Greg with the Mouth

Posted on 31 Dec 2016 @ 9:51pm by General ('aj) Ko'raH House of G'Iogh & Chief Warrant Officer 3 Greg Mitchell

2,086 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Episode 12 - Recluse
Location: IKS Neg JoK - Deck 3, Interrogation Chamber
Timeline: MD 03 - 1900 hrs

[ON]

The time was just turning 1900 and already several of Galileo's crew members had been successfully interrogated and returned to their holding cells. For the most part, there had been no visible marks upon them or any indication of excessive torture. The defiant one with the loud mouth known to the guards as 'Greg' was the next in line for questioning; the two Klingons standing outside of the detention chamber motioned for him to step forward before lowering the brig's force field.

"You," a tall Klingon pointed right at his face. "Come with us. Now!" The guard was flanked by two others who displayed no emotion on their faces aside from disdain for anything Federation.

Greg, who was being looked at by his equally wounded fellow security officers, looked at the Klingon. He felt his stomach drop as he knew that it was his turn to face whatever hell the captors wished to impose on him. The attempted breakout had failed and all it left Greg and his men was injuries to all of them. Rivetti had twisted his arm and Wilson had a couple of broken bones over the scuffle.

But Mitchell, having recklessly charged into the fight, had received the worst punishment coming away with a possible broken rib from the kick by one of the guards. With what power he had left, he began to slowly get up.

"Chief, no. Don't." Rivetti pleaded.

Wilson instinctively grabbed Greg's arm, but all the Warrant Officer did was gently pull away. "Stand down men....watch the crew..." He looked at them, "Keep them safe. I shouldn't be long."

"Aye Chief," Wilson said.

"Roger that, Chief," Rivetti responded.

Greg slowly limped over to the Klingon who called his name. Fighting back what pain he had left, he made it to the door of the cell and stepped up to the Klingon.

With what power he had left, Greg stood up straight and looked the captor straight into the eyes. He smiled at the Klingon, "Come on, Ugly. If you wanted to speak to me, all you had to do was ask. No need to get all riled up like a bull in heat."

A large Klingon hand grabbed Greg With the Mouth by his gold collar and dragged him forward. Purposefully, the guard stuck one of his armored boots in between the prisoner's feet, causing him to fall to the ground with little grace. A chorus of chuckles reverberated in the corridor from the other guards present.

"Get up, Federation!" one of the Klingons mocked before giving him a solid kick in the ribs for good measure.

Greg felt the sharp pain increase in his ribs and he had to fight with every inch of his strength to keep from screaming. After taking a few deep breaths, he slowly began to stand back up. "This just in sports fans, that one is going to hurt in the morning."

A disruptor pistol jabbed at the back of Mitchell's shoulders -- a gentle indicator to begin moving. Surrounded by a small entourage, the prisoner was flanked on each side as he was led through the dark and hazy bowels of the Klingon warship. It was a relatively short journey down several winding corridors before they arrived at their destination.

One of the lead guards stepped forward and entered a sequence on a small door's keypad. The entrance hissed open with an ominous creak in its mechanical servos. Inside was a barren chamber which smelled heavily of Klingon musk. In the middle was a simple metal chair with an uncomfortable-looking headrest and several restraint devices embedded into the arm and leg rests. "Sit!" came the command.

Seeing the restraint devices on the chair, Greg rolled his eyes. That friggen figures. He walked over to the chair, "Alright, alright. Don't get your panties in a bunch." Slowly to keep from hurting himself even more, Greg sat down into the chair. He took a moment to survey the room, noting how bare it looked and how crude it seemed. His eyes settled back on the main guard.

"It's not the worst torture room I've ever seen." He commented, "You could throw an air freshener or two in here though."

The metallic arm and leg collars quickly clamped down on Mitchell's extremities once he'd made himself comfortable. They prevented any attempt at escape for the duration of the session. One guard moved past the seated prisoner and stood at the small computer terminal behind him. He tapped away at the idle console which suddenly came to life in a bright display of red and orange Klingon lexicon.

"Tell me your name and rank," came the first question from the interrogator who stood before him, PADD in hand.

Greg sighed, before rattling off the info he had been trained to give. "Chief Warrant Officer Third Class Greg Thomas Mitchell, Serial Number: YW-280-1774". He rolled his eyes before adding another list of information, "Elton John, Rod Stewart, Don Henley, Elvis Presley, Bon Jovi, Whitesnake and Def Leppard."

The interrogator frowned as more names were suddenly rattled off. Apparently the prison was willing to reveal all of his commander and subordinates, much to the Klingon's pleasure. "And what are their ranks and positions?"

"That was a list of old Earth rock and roll singers on my playlist that was on my ship. I was listening to my playlist when you attacked. I really hope you intend to replace that or I'm gonna be really pissed." Greg knew he was stirring up the hornet's nest with his attitude, but really he just loved pissing people off more than anything.

Fire erupted within the guard's eyes. One of them twitched slightly when he comprehended the useless teasing the prisoner was attempting to give him. He brought his large armor-plated fist up and brought it down against the side of Greg's temple. The crack of the blow was beyond satisfaction for the large man who towered over Mitchell. He hoped he would have another opportunity to do it again in a few moments. "Answer me! What is your duty position? Who is your commander?"

Greg recoiled from the pain and grunted loudly, trying to keep from screaming. "Not a big 80's music fan I take it...." Greg looked back at the Klingon. Either he was trying to coax more information out of him, or he legitimately still didn't know who was currently in charge. That means whoever he was talking to before didn't break either. "I'm a Security Officer. I'm just a street cop buddy. If you want info on the workings of the ship, you should have done your homework."

A swift fist assaulted Mitchell's face. Then another, and another, in rapid fire succession from both left and right angles. The barrage of Klingon anger was exemplified by the splattering of blood that emerged on the nearby floor tiles. "A street cop?" he mocked, though not fully understanding the implications of the term. "You bleed like a whore," the Klingon countered with a smirk. "Perhaps you do belong in the streets."

Even through his laid back facade, Greg's sarcasm began to waver. Pain began to feel like his only world now. More pain than he had ever felt before as blow after blow hit his face. All he could do was clench his teeth and grunt as each hit landed and caused more and more bruising. Please, God. Give me the strength. Don't let this guy win.... Slowly he looked back up at the Klingon. Spitting out the blood that had formed in his mouth, and looking through one eye, Greg forced another smile.

"A street cop is a law enforcement officer. Basically, I'm a higher paid janitor. I pick up law breaking junk like you and take them off the streets. You just destroyed my ship, therefore you broke the law in front of me." Greg clenched his fists together. "When I get out of here, I'm going to make you feel pain like you have never felt before."

If, I get out of here...

Greg grinned. "And if we are resorting to insults, you look like your mother screwed the hind end of a dog, and gave birth to the results."

From an unseen position behind the Starfleet chief, a Klingon painstick was suddenly jabbed into the side of his neck. A loud crackle and hiss accompanied bright red electrical sparks which sent painful neurological impulses coursing into Mitchell's spinal column.

For the first time since he arrived, Greg let out a scream of pain. It wasn't a scream of fear, or a scream of sadness. It was a mix of anger and hurt as the pain coursed through his body. He convulsed and had to hold down the nausea that came to him. After what felt like an eternity, the pain went away and Greg looked back up at his captors.

After few gasps of breath, he spoke. "Alright, I get it. You want me to shut up." Through his swollen eye, he looked at the lead interrogator. "I am a Navy NCO. I don't know anything regarding the central command of the ship, so what the hell do you want from me?"

"Who is your commander? What was your mission? Why did you enter our territory?!" came the interrogator's bellowing reply. "Answer my questions and I may let you live... If not, I will enjoy your death and extract the information from you regardless." It was a loaded threat but one which held a worrisome element of truth to it.

"I don't fear death, ugly. My soul is saved. It's you who should fear it." God please be with me..., Greg pleaded, trying to focus his mind to keep the pain from getting to him. "Our mission was to respond to a distress signal. You attacked us out of nowhere you stupid son-of-a-bitch!"

The interrogator slapped him hard, first with a forceful open hand on the right side of his face, then with a backhand on the opposite side. "I will cut your tongue out if you continue your insolence!" he warned. The guard behind him was now busy entering data into his pad when the next series of questions came.

"At what range and bearing did you detect this signal? What was your original destination? Who ordered you to respond to the distress signal?" the Klingon continued.

"Do I look like a pilot to you? The signal was in that general direction." Greg responded, nodding his head to a random direction, "My job was to make sure the ship was running smoothly. And we weren't ordered. The Federation responds to any and every distress signal because we aren't assholes. You ask any one of the rest of my shipmates, and we will tell you the same thing. We were a science ship on a routine science mission to do science stuff that quite frankly I don't understand. But what I do know is that I have been on warships before, and the Galileo wasn't one."

A scowl graced the Klingon's mouth and he threw an arm up in bewilderment. "Your kind have an excuse for everything. It is disgraceful," he judged. "Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I will believe your claims of ignorance?"

"Really, I don't give a shit what you believe." Greg looked back at the Klingon, focusing through his swollen eye, defiant as usual. "I told you what our orders were. I told you what my job was. I've told you everything you need to know. Now either you kill me or you throw me back into my cell. Either way, it's not going to change a thing. We'll all break out of here eventually."

"So be it," the Klingon replied. "I will enjoy breaking your fragile mind. In the end, you will tell me everything including your darkest secrets. And I will stand over you and pity your worthless presence." He looked to the other guard and nodded. From behind Mitchell, sounds could be heard as a semi-spherical contraption was procured from a nearby drawer. The neurological probe would fit snugly over the Starfleet NCO's head and attach itself to his spinal column before painfully probing his neural pathways. For the interrogator, the fun was just beginning.

[OFF]

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Klingon Guards
IKS Neg JoK
Kreanus Fleet
[PNPC Ko'raH]

CWO Greg Mitchell
Security/Tactical Officer
USS Galileo

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