"How long has the prisoner been kept waiting?" Seven asked, sipping at his hot espresso.
"It's been about two hours, sir," a young agent of the Prometheus Initiative said, standing at his heel. The boy - Gregory... Gordon... something starting with 'g' - had been two steps behind him ever since he'd walked into the office this morning.
A prisoner out of the US military base at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba had recently been signed over to the Prometheus Initiative for questioning regarding the events leading up to his arrest about the Ronald Reagan some months ago. All this, of course, was meant to seem very routine and the Prometheus Initiative had sleeper agents in place in key members of many world governments for just such occasions.
"And how is he taking it?" Seven asked, glancing askance at his moray-like hanger-on.
"If I may say, Dr. Carmichael, he doesn't appear to be taking it well at all," Gabriel said, fidgeting a bit. "Apparently, he hates to be kept waiting. Keeps muttering about 'precious seconds' or something like that."
"Interesting," Seven said, downing the last of his coffee and popping an Altoid. "I think it's time we review his file, then, eh?"
Gerald's eyes about popped out of his skull. "Y-you haven't even looked at it yet?"
"What's the point?" Seven answered, snatching a manila file folder from his desk as he stood and began walking. "I want to make sure the information's up there when I talk to him. Y'know, help to keep it fresh." He snapped his fingers as he walked to emphasize his words.
"That's very unorthodox, Doctor," Graham noted as Seven reached the door of the interrogation room.
At that, Seven turned sharply on his heels, looking Gareth square in the eye for the first time since he'd walked in that morning. His grey eyes now seemed hardened and scrutinizing, sizing up the young man who now stood before him. Then, straightening up, Seven's countenance softened suddenly as he smiled extended his hand. "Hi, I'm Seven Carmichael. Have we met?"
"Not officially, sir, no," the young man said, taking Carmichael's hand with vigor and pumping heartily. "I'm Gunter Weiss, and may I just say, sir, what an h--"
Seven jerked his hand away firmly, holding it in front of his face as if suddenly plagued by several flesh-eating viruses that mankind had yet to discover. "Gunter?" he muttered to himself. "Boy, was I off." Then, turning to take the doorknob, he looked the young man in the face once more. "And, may I say, Gunter, that sarcasm is completely lost on you."
And, with that, Seven entered the room.
Gunter Weiss began to explain that Dr. Carmichael was not the first to make such an observation and that was largely due to the fact that, since he was a very young boy, Gunther himself had been training for agency in the Prometheus Initiative and, had he actually been allowed to have friends, concepts like 'humor' and 'sarcasm' might not actually be as foreign to him as they are today.
But Gunter never really got the chance...
...because Seven had slammed the door directly in his face.
The inside of the interrogation room wasn't really anything to write home about at all. It was actually pretty drab, all told. That, of course, was its function. The room had, at one point Seven supposed, been white, but with the addition of flourescent lighting and the wear of age, they had begun to take on a mauvish-puce tinge that was altogether unappealing. A stainless steel table sat in the center of the room, a chair on either side, all bolted to the floor.
On the side of the table opposite where Seven had entered, a man sat, visibly annoyed. He wore the prison-issue orange
jumpsuit, the splash of color making him the first thing noticable in the room full of drab nothingness. His hands were handcuffed to the table before him, ensuring that he wouldn't be doing much movement. His hair was matted and tangled, taking on the style of dreadlocks, some strands arrayed with colorful beadwork. A thin beard clung to his rather perturbed face.
"Took you long enough," the man yelled as Seven entered, curtly slamming the door on Gunter Weiss. "Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting?"
"Actually, I know perfectly well how long you've been waiting, Mister --" Seven quickly turned his file sideways to glance at the name, "Frasier."
"Captain," the man known as Frasier muttered.
"Excuse me?" Seven replied, slipping into the chair across from Frasier.
"Captain," the man said again, louder and seemingly more feral. "Captain Norrin Frasier. Damnation, man, if you must address me, at least do it properly!"
"I see," Seven said, jotting a note across the flap of the file, rather than opening it up. "It would seem, Captain, that we don't have much knowledge of you other than what you've told the US government... and, suffice it to say, they don't believe word one of your story."
"Those insolent jackanapes wouldn't believe the truth if it flew up their asses and laid eggs in their colon," Frasier scoffed.
"I see, so we're one for imagery, aren't we?" Seven said, opening the file before him. "And me having just eaten. Let me see," he skimmed the two pages that comprised the file quickly, getting the gist of what they obtained. "It says here that you were arrested by military personnel aboard the Ronald Reagan for... what, exactly?"
"I was trying to steal the engine," Norrin muttered.
It was all Seven could do to suppress his laughter. "Steal the engine?! My God, man, what did you expect to do, just wheel it out the front door?"
"My crew and I were not... prepared for the... enormity of the situation we were presented with."
"I should say not!" Seven said. "Now, when you say, 'crew,' do you mean...?"
"The crew," he said. "Of my ship."
"Ship?"
"Oh, are all of you neanderthals this daft?" Fraiser yelled, shaking his head in frustration. "I, Captain," he gestured to himself. "Me sail boat. Big boat. Boat with people. Them called crew. Boat called Argolas. It sail through time."
"Alright, firstly," Seven began, "I'm not entirely sure that it's me you should be calling 'daft' or 'neanderthal' after you tried to steal the engine out of a bloody aircraft carrier with nothing more than a scimitar and two pistols."
"Which I'll be wanting back presently!" Frasier interjected.
"Secondly... did you say time?"
Captain Norrin Frasier sat up quickly, his eyes suddenly filled with suspicion. "You said that the government did not believe my stories... what makes you so eager to hear them?"
"Y'see, my friend," Seven said, pulling his silver cigarette case and matching lighter from the breast pocket of his grey houndstooth jacket, "I don't belong to any branch of any government whatsoever. My name is Dr. Seven Carmichael and I represent a unique group of individuals known as the Prometheus Initiative."
Turning the case in Frasier's direction, Seven popped it open. "Care for a cigarette?"
