Eudio Interview
Aug. 19th, 2015 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
notevendreamsHe's been shackled for what's starting to feel like forever, ferried from one plastic-coated cell to another, talked at rapid-fire by dour men in suits that have started to blend into each other. What you are requested to do at this point is to sign this form...
"Mister Lowry? Sam Lowry?"
Her voice cuts through the drone of machinery and agonized screams in the background, and the drone of legalese in his head. It strikes him right away there's something different about her — she's a woman, yes, whereas all the others have been men, but it isn't just that. There's a warmth about her, concern in his voice. She cares.
A second later, the machinery above him clangs. She's unhooking him from the track, hefting him down to the floor with a grunt. Sam sways on his feet. The woman goes around behind him, starts unlocking the shackles at his wrists.
"Let's have you out of there... God, if we could have got to you sooner..."
She keeps a hand on him as she comes around the front again, subtly supporting him. Sam grasps at her shoulders, looking into wide, dark eyes. What does she mean, we?
"Are y..." His voice is hoarse from having no other use apart from panicked shouting in the past however-long-it's-been. He swallows, tries again. "Are you with...?"
He can't say the name. Doesn't even want to mouth it here. They may be watching.
The woman waits for him to finish. When it becomes clear to her that he isn't going to, she presses her lips together, and nods back at the desk behind her. "Why don't you have a seat?"
He lowers himself into the chair gingerly, almost wincing when she starts to speak. Her name is Samantha Edgewood, and she represents some people who would like to make him an offer... she speaks slowly, but not condescendingly, and her tone remains gentle. Sam realizes she expects him to keep up, and is making accommodations. After the mental marathon he's been running trying to catch up to everything else, he feels too worn out to take advantage of her kindness.
Then she opens a file in front of her on the desk. Sam's eyes hone in on it right away. His picture, his name, but it isn't the Ministry. They've never used that font in any of the departments he knows.
It occurs to him that something quite unusual is going on here.
This time, he thinks to clear his throat before attempting to speak. "What d'you want from me?"
"Really, it's what you want from us," Samantha says, folding her hands over the document and setting in for the explanation. "And, really, I know how this looks, I promise you. I wish we could have had this talk sooner, but there were complications."
Something about the way she says complications tells Sam that they speak the same language: complications means red tape, means paperwork getting lost or routed in the wrong direction. Sam sits up a bit straighter.
He listens to the whole thing. The explanation of Eudio, the offer of an incentive, what would be expected of him if he agrees. At the end of it, he's leaning back in the seat, casting his eyes around the cell for the camera he's certain is watching him. He almost laughs.
"This is a trap," he says, not fully believing it, but not seeing any other explanation either. "You — you're trying to get me to admit something. To confess."
"As I said, I know how this looks."
She still seems earnest. As suspicious as this is, people in the Ministry of Information aren't known for their duplicity. One misplaced letter, and the tangled webs weave themselves well enough, no lies required.
Samantha turns the paperwork around, pushes it across the desk. "Look, take your time. Take all the time you need. I'll be back as soon as you're ready to give me an answer."
She vanishes.
Sam's eyes dart around the plastic cell, searching for her. Wondering if the walls are about to blow back or the floor's going to fall out from under him. Neither happens. the paperwork is laid out in front of him with a pen neatly resting on top. In the distance, someone screams.
He sits forward and picks up the contract. Reads it through twice, then a third time, until his eyes start sliding over the words. He stalls, taking advantage of his sudden solitude, of the fact that they seem to have just forgotten him here. Paces the cell, watches the shadows move past.
Piece by piece, he puts together a rationale. If this is some new sort of Information Retrieval tactic, it's a hell of a convoluted one. Asking him what he wants. What he would change. Pending approval, she'd said. That sort of talk was more suited to requests that get buried in Records rather than in a confession.
They caught him with Jill already. They don't need a confession to know there's a connection between them. He has little to lose by admitting that much... and he knows what's on the other side if he refuses.
When he finally sits back down and takes up the pen, it takes him three tries to start writing on the lines next to INCENTIVE.
I want Jill to be all right. I want her safe, and I want to be with her, somewhere we can be together.
And because, despite everything, this still feels like writing a confession, he adds:
I love her.
His hand is still shaking as he signs his name.
"Mister Lowry? Sam Lowry?"
Her voice cuts through the drone of machinery and agonized screams in the background, and the drone of legalese in his head. It strikes him right away there's something different about her — she's a woman, yes, whereas all the others have been men, but it isn't just that. There's a warmth about her, concern in his voice. She cares.
A second later, the machinery above him clangs. She's unhooking him from the track, hefting him down to the floor with a grunt. Sam sways on his feet. The woman goes around behind him, starts unlocking the shackles at his wrists.
"Let's have you out of there... God, if we could have got to you sooner..."
She keeps a hand on him as she comes around the front again, subtly supporting him. Sam grasps at her shoulders, looking into wide, dark eyes. What does she mean, we?
"Are y..." His voice is hoarse from having no other use apart from panicked shouting in the past however-long-it's-been. He swallows, tries again. "Are you with...?"
He can't say the name. Doesn't even want to mouth it here. They may be watching.
The woman waits for him to finish. When it becomes clear to her that he isn't going to, she presses her lips together, and nods back at the desk behind her. "Why don't you have a seat?"
He lowers himself into the chair gingerly, almost wincing when she starts to speak. Her name is Samantha Edgewood, and she represents some people who would like to make him an offer... she speaks slowly, but not condescendingly, and her tone remains gentle. Sam realizes she expects him to keep up, and is making accommodations. After the mental marathon he's been running trying to catch up to everything else, he feels too worn out to take advantage of her kindness.
Then she opens a file in front of her on the desk. Sam's eyes hone in on it right away. His picture, his name, but it isn't the Ministry. They've never used that font in any of the departments he knows.
It occurs to him that something quite unusual is going on here.
This time, he thinks to clear his throat before attempting to speak. "What d'you want from me?"
"Really, it's what you want from us," Samantha says, folding her hands over the document and setting in for the explanation. "And, really, I know how this looks, I promise you. I wish we could have had this talk sooner, but there were complications."
Something about the way she says complications tells Sam that they speak the same language: complications means red tape, means paperwork getting lost or routed in the wrong direction. Sam sits up a bit straighter.
He listens to the whole thing. The explanation of Eudio, the offer of an incentive, what would be expected of him if he agrees. At the end of it, he's leaning back in the seat, casting his eyes around the cell for the camera he's certain is watching him. He almost laughs.
"This is a trap," he says, not fully believing it, but not seeing any other explanation either. "You — you're trying to get me to admit something. To confess."
"As I said, I know how this looks."
She still seems earnest. As suspicious as this is, people in the Ministry of Information aren't known for their duplicity. One misplaced letter, and the tangled webs weave themselves well enough, no lies required.
Samantha turns the paperwork around, pushes it across the desk. "Look, take your time. Take all the time you need. I'll be back as soon as you're ready to give me an answer."
She vanishes.
Sam's eyes dart around the plastic cell, searching for her. Wondering if the walls are about to blow back or the floor's going to fall out from under him. Neither happens. the paperwork is laid out in front of him with a pen neatly resting on top. In the distance, someone screams.
He sits forward and picks up the contract. Reads it through twice, then a third time, until his eyes start sliding over the words. He stalls, taking advantage of his sudden solitude, of the fact that they seem to have just forgotten him here. Paces the cell, watches the shadows move past.
Piece by piece, he puts together a rationale. If this is some new sort of Information Retrieval tactic, it's a hell of a convoluted one. Asking him what he wants. What he would change. Pending approval, she'd said. That sort of talk was more suited to requests that get buried in Records rather than in a confession.
They caught him with Jill already. They don't need a confession to know there's a connection between them. He has little to lose by admitting that much... and he knows what's on the other side if he refuses.
When he finally sits back down and takes up the pen, it takes him three tries to start writing on the lines next to INCENTIVE.
I want Jill to be all right. I want her safe, and I want to be with her, somewhere we can be together.
And because, despite everything, this still feels like writing a confession, he adds:
I love her.
His hand is still shaking as he signs his name.
