She’s never been confined before. Not in so many words, at least; for all her parents’ rules and restrictions she’s never been held against her will. They might place limitations on her but it was never like this--never a no without explanation, without compromise, without answers. Seneca was no longer in a mood to entertain a Benefactor who lied to her about the fabric of reality in order to use her. But she had no choice--so she sat, positioned herself stiffly, stared blankly at the shadowy figure she may have been imagining behind opaque glass.
Hello, SENECA. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance.
Her balance was compromised by the constant tapping of her nails on the cold material of her armchair. The sound was metallic.
Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
“Seneca Voix. I am twenty-six years of age, approximately one hundred and seventy centimeters--or five feet seven inches, if you prefer--and I was born on Harbor, in Wrotham.”
Is that your true name and age?
“Yes.” Seneca volunteered nothing further. A long pause ensued, and her tapping took on a pattern before the voice spoke again.
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
The harder question gave her pause. She was frustrated, that was for certain. The Benefactor had told her he’d provide her with information regarding her missing sibling--and instead he’d given her the live sibling to answer questions firsthand. It was not, to say the least, what Seneca had been expecting. “Not currently,” she answered slowly. “I don’t guarantee that answer will remain consistent for the remainder of the...mission.”
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
One arched, perfectly shaped eyebrow rose above her browline, Seneca leaning back in a feigned pose of relaxation. She was as tense as she could be, but the Benefactor’s line of questioning baffled her--and amused her, in a sardonic sort of way. “I am unable to answer the question due to lack of information regarding the mission’s intended accomplishments.” The words came out faster this time, tripping off her tongue glibly. “We discussed my original motivations for joining before my arrival. I have nothing more to add to that.”
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
What was a friend, really? Seneca wasn’t sure she’d ever really had one. Outside of the obvious, and they barely counted, being bound to her by blood first and foremost. “I would not consider anyone a true friend. Orion is the closest thing I have to that, and we have our issues. I imagine...many of the others could be considered my enemies, but not against me personally. They are against what I represent.” The small speech came too easily from her shaking lips; the Voix family taught her well.
Are you loyal to this crew?
“That would depend on your interpretation of loyalty.” There was a reason her parents had loved placing her at the forefront of the dinner conversation with clients. “Blindly allegiant, no. I trust them when the situation calls for it and I will do what I must. We lack ties necessary for true loyalty.”
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions.
The Benefactor considered those not personal?
Do you think the corporation system is fair?
“Fair is not even. It follows the rules and guidelines set down decades beforehand and the corporations operate for legitimate purposes required by society and economical needs. Is it equal for everyone, do you mean? Nothing is equal for everyone, because everyone is not equal.”
Have you ever changed something you liked about yourself to satisfy someone else?
The day she woke up--her insides not her own anymore. Eight years old and her body was changed irrevocably, and there was nothing she could do about it. “No. I only change what is necessary or what I desire for myself.” Seneca had held her composure thus far; now she was beginning to crack. Remembering the first dozen procedures, her parents holding her hands, Orion saying nothing as they stroked her hair when she tried out her new body. Forcing a smile the first time she kept stride with them outside. She hadn’t chosen this, not at first.
Do you think the future is hopeful? Why?
An abrupt turn from the previous question so sudden it gave her whiplash. “Yes, of course,” she stammered out, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Hope is an idea, not a guarantee. All futures have hope if you want them to.”
Finally, do you believe your surname has hindered you?
Another easy one. The Benefactor had strange definitions of personal questions. “It has done the opposite for me. I have had wonderful opportunities and a large support system as I aged. Being a Voix is far from a hindrance.” Unless, of course, you were here, surrounded by revolutionaries and murderers. “Is that all?”
Pyre entered the room slowly, scoping out the space as he entered. It was a cold room, one that reminded him of interrogation rooms on the base. Empty and uninviting; discomfort was ideal for getting answers. He walked towards the machine and the table, sitting down and immediately recognizing the set-up as a lie detector. Glancing up, he noticed the glass. A one way mirror. It was confusing to him why this was here. What did the Benefactor need to know that wouldn’t come willingly? Slowly, he hooked the wires to himself, waiting for the computer to come to life.
Hello, PYRE. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance.
“Sounds good,” he gave a strained smile. This wouldn’t be his first lie detector test. The military had required him periodically to take one, especially as the rebels and the riots grew to be more aggressive. He knew how they worked and how accurate they could be. It was always better to the tell the truth, he’d learned, no matter how terrible that truth was. Never had he gotten away with a lie on one of them, earning himself unnecessary disappointed looks from his superiors. While he had no idea what would be asked--he assumed details of their first mission--Pyre decided upon hooking himself to the machine that it would be better to tell the truth and not risk looking untrustworthy to his new employer. And, if he was right (and he knew he was), the Benefactor had to be watching.
Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
“Pyre Coren,” he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. “Twenty-eight. Six foot two. Wrotham.”
Is that your true name and age?
“Yes,” Pyre said without hesitation, glancing forward at the screen, waiting it to flash back green. It was odd that he felt nervous, and he clenched his fist, hoping the feeling would go away.
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
This had been something he’d been wondering to himself lately, especially after they landed back in Wrotham. Pyre couldn’t help but imagine where he would be now if the Benefactor had never come to him. The answer was so obvious: exactly where he was before, a military man stuck in the dirt for reasons out of his control. The answer to the question asked was just as obvious, but funny enough, not for the reasons he had thought it would. The mission wasn’t just an escape; in it all, he had found some joy as well.
“No,” he answered after a moment pause, nodding his head to himself as he said it. “No, I do not.”
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
If Pyre was being honest, the purpose of mission had been lost on him. All he really cared about was completing his role: protect the ship, and make sure the excursions went as planned. While he understood that perhaps there was some importance to the mission he had been recruited for, it wasn’t what he dwelled on, and it wasn’t what kept him moving forward.
“The mission gave me a purpose. A purpose I’ve sworn to fight for, and I will,” he started after a moment, pausing and looking at the flashing light, knowing fully well that it wasn’t the entire truth. He shook his head, continuing. “But no, I do believe in it. Only the chance it has given me.”
Tell the truth, Pyre. You can’t be afraid of the truth--no matter how much it hurts.
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
“I have a respect for everyone on board. Some I work better with than others, namely Cypress and Orion.” He paused, knowing that he had failed to mention the first person who came to mind when he thought of people he trusted on board the Concord. Absentmindedly, he traced his finger along the scar on his neck before continuing. “And Eretreia,” he didn’t know why he hesitated, why he was so shy to say it, “She... we... I trust her. She’s my friend.”
When he thought of enemies, only one person came to mind, one he would rather not consider an enemy, if he was being honest. But the man’s apparent hatred for Pyre didn’t fade with any offers to talk or drink, and it was something Pyre had yet to understand. “Fox does not like me. But I don’t consider him an enemy.”
Are you loyal to this crew?
Without hesitation, he knew his loyalty to his job. He knew his loyalty to his employer and his commander. He knew his loyalty to his mother, and he knew his loyalty to a better, structured world. But, he had to pause and think about his loyalty to the crew.
“I think I am,” he said after a minute. “But I’m not sure why.”
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions.
Pyre nodded silently, waiting.
What’s your relationship with your father like?
Pyre froze mid-nod as soon as he heard the word father leave the machine. In the next moment, he was drowning, not able to move, his eyes staring blankly ahead at the machine. His first feeling was confusion--why would the Benefactor be asking this? Did he not already know? What relevance was it to the mission? He had to suppress his desire to question the Benefactor, and quickly shut his mouth when the words nearly left it. The feeling of shock left quickly, replaced with a feeling so much more frightening: the feeling of emptiness. The feeling of terror and guilty. It kept him glued in his seat. It kept his eyes glazed over.
“Non-existent,” he said after he could find his voice again, the words coming out more hoarse than he had anticipated. Pyre shut his eyes, trying to block it all out, but could feel the stinging tears begin to pool as he lost himself more and more in his thoughts. He needed to relax. There was no point in lying; the Benefactor would know if Pyre was lying. He just needed to answer the question, and it could be over. “I have not spoken to my father in over twelve years. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead,” a second passed, and Pyre opened his eyes again, his voice dropping further. “I hope he’s dead.”
The light flashed green.
What’s a misconception people often think of you?
His mind still elsewhere, lost in thoughts of his father, Pyre hardly heard the next question. Feeling already drained, he did not bother the power to say anything but the first truth he knew.
“People think when they meet me, because I enlisted so early and because of my dedication, that I... they think,” he paused, taking a deep breath. He’s not here. It was just a question, and it is over. “They think, I... that I want more than I do. I don’t want to be a hero. I just want something to live for.”
It is common for one’s view of authority to develop in their adolescent years. What is your view of authority, and what event most affected it?
“I respect all authority. I have since I was young. Nothing ever really affected it,” he spoke fast, eager to get the words out, glancing at the ground. He was bouncing his seat, trying his hardest to concentrate and get his head back in the game. When this was over, he would need to hit something. And he would need-
Not hearing the next question, Pyre looked up mid-thought, only to see the light still flashing red. His heart dropped.
No, that wasn’t the truth, was it?
“My father affected it.”
Red.
The tears were back, and his heart was racing. He couldn’t stop or control it, not the blood in his ears nor the pit in his stomach. Pyre doubled over in his seat, pressed the flats of his palms to his eyes. They were wet with tears.
“Don’t....” he trailed off, knowing it wasn’t any good. Don’t make me say it, he wanted to say. He was willing to beg not to go there, not to see what still haunted him in his worst nightmares. Pyre didn’t want to be there, not when he didn’t have to. Brief glimpses in his dreams had him done for for a week, a man less than himself. But this...
The Benefactor is asking. You’re loyalty is with him. You have to.
“I was seven. I came home and found my dad...,” when he spoke again, his voice changed to as monotone as he could keep it, desperate to get through it. For it to be over. But, he choked, struggling to keep his vision on the light. Until it turned, he would keep delivering details. Then, it would be over. “He was standing over my mom. He hit her. Twice. She was crying, and begging, but he didn’t listen to her. He walked over to me and he...”
Green.
Pyre let out a sigh.
He felt like screaming.
Finally, do you consider yourself selfless? Do you think leaving your mother behind was an altruistic action?
Finally. That meant one more. He could do it. Pyre felt raw. It was terrible. When the question came through, he hardly blinked an eye. All he wanted was for it to stop. He’d give him what he wanted for it to stop. No matter what it took.
“No,” he was still hunched over in his chair, his face resting on his palms. The only thing in his vision were the lights. When they turned green, he could go. “If I was selfless, I wouldn’t be here. I would be with my mother. Leaving her behind was the worst, most selfish thing I have ever done.”
When the light turned green, he stood up, surprised his legs still worked. He heard the words, a thank you he wanted to cry at, and followed directions despite his desire to do the opposite. Emptiness was the best word he had for what he was feeling, but he didn’t feel nothing. Pyre wished he could feel nothing, that all the pain would just disappear. Deep down, though, he felt something more than pain. There was anger--resentment for who had made him sit here and talk about the worst things that had ever happened to him. It terrified him.
There’s something maddeningly intimate for Kallia about sitting in an empty room, her own gaze staring at nothingness whilst another stares back. She’s not comfortable within this position - feels somewhat restless, but she sits upon the only chair with the caution of a feral cat. Though others have been before her, the spines of some shrink whilst others fought with all which exists within this space, she is doubtful of what awaits. She does not feel sorrow for her past, does not mourn the lives she stole away, and family is an evidently unfamiliar notion.
“There’s something about blank walls and prying eyes which makes me feel right at home.”
Hello, KALLIA. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance. Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
She sighs a little too early, sinks into the chair she is perched upon and brings her leg across the other. The information, she assumes, is already before them; large font, black against white.
"Kallia Wexler, thirty-four, five feet and three inches, Wrotham,” she thinks, can’t recall exactly - a vast part of her life is mostly smudged and forgotten.
Is that your true name and age?
“You tell me,” she pauses, half disbelief, half absurdity. “You’re the one with the records.”
A tedious state manifests even more so - rears its head between them - and her fingers begin to rattle against the metallic table. She drums out a monotonous beat, hopes it irritates the nearby enigma.
“Besides, what reason do I have to lie?”
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
For some, she imagines the question strikes an interest, tugs their chin upwards and eradicates the vacancy in their expression. For Kallia, who opts to pinch herself in response - tugging at the flesh between her thumb and index finger, she wishes to evade the moment before them; trade their company for something which does not lure a groan from the depth of her stomach.
“I’m still here.” Even if it was unwanted by the many. “We both know I’d have hightailed it out of here otherwise.”
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
“I don’t care -” she says it like an oath, as if she has sworn to something godlike to never feel otherwise, “you wanted me, you’re paying me and I fight because that’s what I was made for.” She talks about herself as if she was not once organic - as if that life had been torched at the edges and gone up in full flame.
“And that’s what you want, isn’t it? You wouldn’t choose someone who doubted this mission, who didn’t willingly kiss your ass. You offer us money - a clean slate, we’re all just about willing to shine your shoes for you.”
Her anonymity meant her survival, and, above all else, that was the most pivotal.
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
It’s a casual and purposeful question all at once, riddled with the desire to pick you apart - to determine who your fight is for. She knows its herself, convinces her another could not be symmetrical in importance, but she doubts her response for a moment - friends and enemies are all blurred lines.
“I don’t care about any of them.”
Them who observe her, them who do not feed into her existence.
The light flashes violently, coupled with a violent hum, and she calls its bluff. There is confusion on her features, shrouding something once relaxed, but she holds her composure and mutters beneath her breath.
“I’m telling you the truth.”
They tap at the glass, demand she think harder, and the insistence pulls her heart into her throat. Though she may be familiar with the taste of metal, there is something about this which is hard to swallow.
She pauses, thinks, and then, unintentionally, she acknowledges something - someone.
Someone of a soul so equal in intensity that she feels almost safe.
“-Thane.”
Are you loyal to this crew?
A life of a criminal is not synonymous with loyalty - you do not cling to companions, place importance in lasting relationships, nor do you believe the company of many is a worthy life choice. Though, of course, the matter would be entirely different if it was done so with purpose - if your chosen companion possessed immense fortune or connections which better you.
Though the sentiment for Kallia was unknown, she did not choose it deliberately. She grew bored of others quickly, squeezed them of their use and deemed them worthless.
And although the many prefer to act saintly, she has seen it from others too; heard of those who cast aside family for their beliefs, broke loyalty to perform how they so choose.
She was no different, but her intentions often were.
“Like everyone else should be, I’m loyal to my paycheck. You don’t get things done by playing happy family.”
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions.
“Thrilling.”
Do you believe violence is capable of solving most matters?
Ask her this as a child, all doe-eyes and plump cheeks, and she would have feared the stories of violence; cowered at the sight of destruction, cried at the prospect of monsters. Ask her this now, she will remind you she is merely a product of it.
“Let me behind that glass and you can ask the question again.”
She lifts her chin instinctively, tightens her jaw. She’s not scared of them, nor The Benefactor - and they knew sure as hell what words would leave such pink lips.
“Words are no less important, though people do an awful lot of things for you when they’re running scared.”
How are you likely to react in conflict, or disputes between the crew?
She smiles in response, far sweeter than the norm, and recalls the onlookers of her fellow crew. She imagines them waiting for something of substance - carefully selected words which may aid them in their comfort. Although careful, this brain of hers does not think to profess something of kindness. There is, after all, a lie detector within several inches of her petite frame.
“Go for the throat.”
Do you fear Wexler Corporations may get their hands on you once more?
You can see the reaction in the sudden flash of something venomous, how her dark eyes have exchanged boredom for something far more toxic - something of poison. Her lips part, her stare hooked on her own reflection, before she coughs up something rehearsed.
“I don’t fear anything,” she snarls, welcomes the silence which follows. It’s short-lived, the machine hums once more and she is asked to alter her response.
Her fingernails dig into her palms, whiten the flesh for mere seconds, until she readjusts her position into something more comfortable. There is a segregation of who she once was and who she swears she never will be again. Her fear has been exchanged for purpose, her past erased, and still she cannot scrub out the years of torture drilled into her. They stick you with all things sharp, and the subject flinches, and for a moment, Kallia almost does too - her mind a flurry of all that she has lived.
“Fuck you.” Her metal heart would crumble if it were organic, her blood pressure rising with every second she dwell on the matter. She itches at the bar code at the crook of her neck, tries to claw the scar free from her flesh, but it shall stay there until she is nothing more than bone.
“You’d fear them too if you knew what the hell they were capable of.”
Finally, is there anything which could deter you from completing your goal?
It’s all a game she knows well - grow curious to one’s loyalty, tar them with an equal stroke as any other. Though she wishes she were more capable of testing these waters, but she knows whoever resides beyond the glass has an answer already perched upon their tongue.
Her actions are robotic, her emotions are robotic, she is robotic.
They had built her this way, after all. A pretty enough weapon to fight a fight they had long since feared - one their organic flesh and bone could not endure.
“Nothing can deter me from my goals,” she speaks with no compassion, her lips a straight line. “Not even if you bastards stand in the way.”
And then she leaves with no further response, adorning armour no tougher than her insides.
Hello, SENECA. Let’s start with something easy, just to find our balance. Please state your name, age, height and place of birth for the record.
There’s a sort of steel to the fear in Seneca’s eyes; a contrary courage in the way her hands tap unsteadily on the table. Princesses aren't built for interrogation, after all. Nevertheless, she licks her lips, and hoists her head up a little. “My name is Seneca Voix. I'm twenty-eight years old, and I was born here, on Wrotham, in Harbor.” She pauses. “All of which I’m sure you know. I believe I'm 5’5”, but after my modifications, it’s hard to keep track.”
Is that your true name and age?
Seneca blinks at this question, considering it for half a beat. Her pale features and golden hair stick out like a sore thumb in the room, and as the computer beeps consistently, she tries to tamp down the irrational fear that she’ll be caught out in a lie she wasn't even aware she was telling.
“I believe that it would be very difficult for a Voix heir to pretend like they were anything otherwise,” she says carefully, ever the linguist. She’s meticulous in shaping each word, making sure she’s chosen the right one, the one she thinks the Benefactor wants to hear. “As for my age…” She runs a finger along her palm experimentally. “My skin might not wrinkle, but I swear that it's true. You can check the records, if you'd like.” The machine beeps, a little perilously, and in a smaller voice Seneca adds, “Or you can just ask Orion.”
After six months on a mission, do you regret accepting being part of this crew?
This question is a little harder to grasp, simply because she isn't sure. She's never been very good at making decisions, or being impulsive, after all.
“I think that if I had stayed with my parents in Harbor, something awful might have happened,” she says slowly, eyes evasive. “Like nothing happening at all. I don't regret taking the chance.” She hesitates here, though, gaze flickering from the lie detector to the hands resting neatly on her lap. Does she regret it? It's a tricky question, layered with complexities she’s not ready to explore quite yet. Sometimes, though, her efforts seem futile, and a little fruitless.
A beat, and then - “However, I may regret the ways I chose to try and fix my mistakes. I should have explored my options, instead of grabbing the first ticket out.”
Do you believe in what this mission is trying to accomplish or are you here for different reasons? If so, what are they?
“Yes,” says Seneca quickly, the word feeling oddly shaped in her mouth. Predictably, the machine beeps a little more viciously, and she pauses for a second to savour her thoughts. “I’m not sure why I’m here. Maybe it’s just because I didn’t want to be there. Or because it’s precisely the sort of things that my parents warn me not to do.”
Her heart thumps loudly in the silence, but the lie detector still sits ominously in front of her. She’s not sure why she keeps speaking, but something compels her to squeeze her eyes shut.
“I think that sometimes... I can’t help but do whatever I’m asked to. The Benefactor asked me. I answered.”
Do you have any friends on board? Any enemies?
Her eyes flicker downwards momentarily, mouth twisting into a shy little. “I'm not very good at making friends. Only child syndrome, I suppose.” Although you aren’t an only child, a voice reminds sharply. “As for enemies... I suspect my surname is making quick work of that.”
Are you loyal to this crew?
“Depends on your definition of loyal,” Seneca considers. “To an extent, yes. Some more than others, maybe.” The machine teeters precariously, and she hesitates. “But I think I’ll always have ties to other things.”
Interesting. Very interesting. Now, if you don’t mind, let’s skip ahead to some more personal questions. Do you think the corporation system is fair?
Seneca bites her tongue sharply. So they’re skipping to the hard-hitting topics with no mercy. That’s fine. Seneca has been brought up to talk her way out of things.
“I---” she stutters, and immediately regrets feeding the fire. “I believe that it’s hard to find a perfect system to suit everyone. Sometimes---” this said several tones quieter, “---I think that both sides of the situation are blinded by the things they do and don’t have. In the end, everyone’s only out for themselves, no matter how much they preach for the greater good.” A deep inhale, fingers skittering across the table anxiously. “But obviously, I’ve found flaws in the system. Everything I thought I knew about our galaxy has turned out to be untrue. What’s to say both sides aren’t lying? I’m here to uncover the truth for myself.”
Have you ever changed something you liked about yourself to satisfy someone else?
Unconsciously, her fingers reach up to tangle in her golden hair. Her breathing suddenly sounds mechanical and plastic, despite how impossible it is.
“I’ve changed a lot of things about myself to satisfy others,” she murmurs, very quietly. “Some of them I’ve even regretted. I lost my humanity to my family, and my bravery to my sibling. Sometimes I don’t think there’s a single part of me that hasn’t been adjusted for others.” She smiles, a little wryly. “I’m being used now too, aren’t I? For this mission, for my linguist skills. Not everybody is as immune to it as they seem. We’re all using each other for some thing or another.”
Do you think the future is hopeful? Why?
“No. Yes! I... I don’t know,” she admits, a little shakily. “I think that we have the capacity, as humans, to change the way we work. Our ancestors did it. Surely our generation hasn’t evolved past the point of salvation. I think...” There’s a long pause, and finally, she nods jerkily, as if the optimism has been drawn out of her. “I think there’s hope. I don’t know if it lies in me, but I believe that it’s there.”
Finally, do you believe your surname has hindered you?
She thinks of the decadence she’d been treated to as a child; the pretty things and the shiny lies and a plethora of other unspoken things. She compares herself to the rest of the crew, to Orion, who has found a sense of purpose that Seneca never has.
