Chapter 5: Interrogation

Frank was pissed with the prospect. His knuckles bled, due to constant punches to a wall, and he had tried his best to suppress the feeling, but he felt blind rage take over his body. There was a high chance that the bull's horn would be decorating the wall he just punched, if he got what his rage craved. The phone call brought only dread to his psyche. Whatever happened Frank won't be coming out of it happy. He wanted to punch whoever came up with idea for him to meet James first. Only chaos would come out of that interaction.

Some men would have refused that offer, but Frank was not some men. He knew that it was a test, most certainly from the director. He had come to expect them. It sometimes frustrated him, how little trust the director had in him, but John had virtually raised Frank, so Frank couldn't refuse the test, for all the respect he had for his mentor. He wondered what Mike would have done in the situation. Brash bastard that he was, he would have hidden a gun and taken James' life. Thankfully, at least thankfully for James, Frank was not Mike.

Frank wore a casual shirt before leaving. He then changed it, thinking it was too casual. He then changed back, wanting to make a statement that he didn't care for John's tests. He then changed back almost immediately, not wanting to anger his only father figure. He carefully kept the shirt he had refused back in his cupboard, and walked out of the door, finding his car in the lot. It was a convertible, though he had never pulled down the hood. He was deathly scared of breaking the car, as it had been a gift from the director. He rode it very sparingly, keeping it well-maintained in his parking space. He got into it, and turned the key. The motor sputtered, and started, and Frank carefully got out of his parking, making sure he didn't hit the two cars at his front and back. The car ride was pleasant in the exterior, but Frank's mind was anything but pleasant. He would have to cull his rage, before it consumed him. But he found it hard, when the anger concerned his parents' murderer. Frank had always wanted to smash James' head into a thousand pieces, and crush each of those pieces till they turned to dust. He wanted to burn James, turn the monster into ash, so that any remembrance of that beast would be left to dirt and mud. Frank wanted to personally bring death's hand to James, but found it a mercy for men like him. Men like him deserved to suffer, to see everything they love be ripped out of the mortal realm, and see their hopes and dreams crumble, to dust and ah. Then again, Frank doubted James had any loved ones, and the only dreams he must have would be bloody murder.

Frank's mother had gotten a quick but painful death. A gas explosion, from a single bullet, that's all it took to kill her. His father lived longer, but had died from James' influence soon enough. A bullet in the head, while comatose, that was the mercy dispensed to Michael Murphy. Frank had tracked and killed both of the men that had gotten their hands dirty in his parents' blood, but he knew that was an illusion of justice, when the organiser of that crime ran free. Now, that organiser was destined to rot in jail, and Frank couldn't be more miserable, looking into that monster's eyes. The one way mirror separated James from Frank, but the latter could see the former's devious eyes stare into his conflicted soul. James was a fine man, organised and well put together. But now, in captivity, James seemed sleepy and drunk. His eyes were bloodshot, while his hair was a dishevelled. His wrists were red from the cuffs, and his mouth was a bloody smile. Someone must have punched him hard, and Frank couldn't blame that person. Though James was nearing 60, he looked not a day over 45. His teeth were clean, and his hair was dark black thing, with only some lonely grey scattered in it. He wore prison garb, and from what Frank could see, was little below six feet tall. Frank knew the bull was bigger, and stronger. And James seemed to possess no gift-inhibitor, so Frank knew that if he wanted to, James could have snapped out of his little cuffs, and could have broken everything in the room, along with any man unfortunate enough to be there at a time. But James, having worked in SCOPE long ago, knew that if he tried to change his form, the operators would let in sleeping gas into the room, putting him to slumber. The walls were made of a substance James could not break easily, even if in bull form, and the men behind the glass saw everything, all the time.

For now, Frank and Ray were the men behind the glass, and Frank stood there with clenched fist, stopping himself from barging into the room and choking James till his eyes left their orbit. Frank wouldn't survive that, of course, but Frank found getting revenge and reuniting with his parents a peaceful prospect. Yet he breathed in, and spoke to his senior, "Ray, why was I chosen, out of all the possible candidates, for this cursed task?"

"You ask me like I have the answer. Only John himself knows what joke he is trying to play. But you must do this, as John has dictated."

"And you support the director, in this madness?"

"Like you say, he is the director. We always have to support him."

"James is a monster, and I shall find no qualms scattering his ashes."

"That is not your task, Murphy. Do what you are told, and talk to James."

Frank sighed, and tried sulking, but found sulking right in front of a jail door difficult. He finally opened the door, and went into this fresh hell the director had made for him. James smiled when he saw Frank, and began to speak from his red, bloody jaws, "Frank. You know, you were a wee toddler when I last saw you? Little rascal in diapers."

"I have no wish to hear your pleasantries, Mr Hudson."

"Ah, still fixated on your parents' death, I see. Let me be the big man, and apologize to you."

"The 'big man' would not have killed two innocent civilians."

"Innocent! You call your father and mother bloody innocent? That's like calling a known murderer an angel. Your parents were many things, but one thing Michael and Rachel weren't was innocent. I see John has been feeding you lies. Unfortunate. I thought you would have grown a sensible young man."

"I have enough sense to not punch your eyes out. Call that mercy."

"Mercy, such a flawed concept. What mercy exists in this dark world? What mercy exists in hell?"

"Mercy enough that you aren't by a rope right now. Though I do not doubt you shall be hanging soon enough."

"Hang me. Hang me till the crows have a feast on my eyes. Your mistake, Murphy, is thinking that I fear death. I fear nothing at all."

"Really, nothing at all? I am sure then, you didn't fear anything when your mother died right in front of your eyes, and you did nothing? I am sure you feared nothing at all, James Richard Hudson."

"You call killing five men nothing, Mr Murphy. Then you have done a great deal of nothing. And what knowledge have you of my mother's death, that you speak so brash of it?"

"I know you use it to justify everything wrong that you have done."

"I use it to justify my mission, yes. Do you wish to know how my mother died, Frank. Don't bother answering, I am gonna tell you either way. I was a wee child of ten, two more years younger than you when your hands were first bloodied. My father and John had gone out on business, as they did all the time, and I was alone with my mother. I was playing in the yard, when five men came to my mother's door, and began banging it. One pulled me by the hair, and shoved me into the house when my mother opened the door. I remember my mum screaming, seeing her darling be thrown around that way. The boss of the men wore a dark suit, though I fail to remember it's colour. He had a government badge on his chest, and looked menacingly at my mother. He said something about interrogating my mother, and went with two other subordinates to a room, dragging her along with them. I heard her screams seconds later, piercing through the walls. Every second I waited, the screams got louder and louder, and I felt helpless, with two guards stopping me from saving her. While my mother was being violated and killed, all I could do was listen, till I found something else I could do. That was the first day I reared my head to show my white horns, and also the first day I stained them red. When my father and John had come back, they found a literal monster, with two broken horns, crying over the dead, bruised body of his mother. They also found four dead men, two with their necks gouged, one with a stab in his stomach, and one crudely disembowelled. And finally, in one dark corner, they found one whimpering and screaming boss, with his red suit and red government badge, naked waist down, and two broken off horns pierced almost foot deep in each of his shoulders. They would have to kill him, to give him some respite from his suffering, and they called that mercy. That's what your futile mercy gets you. The bastard suffered for hours, and I suffered for days and years and decades of my life. So, give me your bloody mercy, and put me in jail. Just know, I would rather be hanging than live another day on this sick earth. You call sufferance mercy, and you call respite murder."

"That's how you justify it, isn't it? You call it respite, as if you are giving a goddamn gift."

"I am giving a gift, boy. But that is not my justification. I kill bad men. Men that want to hurt the cause that bleeds for your and my kind. We are gifted, and thus, we are gods. Yet, the mortal insignificants have the gall to belittle us, to kill our kind. Isn't that murder? Or do you wish to call it mercy?"

"Doesn't justify all the wrong you have done, James. Your mother died, so did my father."

"Oh, you are still sad about that, you emotional dumbass?! Men die everyday, so boohoo that your father died."

"Ay, men die every day. Yet you were the one who killed my father, Michael....."

"'Michael Murphy, scientist and gifted, previously working for SCOPE headquarters as an agent and researcher.' That's what the file read. You want to hear more? 'Michael is suspected of working with certain government officials, and is suspected of selling SCOPE secrets in exchange for protection and monetary gain. He is, by current information, a traitor to SCOPE, and he must be eradicated, for the good of SCOPE and the gifted benefitting movement.' Signed, can you guess, by John Richard Hudson, newly appointed director of SCOPE."

"That is a clear lie. John would never have killed a good friend of his."

"Just like he would never abandon and betray his own brother, right? But look where we are."

"John is a man of honour. He wouldn't resort to killing a man, along with his wife and son, just in suspicion."

"Oh, he would certainly resort to it. And my brother is hardly the man you expect him to be."

"And why should I believe a monster like you?"

"Is that what I am? A monster? I suppose that is fitting. Monsters in the stories often have big horns and big claws." Saying so, James face began to change, bit by bit. His ear lobes lengthened, and a black snout began to rise. His black hair was broken by two white horns, and his eyes turned red right in front of Frank's own eyes.

Frank spoke, "Mr Hudson, I regret to inform you that if you try anything, this room shall be filled with gas, so much so that even in bull form, you shall be neutralised."

Hearing this, James laughed an ugly, guttural laugh, and reared his head, before turning it back to human form. He spoke, some hint of animal like roughness still found in his voice, "I know, Murphy. And with me, you shall also be 'neutralised'. I would need a lot of gas to make me faint, enough to bring you to death, and last time I checked, impenetrable skin didn't stop you from inhaling deadly gas. Do you know how I bypassed your father's impenetrable skin? I used a penetrating bullet, and spoiler alert, that bullet was made by our good, honourable director. You speak of honour like you know what it is. I will be honest, I feel not a single bit of remorse for what I did to your father. He was a bad man, and you fail to see that John is also a bad man. A very, very bad man."

Frank could take no more. He took his leave, opening the door, and not even waiting to hear what Ray had to tell him. He sprinted to his car, and began the engine. Only when he was behind those windows, did the floodgates open. He cried his eyes out, and felt rage in his extremities. He looked at the road around him, filled with civilians. The music from the stereo was terrible, and he could hear nothing over his constant sniffling. The world, and the road, was blurry, and Frank feared that he would kill someone crashing the car. He almost wanted to punch himself for believing James for even a second. Men like James were liars, devious in nature, and only out to make others suffer. Frank hated himself, for believing James' false words for even a moment, He wanted to punch himself, cut himself, and see the evil blood trickle down his pale skin. For now, he found only rage in his skin, and in this rage, he punched the stereo, with it's terrible music. The music stopped immediately, and the stereo broke apart right in front of his eyes. Frank was almost sad for breaking John's gift. Almost.