Troubled Thoughts

"Where'd you find him?" He brought a hand up to shield his eyes as he asked the question. The light coming through the window in front of them was bright, brighter than he would have been comfortable with, but he had been told it was important. He looked at the man standing next to him, squinting.
"Sir?"
"Sorry," the older man said. "I was miles away. We found him right where we expected to." He placed his hand on his chin. 'We' was not entirely correct. Neither of them had been there. The younger man had not participated because he was too new to be trusted; the other man hadn't gone because he was too old to be useful. Yet, he noticed, they were both dressed in identical black suits. To an outsider it would be funny. To more knowledgeable individuals, it was a sign of fraternity.
"He fell for the trap, then?" the young one asked, still squinting.
"Hook, line, and sinker." So he had been told, at least. He had to wonder how successful the trap could have been; there were four men to bury, one that had to be scraped off the floor. But they had caught their man.
"I'm going to go inside," he said. The younger man looked at him, and after a moment, nodded. He picked up a black bag from the table behind them and retrieved a pair of thick goggles, all blocky brass screws and heavy leather straps. He inspected them before looking back up at the window. Through it, he saw the man that they had captured, bathed in bright light. He put the goggles on and the light was blocked out completely.
The younger man grabbed his shoulder and steered him towards the door to the next room.
"Ready, sport?"
"Yes," the older man said. He saw a thin shape move towards what he assumed was the door handle; a crack of light, bright even for the goggles, appeared.
"Are you sure?" The young man asked.
"Yes." The door opened completely as he said it.
"Good luck, 1684."
Idiot, he thought. He can hear you. But that's what the ciphers were for, weren't they? So that certain…dangerous elements could overhear them, and learn nothing of benefit. Still, his colleague had broken the doctrine that their organization was founded on: give no quarter. The damage, in this case, was minor, but discipline would be needed in the future.
The door shut behind him. Three padlocks clicked into place. He suddenly became aware of how heavy the goggles were on his face.
I'm safe. He doesn't know a thing, he thought. Despite his self-assurance, 1684 did his best to ignore the gaze of the man sitting at the table in front of him; a task made difficult by the fact that every wall was covered with dozens of small, rectangular mirrors.
1684 sat down at the table, as stark white as the floor beneath it, folded his hands together, and stared at one of those 'dangerous elements' that the organization was always hunting down. He said nothing. There were many steps to gaining control of an interrogation; declining to speak first was one of them. The faint hum of the eight halogen lamps, hanging from the ceiling as they burned at full blast, added a sense of palpability to the tension.
"Hello, Henry," the man at the table said.
1684 stopped just short of jumping out of his seat. He forced himself to remain calm, to think rationally. The man sitting before him was strapped into his chair, itself welded to the floor. A straitjacket kept him still; chains weighed him down. Those eyes, however. 1684 had to fight the urge to grimace when he saw what the organization had done to their prisoner's eyes.
1684 eventually returned the greeting, unsure of what else to do. So the prisoner knew his name. He must have learned it beforehand, somehow. It wasn't impossible. There was nothing he could do now, not with the lights on.
"Maxwell," 1684 said.
"How are your children? Enjoying their summer in New York?" Maxwell asked.
1684 pulled his chair closer to the table, trying to think of what to say. After a moment, he decided on "I don't have children." Even as he said it, he remembered his two sons, his wife, attending the funeral the organization had staged. He felt a pang of guilt, but only for a moment. It was in the past.
"Sure you do. Your wife is close to having another, in fact." 1684 saw Maxwell cock his head to one side as he spoke, ever so slightly. "But…oh. My mistake. That one isn't yours."
1684 knew what he was trying to do. Taking control of the interrogation before it started, spouting facts he had absorbed. If they hadn't told him what Maxwell was capable of, it would have been working.
"Very quaint," 1684 said, meeting Maxwell's stare for the first time. "What other trick will you show me while the missus powders her nose? You don't impress me, monster." Something made him pause. "Should I pick a card, any card?"
"Do you have a deck?"
"How about you join me back in the twentieth century, Maxwell? You're in no position to make jokes." 1684 tapped his finger on the tabletop to illustrate the point.
"I'm not in a position to go jogging, either."
1684 smiled, expecting Maxwell to test the chains. He didn't, but in a way that only confirmed what he was thinking. They had told him that Maxwell was cold, an iceman in a slouch hat and trench coat. They had found him in slacks and a green vest that was on the very edge of becoming unfashionable, with no hat to be found. His demeanor was talkative, almost anxious, and he was eager to show off his abilities. He knew he was caged.
"Maxwell, do you know where you are?" 1684 knew he didn't. Then again…
"I suspect you will tell me," Maxwell said.
That settled that. He didn't really know anything; his abilities were dulled from the treatment he had gotten. His eyes were proof of that.
"You are in the eye of the storm, telepath," 1684 said. The word, 'telepath', felt awkward in his mouth. He had only learned it a week ago. A man who could affect the physical world with his mind? It wasn't possible. "You stand on the edge of oblivion," 1684 paused for emphasis. "You are in the clutches of the Millennium Men." And no fiend escapes us, he thought.
"An excellent recital. I would applaud, but."
1684 scowled behind the goggles and decided to switch tactics.
"Pithy," he said, "for a man with fishhooks through his eyelids." He watched as Maxwell's left eye twitched. One of the twelve hooks dug into the flesh on his forehead.
"I understand wanting me to pay attention to your décor," Maxwell said slowly, his eyes watery. The irises were constantly shifting color and hue. "But, surely, there's a better way."
1684 noted glumly that there was no pain in his voice. It was like he couldn't feel the hooks pinning his eyelids to his forehead. This treatment would have broken any other man; but Maxwell wasn't a man, was he? At least, he wasn't a man in the definition the Millennium Men had written. And that was enough to classify him as a monster.
"And how do you like the room, Maxwell?" 1684 asked. He felt like he was losing sight of the purpose of this exercise; it was an interrogation, not an opportunity to trade quips. But what was he trying to learn in the first place? What could he learn from Maxwell? He had to get back on track.
1684 gestured towards the mirrors on the walls, expecting Maxwell to follow his hand. He didn't.
"Bright enough for you?" he asked, knowing Maxwell had weak eyes. Why that was, 1684 hadn't been told. He wasn't sure if the Millennium Men actually knew.
"Lovely."
Another twitch, another cut. 1684 grinned slightly. "Or, maybe not? Should we bring in more of the white phosphorous?"
"One should be careful with that substance, Henry. One could burn themselves."
Maxwell's voice hadn't changed, or at least, 1684 hadn't detected any change in it. Yet, he felt threatened.
"Yes, it's a very dangerous thing, white phosphorous." 1684 said, trying to shake off a growing feeling of unease. "It burns extremely brightly, as well. Tell me, you have experience with it?" Another loaded question. He knew he wouldn't learn anything from asking it.
"You tell me," Maxwell said.
1684 frowned and shuffled in his seat. He folded his hands together. Sure, he would tell Maxwell what happened. Why not?
"That could be a valuable exercise, I suppose. We planted information that we believed you would have a vested interest in. We were correct," he said.
"When?"
"When did we plant it? The spring of 1929." He paused, waiting for the moment when Maxwell would realize that he had been manipulated for almost two years. It didn't come. 1684 sighed and continued. This was starting to seem hopeless.
"We waited, then. We called on contacts throughout the underworld, ensuring that you were on the correct trail. It didn't take you long once you got the scent we wanted you to find."
"How'd you prevent me from learning that it was a trap?" Maxwell cocked his head to the left, staring at 1684 intently.
"We only gave the information to small-time informants. They didn't know of the trap. We knew they would spread the information and you would find it eventually. Afterwards…" he stopped, uncertain if he should have been divulging all this. Weren't they trying to deprive Maxwell of his senses? To leave him broken and confused, in preparation for the killing blow? He decided it didn't matter. This information couldn't help Maxwell now. "We shot them after they had done their jobs."
Maxwell raised an eyebrow, or tried to. Six thin streams of blood dribbled down his eye as he winced for the first time.
1684 watched and grinned. Seeing pain did not usually please him, but he made an exception for this abomination. "Damn those reflexes, eh? Anyway, your pursuit of your man led you right into our trap. We caught you with the white phosphorous just as you were finishing off the decoy." 1684 leaned back in his chair, watching Maxwell try to keep his eyes still.
"Buchanan."
"I'm sorry?" 1684 asked, leaning towards Maxwell.
"The decoy's name was Buchanan," Maxwell said.
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Come in here.
Three padlocks clicked into place. He watched with no small amount of curiosity as the heavyset bald man shuffled to the table. Thick goggles covered the upper half of his face. Maxwell concentrated as best he could, searching for information with his mind. A stream of facts came to him, though not as quickly as they would have if he had his sunglasses.
"Hello, Henry," Maxwell said. If he didn't know any better, he could have sworn an electric bolt had run through the man at that very moment. Maxwell saw the old man working out what to say, shock and denial playing tug-o-war with his features.
"Maxwell," he grunted.
"How are your children?" Maxwell asked, attacking before 1684 could collect his thoughts. "Enjoying their summer in New York?"
"I don't have any children," 1684 muttered, pulling his chair closer to the table.
"Sure you do," Maxwell chirped. "Your wife is close to having another, in fact." The image of a woman in a loose-fitting dress came to him at that moment. She stared out the window she was sitting next to, her eyes far too sad for the summer weather. "But…oh, my mistake," he saw her pull a ring off her finger and throw it away. "That one isn't yours."
He cocked his head to the right to prompt commentary. As he probed outward, he could only find 1684's memories, not his thoughts. The light was too bright.
"Very quaint," 1684 said angrily. "What other trick will you show me while the missus powders her nose? You don't impress me, monster." Maxwell bristled at the insult, though he didn't show it. I didn't abandon my children. I didn't fake my death because an organization told me to.  1684 paused, the mental attack hitting him. He shook it off, unaware of what it was, before continuing with his tirade. "Should I pick a card, any card?"
"Do you have a deck?" Maxwell asked. 1684 shouldn't have been able to resist his attack. He kept it up. You are angry. You do not know why you came in here.
"How about you join me back in the twentieth century, Maxwell? You're in no position to make jokes." Maxwell watched 1684 tap his finger on the table impatiently. It was working.
"I'm not in a position to go jogging, either," Maxwell said. He stared directly at 1684, trying to see past the light, through the goggles. You are furious. You want to hit me. You want to fight me.
1684 just smiled instead. Maxwell seethed inside, but he kept his emotions hidden. He hadn't gotten this far without knowing how to stay calm. He would get out of this. He only had to concentrate, he only had to close his eyes and think. Damn the lights and damn the Millennium Men.
"Maxwell, do you know where you are?" 1684 asked. Maxwell stared at him, sending out a mental probe. The light interfered, but he got enough. A black bag and a drugged car ride; 1684 didn't know where they were any more than he did.
"I suspect you will tell me," Maxwell said. The level of trust 1684 had for the Millennium Men was remarkable, especially considering their reputation for betrayal.
"You are in the eye of the storm, telepath. You stand on the edge of oblivion," here 1684 paused. "You are in the clutches of the Millennium Men."
Maxwell saw 1684 kneeling, surrounded by other men clad in black robes, memorizing the words. That only interested him momentarily, however. In his mind, Maxwell could hear a voice that was not his own. It was dim, far away, but he could understand it. And no fiend escapes us, it said.
"An excellent recital," Maxwell said. "I would applaud, but." He needed more time. The light wasn't getting any less bright, but he found he could concentrate a little better than before. Perhaps his eyes were adjusting. He couldn't be sure, however; they hadn't done that since he had been in Gaul. Either way, his powers were coming back to him.
1684 frowned. "Pithy, for a man with fishhooks through his eyelids," he said.
Maxwell moved his left eye experimentally. He felt pain, sharp and thin, clawing through his forehead for a microsecond.  He couldn't close his eyes without tearing his eyelids off. Damn them twice.
"I understand wanting me to pay attention to your décor," Maxwell said, briefly stopping his mental attack on 1684 to dull the pain he was feeling. "But, surely, there's a better way," he continued. The pain was just a memory now. He doubled his efforts, concentrating everything he had on eroding 1684's will. You have no purpose here. You will learn nothing.
Maxwell didn't take his gaze from 1684 as he gestured around the room.
"And how do you like the room, Maxwell? Bright enough for you?" 1684 asked.
"Lovely," Maxwell said. Somehow, they had found out about his eyes. Only John could have told them that. But he wouldn't have done that. His brother wouldn't betray him, even if he hated him.
Maxwell tested the hooks once more. They cut again, and the pain was worse this time, but he had been able to bring his eyelid down for a fraction of a second. The darkness brought him some relief from the searing light, some chance to concentrate.
"Or maybe not?" 1684 continued to taunt him. "Should we bring in more of the white phosphorous?"
"One should be careful with that substance, Henry," Maxwell said. Die slow. Die painfully. Die screaming. "One could burn themselves." Flesh melting. Bones charring. Burn to cinder.
Maxwell could tell that 1684 was afraid now, even if the man himself couldn't fully grasp what was happening. He couldn't hear 1684's thoughts clearly, but what he did get told him enough. He almost smiled.
"Yes, it's a very dangerous thing, white phosphorous," 1684 said. "It burns extremely brightly, as well. Tell me, you have experience with it?"
Maxwell now had to make a concerted effort not to grin. The words 1684 were speaking were not his own. Maxwell had gained control.
"You tell me," Maxwell commanded, reaching into the old man's mind and forcing him to divulge the information he wanted.
Confusion emanated from 1684's mind as he spoke. "That could be a valuable exercise, I suppose. We planted information that we believed you would have a vested interest in. We were correct."
That made sense to Maxwell. The Millennium Men loved pulling strings, almost to a fault: more often than not they ended up with those strings wrapped around their throat.
"When?" Maxwell demanded. He was in control, but he was still weak. He had to vocalize, to make 1684 more compliant.
"When did we plant it? The spring of 1929," 1684 said. That didn't surprise Maxwell. Two years meant nothing to him. It shouldn't have meant anything to the Millennium Men, either. They had been around almost as long as he had; but they still feared time's forward march.
"We waited, then. We called on contacts throughout the underworld, ensuring that you were on the correct trail. It didn't take you long once you got the scent we wanted you to find," 1684 said. Maxwell had almost lost control for a second; he felt the man grappling with his own doubt. That couldn't happen again, not until he got the information he needed.
"How'd you prevent me from learning it was a trap?" Maxwell asked. He focused on keeping control of 1684's mind, cocking his head to the left.
"We only gave the information to small-time informants. They didn't know of the trap. We knew they would spread the information and you would find it eventually. Afterwards…" 1684 stopped. Keep talking. Tell me everything. 1684 opened his mouth, about to say something. Maxwell felt his mental grip loosening. Talk! "We shot them after they had done their jobs."
Maxwell raised his eyebrow, remembering too late that the hooks would cut him. The pain distracted him and he recoiled from 1684's mind.
"Damn those reflexes, eh?" 1684 said. Maxwell tried to get a hold of his thoughts again; he managed to latch on, just barely. "Anyway, your pursuit of your man led you right into our trap. We caught you with the white phosphorous just as you were finishing off the decoy," 1684 said, unaware.
Maxwell stared at him, remembered what had happened in the butcher's shop. He had expected to see his brother, dead or dying on a medical table, just as various informants throughout the underworld had told him. Instead he found a short, frightened man. A quick scan of his mind had told Maxwell that he wasn't a Millennium Man, that he hadn't been told why he was in that shop, and he knew nothing about John. He had learned all this as he killed the decoy, extracting every bit of relevant information from his dying brain. Then a white phosphorous grenade exploded through the window and Maxwell sensed scores of Millennium Men in identical black suits closing in.
"Buchanan," Maxwell said. He was almost certain he had been tricked, but he had to make sure.
"I'm sorry?" 1684 said. Closer, Maxwell thought. 1684 leaned towards him obediently.
"The decoy's name was Buchanan," Maxwell said. Proximity wasn't usually a factor in taking control of someone's mind, but these weren't usual circumstances.
1684 looked at him. Slowly, he reached for his goggles.
"How did Buchanan die?" 1684 asked. His hand stopped, one finger looped under the strap of the goggles.
"Surgically," Maxwell said flatly. He beamed the last thing Buchanan saw—Maxwell, standing above him, dozens of knives and butcher's instruments spinning in the air like a deadly carousel—straight to 1684's mind. 1684 recoiled in horror, tearing the goggles off his face.
"Jesus Christ!" 1684 screamed. Maxwell forced him to look straight up at the lights.
"My brother, Henry," Maxwell said. "Tell me where my brother is."
1684 made a sound that Maxwell couldn't decipher. He pressed harder. 1684 found himself slammed to the table, his legs thrown out from under him.
My brother. Is my brother alive?
1684 tried to push up from the table.
Tell me!
"He-he-he's alive!" 1684 wailed. Maxwell released him and he fell to the ground, covering his eyes. "Iohannes is alive!"
Maxwell slowly looked towards the pathetic shape on the ground. "How do you know that name?" He demanded.
"We know everything," 1684 moaned, clinging to the mantra the Millennium Men had drilled into him. "We know his true name. We know you're really Maxius. You were born in Rome, in, in…" he trailed off, whimpering.
Maxwell stared at him for a moment, concentrating. He searched 1684's mind, trying to find out how he had learned that. This time, 1684 pushed away, feeling Maxwell's presence in his mind. Maxwell found nothing useful. Nothing; save the fact that 1684 had a gun in his back pocket.
"Monster!" 1684 howled as a will that wasn't his caused him to reach for the gun. He struggled to move his arm as it pointed the revolver at the lights on the ceiling. He fired twice without wanting to, and the lights went out. Bits of glass rained down on him as he yelled again.
"We'll hunt you down! Exterminate you! You're fighting the millennium, monster!" He struggled to his knees, looking around the pitch-black room. He couldn't see Maxwell; he couldn't see anything.
"Your enemy is immortal!" 1684 roared.
And yours is deathless. 1684 heard Maxwell's voice in his mind and fired into the darkness. A mirror shattered. Through the brief flash of the gun he could see Maxwell standing, the straitjacket unraveling.
1684 suddenly choked. He tried to bring his hand to his throat; his arms were frozen. He felt the air rushing out of his lungs—not leaving his lungs, forcibly sucked out—and couldn't breathe. The last thing he saw was a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness, their irises constantly shifting color and hue.