Merse's fur stood on end, briefly taking on a rubbery nature in response to the excessive jolts taxing his body. To some degree, he insulated the shocks, showing a level of resourcefulness that justified Tartalo's suspicion and overall precaution. Not only was Merse not dead but his most valuable weapon, his mouth, was strategically curbed for the time being. 

For once, the information broker knew little of what he was dealing with, elevating the stakes to immeasurable heights. The fine line he walked, if all for the sake of reasonable doubt, was bold, even for his standards. Despite the lack of incriminating evidence, Merse had many reasons to question his fate. Morality often called into question whether it is better to risk saving a guilty person than to condemn an innocent one. Having been on this planet for less than a day, it was evident, outsiders were the recipients of no such empathy. Earthf67x's relationship with aliens was not a great one. The information broker's disastrous actions only added fuel to the fire, validating such apathy, perpetuating their xenophobia for generations to come.

Knowing all of this, Merse weighed his options, calculating scenarios at a computing pace. He did this until he could no longer play possum. After the third jolt, it was clear. The jig was up. 

[i]"We'll begin with your name."[/i]

Merse's fur returned to its normal texture. The lethargic expression on his face was the most life he had shown up until this point. His slitted eyes widened, reflecting the tiniest of light as any cat's pair would. Without moving his eyes, the broker's pupils managed a detailed scan of the area. This was done without mustering any source of power whatsoever. The slightest action very well could be seen as a threat and Merse was cautious in his own right.

In any government, the complexity of federal criminal law, codified in several thousand sections of written code establishes a virtually infinite variety of circumstances that might trigger an investigation. Even at the interrogation stage, it was difficult for Merse to know, in advance, just what particular set of statements could incriminate himself. He knew his words would be twisted but he decided to respond regardless, citing no real alternative.

"Merse Granstrum, Information Broker, at your service. What business do we have here today, operative?"

This game of verbal chess had finally begun.