The Prince's Trap

by Griffith, P. D.

  Washington never spoke as he led Landon to the interrogation rooms. They were hidden behind a side door beside the lift in the Forge. Landon had noticed it the first time he was shown the different levels of the Olympic Tower, but it wasn’t a part of Dr. Wells’ tour. The door led into a single hallway. It was dimly lit and had a sequence of doors running down both walls, each leading in to a separate interrogation room where Gymnasium staff could question their suspects. Washington went to the third door on the right and ushered Landon to enter. He had a maniacal grin on his face as he waved Landon inside.

  “Please have a seat at the table,” Washington said as he closed the door behind them and turned on the overhead light.

  Landon thought he was going to pass out. He walked slowly to one of the metal chairs pushed up against the single wooden table and hesitantly sat down. The chair felt cold through his tactical uniform, sending a chill through his body, and the steel crossbar running across his back dug uncomfortably into his spine. The overhead light, which dangled above the middle of the table, was bright, almost blinding, making it difficult to see Washington Sykes pacing at the head of the room. The small table was all that separated them.

  “You know, Landon,” he began. His voice had a steely, robotic timber that gave Landon an uneasy sensation every time he heard it. It seemed unnatural, as if he’d been trained, or brainwashed, into communicating in this distant, inhuman manner. “I’m going to call you Landon. I always hated those idiotic call signs,” he added as a quick addendum before returning to his initial thought. “You know, you are the first field agent I get the pleasure of questioning.”

  Landon considered saying, “Should I count myself honored?” to be as spiteful and insubordinate as possible, but restrained himself. He had been warned of what the Sentries were capable of. Dr. Brighton’s words were never far from his thoughts: “They will burrow into the deepest recesses of your mind, hack into your darkest secrets, make you relive your worst memories, or experience your greatest fears.” Landon hoped to not incite this Sentry into any added aggression.

  “Do you know what I am?” he asked.

  “A Sentry,” Landon replied, his voice shaking despite his best efforts to control his nerves.

  “Precisely, and do you know why I’m here?”

  Landon shook his head. He didn’t want to give away what he knew about Washington’s specialized skills or his intent at the Gymnasium. Landon also thought it would give him a second to think. They’d only been in the room together for a few minutes, but Landon got the impression that Washington was someone who liked to talk, especially about himself.

  “To put it simply”—Washington slammed his hands onto the tabletop and leaned over the surface, shielding Landon from the lamplight for a moment; Landon diverted his head, feeling Washington’s warm breath on his face—“to uncover the truth.”

  Even though Landon was still nervous beyond belief, he couldn’t stifle the laughter that escaped his lips. Does this really work? he thought. It’s like some terrible crime drama.

  Washington pushed himself back up to his feet. “Of course, you find this entertaining,” Washington said, sounding annoyed. His shoes clicked on the floor as he traversed the room in deliberate, lingering steps. “You may consider yourself above this, Landon Wicker, but trust me, you’ll break just as easily as everybody else. Soldiers, scientists, even the big, bad Pantheon field agents, they all end up begging for mercy . . . crying for us to stop . . . wishing they’d just told the truth in the first place. Our methods might be invasive—some may describe them as inhuman—but one thing is certain, we Sentries always get the desired results. Everybody breaks when the right pressures are applied. And believe me when I tell you this, Landon Wicker. You’ll be no different.”

  Washington’s conviction was bone chilling. A drop of sweat slowly moved down Landon’s forehead, but he was now too nervous to raise his hand to catch it. His clothes felt tighter than usual, as if they were shrinking uncomfortably all over his body, and he found it difficult to swallow. Landon feared he was already in danger of cracking under the pressure. Washington’s harangue had accomplished its desired intent; it scared him. After weeks of anticipating this very moment, Landon had led himself to believe he could outsmart or deflect Washington’s efforts, escape discovery, and protect Celia and himself from the Pallas Corporation’s wrath. But was Washington right? Did he have no choice but to reveal his duplicity and betray Celia’s identity? Would the pain of Washington’s methods be too much for him to bear?

  He sat there silently waiting for Washington to continue, but he seemed to be content pacing the room. After three passes, Washington stopped and turned back to Landon. The soles of his shoes swished against the tile as he pivoted. “Let’s get started, shall we?” he asked rhetorically as he pulled a second chair from the wall—the sound of the steel dragging against the tile was cringe-worthy—and sat down across from Landon. The bright light shimmered off his short, black, oiled hair. “How long have you been attending the Gymnasium?”

  Landon thought for a moment, calculating the months. Sofia had brought him here last September and now it was July. He answered uncertainly, “Almost eleven months?”

  “And how did you end up here?”

  At first Landon wondered what his purpose was with these questions. The answers could easily be found in his file. Why ask him about it? Is he just trying to loosen me up? Get me talking? Landon wondered. Start with the harmless stuff and then move on to the real kickers?

  Deciding that candor was the best avenue, as he was certain Washington already knew the answers, he told Washington about his apocratusis, his weeks on the street, and the chase through the city that led to hiding in a cathedral and concluded with Sofia rescuing him and bringing him to the Gymnasium. He told it as succinctly as possible, trying to avoid the painful details but not hiding anything from that part of his tale—he saw no point.

  “And how have you found your experience so far?”

  “Good, I guess,” Landon answered. “But things have been a bit crazier than I expected, what with learning about the Pantheon and all.”

  “I could imagine.” Washington seemed unimpressed. “Tell me more about your relationship with your mother.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Landon could feel his anger boiling up, the fire in his belly blazing with impassioned rage. “You have no right to ask me about her! She has nothing to do with this!”

  Washington looked at him, unaffected. He gazed off to his right, the emotion obviously too tiresome and tedious for him. “Actually, I have the right to ask you whatever I like. I’m not the enemy. I am simply the solution to a problem. And I’m not one to justify my line of questioning, but in this case, I’ll make an exception. You regale me with this tale of tragedy and hardship, but it was painfully obvious you weren’t telling me everything. There were details, little bits about your mother you neglected to mention as if you are trying to protect her memory—even though you sent her to her grave.”

  Landon ground his teeth together, biting back the urge to attack. Stop talking about my mother, Landon ordered mentally, but restrained himself from saying it aloud. He thought he’d moved past this, but his emotions indicated otherwise.

  Washington continued as if he hadn’t noticed. “I am to only assume you and she were very close, much closer than you and your father, as you didn’t give him the same courtesy, and that her death had a profound effect on you. I could also infer you are very loyal as you have difficulty betraying even her memory. But are you as loyal with everything else? That is the question.”

  “Of course,” Landon answered through his teeth.

  “Please don’t get angry,” Washington said calmly, his words seeming to slide together. “I can see you are quite the sensitive little boy.” He spoke as if he was ages older than Landon when only years sepa
rated them. “So I’ll dispel with these pleasantries and get right to the point.” Washington’s demeanor shifted quickly. His lax, almost disinterested manner morphed into cold determination. He focused in on Landon, staring dead into his eyes.

  Landon felt his heart race as the tension in the room became almost palpable. He was nervous of what would happen next. As he awaited the next question, he could feel a strange pressure building in his head. “Explain to me the nature of your relationship with Celia Jackson.”

  Oddly, the mention of Celia strengthened Landon’s resolve, refocusing him. He needed to concentrate—for her. It was going to take every sliver of his mental fortitude to deceive Washington. He choked back his anxieties and held fast to the notion that if he made himself to believe his lies, Washington could do nothing but consider them the truth—at least until he attempted to forcibly extract them from his brain.

  It was a trick Landon learned in the sixth grade. His mother had signed him up for a theater class after school, which he reluctantly attended to make her happy. The teacher, Mr. Fortinbras, behaved as if he was teaching a master class in acting, as opposed to instructing a group of prepubescent teens. He constantly stopped rehearsals and claimed their performances weren’t convincing in the least. He’d go off on extended discourses explaining how they were hopeless performers, how they lacked the divine art, and how they weren’t dedicating themselves to their roles. He claimed they weren’t mentally or emotionally equipped to transform themselves wholeheartedly into their characters. The one thing he’d always say was, “The only way to convince someone of your character is to believe that your character’s truths are your own. In that moment, on the stage, you technically are living a lie. If you convince yourself that the lies are the truth, and you believe in those lies with every fiber of your being, your audience can do nothing but believe you, too.”

  It didn’t help Landon’s acting much, as he quit the theater group following his abysmal performance as Mr. Toad in “The Wind and the Willows,” but the lesson seemed quite relevant to his current situation.

  “What would you like to know?” Landon asked, now glaring at Washington combatively. “She’s a friend.”

  “Just a friend?” he returned, sounding surprised but still stern. “You made quite a spectacle of yourself a few weeks back when she tragically fell into that coma. I understand you’ve spent quite a lot of time with her in the medical wing ever since. You sure there’s nothing more going on between you two?”

  “She’s just a friend,” Landon reiterated calmly.

  “Very well . . . for now. We’ll return to that a bit later, I think, once we’ve concluded our conversation.”

  Washington continued to ask Landon questions about every facet of his life, relentlessly prodding him for details where Landon would give none. He figured lies were more convincing when the answers were short; people always gave themselves away when they tried to embellish and talk too much.

  The interrogation seemed to go on forever. Although Landon tried to stay strong and maintain his composure, he began to feel exhausted. His brain almost hurt from the prolonged engagement, and the pressure in the back of his head only seemed to grow as time progressed. Washington, however, appeared fresh and unfazed. He continued to ask Landon question after question concerning his friends, his rivals, his professors, his training, how he liked the food at the Gymnasium, and what he thought of the Pantheon. Eventually he had to run out of questions, and Landon hoped that time was sooner than later. He wished it could somehow be avoided, but he understood that the time was approaching when the real trial would begin. When Washington pried into his mind, how was he to maintain his lies and not give anything away?

  Washington leaned back in his chair and pointed at Landon as a strange smirk covered his face. “You’re good,” he said, sounding genuinely complimentary. “You’d be surprised how many people crack by this point—but not you. No, you are something special. People like you excite me. You’re so good at deceiving everyone around you that you have no problem throwing me off.” Tilting his head up, Washington pulled his finger back and began tapping it against his chin. “I wonder what it will take for you to break.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  A SENTRY'S

  SPECIALTY

  “I’m not hiding anything,” Landon retorted.

  “Don’t play coy with me. You’ve been lying to people so long you’ve forgotten what the truth is. You hide behind this façade of genuineness and loyalty. You make people believe you are wholesome and kind and friendly, yet you guard yourself against everyone you meet. No one truly knows who you are—not your enemies, your mentors, not even your friends. But you can’t hide from me.” Washington rose from his chair with a flourish and began to circle the table, stepping closer and closer to Landon. “No, you can’t hide from me. By the time we leave this room, I’ll be the first person to know who the real Landon Wicker is. And I’m going to enjoy every minute of it.” His hand ran against the steel table; his fingers emitted a high-pitched squeal as they slid along the metal. Before long he maneuvered himself behind Landon and gripped the steel back of his chair.

  Landon kept his eyes trained forward. He didn’t want to let Washington know he was afraid. He regulated his breathing and concentrated, mentally preparing himself for what was about to happen. He knew that this was going to make or break him. But Landon nearly jumped when he felt Washington’s breath against the back of his neck. He’d stealthily lowered his head until his mouth was inches from Landon’s ear. Then, in a soft but repellent whisper, he said, “Brace yourself. This will hurt.”

  Landon felt an excruciating pain the instant Washington placed his hands on Landon’s head. From every fingertip that connected with his scalp, a searing fire seemed to burn into him, moving deeper and deeper into his brain like hot drills boring through steel. Slowly, the pain consumed his whole being. It was as if he’d been submerged in a pool of liquid nitrogen that was simultaneously burning and freezing him. He had never felt anything like it. He could sense the tendrils of Washington’s consciousness fighting to break into his mind, wrapping around it like the burning, poisonous tentacles of a jellyfish. They reached around his brain, stinging everything in their path as they searched for a point of entry to collect the information Washington so desperately desired. Landon did his best to fight him off, working to guard himself, but with every effort, the pain became more intense and unbearable, forcing him to lose focus and weaken his defenses.

  “To resist is pointless.” Washington’s voice echoed through Landon’s mind, but barely registered through the agony. “It only prolongs the pain. Give in.”

  Landon was sure he was screaming, but he couldn’t hear a thing. Tears were flowing from his eyes, but he couldn’t feel them fall. He’d lost the ability to perceive his body or his surroundings. All that remained was pain—excruciating, debilitating pain. Wholly occupied in a battle to protect his thoughts, his dreams, his experiences, and his memories, he was consumed by a need to hold on. He tried desperately, but he could feel himself cracking. He was exhausted; his mind was spent, and it was only a matter of moments before Washington would hack into his consciousness and steal his secrets.

  Suddenly Landon felt a jab of searing pain, like a dagger had been run through his temple. Images of his last mission flashed before his eyes: the Pegasus One speeding through the blue sky; images of the New York City skyline and Grand Central Terminal; Aaron Hopkins pressed against the sedan; Ichirou Fujimaki sitting rigidly on the bench. He could almost smell the acrid odor of the subway again. And then he saw himself rifling through the attaché case and studying the papers. Landon felt helpless. He tried to stop Washington from reaching any further, hoping this would be the only thing he’d have to explain, but that image seemed to only entice Washington to look for more as flashes of each of Landon’s missions sped through his mind in a blur.

&nbs
p; Then Landon felt Washington withdraw.

  The extraction of Washington’s consciousness was like pulling an arrow from a wound. The instant he severed his connection, Landon toppled forward, gasping for air, panting uncontrollably. Sweat and tears mixed on his face as drops fell from the tip of his nose and formed a small pool on the cold, steel tabletop. His muscles ached all over his body; some twitched incessantly. He wondered if every hack was that painful. Parker specialized in it. Was she putting people through such an excruciating ordeal every time she extracted access codes and passwords?

  Washington languidly walked to the front of the room and looked down at Landon as he leaned casually against the chair on the other side of the table.

  “You get more interesting with every passing second,” he began, with a cold disregard of Landon’s current state. “If you manage to pass my tests, which I sorely doubt, I may have to recommend you be transferred for Sentry training. You put up an admirable fight that should be commended—futile, but admirable. Perhaps the training regimen has improved since my tenure here.”

  Still panting, Landon raised his head, glaring maliciously through squinted eyes at Washington.

  “Anyways,” Washington proceeded, “it seems we have the small matter of your questionable activities to discuss. You are quite the curious cat, aren’t you?”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Landon remarked defiantly, wearing a contentious smirk like the Cheshire Cat’s. He propped himself up against the table with his arm, making sure Washington saw the determination in his face when he spoke. “My mom always told me I was a little reckless. And I like to know what I’m risking my life for. You wouldn’t blame a thief for stealing if you left the diamond sitting in front of him, would you?”