Lx. SMARTEST IN THE ROOM 

His eyes are a forest, once lush under sunlight, but now only filled with dead flora. The canopies Thirteen had constructed effectively blocked out all emotion and perhaps even the capacity to feel. I stared into these eyes full of emptiness to try to read them, but they don't budge.

The handcuffs around his wrists seem like they didn't do anything to chain him, and if he wanted, he could break them loose. Harsh, fluorescent lights set an ambiance of tension in the bleak white room. I glance at the watch on my wrist: 9:00AM.

The last time I sat here before the one sided mirror, I was being interrogated. Now, I was interrogating someone else. But I didn't feel any less nervous. If anything, I felt more nervous. The murderer leaned back in his chair with an intrigued look on his face as I entered. They are entirely fixated by me, taking me in, analyzing me.

Last night, I'd read up on the OGA tactics of interrogation. Then, I proceeded to throw those tips out the window. Following any set guideline was antiquated when dealing with someone who's done interrogations from a young age. Ian stays silent, unmoving, except a small tug appearing on his lips.

His hair is damp; droplets fall from his hair. Bruises appear on his face as well. He still says nothing. What did the CIA do to him? Sleep deprivation? Waterboarding?

I draw in a deep breath. "Let's begin with the basics. For the record, what is your name?" I state. To my surprise, my tone is unwavering. On the inside I wanted to straight up murder him.

He purses his lips. "Ian."

"Last name?"

"Lochland."

The small smile hanging from his cut lips confirmed that he was lying about his last name. My nails dig into my palms. 9:05. "When did you start the Thorned Kings?"

Thirteen smirks. "Come on, Darling. I know you can do better than that. Rule one of interrogating someone. Don't ask stupid questions—do you really think I'm going to tell you?"

The tone he took with me was abrasively arrogant. After all, he was the one with the handcuffs on, yet he was giving me advice. The irony was pungent.

I bite the inside of my cheek. Clearly, there was no point in being civil. "You should consider telling me, Thirteen. Whatever they've done to you so far will continue to become something much worse."

"My name is Ian, and I'm only here to get close to my Queen."

I scoff. "Right. Carpe diem."

His green eyes flicker to meet mine. My blood starts to run cold. He looks at me with deadly scrutiny, and the predatory presence makes me shiver.

"You're nervous."

"I promise you, I'm not."

My eyes narrow in his direction. Just being in the same ten by eight room as him made bile come up my throat. He was capable nothing but being sadistic. Thirteen was obviously not going to give me any useful information. But maybe, if we just imprisoned him for the time being, we would be able to find his weaknesses. As long as he was behind bars or dead dead, the public would be safer.

9:08. After a moment's silence, I shift my tactics, starting with something I absolutely needed to know. "Deschamps. How did you know we were helping the Ambassador?"

He grins. A smile was a gesture associated with goodness, but on him, the gesture always indicated something dark. I force myself to swallow in order to quench the dryness in my throat.

"Silent now, aren't we?" He taunts. "Rule number two of interrogations, don't let your opponent see your fear."

Thirteen doesn't stop talking. "You're failing quite a bit, Darling. But you were right in sending Octavia, old man," he shouts while staring past me into the one-way mirror presumably at the Director, "I would have killed anyone else that walked through this door."

I visibly bristle; first, at his vague dialogue, and second, because he kept calling me Darling. "I'm not your fucking Darling."

Talking to him was useless—this man was insane. Whatever scenario he would keep drawing out was pathetic and gut grueling. Speaking to him was also counterproductive. 9:13.

"Your Queen," I try again. "Why is she so important to you?"

"She's the only one that will understand me." His tone softens, likening itself to a wistful nature. "I know she's here, Snow. You guys keep hiding her from me."

I find myself in search of Ace's comfort. Recently, through all the chaos, he was consuming more and more of my thoughts. I couldn't believe that Ace and Thirteen were related.

Thirteen suddenly slams his fists against the table. It causes me to jerk up. "I don't understand what you see in him," he spits.

"Excuse me?"

"Ace Blackwell—my partner—I should have fucking killed him when I had the chance." He stretches out the word "partner" like every syllable filled him with disgust. Clearly the word was substituting "brother".

At this most inopportune time, I find myself turning red at the mention of any feelings for Ace. I could only imagine the smirk on his face on the other side of the mirror. Seriously, Octavia? Right now, during an interrogation? You can think about this literally at any other time.

"You're lucky, Thirteen," I chuckle. "If Ace wasn't your partner, I'd fucking shoot you myself."

"Don't call me that—my name is Ian," he almost growls.

9:17. Three minutes is all I need.

The cameras recording the interrogation around us now stop recording sound as the microphone attached to me cuts off audio. I look him dead in the eye. "Whatever. But speaking of your brother," I start, "tell me everything. Everything you say in the next three minutes stays between us. Start with why you hate the CIA."

Thirteen raises an eyebrow. "I knew I could count on you to pull a stunt like this. But now is not the time. There's not enough time."

"If you don't tell me, you will die," I state. "Ace deserves these answers. He didn't kill you when he had the chance—we all wanted to."

"He is weak."

A sharp breath comes out. "Ace believes that you were always good. I'm giving you a shot because he can't overlook the bureaucracy governing his life. But I can. I know that you can't ever trust anyone, completely." I lean in. "I'm going to ask you again, why do you hate the CIA?"

He shakes his head knowingly. A smile begins to take form. "I told you Darling, we're the same. You're right—my brother refuses to see the actual evil in the CIA. You, on the other hand, question everything."

"You have thirty seconds."

"Now is not the time." Thirteen's tone was deep and erriee. Hell, everything about the man was. The way that he analyzed me, cold and calculating, made me want to physically assault him. He was a murderer, a sadist, and probably clinically insane. I needed a mental break.

"Just know I tried, for Ace, not you," I swallow. If he wasn't willing to answer, Ace just had to wait for answers another way.

9:20—the audio cuts back on.

"I want to see my Queen." His hands are in his lap. He's leaned back in his seat, relaxed and full of composure. Under the fluorescent lights, his bruises are purple and prominent.

This was useless. If it wasn't for Ace, I wouldn't even have pushed for this interrogation. I rise in my seat. "Goodbye, Thirteen. Fiat lux when you're gone from this world."

"My name is Ian. Don't call me Thirteen."

"Ian Blackwell died long ago. He's been replaced with Thirteen."

His face is grim. "Do you know what the third rule of interrogations is?" He asks as my hand lingers in my hair. "Always be the smartest person in the room."

I smile curtly. "You can hardly speak since you're trapped here."

He laughs, the sound ringing in my ears like slick, twisted oil. A shiver struck my spine from his shift in tone. I didn't understand what he found entertaining. On this side of the interrogation room, no one could leave unless someone on the other side opened the door for you.

"Correction. You're trapped here. With me."

The seismic waves of an explosion suddenly ring throughout the agency.

Octavia: "...Whelp"