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Being a spy required a few certain traits in a person. There were many steps to make yourself a good spy, but the only one that mattered now, was the first one my group had learned: "Be willing to die to keep the information you have secret." I sat in a chair, hands cuffed between my legs, in an interrogation room. I thought I'd be impossible to catch, but being caught by another spy was the last thing I expected. He snuck up on me and used chloroform to get me to comply without struggle. I tugged at the cuffs, not hard, just to see if they were the cheap ones that I could easily stomp on to break out of.
There was one-way glass across from me, and I wondered how many R.E.D bastards stood behind it. Next, I began to wonder how long I'd been in here. It can only have been an hour. Leaving people in solitude for even that much time can make them desperate for human contact, and when they're desperate, they talk. The door opened, and a man in a red ski mask, (not unlike the blue one I was wearing now) slipped in, closing the door behind him. He kept his back to me his hand hesitating on the door knob. He turned around, slapping a file onto the table. It was thin. There couldn't have been more than two sheets in there. He pointed to it, "This is all we know about you as a person." He put a much bigger file on the table, "This is all we know about your work as a spy."
"What are you trying to say?"
He walked around the table, standing behind me. I sensed what he was doing, and frowned, "Take my mask off, and I swear to god I'll bite your damn hand off."
He ignored me, sticking his fingers under the back of my mask, careful not to pull my hair as he yanked it off. The man was wearing gloves. He tossed it on the table in front of me, and it looked how I felt. Like a deflated balloon. I looked up at him, and when we locked eyes, I recognized him as the same agent who'd caught me. Those icy blue eyes were the last things I saw before passing out.
I spit, barely missing his polished shoe, "Is that your way of taking away who I am? I'm telling you right now it won't work, pal. My team is gonna come for me, and once they do, you'll be one sorry bastard."
"You're quite the chatterbox. Would you like something to drink? Water, maybe? Or are you the liquor type?"
I hummed in mock thought, batting my lashes, "Hm, yes, kind sir, I am a little peckish now that you mention it," I growled, "No, I'm not thirsty! If you have questions to ask, just ask them!"
He stood across from me, his palms on the table, "Sorry for upsetting you. I like to try to make people like you feel at home."
"Why?"
He grinned, flipping out a switchblade, and staring at it calmly, "Because you'll be here until you confess, and I know your type. It'll take a while to get you to speak. So get comfortable, because you won't leave this room until you do."
