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R.P.820: A Club for RPers |_/[43 Members]\_| {Let there be war!}


ThatPhantomGuy

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[spoiler=Here's the new sample.]A single lightbulb hummed relentlessly, hanging from a single steel wire in the middle of a concrete room. The dimness of the bulb only increased the feeling that it was a mosquito, buzzing uncomfortably close to whosever's ear was nearby. In that instance, it would be Mr. John Spokes, a midranked questioning and interrogation officer for 7. Just the number. The less information disclosed about his job, the better.

 

He had grown accustomed to the whine after countless times in the cell. It was almost like the little devil on his shoulder, prompting him to say things he wouldn't dare otherwise in public. The man sitting opposite him seemed to notice this little tidbit equally as much, and he was sweating unknowingly from it, puddles of perspiration forming on his ill-fitting orange jumpsuit. Standard issue.

 

"So, Mr..." Flipping open the cover of the manila folder in front of him, Spokes studied the document and attached high-gloss Polaroid, his reflection appearing in the latter. He had close-cropped straight blond hair, blue eyes, and a severe square face that was offset by multiple etched wrinkles, as if they were set in there with a dull knife. "Mr. Whitebrook," he concluded after a few brief seconds. The prisoner reacted in a very uncouth manner, jumping form his folding iron chair as if he were pricked.

 

"I didn't do nuthin', sir! Nuthin!" Words tumbled from Whitebrook's lips like a waterfall. "Why do you even have me here?" he continued, panicked.

 

Spokes gave a short sigh. "I feel no need to explain. However," he added with an imperceptible smile, withdrawing two more Polaroids from the folder and setting them on the table, "I believe these can. WOuld you so kindly tell me what these pictures show?"

 

Whitebrook glanced down at the pictures. They were blurry, the kind you'd find from a cell phone camera. "They show," he gulped, "me?"

 

"Indeed," the blond replied. Each picture in the pair portrayed a different view of the nervous man, with a thick down vest and baseball cap. He was carrying what appeared to be a gym bag, but there was obvious weight to it, for the man's weight in the picture was pulled to one side. "Well," Spokes continued, brushing a non-existant speck of dust off his suit, "since you've admitted to being the individual in these photos, I believe my work is done." On cue, a pair of black suited guards slipped quietly into the room behind Whitebrook before he had time to react. Snapping a pair of handcuffs on him, the two let the orange-jumpsuited man out of the drafty room.

 

The door swung close behind them, and Spokes sighed again. 'They really have to take more care when planting a bomb next time,' he thought impassively. 'Never know when someone's watching.'

 

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