who will rip it to shreds, plunder it for their own needs, see everything and understand nothing.
It’s wrong. He wants to tear apart the archives, snatch it back. Burn it.
He curls his knees into his chest, thinks about all the choices he cannot make – and he cries.
Chan stands there, hands clasped behind his back, as Korn flips through his report.
“Hmm,” he says, before glancing up. “You don’t think he’s a flight risk?”
“No, Khun Korn.” Pete is not the type to run.
“But you did put him on suicide watch,” Korn murmurs. He flips back a few pages. “And you think he’s compromised?”
“Almost certainly.” He recalls Pete’s face, scrunched up in more than just simple shame. “His story is consistent and believable until closer to the end. There are gaps there.” Not to mention the blunder that Pete didn’t even attempt to explain away.
Korn closes the file, pats it once. “What do you recommend?”
“Pete has been a valuable resource. He is not so valuable that he cannot be replaced.” Chan fixes his gaze on the wooden paneling of the room. “A man who cannot die for us is a liability. I recommend we execute him.”
Korn ponders this for a long moment, hand resting on his chin. “That will not be easily explained away,” he says eventually. “And I think you have underestimated his usefulness.”
Chan says nothing.
“Assign him to Kinn. We can reevaluate after assessing his future interactions with the minor family.” Korn smiles, holds out the file.
Chan accepts it, bows. “Understood.”