"Quite the hard man to find you are Mr. Lemaitre. Has it been thre-- no, five times now that we've caught up to you only to watch you slip away by some unimaginably good stroke of fortune. Really, if it wasn't so vexing, I'd have to admit you to be a very impressive individual indeed."
The gentleman bound at the wrists, to a chair bolted into the floor of the ship, smiled modestly; partly because the comment was so obviously laced with his captor's venomous contempt, but also because on the level of introduction, having already embedded himself this deep into the man's thoughts was complimenting -- to him at least. He was right there, nestled just below the subcutaneous, where the nerves fray only superficially, existing as some subconscious malignant irritation that threatened the man's every attempt at maintaining his composure. The two players in this game of cat-and-mouse, stared after each other, both displaying emotions perhaps a tad inappropriate considering their respective positions. On one hand you had a man decorated quite impressively within even the President's political milieu who had committed himself quite exhaustively to the chase of just one individual; and on the other, you had that one unassuming individual who had eluded him for nearly six years. The resources of an entire government task-force were ill-suited at besting this one man, and despite having him secured to a chair on a ship in the middle of the ocean, the detective couldn't deny the precariousness of his detainment. A pursuit nearly six years of age ending in a simple cuff-and-tuck at a Parisian cafe, with one of the government's most sought after paranormal-criminals didn't have the most settling assurance behind it. He was dubious to say the least.
"We both knew your luck would run its course eventually, it was inevitable." The detective said with not as much confirmation as he was hoping to convey. But then again, he didn't quite believe it himself.
"Well, what can I say détective. A man can only so vigorously deny a threat to his life until it becomes a struggle of acceptance. I grew tired."
"So, I'm to assume that the fortuity behind your capture was due to nothing more than a boy running out of gas," the man looked at him suspiciously, almost certain he was letting on to something he had previously intended to withhold.
"I believe that is the extent of it unfortunately, monsieur." He replied though not with the low tone of the disapproved and expression of shame, but rather a boyish grin that bespoke of something nefarious. The facade he had constructed of someone being held captive was so very purposely derelict.
The detective stood from his seat and strode to the door with purpose, exiting momentarily, before reentering with a novel sense of direction. He might have been the one at the head of this chase, but he certainly wasn't the one calling the shots. He coughed ineffectually, getting the attention of the gentleman who had ever-so silently been an observant of the scene, sitting further in the bowels of the room with a book in his hand that he pretended to digest. It was resoundingly clear, however, from his gargantuan stature and the piece tucked in a holster on his backside that reading wasn't his preferred pass-time. When he wasn't exchanging cursory glances with the detective, he would look curiously after the captive, his interest poorly concealed though with Gaspard's reputation around the agency it was hardly unexpected. The man stood as well, shook his joints free of tension before proceeding to the door to motion two others into the room. Both lackeys marched in with several jugs of water in tow, staring curiously at the detainee who returned their glances with an expression void of emotion. The man exchanging jabs with the detective before was slowly reverting, relinquishing his claim to something profound; evil almost, though a necessary evil that would prove to be vital if the man were to survive the moments to follow.
"I understand how unbelievably tired you must be right now," said the detective, his palms pressed together flatly, and his tone an inquisitive shade, "but I'm going to have to ask you to exert yourself a little more. I've been told that there's a couple colorful notions buzzing around up there," he continued, motioning towards the captive's head. "That you, my friend, know something my associates would like to know as well. And seeing as how they've put some much faith in my ability to get you to divulge with me what exactly that information is, I'm asking you to be a friend. My friend. So come on, whaddya say?"
"As appealing as that sounds Mr. Callahan, I'm a bit of an introvert. I just don't do friends."
Challenge accepted. The detective almost snickered to himself so elated was he at the thought of what was to come, the pain he would inflict on this little smug bastard. He'd been waiting a long time for this moment and he could feel his hands almost shaking in anticipation. "How fortunate," he said sparing no sincerity, " I was actually hoping I would have to resort to this. Well, it'd go down like this anyways, Copernicus always knew that." He looked to one of the men standing over the detainee who withdrew a dozen or so threaded rags from his jacket and handed one to detective.
"Gaspard, do me a favor and give us a fight. I want enough time to enjoy the moment." He wrapped the rag around his face, bunching it in the back so the fabric tightened in the front, bearing into the man's face and forming around it like a second skin. "Let's get him wet."