Henrik Fritz broke down and cried like a child before she ended the first application of pain.

“Who are you?” he sobbed.

She did not reply, but asked him once more if he was willing to divulge what he knew about the neo-Nazi group he belonged to.

“Who are you?” he screamed the question a second time. Tears smeared, painting untidy evidence of weakness on his face. Thick fear-sweat lacquered his swastika tattoos and shaven head to a high gloss.

For a brief moment, she considered the literal answer to his question.

Once she had been known as Trixie, but no one had called her that in over three decades. By the age of four, after she had killed her foster-mother’s cat, she demanded to be called by her middle name, Ann. Her co-workers avoided the use of her name but when necessary, they called her by her surname, Munroe. Most people who had the misfortune to meet her just screamed at her, an inarticulate, pain-filled accusation. She didn’t mind; the screams rang with primal accuracy.

She worshipped accuracy. It was her third god.

Henrik held on longer than she first estimated. Perhaps it was because she was in a contemplative mood, a bit off her form -- an extremely rare occurrence. Perhaps he had more spirit than he displayed on the surface. Whatever the reason, he caught a second wind. Although she had doubted initially he had what it took, it was a typical response. He continued the demanding questions, increasing the volume with the pain in a release.

No matter. He was abysmally outmatched. Munroe proceeded to the second phase and watched his defenses crumble until he reached his last bastion of shattered will.

“I am Henrik Fritz! Henrik Fritz! I am an Aryan leader! I am a warrior for the future of mankind! I am Henrik Fritz!” he shrieked.

She stayed her hands before they inserted the second facial probe, and looked at him quizzically.

“Henrik means ‘leader of the home’. And Fritz means ‘peace’.”

His wailing breaths faded in confusion. The nearly-banished core of self within him rose momentarily in his eyes, and when he looked at her, she could tell he was really looking at her. His puzzlement was comical.

Very well, she would have to elucidate for him.

“Your name is that of a peaceful house-husband, Henrik. Perhaps you should’ve gone into different work.” With a practiced and controlled motion, she brutally shoved the second probe into the flesh of his right cheek.

Five minutes later, she summoned Madeline for the final debrief. As she bowed out to leave Madeline in her role as the supreme inquisitor, she thought she detected a glint of approval in the dark eyes. She held the scant praise close.

Madeline was her second god.

***

The day after her encounter with Henrik Fritz, Munroe happened through the hub of Section One the same time a team deployed because of the information Henrik divulged to Madeline. She did not usually traverse this virtual brain but she needed to consult with Walter on the fabrication of an exotic chemical. Michael led three men and two women past her on their way to egress, all dressed in black armor and cool professionalism.

I’ve had them all in the chair at one time or another, she thought.

As she waited for Walter to return from the bowels of his personal domain, she stood with her characteristically stiff posture at the mouth of the armory. She looked around with naked interest. Michael had paused opposite where she stood, stopped by Birkoff. Nikita hovered on the periphery as the younger man handed a PDA to the team leader, lingering when the others had gone on.

Yes, I’ve locked them all in before.

Regretfully, she’d never had the opportunity to actively torture any of them, but she had used her initial powers of terror to demoralize them, confine them, loosen their tongues. Everyone flinched when she firmly locked metal restraints. Birkoff twitched violently the first time he’d visited the White Room, his leg muscles jumping in a spastic rhythm of fear. Nikita had jumped then bristled, rebellion pouring from her in waves. Even Michael had recoiled when the cold metal first grabbed him, once upon a time.

“Here it is,” Walter said.

She turned and skewered him with an abrupt stare. According to Madeline, it was one of her most daunting weapons. It had little effect on Walter. She nodded silent thanks to Walter as she took possession of the metal case he offered. He stared back, nonplussed. She idly wondered how much coercion it would take to force him to talk. She suspected he would die rather than give up something he held dear.

You never know how anyone will respond, she thought. She indulged in curious speculations as she made her way back to her own domain.

Curiosity was her ultimate god.

************

Emil Traugott came into Section like a monolith between saplings. Munroe watched his ingress from a monitor as she waited with her partner for Madeline to call them in. Her first impression was of height, but under closer scrutiny he was the same size as the operatives flanking him. The controlled grace with which he walked, the air of boredom he exuded and the erect stance all spoke of extreme confidence and strong will.

Even her partner noticed it. He caught her eye and nodded once at the monitor. She found herself looking forward to the encounter.

This might be a challenge.

Once Emil allowed himself to be led into the White Room, Munroe and her partner carried their yellow cases of fundamental truth and marched to the closed door. When Madeline deemed the time ripe, she would give her signal and they would enter.

They waited. And waited. Munroe glanced sharply at her partner when he shifted his weight. He stiffened, once more focused on the role he had to play.

At last, Madeline gave her silent signal. Munroe activated the door. It swung open and they entered, twin blank expressions fixed firmly in place.

Emil seemed amused. He said nothing.

Madeline faced Munroe briefly. “Inform me when he’s prepared.” Her voice was colorless.

The two faced Emil Traugott. Munroe stared at him. Her partner readied their supplies.

The subject continued his silence. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His blond hair was mussed from the struggle that captured him, but it lay in the casually attractive manner of a man who had just jogged on the beach. A bruise darkened the pale perfection of his cheekbone. His lips curved with translucent amusement. He returned Munroe’s bug-eyed stare with his own unblinking blade of sapphire conviction.

In concert, they began peeling the first layer of tolerance for pain away. Emil never moved, never lost the amused smile. Still, their efforts were not in vain; he began to speak.

“It will take more than your pathetic efforts to move me,” he said conversationally. “I am your superior in every way. I am a leader of the supreme race.”

“Oh? I thought you were a Nazi leader, betrayed by a weak-willed Nazi warrior.” She applied several sensors about his body. Some were to monitor his vital statistics. Others were to administer electric shock.

“I am that, too.”

“The Nazis were losers.”

“Merely…unlucky. Some were insane. Sadly, they held the most power.” He drew in a sharp breath in response to the insertion of a needle in his back. “However, many of them were geniuses.”

“I know.” Munroe did know. Josef Mengele was one of her personal saints, another disciple of her personal god, Curiosity. Film footage taken of his bold forays from complete ignorance to illuminating knowledge lulled her to sleep. He had pushed aside veils of mystery with a relentless appetite. “Personally, I’m a fan of Mengele.”

“Really!” This admission surprised him. “You know, I’ve met him. Once…before he died. He was in Brazil --” He grunted softly as a wide-bore needle stabbed inaccurately into a vein, fishing for entrance. “At the time, I thought him quite clever for having avoided capture.” He watched Munroe carefully. “But he was weak and flawed.”

Munroe glanced at him sidelong.

“Yes, weak and self-indulgent. He had been weathered by regret and guilt.” Emil paused and held his breath under the application of more uncomfortable devices. “His ‘research’ was useless…nothing but narcissistic exploitation of fortuitous circumstance.”

“Let me apply the fruit of his ‘narcissistic exploitations’ and perhaps you can tell me just how useless it is.”

Phase Two. Emil flinched but otherwise remained unaffected.

“You…truly…admire him?”

She said nothing. Her partner looked at her from his position behind Emil, his brow lowered with puzzlement.

“The only useful thing he did was kill Jews!” Emil exclaimed involuntarily, reacting to the increased voltage in the probes.

He’s showing bravado now, Munroe thought. Defiance… I thought it would take longer to reach this stage.

“He begged for merciful forgiveness before he died…” He grunted again, brutal pain. “He got his…comeuppance from his…own weakness. He died crying…witless…Bent -- and old.”

For the briefest of moments, she thought to contradict him. She almost said, “No, not the suave, handsome Mengele…not my high priest in the investigation of pain and the human body?”

She blinked and straightened.

Clever.

She gently touched the side of her black, plastic glasses.

“I’ve figured out the test, Madeline. Shall we stop now?”

Madeline’s voice invaded the room. “No, continue, please.”

Emil’s eyes widened. “Wha…?”

“Emil is one of the leaders, but we know there is one level higher. Continue until he is more…forthcoming.”

“Madeline!” Emil bellowed at the empty air, face red, spittle flying. “You lying bitch!”

In the interest of saving time, Monroe brought forth the instruments to begin phase six. Emil struggled against his bonds.

“Madeline!” he roared again. “You said this was a test! You told me what to say! You promised a quick death!”

“Wheels within wheels,” Munroe murmured. The realization she was the subject of a surprise test roused no resentment. Rather, she felt admiration for Madeline’s clever killing of two birds with one stone. She only hoped she had performed well as she leaned close with her tools.

Emil began panting as fear destroyed his grip on the pain.

“I don’t believe what you said about Mengele. He never got his comeuppance,” she said and calmly continued her work.

Emil screamed.

“And neither will we.”

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