Post by William Luther on Jan 1, 2013 21:30:52 GMT
OOC: I’m feeling like something dark. Be warned.
The Dusseldorf basement was dark. A heavy smell hung in the air, an entirely unpleasant one that was unfortunately necessary. The concrete walls were stained, and the discoloured grout between the haphazard tiles on the floor gave away the purpose of the room when the flicking lightbulb dangling from the ceiling highlighted them. From the outside, nothing was to give away what the building contained, save the frenzied noises coming from the basement, but everybody in the city knew what it was. The building was the Gestapo headquarters, and the basement was where many confessions were obtained.
Standing by the stairs, the new Leutnant William Luther was growing impatient. He wasn’t involved with the interrogation – however loosely the word was used – and instead had brought along a group of Brandenburgers to assist the Gestapo who were low in personnel for their sting operation. They knew competing networks of enemy spies were in the city, Soviet, British, American, and they had one captured now tied to a chair. Using a new technology of radio triangulation they had found where the coded messages were being transmitted from and it was now just a matter of finding out whom the ringleader of this British spy was. From there, a location would be found and a trap sprung. The Leutnant’s sleeves were folded up, against regulations but the room was growing warm, and arms folded as he silently observed the work of the Gestapo. By now the spy was bloodied and bruised and now wires trailed from a power box on the wall to three clamps around the man’s nipples and penis. A doctor was leaning over him, a stethoscope over the spy’s fluttering heart.
Growing impatient, Luther took a few steps either way, easing the strain in his legs. After arriving last night, and a troubled sleep disturbed by British air raids he had spent the last 6 hours in this room. A low cloud of cigarette smoke hung as the six loyal Germans had found ways to try and last the session. Obviously the spy had had no such consideration and instead had been allowed the watch the Germans smoking (to their credit, the Germans had allowed him to enjoy the cigarette butts. Welts around his eyes attested to that), and enjoying the cut lunch sent from the barracks a block away. Although, it was debatable as to who was being tortured more with that food.
The doctor looked towards the agent stood by the power box, “He can’t take much more.” Stopping momentarily to throw a backhand and knocking out even more teeth, the doctor walked away towards the air vent, allowing him to breath. The head interrogator stepped forwards, every inch menacing, “You hear that, bitch?” he spat, towering over the defeated spy, “So I’ll tell you simply how this will work. We could kill you now nicely, Herr Luther can organise a firing squad and it will be quick and easy, or, you can stay in this room for months, years, however long we need you to talk.”
A heavy silence hung, the spy spitting blood on the floor before rasping out a few words. “Freidrick Strasse… Look for Werner.” The silence resumed. After a week of being stuck in this room without a morsel of food or a drop of water he had finally given them some straight information. The interrogator walked over to a desk and checked notes, scribbling something down before walking back around the spy, punching him hard in the stomach over already broken ribs. Another shout of agony echoed off the walls before the spy patted the man on the head. “Thank you, was that so hard?” To the rest of the room he spoke, “It agrees with what his friend from last week said. I think we can work off of this.”
As they turned to step outside, the man at the junction box – Luther had long since forgotten his name – pulled the switch filling the room with screams and the smell of sizzling skin. The screams reached a climax before cutting off and the switch was cut. The interrogator calmly walked over, and punched the executioner in the face, “What the fuck did you do that for? We might have needed him still!” Not wanting to involve himself in the fight, Luther walked outside, enjoying the feel of the dying October sunlight on his skin and rolled down the sleeves of his tunic. Reaching in to his pockets, a packet of cigarettes came out and a lighter and he offered it to the men who had followed him out. A few minutes to themselves would be acceptable before they went up to the much nicer offices to plan.
The Dusseldorf basement was dark. A heavy smell hung in the air, an entirely unpleasant one that was unfortunately necessary. The concrete walls were stained, and the discoloured grout between the haphazard tiles on the floor gave away the purpose of the room when the flicking lightbulb dangling from the ceiling highlighted them. From the outside, nothing was to give away what the building contained, save the frenzied noises coming from the basement, but everybody in the city knew what it was. The building was the Gestapo headquarters, and the basement was where many confessions were obtained.
Standing by the stairs, the new Leutnant William Luther was growing impatient. He wasn’t involved with the interrogation – however loosely the word was used – and instead had brought along a group of Brandenburgers to assist the Gestapo who were low in personnel for their sting operation. They knew competing networks of enemy spies were in the city, Soviet, British, American, and they had one captured now tied to a chair. Using a new technology of radio triangulation they had found where the coded messages were being transmitted from and it was now just a matter of finding out whom the ringleader of this British spy was. From there, a location would be found and a trap sprung. The Leutnant’s sleeves were folded up, against regulations but the room was growing warm, and arms folded as he silently observed the work of the Gestapo. By now the spy was bloodied and bruised and now wires trailed from a power box on the wall to three clamps around the man’s nipples and penis. A doctor was leaning over him, a stethoscope over the spy’s fluttering heart.
Growing impatient, Luther took a few steps either way, easing the strain in his legs. After arriving last night, and a troubled sleep disturbed by British air raids he had spent the last 6 hours in this room. A low cloud of cigarette smoke hung as the six loyal Germans had found ways to try and last the session. Obviously the spy had had no such consideration and instead had been allowed the watch the Germans smoking (to their credit, the Germans had allowed him to enjoy the cigarette butts. Welts around his eyes attested to that), and enjoying the cut lunch sent from the barracks a block away. Although, it was debatable as to who was being tortured more with that food.
The doctor looked towards the agent stood by the power box, “He can’t take much more.” Stopping momentarily to throw a backhand and knocking out even more teeth, the doctor walked away towards the air vent, allowing him to breath. The head interrogator stepped forwards, every inch menacing, “You hear that, bitch?” he spat, towering over the defeated spy, “So I’ll tell you simply how this will work. We could kill you now nicely, Herr Luther can organise a firing squad and it will be quick and easy, or, you can stay in this room for months, years, however long we need you to talk.”
A heavy silence hung, the spy spitting blood on the floor before rasping out a few words. “Freidrick Strasse… Look for Werner.” The silence resumed. After a week of being stuck in this room without a morsel of food or a drop of water he had finally given them some straight information. The interrogator walked over to a desk and checked notes, scribbling something down before walking back around the spy, punching him hard in the stomach over already broken ribs. Another shout of agony echoed off the walls before the spy patted the man on the head. “Thank you, was that so hard?” To the rest of the room he spoke, “It agrees with what his friend from last week said. I think we can work off of this.”
As they turned to step outside, the man at the junction box – Luther had long since forgotten his name – pulled the switch filling the room with screams and the smell of sizzling skin. The screams reached a climax before cutting off and the switch was cut. The interrogator calmly walked over, and punched the executioner in the face, “What the fuck did you do that for? We might have needed him still!” Not wanting to involve himself in the fight, Luther walked outside, enjoying the feel of the dying October sunlight on his skin and rolled down the sleeves of his tunic. Reaching in to his pockets, a packet of cigarettes came out and a lighter and he offered it to the men who had followed him out. A few minutes to themselves would be acceptable before they went up to the much nicer offices to plan.
