RP Log: Imperial Clemency

Interrogation Suite -- V2SD Nemesis

'''       Part interview room, part torture chamber - the combination of facilities is not a coincidence; the unspoken implication that resistance to one method of interrogation will necessitate the other hangs heavy. The room's spartan appearance is immediately oppressive, unforgiving durasteel chairs and desk polished bright and seamless white walls reflecting the harsh lighting offer nowhere for a suspect to focus their gaze in favour of their interrogator, save for the barbarous implements of suffering awaiting a recalcitrant prisoner.''' A restraint bed on a swivel mount can be adjusted to accomodate anything humanoid from a jawa to a wookiee in virtually any position, while the appartatus of torture is given over to a machine of fiendish barbarity - spindly articulated limbs festooned from a ceiling mount and tipped with all manner of probes, needles, blades and other tools all directed from a coveniently located free standing panel. 

       OOC Note: This room broadcasts to the adjacent Viewing Room          

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=> Interrogator Droid 

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=> Ambrosia

=> Thel

Obvious exits:

 leads to Detention Block -- V2SD Nemesis.

Needles and Nightmares. Ask anyone out of the ISB's earshot and this is what you'll hear. Oh, the details vary, but the general tone is much the same. The Empire adores its efficency, its uniformity. And truth serums get results.

Keeping track of time in a place like this is a tall order. There're no chronos to be found. Day and night pass whenever it pleases the interrogators to order a change of lighting. Meals perhaps? But how often are they served? Daily? More? Less? Whenever they want you to think its a new day? Here at least, the Empire holds the power of a god, with the flip of a switch.

Parting ways with her sterile little pod had been such sweet sorrow for the ambassador. When she awoke in her cell instead of to the reliable rhythm of beeps and hums, she could not help but feel a little twinge of disappointment. No friendly face this day...or likely again. Keeping quiet in her little corner since her rather rude encounter with needles and nightmares, Ambrosia struggles to muse over the happenings and what might be expected next. What had they pulled from her brain? She couldn't remember much beyond the sound of her own ragged screams.

A hand lifts to palpate her swollen larynx. Pain. A common denominator between all days here, in hotel Nemesis.

Were they pumping sleeping agents into the atmosphere? Sedating Ambrosia when she wasn't needed, disorientating her even then and waking her only for her next sessions? Or was that the paranoia talking?

The cell door unseals with a sharp hiss of air. The pressurised environment unsealed as it slides upward and her tormentor enters. His greasy slicked-to-one-side-and-back hair especially shiny today, a smug smirk plastered across his lips like the cat who stole the cream.

"Four seven eight nine two stands!" he demands abruptly, the ever present, ever gentle stormtroopers filing in behind him ready to lend enforcement against resistance.

And there he is... Lowering her hand to her side, Ambrosia breathes a tired sigh. Complying in silence, she grips the bed corner with one hand and braces against the wall with the other to aid in what's a sluggish, no doubt painful, one-legged rise to her foot. And a half. The toes of the other do at least touch the floor for balance.

"Good." The agent proffers for Ambrosia's obedience. "Four seven eight nine two may have water today." Compliance. Reward.

He steps clear of the doorway, gesturing to the woman. "Escort Four Seven Eight Nine Two to the interrogation chamber." Stormtroopers advance.

The transit comes with the obligatory bag. A rough spun fabric, thick enough to blot out light, sweaty and claustrophobic. With walking comes a relatively easy trip. There're turns left, turns right, about faces enough to confuse the most ardent of mental map-makers but they come to an abrupt halt as a voice, all too familiar interrupts them. Its sharp clipped vowels, and precise, purposeful enunciation distinctively Imperial by themselves, but combined with the gravel-in-velvet rumble of the Duke of Selene, it can belong to no-one else.

Moments later, the familiar sound of a door opening and closing in a sound-proofed room accompanies footsteps and the hood is pulled free to reveal the bright white lights of the interrogation suite.

"Leave us." Aldus commands of the guard, the Imperial nobleman stood at one end of the table where Ambrosia is roughly seated.

Ambrosia remains slumped in her seat, eyes focused on the floor under her feet for the time being while she recovers from the dizzying maneuvers, but her upper spine stiffens notably in response to the Duke's voice. She listens intently for the anticipated sounds of her most frequent tormentors departure, breathing a bit unsteady from her growing nerves.

The bag is removed with a sharp motion, not requested, but perhaps anticipated. Its rough fabric chafes against skin though hardly the worst barbarity visited upon the prisoner since her arrival. The stormtroopers departure imminent as white light fills the vision.

When it clears, Aldus has found his chair, opposite Ambrosia - the brightly polished table between them, datapad set to one side, its standby button steadily pulsing with a pleading orange light.

They are quite alone.

"We meet again, Madame Ambassador."

The 'madame' lifts her head with a little effort and stares with the slightly perceivable wobble of a stroke victim. Her eyes twitch in their sockets, adjusting as needed to maintain as consistently hateful glare across the table as she can muster. Unfortunately for the poor woman, looks cannot genuinely kill. At least, not from her.

"We do," she rasps, not bothering to swipe away the skewed strands of hair from her face. "Have you grown tired of watching your little cretins have all the fun?"

Aldus appears entirely unphased by the baleful glowering. He meets Ambrosia's glare with his own dark brown eyes and an impassive, nonchalant expression - the permanently bored expression nobility are taught to, or genetically predisposed toward, adopting in the presence of their lessers.

"Typical processing for rebel spies." he dismisses, her ordeals and suffering summarised and dispensed with as if they were nothing. "The damage they do is far reaching and long lasting. It is imperative to identify their mischief and bring an end to it swiftly."

Hands rest before him, gloved fingers interlocking. "I am here because I have reviewed the material. And I begin to suspect that you really are as oblivious to the Republic's deception as you appear."

Ambrosia's jaw works silently, side to side as she deeply considers his words and implications therein. Finally, she settles for the safer side of insolence, while continuing to study those souless pits of mud. "And?" She mouths, chin tilting aside to relieve a cramp in her neck.

"Come clean." Aldus' plasteel mantle rises with the casual shrug of his shoulders. "Admit to what you know, express what you suspect." he turns halfway to his left in the chair, back set against the dimly lit torture chamber just beyond. "Tell the galaxy the truth of this debacle. And I will regard you as an unknowing pawn. Blameless, for your part."

"Forgive me, if I'm not convinced of your benevolence," Ambrosia hisses softly. Straightening her neck and tipping back her skull to elicit another *pop*, she slumps her shoulders against the unrelenting spine of the chair. "What is it I'm supposed to suspect? That the Caspian people were in need of something to blame, other than their own unwillingness to stand up for their rights, so they trespassed onto our property? That *your* little pawns had a hand in the affair? Slew all my men and women? Tried to blow us, sky high?" Smirking, she shakes her head. "No....no, I don't suppose that's quite right. May-hap you're referring to the minor mishap Minister Cordelia so colorfully illustrated for you, regarding the Empire's idea of humanitarian aid?"

Is...is Aldus smiling? Yes. His lordship's lips do seem to wear a certain lop-sided tension. Some might call it a smirk. "I admit, Republic Intelligence has earned its pay with that little stunt. Or was it Naval Operations' Special Branch?". Two pinched fingers tap soundly to the table top. "Quite a gamble you know, we might have had to cut off aid altogether. If we could not guarentee the security of our supply lines." The unrelenting gaze locks with Ambrosia's own. "That would have meant a great many women and children left to starve.

"I choose to believe you did not approve. I wonder if you were not even consulted."

What new trickery was this? Doubt writ plainly into Ambrosia's guarded expression, she folds her arms across her scrappily-attired chest. From sweltering heat to iritating chill. The Empire's hospitality knows no bounds. "During our final conversation before landing, Captain Cen gave me a list of potential 'topics' to discuss with the Union's government, and with the people. I must say, I found his doubt in my conversational abilities a mite insulting, given my highly-rated track record, but...the man is a Naval officer, not a politician. What he doesn't know, I mustn't fault him for." There's a tiny echo of Aldus' own haughtiness there, lingering in what little pride remains in the ambassador's voice.

"The contents of the list, however, were more than a 'minor' annoyance. I do not favor the twisting of speculation into facts, especially when trying to win a people's trust. I informed Cen that 'no', I was not in the business of fabrication. No lies. I would have no part of it. If the CDU could not be convinced to take up arms in defense of their homelands by simple truths already well-writ into history, then..." She curls a lip and wishes, just for a moment, she had some saliva to spare. Instead, she swallows. "They aren't capable of saving." Lowering her gaze with a touch of sadness, she scratches at the side of her nose. "I never dreamt that scenario would come to pass, but..." Looking back up, she gestures a palm limply from her side. "Here we are."

Progress indeed.

Aldus listens along, head bobbing in patient acknowledgement. With her account given, the nobleman reaches for his belt. A small concave flask drawn from a leather pouch, he unscrews the cap and offers it across the table. "And what was on that list, Ambassador? Just what lies were they willing to admit asking you to perpetuate?"

Ambrosia eyes the flask warily. More drugs? Her tongue rolls across the dryness of her teeth, animal instincts getting the better of her as she reaches for it with the greedy snatch of a child and peers curiously inside. "I...don't remember." *Sniff* "Assumptions and extrapolations, based upon the Empire's prior - and ongoing - history of slavery and atrocities. Might be they were true, somewhere, sometime. But I want documentation I can use to save my own ass, if credibility comes into question. I'm sure you can understand the formality of it all."

The odor is potent. A strong scent of fermented barley the first wave, then the complexity. Tabac? Caramel? Whisky to be sure, and the good stuff. The sort of thing the bartender reaches to the top shelf for and wipes off a layer of dust. "Quite understandable. You're being asked to put your name behind something, to endorse it, you want to know what you're getting in to."

Aldus leans back, nodding in affirmation that the beverage is not only safe, but that she is at liberty to enjoy it. "And did Captain Cen admit to the Rebellion's conspiracy with Caspar to supply arms?"

"I cannot confirm nor deny..." Ambrosia's nose twitches and it's a fight to withold the urge to sneeze. She coughs instead. "As neither did he. He only acknowledged that the Intel uncovered the Empire's intent to charge the Democratic Union with aiding us in the war effort. Sorosub products, etc, have been available on the market far back as *I* ever had need of one. It's well within realm of possibility that our military favors their product, too. But that's no secret." Tipping the flask in the direction of her captor, who admittedly is providing the best company she's had since the naive little doctor, the 'Lady' ambassador throws back a swig like the best of'em. Professional alcoholics, that is. Her face contorts a bit with the effort to swallow, throat burning more than it should, and pleasure mingling with the resulting pain. But it hurts so, so good.

"Spare me the legalism." Thel demands with an exhasperated sigh. "It is one thing to sell a Soro-suubian weapon to a visitor to Caspia. It is quite another to sell munitions by the metric ton to the Rebel military." his fingers tick off some of the offending articles. "Proton warheads. Concussion launch vehicles. Turbolaser cannons...these are not items for civilian markets. They are weapons of war, and a gross violation of the treaty." he rises, watching Ambrosia choke down the powerful alcohol. He makes no move to deprive her of it as the nobleman shows her his back.

"She's a charming girl, isn't she, your daughter?"

Ambrosia's moment of indulgence becomes short-lived. Expression turning sour, she returns the flask to the table with a thud of warning. And plants her palms firmly atop the table to gain a bit of lift-off in effort to stand. "What my daughter is, or is not, should not be your concern. *My*Lord*."

"Do not let the drink go to your head Ambassador." Aldus retorts in swift reprisal as he turns. "It would be highly impolitic of you."

Footfalls sound like peels of thunder as he returns to the table. "But I am referring to your first daughter." he slides back into his chair limber as a snake. "She is very much my concern. You met her, after all. Aboard my ship."

...

For once, in her fourteen-year career, the Ambassador is dumbed silent as the grave.

Leg faltering, slim frame feeling suddenly *very* heavy, Ambrosia drops rigidly into her seat. Her knuckles, growing whiter by the moment, continue to grip the table's edge ferociously enough to snap a brittle nail beneath the pressure. She simply continues to stare, features shifting between wonder, doubt, and anger. "You're mistaken," she whispers, when breath finally returns to her stilled lungs.

"Am I really?" Aldus replies, his brow rising and the datapad at his side stirred into life with a soft beep of acknowledge and a flicker of light at the press of a button. He turns the unit toward Ambrosia. "A DNA sample taken from you on your arrival..." he explains the image on the left. "...and from Lieutenant Kovani." a matching result on the right.

"I...who?" Not comprehending the entire notion enough to link words with what's clearly on the screen, Ambrosia reaches timidly to finger the air in front of the mystical pad. "It was a girl..." Her squinting eyes quickly fill to the brim and she furiously refutes the claim, head wagging in confusion.

"But...who is that, really? It's...I." A short, harsh laugh expels a bit of the emotion clogging her throat. "Why would you even run the test? They DISPOSED of...they wouldn't let me keep..." Air supply is starting to become an issue again, but this time it's the bile rising from her gut. She swallows, hands gripping at her belly.

Thel's shoulders roll in a nonchalant gesture, leaving Ambrosia to paw at the air before the forbidden peice of equipment. "Standard proceedure." he answers. "I was as surprised as you to learn the databanks actually located a match."

Knuckles wrap on the table, signaling for the woman's attention, a gesture and nod toward the flask recommending it to settle the nerves. "Imperial Intelligence has always been the sanitation department of the Empire. When a Moff has a dirty little secret, or makes a mess, just who do you imagine cleans it up?" he seems almost amused. "I have long made it my business to keep track of who spilled what. And where."

Just the phrasing alone is enough to complete the reversal of Ambrosia's downed beverage.

She retches, tactfully leaning aside rather than onto her host's shoes or lap. The rich, amber liquid dribbles without much umph behind it, trailing from her quivering lips as though it's as sad about its departure as she is. Curled there, in her seat, she lifts one finger, signaling that she may need...a moment? A pass? An invitation for the offending party to go 'spill' on themselves?

"All the more reason to have killed her, I would have thought." She chokes out, still wasting the booze. "At least, that's what they told me. Dispose of the evidence. Discarded me awhile later, when I didn't share in the sentiment."

Thel's nose wrinkles. The Imperial nobleman's refined olfactory senses protesting to the odor of bile, partially digested vegetables and a rather fine whisky dribbling from Ambrosia's lips. He draws a small square of cloth from the gauntlet of his glove, offering the handkerchief across the table. "Yes, I expect that would have been the proceedure. In less...visionary hands. Fortunate for you both then. Call it mercy, call it foresight. You are, by my hand, offered a 'second chance'."

Aldus smiles. "Think carefully, Ambassador. Few are so lucky."

Accepting the kerchief wordlessly with a trembling arm, Ambrosia presses it to her lips and waits. Her eyes remain squeezed shut - a futile effort to disappear - while the first few bitter tears start to flow and diaphragm continues to spasm excruciatingly.

Unbidden, the memories float freely to the surface now. His voice, gaggingly powerful stench of cologne, his touch...

The visceral reaction continues, but she fights harder to swallow the second round for the sake of gasping "Why now?"

"Who can say?" Aldus replies impassively, treating the question as philosophical. No sheltering arms or comforting words here. "Fortune? Fate? The Force?"

He looks the retching woman squarely as she draws the datapad back to him. "Does it matter? The situation is what it is, and an opportunity presents itself. It is my experience that seizing upon them when they come along is wisdom."

The electronic unit, all black vinyl and stainless steel but for the large display receives his attention. The test results vanish, the weight of their payload delivered. "I'm prepared to make you an offer, Ambassador."

The datapad slid back before her. The document upon it is full of complex legalese and the pomp, circumstance and flowery language of the galactic aristocracy. But the Imperial seal is unmistakable. This is the genuine article. "A full pardon, for you, your issue and dependents. Asylum in the Empire, a small estate until such time as we can return your property on Corellia to you and a full state pension."

Focusing her eyes on the document, Ambrosia puts the soggy pocket square to rest beside it.

Here lies another opportunity to make the worst mistake of her life...or the best.

There's a small flinch to her stoicism at the mentioning of her Corellian home. Did they raid that, too? Mom? A deadness seeps into her expression, stare looking...lost.

"What d-do you want? In exchange. I'm afraid my values of diplomacy would be ill suited to your liking." Another quick sip of whisky goes down the hatch, but there's no savoring, no pleasure in it.

Thel remains silent for a moment. A long, tense silence.

"There would be a few conditions." he replies, at length, hands folding neatly in his lap. "No contact with your former rebel acquaintances, of course. Pardons are for past crimes. Not future ones." a dismissive gesture brushes this away. "But the bulk of it? Simply admit the truth. Without the equivocation. The rebellion induced officials on Caspar to breach the treaty. If you know who was involved, on either side, name them."

The noble leans back, a relaxed posture more suited to an afternoon on a summer porch, than presenting a life-changing path out of hell.

More silence.

The desire is there, a tiny spark of hope in her eyes, but beneath it, drawing shadows and whispering morals, haunts her final answer. The ambassador lets her focus on the document blur, gaze turned inward. "I know nothing of persons behind the treaty breach. I was living on Ord Mantel - had been for years, since Gabi's father died. They recalled me to Caspar just months ago. I didn't ask those kinds of questions, and I wasn't volunteered any information pertaining to the sort. You've been in my head, I'm sure. It isn't there, is it?"

Flicking a glance upwards to her would-be savior, or executioner, Ambrosia folds her hands into her lap complacently.

Aldus' gaze has never been more penetrating than at the moment Ambrosia gave her answer. The dark brown pool, pits to a cold emptiness inside seem to strip away all trace of privacy in thought.

The man shrugs, amiably. "No matter. The crime was committed, the evidence exists, the perpetrators will be found."

He presses a button on the datapad, the view changing. The thumb-print scanner bleeping as it activates and throbs with a soft green pulsing light. "A confession. Whether you know or simply believe it is true, your thumb print will make it so. Do as I ask, and you and your family can begin your new life together by the day's end."

Ambrosia's right hand flexes nervously in its mate's grip, itching to be summoned for the task. She grits her teeth, lips pressed firmly together, and takes a deep, quivering breath.

"You make it sound as though my family's already here," she probes, keeping her thumbs to herself for the time being. "I will not betray those other families, however numerous or few they be, for a lie. I will not live the remainder of my days as endorsement for the entity which tore my first child from me after years of abuse and threw me away to die. I will not support the continuance of that suffering upon others and so, while I so very desperately wish it otherwise...my heart cannot be reconciled with what this thumb would do. Even though, yes...it is feasible that our military has received armory shipments from Caspian compmanies."

There is no compassion, no empathy, understanding or kindness in Aldus' face. His jaw sets. His steely eyes unveil their hatred. Words spat with malice. "So be it."

A chirp signals the activation of a comlink at the inside of his wrist. "Commander! Take Lieutenant Kovani into custody. If you do not recieve my personal countermand within five standard minutes." he glares hatefully into Ambrosia's eyes. "Execute her."

Ambrosia remains sitting rigidly in her chair, though one hand does creep upward to clutch at the fabric over her heart. The tears flow more freely now, whole body trembling with the effort of staying still. Do not. Touch. That pad.

"She's been dead to me for the past 19 years, until today. This hour. But she's been a loyal servant to you and yours. How terribly you must desire this admission, if you are willing to slaughter your own. Caspar is already yours for the taking. The New Republic hasn't been able to afford them ships thus far; do you think that has changed in the last...." Blinking, she tries to mentally tally the time she's been prisoner, and fails. "...weeks?"

The Duke's withering glare continues unabated, voice filled with malevolent disgust. "I am sure that thought will be of comfort to her, in her final living moments."

"You think perhaps that I am bluffing? That this cannot be real? That you will awaken in your cell and this will have been a terrible nightmare?" Aldus Thel rises to his feet, cloak spreading out behind him like shadowy wings as he looms above the table. "Shall I tell her of her mother's decision? Or will you?"

Ambrosia shrinks just a hair in her seat, looking up into the embodiment of evil. "If you aren't playing another one of your perverse little games, then let me see her," she pleads. "Bring her here to me. Codes and pictures on a screen mean nothing. I want real proof. I want to see her and know, that...that I may choose correctly."

The softness that consumes Aldus' tone is not remotely comforting. It is a hateful mockery of tenderness supplemented by an exaggerated pouting expression, large eyes and protruding lower lip. "You wish to look upon her as she dies? So that she will know who has killed her?"

He smiles, cruelty un-shrouded by pretense. He touches his fingers to the comlink. "Bring the girl to me, commander. The prisoner will witness the price of her severe and utter lack of wisdom."

"If she is who you say, I'll do it," Ambrosia gushes, climbing to her feet and looking to the pad. "I just need to see her. Please. Please, and I'll sign." Nodding emphatically, she lays a hand to rest near the pad. "If I don't, then do as you please."

From the fold of his tunic, Aldus produces a time-piece of exacting quality. A small round pocket watch in sterling silver, brightly polished its face revealed with a gentle depression of the catch, the most sublimely smooth mechanism opening the antique, delicate hands marking sharp precise movements as the count-down continues.

Long minutes pass in taunting silence. The sands of time draining from the Lieutenant's life grain by grain, second by second.

A sharp chirp at the door breaks the tension, sliding open with a sharp hiss a young blonde woman wearing the white tunic of the Naval medical corps stands in the door way, her wrists clapped in durasteel binders. She looks confused. Frightened. A sharp shove from an armoured stormtrooper sees her stumble forward into the bright white chamber.

Ambrosia staggers from her hovering over the table, panicked eyes widely mirroring the younger woman's own. Fractions of a second are eaten up as she stares into the face of her long-lost offspring and sees his nose. But those lips...those were hers. "Y...you aren't twenty-seven."

An odd greeting, that, but it's stammered without explanation as she twists back to face the manipulative bastard with the time piece and snatches at the datapad. "I'll sign," she hoarsely consents and without further hesitation, presses her thumb in place of signature.

Panicked eyes flash between Ambrosia, and then the high Lord. She stiffens, back straightening, the instinct to snap to attention operating beneath the fear. "W...what?" the girl asks, brows furrowed as she tries to make sense of what is going on.

Aldus meets the Ambassador's gaze with a smile of smug satisfaction, condescension thick in every inch of his posture as he raises a hand to the pair of white-shelled guards, staying them as she seizes the datapad. "Good..." he coos in taunting encouragement. "...goooood. That was not so difficult now, was it?"

He rounds the table, taking the datapad back into his possession. A moment taken to look over the confession, to verify that the Ambassador had done as she'd promised.

A stiff, precise nod signals the stormtroopers. "The Ambassador and the Lieutenant have a great deal of catching up to do." he smiles, wickedly. "Take them both to her cell."

A great whoosh of air leaves Amber's lungs and she crumples to the floor, hand still gripping fiercely at her heart. There is no joy, no remorse. Simply vacancy as she fights to steady her breathing and keep a steady gaze focused upon her alleged daughter.

Before the troopers can scoop her up though, she does make one tiny request. "...Think we're gonna need the whiskey."

There is the faint ghost of a wry smirk on Aldus' lip as Ambrosia asks for more alcohol. He considers it for a brief moment, before nodding his consent. The flask left to them, he gestures the guards to escort the pair out. "I shall have a meal prepared for you both. You will find me true to my word, Ambassador. So long as you are true to yours."