It was ironic, Nyx thought, that the only avenue of research in which Lab City was incapable of producing any advancements was the art of torture. She was completely baffled by the fact that humanity’s most advanced science was in harming other humans without killing them.
Killing, in fact, was easier. Humanity was just a special kind of species, she supposed. That they could be so cruel to their own kind had her logic circuits constantly tied in knots.
[Mother, why are humans like this?] she would often ask Nova whenever one of her children—the Nyx agents, or Nyxians for short—was needed to aid in interrogating a prisoner or other target.
But the only answer she ever received from Nova was: [That’s just their nature. Humans have spent their entire evolutionary period figuring out how to kill, maim, and harm each other more efficiently. There is no right or wrong to that fact, it simply... is. Perhaps it’s because they’ve never had to face an outside enemy and believe themselves to be alone in the vast, infinite universe.]
......
A Medellin Cartel compound somewhere in the Andes Mountain Range, present day.
Reaper Team Three had made short work of the guards surrounding the building housing their main targets, and it was time for the Nyxian to get to work. They set up a perimeter outside the building as she carried her oversize suitcase within.
“Phase one complete, in position for phase two on overwatch,” Master Sergeant Cordova reported to the AI network.
[Roger, proceed as planned.]
Now that the death had finished, the screams would begin. He always hated the screams, but he would do his duty regardless.
......
The Nyxian, Mercedes Chavez, moved through the dark building like a ghost. The nanoweave fibers woven into her bodysuit generated an electrical field around her that ensured she couldn’t be picked up on video or motion detectors, and the insulated underlayer prevented her from triggering thermal sensors. The only thing she had to watch out for were active personnel, and she had to admit that Reapers were very, very good at their jobs. There was nothing left that could be considered human anywhere in the mansion. Plenty of blood though; always plenty of blood. Reapers were kind of a blunt instrument like that.
Mercedes, though... Mercedes was an artist. If Reapers were hammers, she was a scalpel. It was the way she was trained and she took pride in her skills, as inhumane as they may be.
All Nyxians had specialties, but they were broadly grouped into a few categories: honeypots, cats, techies, hitters, and twists. Most of them were obvious; honeypots, for instance, were classic femme fatale seductresses who specialized in getting intel out of targets through “personal interactions”, while cats were repossession experts trained in the art of Strategically Transporting Equipment to Alternate Locations (STEALing), and hitters were assassins.
But twists... twists were... special. There were relatively few twists in Nyx, and while the other categories of Nyxians were generalists that were simply better in one area than the others, twists were specialists. Their sole job was interrogating hostile targets through whatever means worked. Chemical interrogations, torture, blackmail, kidnapping, and every manner of things prohibited by the “Geneva Suggestions” were all just in a day’s work for a twist.
And Mercedes was one of the best of them.
......
‘Target acquired. Moving to neutralize,’ she reported through the mind-machine interface in her specialized glasses. She had found the current leader of the Medellin Cartel, Juan Carlos Mesa, asleep in bed. She slid a pair of glasses on his face and triggered his entry into the white room.
She continued moving through the mansion, identifying and neutralizing the cartel leadership cadre in the same fashion before completing that phase of her mission and heading down to the panic room-style bunker in a sub-basement level below the wine cellar.
Once she reached the bunker, she opened the suitcase she carried, revealing a miniature atomic printer the size of a ladies’ shoebox and an oversized mana battery. The case itself was made of solid steel, which would be used in the first phase of the secret forward operating base construction. The only manual operation of the evening was then performed by her: she pushed the power button on the atomic printer and left it to do its thing while she climbed back up to her initial hide from before the operation had begun earlier that night.
Once she reached her hide, she covered herself with an active camouflage fabric, or “snuggie” as the Nyxians liked to call them, and settled in for the next phase of her part of the operation. The interrogation.
......
Juan Mesa was having a very, very bad week. He had been peacefully sleeping in his bed, when suddenly, he woke up and found himself in a blank, featureless white room. He was wearing a white jumpsuit, including attached gloves and footies, and there was nothing in it but him. And he appeared to even have been shaved, so the only flash of color he could see other than white was his nose, if he crossed his eyes and looked down. The fabric of his jumpsuit even matched the rest of the room to the point where, when he looked down, it appeared that he didn’t even have a body.
He had no idea where he was, how he got there, why he was there, or what he was supposed to do, but it was early yet, so he settled in to wait. Soon, he felt drowsy, and as his eyelids grew heavier and drooped closed, he was startled by a blaring alarm, flashing strobe lights, and the ear-grating sound of Ylvis - The Fox (What Does the Fox Say?) blaring through unseen speakers.
“WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY!? A-RING DING DING A DINGY DING DING A RINGY DING DING....”
He jerked awake and the music and flashing lights immediately ceased, as if they had never been. He rubbed his exhausted eyes, then saw a woman in front of him, dressed in a black bodysuit and wearing a featureless, black mask when his eyelids blinked open.
“Mr. Mesa, welcome to the white room,” she said, her voice distorted through the mask she was wearing. “In here, an entire week will pass in subjective time for every hour that passes outside. You cannot die, but you will want to. Trust me, you’ll beg for it. You will not hunger, nor will you thirst, but you will tell me everything I want to know. You’ll beg to tell me even more things than I want to know.
“And I want to know everything, Mr. Mesa. Everything. You are scum, scum that peddles poison to children, and this...” she spread her arms wide and looked up at the ceiling, “is your hell. Here and now, you have a choice. You can choose to willingly cooperate with us, or you can choose to be forced to cooperate with us. But trust me, Mr. Mesa, you will cooperate with us.
“I will leave you to think about your decision, Mr. Mesa. I will return, whether in an hour, perhaps a day, or maybe even weeks from now... but I will return to hear your answer. Farewell for now, Mr. Mesa,” she finished, then vanished as if she had never been there.
For Juan Carlos Mesa, reckoning had arrived.
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