Ryven, now a Lieutenant Junior Grade, winced. The wound in his shoulder from the attack on the Dusk Vigil still ached from time to time, even though only a circular scar remained. He struggled to hide his pain as he began to interrogate the last of the prisoners snatched from their homes during a raid of suspected smugglers in Torrinos. Titus tasked him with gaining actionable intel on an upcoming transaction, or even better, the location of a supplier. Ryven was given permission to do whatever with the prisoners. The State had already written off these low-lifes. They would never make it off the Tovil-Toba.
"I want information, Mr. Tovas. Ryven spoke without emotion. "Information you are going to give me."
Mr. Tovas whimpered. He was pale from days of starvation, and twitching from psychosis from the sensory deprivation of an isolation machine, a sinister device that completely deprived a captive of any external stimuli.
"You are going to tell me, because there is no reason not to." Ryven continued. "You are already dead. Your wife, Scylla, is being watched right now. Truthfully, non-cooperation at this point will cause you only more pain."
Mr. Tovas was crying now. Ryven never understood that in prisoners. Why cry?
"Do you want to watch your wife murdered? Do you want to go back to the tank?"
"No! Leave my wife alone!" Mr. Tovas's voiced dripped with desparation. "What do you want to know?"
"Give me a supplier, and your wife lives."
"Travela Troucan. In Balle. He's our biggest supplier. It's a deadspace pocket. The coordinates are here." He typed on the supplied datapad.
Ryven smiled and drew a pistol from his hip holster. He fired one shot into Mr. Tovas's face and smiled at the splattered brains on the bulkhead. He keyed his comms device.
"We have the supplier."
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