Either that or I've been drawn to the dark side.
I promise I will finish it, though.
Anyway, spoilers for Brutus and The Janus List, neither of which I own, just like I don't own the rest of the show.
E is for Enemy
Raymond, the CIA agent, was the last to enter the conference room. The prisoner stopped listening to all the chatter about exotic poisons and focused microwave beams and accidentally-on-purpose arranging for a Chinese agent to be at the right place at the right time and slumped lower in his seat.
He could scarcely remember a time before this nightmare he was trapped in; he'd had a home, a life, position, reputation, respect, the courage of his convictions--none of which seemed real anymore. He'd had an older brother, too, and while trying to make his older brother's death right he'd been caught and handed off to Agent Raymond. Agent Raymond, in turn, had delivered him to the constant pain and humiliation that was now his reality, that he thought must have been going on for years, for an eternity.
But if that was the case, Raymond should look older, worn down. Used up. Yet somehow the agent looked exactly the same: tall, slender, brown hair cut short, blue eyes and fair skin. Even a dimple in his chin. The All-American Boy, grown up and handed a gun, given a license to ruin lives.
The prisoner suddenly realized he may not have been in Hell for very long. After all, one of the first things they took away from someone in his position was a sense of time passing. Knowledge of the outside world. An identity. No real surprise that years' worth of torture had taken place in only a few months.
Besides, when Raymond handed him over, the agent probably got a commendation and an extra week's vacation. No wonder he looked so chipper.
The prisoner sighed. Understanding what was being done to him and why had never helped him cope as much as he'd hoped, but he tried to be philosophical about it.
Agent Raymond paused behind the one empty seat at the conference table, mumbling apologies as he scanned the faces of the other attendees. The prisoner sank down even farther, but it was impossible to hide; when Raymond's eyes settled on the one orange prison jumpsuit in a sea of grays and blacks and navy blues, he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, if it isn't Dr. Dry-"
Pain stabbed behind the prisoner's eyes, and he gasped. "Please."
"What's wrong?"
"That's not who he is anymore," said the man at the head of the table. Deputy Director Curtis.
Agent Raymond's head jerked slightly. "Then what do I call him? Marcus?"
"We haven't decided yet, Agent." Perhaps the Deputy Director part was a title, like "Agent"; the prisoner wasn't so clear on the concept of identifiers anymore, but there were other people at the table who answered to "Deputy Director," so he was inclined to go with the title hypothesis. He did know it wasn't fair that all these men and women seated around the table had names of their own when he had nothing.
"Please, sit down, Agent Raymond."
Raymond nodded. One last glance across the table, and he sat and clasped his hands in front of him, looking quietly attentive.
"Have you been briefed about why we called you in?"
Agent Raymond scanned the faces around the table and nodded. He cleared his throat. "I understand we have a bit of a situation--"
"Problem, Agent, problem," said Curtis. "I hate these damned euphemisms. How can you deal with something if you can't even call it what it is?"
Agent Raymond blushed.
Curtis waved off his embarrassment. "We have a small problem, and I very much intend to keep it from getting any bigger. We've been discussing several options for taking care of this problem, one of which involves our friend here." He nodded toward the prisoner, who sat very still.
Discomfort forgotten, Raymond studied him. "You're already making progress," he said, excitement coloring his words. "See what you can do when you have the resources?"
The prisoner looked away.
Curtis chuckled. "And through an amazing coincidence, the FBI team that introduced us to our friend is also intimately involved with our little problem." He nodded to a woman even younger than Raymond, whose fingers danced over the keys of a laptop computer. Three FBI identification photos appeared on the screen behind Curtis. The prisoner straightened in his chair. He recognized them all--the pretty woman with long brown hair, the genial-looking black man, the dark-haired man with piercing dark eyes. He frowned. Where was the younger man with sandy-brown hair?
We have a small problem.
Oh. Exotic poisons, focused microwave beams, and Chinese agents were starting to make more sense.
"Given what you know of our friend's methods, which of these three would you recommend he work with?"
Apparently Agent Raymond was a little brighter than he seemed. Or perhaps he'd heard the rumors. Either way, he didn't mention the missing FBI agent. "May I ask--"
"No, you may not."
"I'll need to know."
The prisoner cringed, as shocked as everyone else that he'd spoken. Permission, you need permission to speak-- He tried to cover his mouth as though to deny his words, but his wrist shackles were attached to a hook under the table and the chain snapped taut with his hands at the level of his throat.
No one hit him or sprayed ice water in his face or shocked him. The black hood did not come down. Curtis merely raised an eyebrow. "We don't have time to go into the whole mess right now. You'll be briefed later."
The prisoner stared, while his hands slowly closed into fists.
"Very well." Curtis sighed. "A betrayal. That's all I'll tell you at this point."
The prisoner let his hands fall to his lap and turned to Raymond. "I need anger." His voice felt rusty, unused. He quelled the impulse to clear his throat. "Does that help you?"
Raymond blinked. "I would think--" He looked back to the screen, rubbed at his jaw. "The team leader, I would think."
"He is angry? He has outbursts?"
Raymond rubbed his jaw again and smiled. "Oh, yes."
"Are you sure?" A new voice; everyone turned to look at the speaker. Yet another Deputy Director in an expensive suit--dark blue, this time. Tompkins? He frowned at Raymond, at Curtis, at the prisoner. "Are you sure none of the others are suitable? What about the partner?"
"What's wrong, Bob?"
Tompkins shook his head. "I believe the lead agent is the older brother of one of my best consultants. I'd rather not upset him."
"We all have to make sacrifices, Bob."
"Unnecessary sacrifices get us nothing," Tompkins snapped, and the prisoner watched, wide-eyed. To think that this Tompkins could disagree... Defiance hadn't been possible for the prisoner for years.
He looked at Raymond again. No. Only a few months.
An idea began to take shape.
Curtis grimaced. Then, with a slight shrug, he turned back to Agent Raymond. "You heard the man. What about the other two?"
Raymond shook his head slowly. "The woman, Reeves, was upset with our goals, but merely verbalized her displeasure. I didn't interact with Sinclair enough to form an opinion."
"I've seen his file," said Curtis. "He went through a lot of conflict avoidance training when he was younger. No reports of outbursts. While Eppes--" he cast an apologetic look at Tompkins-- "apparently does have a temper. He's also in therapy."
"Therapy?" The prisoner tried to clamp down on the giddy feeling talking freely gave him. "I'll need the notes."
Curtis nodded. "Can you do it?" he asked, ignoring Tompkins' sigh.
The prisoner stared at him, unnerved. Curtis was asking his considered opinion. As though he mattered. Curtis wasn't screaming at him, or hitting him, or belittling the size of his manhood. The prisoner shrank into himself a little, looking from side to side. This must be a trap. He'd say the wrong thing, get dragged from the room--
"Can you do it?"
The prisoner was jarred into a response. "Do you want the full protocol?"
"Of course I want the full protocol. Any solution we find to this problem needs to police itself."
The prisoner stared at the photo of the dark-haired man. He remembered talking to him. Agent--Eppes?--had made no secret of his disdain for the prisoner's actions, but neither had he abused him. The prisoner glanced at Deputy Director Tompkins. Agent Eppes had a younger brother, too. The idea in the prisoner's mind took shape, took form. "I'll need him for a week, twenty-four hours a day."
"You get him for two weeks, nights only."
"Nights only? I can't control what input he gets--"
"Plus he must appear to function at work."
The prisoner pretended to consider, but really, it was the only chance he had. He shrugged, and his shackles clinked together. "It'll help with the sleep deprivation," he said. "The dextroamphetamines will keep him going during the daytime ."
"Just like old times." Raymond grinned.
"Still, the question of counterproductive influences during daytime remains."
Curtis smiled. "Are you familiar with the Stanford Persuasive Technologies Lab?"
The prisoner smiled back. The smile felt dangerous, but a good dangerous. After far too long, a dangerous he could use. "I'd intended to incorporate some of their tech into my conditioning regimen, but the men I was working with were hardly Internet-savvy."
Curtis eyed him. The prisoner returned his gaze for a moment, before realizing that perhaps Deputy Director Curtis would wonder at feeling so much kinship for a beaten, broken man. Unless he was not actually beaten and broken--
The prisoner dropped his eyes, drew his shoulders up around his ears. He heard Curtis grunt. "Bob, I'll need some of your people."
"Why?"
"You've got the best hackers. We'll get you access to Eppes' cell phone and work machine and some code samples to work off of, and your hackers can do the rest."
Tompkins remained silent and the prisoner glanced at him. His jaw was set, his mouth twisted in a grimace of distaste.
"Come on, Bob, I could be doing you a favor. Maybe this consultant of yours is the type who works through his grief."
"Shut up."
Curtis straightened and regarded Tompkins coolly. "Deputy Director Tompkins, are you intending to obstruct an operation undertaken in the name of national security?"
"No, god dammit! You can have what you want. Just--shut up." Tompkins shoved himself away from the desk and strode from the room. If not for the pneumatic hinges, the door would have slammed behind him.
"Iago." The prisoner whispered, but even a whisper was loud in the silence left behind by Tompkins' exit.
"What?" asked Agent Raymond.
"Call me Iago."
The silence resumed for one heartbeat--two--
Curtis leaned back in his chair and laughed. "Excellent," he finally said, still chuckling. "Iago it is."
"Excuse me, sir?" No, Raymond really was stupid.
"What are they calling an education these days? Disgraceful," muttered Curtis. "Othello, Agent. It's a reference to Othello."
"Isn't that about some jealous husband killing his wife?"
Really, the prisoner almost felt sorry for Raymond.
"No, Agent. It's about betrayal." Curtis looked at the prisoner--Iago, he reminded himself. I have a name now. Iago. "Betrayal, both real and imagined."
As Iago studied Curtis, he rolled his new name around his mouth, tasting it. Names had meaning. Names had power. He hadn't realized how important they were until his own was taken away.
Iago decided he liked his new name. He liked it very much.