Chapter Text
As the senior officer – Gaskell, he remembers (John; forty-seven; left-handed; born in Maidstone; divorced) – enters the room, she says, conversationally contemptuous: «This son of a whore. I saved his life and this is my return?»
«You… what…? When?»
«He won’t remember,» she says, casually angry, irritably resigned. «It’s rare.»
«‹Son of a whore›?!» He projects mild amusement at her.
«You try swearing in this language.»
He chuckles, and Gaskell swings a look at him. “Are you going to introduce us?”
“Ah, er, I’m sorry, officer. This is Alice Tonner.” She glares. “Though she prefers–”
“‘Daisy’. Yes, we’re aware of Ms. Tonner. And her preferences.”
“Ah. I see.” He finds he doesn’t quite dare look at her. Closing his eyes for a long blink he takes a deep breath. “Could you bring the other officers in here? Those who’ve been involved in Ms. Tonner’s…” he gropes for the word, “processing? They’ll need to witness this.”
Gaskell’s nostrils flare once and his lips disappear for a moment. “Very well. Stay put.”
“Of course.”
«That was useful. You should probably let me know what’s going on?»
«Of course, my apologies.» He waves an arm, points, hopes it’s not too theatrical. «And so on. Er. I hope you’re ready for whatever happens next.» From the look on her face, the only thing he can be sure of is that he’s likely the least prepared of everyone in this building. And that his gesturing was definitely too theatrical.
The silence goes on for a long fidget.
As the officers start to file in, he can see her weighing each one, filing the knowledge away. He wonders, briefly, but not for the first time, how it must be to think with your body, to know with your fists and feet, feel weapons as an extension of self.
Gaskell has each of them say their names, and he meets various ranks of Banks, Wheatley, Po, Jones, Radcliffe, Suzuki, and Lumley, the latter of which is a far sourer mash of rage and fear than the others, broadcasting hate on an almost sonic level.
Daisy stares at her, a small smile playing on her lips, then blinks slowly, turns her head. The officer hisses an in-breath, very faintly.
“Mr. Sims?” Gaskell is no less unhappy than earlier.
“Ah?” He hides in a mild pomposity. “Ahem, yes. Well, Ms. Tonner is willing to… make a statement.”
She glares at him. He recalls himself enough to repeat it in Welsh. The glare, if anything, intensifies.
«Don’t forget –» he tells her «all I have to do is ask and you’re toast. Do you understand?»
Her face is, briefly, a mask of all the things The Hunt could do to him if it chose. A blazing howl of cold sears around him and he is small, defenceless, lost, exposed, and then an all-too-human glower blooms sullenly over her features and she’s Alice “Daisy” Tonner again and all she can do is… well… pummel him into a thousand separate agonies, each bone broken, for sure, but that’s a quotidian fate. Bones heal. Scars fade.
Apparently.
She stretches her jaw, rubbing her tongue on the roof of her mouth as though it itches, scratches the junction of chin and throat, all the while eyeing him sourly. «Yes. Get on with it,» she growls. Behind him, one of the officers covers what sounds awfully like a whimper with a throat clearing.
«You’ll have to make it real,» he warns her. «Fairly sure I’m not good enough to just fake whatever you say into a good story in English, and they’ll be recording it, might check with a real interpreter later.» He lifts the machine gently onto the desk. «And so will I.»
She sneers: «Get your fix, will you?» The tape, of course, is already rolling. Who knows for how long this time?
He just blinks at her, and rather thinks he’s failed to cover whatever is revealed to her when triumph lights her eyes.
“Have you started your recording, officer?”
“Starting now.”
She looks down at the table between her spread palms and starts to speak.
He takes a juddering sigh, tries to smother it with a yawn, gazes blankly back at the officers until it dawns on him what they’re waiting for. What everyone is waiting for:
“Oh, sorry, yes. Statement of Daisy Tonner, formerly of the Metropolitan Police, now working for The Magnus Institute, London, regarding the destruction of some living mannequins at Warehouse 5, Erebus Walk. Statement taken live from subject, 13th July 2017; translation by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute. Statement begins: ‘I don’t know if you’ll all have to sign a Section 31 after I’m done here. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, most of the evidence is gone. Can’t be helped. Sorry about that.’...”