Torture Doesn't Work

So there were those video games: "War... war never changes." Great voiceover -- deep, warm, just a hint of gravel. Then there was that weirdo-genius-auteur who riffed on it: "War has changed." That voiceover was way raspier. It was still great, just really different from the first. My grandma wasn't in the military. She was a gamer. Apparently she was on some video game sports team back before the VR revolution finally hit -- you know, like, the sixth time they swore it would. She was super passionate about it, right up until the end, and she made sure I got history lessons. Please don't ask how she died. I just can't right now. I'm having a bad day.

I've been having a lot of bad days recently.

That second line turned out to be way more accurate, by the way, but context is key. The weirdo wasn't nearly weird enough to predict any of this. I'm so tired. I am so profoundly, spiritually, existentially sick of all of this shit.

War hasn't just changed. It's gotten butt-fuck stupid.

Reyes can sense it in the prep room: it's another bad day for yours truly. The kid used to idolize me. I broke her heart. I taught her a lot before the bad days started outnumbering the good, though. She's solid. She does her homework every single night and morning.

I'm glancing at the tablet and focusing on the keywords. Hindi, Han, English. Fine. We'll do Hindi. Reyes and I are both fluent and certified. I try not to roll my eyes at the rest of the keywords while I sip my shitty, lukewarm synth-coffee. They just keep getting dumber and dumber.

"You want me to take lead, Major?" she asks. She's sticking with English. Even on a bad day, I can make the inference: I missed something.

A year ago, I would've known why we were sticking with English. I would've given her a pop quiz. Six months ago, I would've challenged her without actually knowing the answer myself -- pure Costanza. Today, I just skim and sip. I catch the occasional clue. It helps me cover my own ass a little better.

"Yeah, Reyes," I reply, in English. "I'll blue up, though. Only fair." With that, I hit up the bio-locked medical cabinet. I register, get my pill, and pop it. It'll work almost instantly, and keep me hard for hours. There's a counteragent I can take if we finish up quickly.

Reyes would if she could, but she's cis. She's just past her twentieth birthday, already O-2, and refuses to believe me when I tell her how solid that ceiling is above Major -- well, if she stays here, anyway. Interrogation got an MOS. It promises rapid advancement for anyone with real talent. Then, suddenly, you're too valuable to promote. Then, suddenly, you've spent too much time at what amounts to an honorary rank -- one that was supposed to have had broad managerial responsibilities all along, but didn't -- so bumping you up would be 'imprudent.'

Also, it's wartime, because it's always wartime. You have to keep doing what you're good at. When somebody upstairs finally dies -- because those fucking pervs never retire, and don't have to, because it's always wartime -- then, finally, reluctantly, you get reviewed. That's when they figure out that there's something seriously wrong with you -- a 'deficiency' or 'flag.' Time to bring in some fresh blood from outside to supervise. Wow, what a coincidence, it's somebody who was good at figuratively sucking cock somewhere else, or who was born shiny.

I guess "Military politics... military politics never changes" didn't have the same ring to it.

"Do you even wanna know?" Reyes asks as we get our gear sorted.

"Well, I know now anyway," I say with a sigh. "He is such a fucking perv."

Reyes laughs, but she doesn't get it -- not really. We're all fucking pervs, right? Why mention it?

We get in the room, and Carl is there. I'm not using his last name, or his official title. He doesn't deserve it. He's hot, because pretty much every civilian is these days, and monitors are technically civilians. I'm told the selection process is rigorous. I'm sure it is for everybody without connections -- you know, for all the saps who don't actually get the jobs.

Carl sucks. He really does. You spend five minutes with the guy, and it doesn't matter that he's hot. He's creepy. Back in the green zones, people are fucking in the streets. They'd still look askance at Carl. He's too into it. He's not torturing small animals. He's not starting fires. That's what it feels like he's doing, though, as he's doing his job. He's getting that same sick satisfaction. There's something wrong with him. I honestly can't tell you if it would be better or worse for Carl to be in one of the big rooms, watching all the drones and larger UAVs endlessly mecha-rape each other. I'd love for him to pull ground confirmation duty. A few of those guys actually die. The demerits fly whenever it happens, of course. Would I give up Alaska to know that Carl got fragged in a desert somewhere? That is a hard question. I'll get back to you.

We fix our tablets to the wall and do all the bullshit: names, dates, ranks, IDs, times, I don't even know what else. It's autopilot. Carl clinically notes that my fat, ten-inch cock is practically busting out of my pants. He'd perv on Reyes, too, if he could find any excuse at all. Her strap-on is in a bio-locked wall cubby. We do everything by the book.

"Okay," I say, fulfilling the duties of rank, "bring in prisoner three-three-four-seven dash eight-seven. First Lieutenant Reyes, per the directly associated login sheet, timestamp thirteen-oh-nine, day and date, is lead."

By the book, like I said. Why merely utter a single word when a multiplicity of redundant words will achieve roughly the same outcome, albeit with severe diminishing returns? That's a little joke, right there. Here in the outhouse -- you know, shit-adjacent, but comparatively much nicer -- your sense of humor is one of the last things to die. It just gets really, really sick.

The airlock opens, and the grunts haul him in. He's not bad-looking, except for all the hair that's been temporarily attached to his body. I'm not shitting on the techs; they do good work. They quite literally laid it on thick, and they did it fast. Arguably, it makes more sense for it to look unnatural and ugly. On top of that, the prisoner's dressed in century-old athletic clothes, like he's going to play some weird old sport at some weird old club. You know what I mean. It's the one that looked like motion-control and VR before those were even a thing.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," Reyes begins. "And may I say, what a fine male specimen you are. I can see why they chose you for field work. You're a real man. You look like you could kick some ass at racquetball right now."

Right, right, racquetball.

"Sissy is wise," the prisoner replies. "Sissy will not break. Sissy will serve as sissies do, but never betray the bloc."

"We're not here to 'break' anybody," Reyes answers smoothly. "We're here to make sure you get some relief. If we have a nice chat, that's fine too. We're all professionals here. Ideology is above our pay grade. Did you enjoy your peanut butter and pickles?"

The prisoner's face screws up. His first name is Sirhan, per the homework I barely did. I'm certainly not calling him Sissy, not even in my own head. I can already tell the third-person bullshit is going to give me a migraine.

"Sissy eats to stay alive, heretic," he says. "It is no sin."

"Perish the thought," Reyes says. "The Anti-Pee-Odd is merciful. It will understand what happens next, too."

Reyes and I move off and strip. The grunts attach Sirhan to the pleasure horse. Carl gets way up in there, almost literally sniffing out rules violations. The grunts know the drill, though. Per Reyes' instructions, they strip our guy down except for his socks, attach all the electrodes, and put him in a standard no-stress position. He's on his back, more or less, so Reyes can straddle his face while still standing. Her giant bush looks a bit more convincing than our prisoner's full-body hir-sute. Yeah, that's another joke. Sue me. Better yet, kill me.

Reyes glances over. She masks her disappointment. I'm still completely smooth. I didn't do my homework last night. She backs up over Sirhan's face. She stands there, casually, with her pussy and her ridiculous fake pubes mere centimeters above him. I already faintly smell peanut butter and pickles emanating from her crotch. That's another black mark for her former idol. I don't smell like much of anything. My cum is still odorless and tasteless. I hope it doesn't cum to that. Man, I'm on a roll today.

"Heretic!" Sirhan shouts. "Hairy, hairy heretic! Filthy bush! Unclean! Unclean!"

He's fully restrained, but he makes the effort. Carl's right there, triple-checking to make sure every cuff has baby-soft microfiber lining on the inside, and that Sirhan's muscles are being gently massaged so that he doesn't even suffer a mild cramp. He's also checking out Reyes' impressive back and butt, plus Sirhan's tiny, rock-hard, uncaged penis, just barely poking out from the techs' bushwork. I notice he's not a fan of our prisoner's tan sissy-titties. I'm glad he has to suffer a tiny bit. I can admit, though, that all the fake hair really does make them look disgusting.

Reyes twists around and gives me the look. I nod, go to a wall cubby, do the bullshit, and get an InstaRod. Carl creeps on me, pretending to supervise the lubing process. The silky-smooth liquid smells just like both Reyes' crotch our prisoner's most recent meal. I hold the shiny tool up for the monitor's final inspection. He doesn't draw it out; he wants more action. He hits all the right buttons on his pad, and I'm good to go. He follows me to Sirhan's vulnerable rear hole. He kneels down, and gets his face right next to it. Fuck, he is such a perv.

"Okay, sir," Reyes says to Sirhan. "We're going to go ahead and give you some relief. I think you'll like it much better without that silly cage on."

"No!" he shouts. "The Anti-Pee-Odd condemns the fecal fornicators! Sissy must be caged! You will suffer at the eternal edge!"

"But what if I like being eternally edged?" she counters immediately.

Sirhan's caught up short for a moment. I put the InstaRod at his hole. It does its magic, convincing his body that it's an old friend. Carl, by pure coincidence, finishes his compliance review in record time. I slide the rod in. It finds all the spots. I set the power to half and push the button.

To the surprise of everyone in the room -- well, except the prisoner, I suppose - Sirhan doesn't cum.

Oh, he feels it. His next religious rant is delayed by a solid ten seconds. He gives Reyes' fake, smelly bush something just shy of an O-face. He strains against his bindings some more. But no, both Carl and I are completely certain of it: he didn't cum. He didn't even have a dry orgasm. Carl stares for a few seconds, then remembers himself. He taps a few buttons on his pad.

"Hrm," Reyes says, still the model of detached professionalism. "Terribly sorry about that, sir. We should've known a big, strong man like you would need more than that. We'll make the adjustments presently."

Sirhan starts laughing. It's a fucking cliché. The doomed prisoner scores a moral victory against his captors.

"Sissy will not break," he taunts. "Sissy has been hardened. The bloc shall be triumphant."

I'm seriously about to shove my first and second boots so far up his third-person ass that it breaks through the fourth fucking wall. Then I'll down a fifth before I get court-martialed on the sixth, and then something something seventh because what the fuck else is there to do in this fucking farce of a war besides make dumbass fucking jokes?

I turn the rod up to seventy-five percent, and Carl gives the nod. His fascination is equal parts perverted, morbid, and professional. I hate that my own curiosity is piqued. I don't want to have anything in common with this creep.

I hit the button again.

Well I'll be damned. Sirhan holds out.

It takes him twenty seconds to start being a fuckface again. For the first time in weeks, I'm something besides depressed -- well, something in addition to depressed, let's say. Reyes is unflappable. She's a champ. She's going to be my replacement. I pity her so much.

"Impressive, sir," she says, offering our prisoner a respectful nod. "You're the manliest man to come through here in a long time. In fact, I think your manliness is starting to have an effect on me. I think we might skip ahead and let you penetrate my plump, pink pussy with your penis."

So, I'm gonna say something, and it's gonna require some serious disclaimers, lest you think I'm the world's biggest asshole. Here's the thing I'm gonna say: for the very first time, I feel like maybe Sirhan's genuinely worried about how this interrogation is going to go.

Asshole, right? How dare I question his religious beliefs, or the almighty dossier?

Here's my defense:

Really? Fuckin'... really?

This bullshit is fine in the green zones. It's awesome. I'm so happy for everyone. There's over a billion religions now. Everybody's got a list of shit, and it's meta and it's nuanced and they all get what they need. This thing's forbidden, so they do it anyway for a thrill, and then they all wear silly hats and spank each other as sexy penance for their sexy sins. Some other guy actually refrains from some other shit, because that's how he gets his thrills. Dick size, body hair, partner bits, sex acts, food, clothing, praying, chanting, yadda fuckin' yadda all day long and all night too. Good for them. I mean it.

But seriously, what the fuck are we supposed to do with this shit, with these fucking rules and these fucking monitors? Clearly this asshole doesn't hate peanut butter and pickles. Clearly he doesn't actually give a shit about body hair. They don't draft people with obvious weaknesses, and of course they modify the dossiers.

But that makes me a giant asshole, right? This fucking religion, whatever it's called, is a real religion. I'm sure some harmless psycho somewhere practices it, well... religiously. Reyes probably got a holonet doctorate in it last night. That's how she knew Sirhan wouldn't have an instant answer to that obvious question. Plenty of other religions would have.

A few neurons fire. Keywords flash in my memory. With a bit of shame, I recall that Reyes' very-attractive pussy is more brown than pink.

I roll my eyes and sigh. Yeah, English. Makes sense. Reyes could probably pull it off in Spanish, too, but neither of us would've done well in Hindi or Han. Heck, Spanish would be cheap and easy: para and porque. This is seriously some Monty-Python-level bullshit. I'd slip that reference to Reyes right now, but I'm not sure she had a nerd or a geek for an abuelo. She'd be cool with it otherwise, though. We're military. We love making shitty jokes while we sexually overwhelm enemy combatants.

"Perplexing," I say. It gets Sirhan just a little more riled up.

"Positively perplexing," Reyes agrees. "Pump the percentage on that polymer penis, partner."

I run out of wit, so I do what she says. The InstaRod's at one-hundred percent. Carl's about to cum in his pants. I have to admit that I'm just as interested as him, and it makes me feel awful.

I hit the button. Sirhan makes a noise that I can only describe as 'bigoted,' because literally any other description I try to offer will get me accused of bigotry -- religious, ethnic, or pre-Realignment familial origin. So, there's the loophole: Sirhan makes a 'bigoted' noise. Does that make sense? Of course it doesn't. I'm a military man who's trying to cover his own ass. I'll say anything.

He bucks like he's taking a billion volts. Motherfucker doesn't cum, though. Carl's creepy eyes bug out of his head. He forgets to do his inspection until he catches me staring death at him. He stands up quickly and reinspects the shackles. He gets in close to every part of Sirhan's body. His optical attachment whirs and flashes. He keeps us waiting for a few extra moments: petty revenge, because I caught him being a creep.

Finally, he hits all the right buttons, and we can continue. I withdraw the InstaRod, walk back to the wall, and temp-lock it there.

Reyes' back is still towards me when I turn around, but I can read her body language from behind. She's tense for two different reasons. She's excited as anything that we have something novel to report. The fact that we've found a bloc operative who's resistant to a full-power InstaRod burst makes this a special day. If we can figure out how or why, we'll get a commendation. She's also nervous, though. She's worried we might not break this guy.

I know better. It's just so strange that she can't see it. She's so talented. She's so smart. The blind spot is baffling.

"Pussy or penis, sir?" Reyes asks him. "We're going to help you out. It's obvious you need it."

"Cock," the prisoner says weakly. It's neither an answer nor a request. "It's a cock. Cocks are the fountain. Cocks are the idol. Hail the Anti-Pee-Odd."

"Penis," Reyes says with a nod.

I turn right back around again, do the bullshit, lube my cock -- er, penis -- and then head over to Sirhan's hole.

"Time for some poo-hole pleasure from a penis, pal," I say. "A real prostate pounding through the prisoner's posterior."

"Cock!" Sirhan shouts. "Fecal fornicators will edge eternally! Cock! It's a cock! Curse you!"

Carl's not just giving me permission. He's practically giving my penis directions into Sirhan's sissy-hole with his eyes. I grit my teeth, thrust my hips forward, and pretend I give a single fuck about the western treaty alliance anymore.

Sirhan cries out. He's a pretty good actor, but not nearly as good as Reyes. He can't fully mask his pleasure. I don't bother trying to mask mine. Sirhan's got a nice, warm, well-lubricated asshole. His sphincters twitch and squeeze. His prostate is prominent and spongy. Also, as he's so graciously reminded us, he's a sissy. Making me feel good is a raison d'être, even as I'm allegedly violating an alleged tenet of his alleged religion.

"Feel that penis, prisoner," Reyes says. She's raising her voice, but only to ensure that he can hear her over the sex noises. "God, hearing two manly men going at it like this is getting my pussy so wet. Hang on, I'm going to change positions so I can peep and perv."

Sirhan's in no state to object. He's trading off between meaningless curses and unconvincing ones. I'm fucking the shit out of him, and he's fucking loving it. His barely-visible dicklet is bouncing and twitching so hard there should be cartoon sound effects. I know it's going to explode. I'm good at what I do.

Reyes walks forward, turns around, then walks forward again. Sirhan's got a better view of her hairy ass crack to pair with her pussy. She starts frigging herself. It's ninety percent clinical. She's a good kid. Carl's already tapped his pad, and now he's backing into a corner of the room, getting ready to drop his pants and underwear. That's high marks for us. Unless we take a sharp left turn, he's going to call this interrogation by-the-book. Handing out demerits after you've jerked off is bad form. It's not unheard of, but it certainly muddies the waters on appeal.

Carl has a very big dick that he doesn't deserve. He brought his own lube. I'm torn. Focusing on him would send the wrong message, but it would, one hundred percent, prevent me from cumming. I know Reyes doesn't want me to cum. I'm depressed and lazy, but I'm not stupid. I used to be the best.

Sirhan cries out again. He explodes, just like I knew he would. His sissy juices are weak and thin, but his dicklet is apparently the world's tiniest railgun. The first spurt catches air -- six centimeters, eyeballing it -- and Reyes reaches out and snatches it. That's military training and augmentation, right there. When we're on leave, civvies lose their fucking minds at the tricks we can do.