The Rabbit Hole is a Dead End. [Lane]

Some nights, I thirst for real blood
For real knives
For real cries…

The squat, sturdy concrete structure was the reason why Silo had transferred back to District Two in the first place. It wasn't out of some love for his childhood home; he could not care less about the nostalgic value presented by the streets where he used to traverse, always with purpose, or the neighborhood where he'd spend the better part of his days vying for the approval of a father that would never see his son as an equal. No, District Two had been miserable to Silo. It was why he'd signed his life away to the Capitol. Anything to get the hell out of there.

Time, at least, had patched up the resentment that the man felt for his place of origin. Most of his stint in District 4 — and it had been a long stint, at that — had dulled his senses, drained him of any feeling whatsoever. His tour in the other district had, by and large, been a waste of time. His whole life had been a waste of time, really; all he did anymore was go through the motions. His daily schedule had become entirely perfunctory, careless, done without thought or concentration. District Four had provided him with no gains whatsoever, aside from a few pounds, and possibly an illegitimate child or so. So when he was offered the opportunity to do something new, something interesting, he jumped at the chance.

Well, not jumped. That would imply enthusiasm. But he actually showed interest, which was more than could be said for most scenarios. He'd willingly accepted the opportunity to take shifts at the new detention center that had been built. While he didn't mind occasionally being placed on guard duty or patrolling, his favorite task by far was "interrogating" the prisoners, for whatever reason — maybe it appealed to his dormant power lust. Silo might even go so far as to call the interactions fun.

Fortunately for him, it was a duty he was assigned with moderate frequency, considering the seniority he held over many of the other Peacekeepers. He wasn't old, per se, but he had already fulfilled the majority of his twenty-year commitment — only six years remained. It may just as well be another eternity. On most days, this would be no more than mildly depressing, as everything else in his recent years seemed to be. Today, however, he didn't mind so much — after all, he'd been assigned interrogation again, and even though he might only be placed with one or two detainees, it was still something fun, something that he actually enjoyed.

Corners of his mouth twitching into the slightest of smiles, Silo thumbed through the report folder that had been handed to him by a much newer recruit to the Peacekeeper force — maybe nineteen, if that, and actually a Capitolite by the look of him. The folder was fairly thick — not the largest he had seen, but large enough to make the day interesting. Multiple reports were contained inside of it, although Silo found most of the information to be useless records of familial ties and documented residences and a brief employment history (apparently the kid briefly belonged to the peacekeepers as well? Silo wasn't too sure, but it didn't really matter; he was skimming for the important stuff.) But from the pages between the padding — seriously, what was the purpose of filing all of that purposeless fluff? — the peacekeeper was able to glean five pieces of information that he decided would make his day that much better:

• Theft
  
• Public brawling
  
• Assault
  
• Assault against a Peacekeeper
  
• Murder

Perhaps it was sadistic of him, but Silo couldn't suppress the chuckle at the list. No instructions had been given, but after fourteen years, the policy for murderers had been ingrained in his mind. The flash of steel, blood pouring from the excision — too imprecise to be considered surgical — and threatening to drown the perpetrator. The last bits of shrieking paired with the mandatory helpless struggling against the restraints. In nearly a decade and a half, Silo had to learn that he needed to appreciate some aspects of his job, lest he never make it through the end of his term. Avoxing, it had turned out, was one of them.

A grin — malicious, if tiny — worked itself onto Silo's face as he entered the room. His heart kicked in his chest every time, because although he knew what was coming next, it still managed to be a surprise. Reactions varied, at least a little bit — and then there was the actual interrogation part of the "interrogation." Useful information — though Silo had never come across any himself — was met with lavish reward from the higher-ups. While he didn't care about their approval in the least — really, he didn't care one way or the other about Panem or its leadership — the peacekeeper still enjoyed days off of work and bonuses; should he discover anything useful enough, he might even be able to shave a few years off of his contract.

He didn't know how well that would go, however; the young man — young — that was strapped to the interrogation chair before him might have more grit than Silo saw in him at first glance (although it was hard for him to take anyone seriously when they were at his mercy.) Not even giving any attention to the guy — Lane Ralyks, according to the file — as he busied himself going over the wide array of steel instruments on the nearby counter, Silo gave a brief warning: "You're in way over your head, kid." It was useless, really; not as if the neutral remark had the ability to impact anything that Lane could do at this point — because he couldn't do anything. Strapped to the chair, he was Silo's prey, at his mercy one hundred percent.

Turning to face the victim that deserved his fate, Silo spoke up once more. "Lane, is it?" It was and he knew it, but the cold question that was more of an observation served to assert his dominance over the younger of the two men. He was on top. He was in charge. He always was; he knew that, and he wanted others to know that, too.

Reciting the list — he'd memorized it with ease — was Silo's next order of business. "Theft, brawling in public, multiple counts of assault including assault against a Peacekeeper. Murder. You certainly have been a busy boy, haven't you. Care to explain, kid?" He picked up one of his favorite opening pieces — a simple thumbscrew. None too intimidating, but nonetheless effective. The small vice was placed on his subject's fingers or toes — one at a time, or more — and slowly tightened to crush the digit. The one in Silo's hand was even lined with studs, making the ordeal all the more excruciating. He'd work his way up to the big finish; the kid could have his tongue cut when he'd given up enough information.

As it was, Silo was content to just listen to the shrieks. "Well?" he prompted once more, thumbscrew still in his hand. Perhaps he could get his answers before the pain. Boring, but certainly more time-effective. It all depended on how this Lane Ralyks played his cards.