Skirted Spies: Season 1

Episode 13-3: My Own Pup

Ispio Head Quarters: Interrogation Room #142

"Another interrogation in the same day? We're on a roll," Clyde comments as he stares at the sniper from the one-way mirror.

"Shush! Nobody has to know about Archer. Have you seen their workload of cases? Marston doesn't need another problem breathing down his neck, especially since we're the ones to blame for said problem."

"Whatever," he says. "So, how do you want to do this? I don't think he'll be particularly scared if a child is the one asking the questions."

Well, that was a given, but Clyde's the one that always does the questioning. He just has that certain aura around him that makes you spill your guts as soon as he tells you to. Me on the other hand, I'm too dainty to do that type of roughhousing, but judging by our current situation, I might as well give it a shot.

"I'll see what I can do," I tell Clyde.

A snicker comes from him. "You? Okay princess, don't get any blood on your dress."

"Jokes on you, I'm not even wearing a dress!"

He smiles and shakes his head. "Remember to stay on topic, Grade A Prototypes and the likes. Scaring people isn't the whole battle, they want to hear if there's a reward for sharing what they know. Lastly, this is an interrogation, not a torture session. Go easy on the gore."

"I'm getting pointers on extorting information from a six-year-old. It's all downhill from here, isn't it?"

The door swooshes open automatically as I enter the room. The sniper sits in the metal chair unrestrained, his legs bundled up in casts by the medical team here. He watches as I sit down in the chair across from him, my hands resting on the wooden table in front of us.

"You dick," he begins, "look at my legs! Look what you did to my legs!"

"Hey, you shot me. Twice! The least I could do was break your legs, now we're even." Oh wait, stay on topic! "Grade A Prototypes. Start talking."

He looks at me in disbelief. "No."

Damn, I was hoping it would be that easy. "C'mon, please don't make my job any harder than it needs to be."

"Your job? Yeah, what are you anyway? This isn't any jail I know, and you're not dressed like local law enforcement."

"I'm the one asking questions here! Who hired you?"

"Your momma."

"Oh, real original! What are you, still in middle school? Tell me what I want to know."

He places his rugged hands on the table and leans forward. "God hired me, and he told me about the New World."

Quickly, I take out a small knife that I always carry and stab it down on the table near his hand. Although, the squirt of red liquid that dabs my chin and the pained look on his face notifies me that it might've been closer than just near his hand. My eyes move down to see the blade has pierced the back of his palm and had gone straight through the other side. He screams.

"Oh no," I say frantically, "that wasn't supposed to hit you!" With my hand still on the blade's handle, I pull up with all my strength, but to no avail. It must've gotten stuck into the wooden table.

Another pained grunt leaves the sniper. "Ow! Stop, you're making it worse!"

I try to pull it again, wobbling it from side to side to shake its tip out of the table. In the process, I'm sure that crunching noise is coming from his bones. "Stay calm," I order.

"I can't!" he screams.

"I was talking to me." I use my other hand to grip the handle and pull up with both arms. I can feel that it's coming loose, much to the sniper's dismay.