Beetee doesn’t know what he expected when he glanced
into the makeshift holding cell, a white room with a two-way mirror
forming the majority of one wall, but it’s certainly not what he
sees —— the woman looks nothing like what she is. Even in the
plain uniform of District 13, she exudes regality, poise ; there’s
intelligence in her eyes, yet despite the likelihood that she’s fully
aware of the implications of her capture, she seems perfectly at
ease. It’s possibly a facade, but Beetee can’t glean anything else
from her expression, and he’s certain that it’s not simply his own
ineptitude at such things as he regards the personnel who sit in
front of the mirror ; they whisper among themselves, shooting
Jeanine Matthews looks of varying perplexity. Shouldn’t she be
afraid? Shouldn’t there some trace of anger, or perhaps denial?
She’s a MONSTER, that much is certain,
and evidently quite comfortable being outed
as such. It sends a chill up Beetee’s spine.
From his right, someone gives him a nod, and, steeling himself, Beetee
enters the room. Jeanine sits in a chair at a simple interrogation table ;
there’s a gap in lieu of a second chair in front of her, and he comes to a
stop just before it, near enough that he can rest his elbows on the table
if he so chooses. He studies the woman’s hands, at first, because he
finds himself unable, or perhaps unwilling, to meet her eyes. Several
moments pass in silence, in which Beetee straightens a small stack of
notes and files ; then, he can stall no more, and he lifts his gaze.
“May I call you Jeanine,
or do you prefer ‘Miss Matthews’?”
She might as well be the personification of serenity as she sits, hands lightly
clasped, a hint of a smile on her features, enveloped in the silence and sterility
of the white room. It is, after all, an environment she's quite comfortable in --
despite the lack of beeping she's used to from the machines that would be
strapped to her own test subjects, of course. She's spent her time here simply
observing the goings on in District 13; from the rough treatment of the guards
to the curious observers behind a glass wall, there are some things that are
oddly reminiscent of the Capitol prisons. There's a part of her, buried deep
down under cold logic, that finds the striking similarities amusing -- the Capitol
cells were considerably cleaner than those here in 13, it's true, but for all their
self-righteousness, there's little difference between the rebels and the Capitol
in the way they would treat a human being. She's under no illusions that she
has a moral high-ground to take -- she is President Snow's psychological
torture expert, after all -- but what's amusing enough to leave her smiling is
that she, unlike those in charge of the petty rebellion, is not blind to her own
monstrous nature. She gave up her humanity for her work. It's a fact she's
well aware of, and has found ways to be proud of over the years. Jeanine
can't help but wonder, however, if the rebels would own up to their own
hypocrisy. It's amusing to her that these fearless rebels, so eager to free
mankind, would treat prisoners no better than the monsters they wish to
defeat.
As the door opens, her eyes lift and immediately she's observing in a way
that would make inexperienced interrogators uncomfortable. Her gaze fixes on
the man as he wheels his way across the room, following his every move and
absorbing every detail as her mind works to study her newest visitor. She sits
straight in her chair, the picture of grace and ease as if she's not at the mercy
of her enemies. There has yet to be an interrogator smart enough to earn her
respect or calm enough to snatch the control from her hands -- this is her room;
her interrogation. The only saving grace for the man whose identity she's well
aware of is that she knows of his work, and there's little she respects more than
erudition.
"Jeanine is fine. May I offer you some advice to pass on to your leaders?
Poor living conditions have a negative affect on the human mind. If your
people seek to gain any information from any prisoners, they may want to
at least show their guests the courtesy of a clean cell. I've withheld that
information up until now, but I know you're a man of intelligence. You'll
know the truth of my words. For the best chance of information retrieval,
prisoners must be treated as well as your work allows. I can assure you,
Mr Latier, you will retrieve no information from me."
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