[h1][img]http://i1383.photobucket.com/albums/ah281/Q-C0ntinuum/BlessedWraith%20Weaver%20-%20Copy_zps7aq7ebmi.jpg[/img] BlessedWrath (Weaver)[/h1]
[h2]Samantha Cole[/h2]
[i]"Fine," Sam grated. "Ask your questions."[/i]

Mantovani grinned and his gun fell to his side. Sam visibly relaxed, but only enough that she could breathe without effort. Her captor took the time to choose his words as he withdrew a small remote from his right breast pocket.

"We’ll start with this." A monitor to her right clicked on. From the distances involved, Sam guessed it to be at least 60", which was only another indicator that the man had money to burn. The video’s low resolution and timestamp in the lower right corner suggested a security feed. It depicted an unconscious Sam, deep in the throes of auto-drawing. Her arm rapidly swept across an invisible canvas, despite her deep sleep.

"Umm..." Sam worked for the words, but the lies did not come as quickly as they had before.

"I don’t need to remind you of the penalty for wasting my time." Mantovani interjected.

Sam shrugged, though the motion was significantly curtailed by her restraints. In truth, she suspected it was important, but had never bothered to actually investigate. From time to time, when Sam was asleep –or even some times when she drifted into a daydream at her desk- she would awake to find strange scrawling in her journals, on her walls; anywhere she could find room. Sam had heard of sleepwalking, but…sleep drawing?

"No clue," Sam offered weakly. "Sometimes I draw in my sleep."

Mantovani huffed, unimpressed. There had to be more to it than that. But he had other ideas on his mind.

"Let’s try something else," he said knowingly. "Which processor does my phone use?"

Sam made a face before she could stop herself. The look she gave him was a profane amalgam of incredulous confusion and condescending disdain. Given all that had transpired, and was still unfolding, what had that to do with anything? Mantovani made his eyes hard and tapped the gun on his thigh.

"You’re not really going to make me repeat myself, are you?"

"How the hell should I know?" Sam spat back. Mantovani cleared the distance between them with three strides and shoved the barrel of his gun into Sam’s chin.

[i]"I don’t know!"[/i] Sam screamed. She looked like a panicked animal, trying desperately to put some distance between herself and the gun, despite the fact that her restraints made that impossible. She twisted her body in any way she could to make that happen, even though the inches she gained would not have made any difference in the damage a bullet would inflict.

That reaction was what made him believe her. It was irrational; driven by fear. There was no thought of deception. The only thing that mattered to her[i][/i] was getting away from his weapon.

"You don’t know." Mantovani repeated. Sam shook her head, trying to choke back tears. "Maybe I’m asking the wrong question." He spent some time pacing before rewording his question. "What [i]kind[/i] of processor?"

"I don’t-" Sam began, but realized immediately that her intended response was untrue. In the time it took her to speak those words, she saw the chip in her mind. She saw every trace, every component. She saw how the energy was directed, manipulated, stored and released. Though she had no name for any of these things, she did know what they were. Sam had been unconscious when Mantovani finally made her hold that phone. He had gotten his way after all. Sam just hadn’t been asked to recall the information she’d gained from it yet.

"I don't know what it's called." Sam tried to deflect the question with clever wording.

"But you do know what it is." Mantovani replied evenly. Sam nodded, looking at the floor.

Mantovani snapped his fingers and one of the doors opened. A man in a suit made rapid progress toward the center of the room, carrying a large notepad under one arm.

"Draw it."

The newcomer released the restraints on her right arm and tried to hand her the notepad. When she refused, he looked at Mantovani, who impatiently gestured toward her. His accomplice shoved the notepad under her arm, into her lap, and made her take the pen.

"You draw that chip," Mantovani ordered, gently placing the barrel of his gun against her temple. "Or I paint this room." This time there was no whimsical gesturing; just a click.

What choice did she have? Sam drew.