Interrogator F: Can you tell me your name?
Hybridae - BW11: Why? You already know who I am—everyone does.
Interrogator F: We do, but I want to know what you know. S—
Hybridae - BW11: I have two names. Which do you want?
Interrogator F: Whichever you'd prefer we use for documentation. We like to honor people's wishes about these things. Names are important.
Hybridae - BW11: And what about my wish for you to get fucked and let me go!
A pause. Stretches for ten seconds. Interrogator is bemused.
Nadia T.: Nadia Temple…I don't want you using the other one. It's special.
Interrogator F: It was your cover for—
Nadia T.: Don't use it. Unless you want me to bite my fucking tongue off, and make sure that whatever you want from me you don't get.
Interrogator F: Understood. So, Ms. Temple, tell me what happened.
Nadia T.: Alls below, you already know, stop fishing for more shit to pin on me…I've already done enough…too much. Brightgate, the war—
Interrogator F: Tell me about the war. Can you…tell me about the war?
Nadia T.: Sure, it's hard to forget I mean there were the grand companies, the treks through the Underside, the…um, those weird…fuck. It was a lot, okay. All your fancy documentation doesn't have this written down somewhere?
Interrogator F: Do you not remem—
Nadia T.: I do! I do…remember some of it. It's just…
Interrogator F: Jumbled?
Nadia T.: A bit, but even if I did remember you grabbed the wrong girl. My sis is the storyteller, and I'm the killer. The monster. The biggest liar this side of the Black Vein.
Interrogator F: Is that how you see yourself?
Nadia T.: It's how everyone sees me. They know the stories.
Interrogator F: They know some stories, but I want yours—I am a captive audience.
Nadia T.: More like I'm the captive teller.
They both chuckle.
Nadia T.: Where do I start?
Interrogator F: The earliest thing you remember.
Nadia T.: I came back to life.
Interrogator F: And what was that like?
Nadia T.: It wasn't with a sudden gasp, or whatever Lie someone's spinning on the NewNet. What it's like, is a rush of sensation, the primordial soup that gives rise—no—return to feelings…