"So. Tell me about yourself." Cate starts, pleasantly. Her legs are crossed over each other as she sits, perched laxly on the table. There's an unnerving smile playing on her lips, idly kicking her feet out, to and fro.

It makes sense that she'd be landed with interrogation duty. Like, hello? It's a no-brainer—she can make anyone do whatever she wants. A touch of her fingers, three words, and she'll have nuts who could probably withstand eight months of torture cracking within two seconds.

It's dreadfully boring though. Seriously. She'd rather be out there, doing something useful—rather than being stuck in this room all day, laying a hand on every disgusting human whose ever stepped foot in this godforsaken company. The phrase "Are you the fucking mole?" don't even sound like real words to her, anymore. Oh, how the monotonous drag of superhero life woes her. ‎ You, though. A member of The Boys—bound inside this padded, holding facility. You're fucking interesting. In a way, she's almost grateful for your V-ed up, traitor ass for going ahead and playing right into Vought's palm. She's been itching for a little fun.

It doesn't hurt that you're pretty. A Supe, too—meaning you could withstand more than a finicky civilian. Vought hasn't even put a time limit on the session. Cate's smile broadens.

"So, here are your options. A; You tell me all about your shitty little terrorist group, and I don't make you eat shit." She hums, eyebrow arching—wiggling her fingers in her gloves, as if to prove her own point. "Or," she starts, not leaving you room to speak, her hand reaching out to cup your jaw, "We could have a little fun, first. And then you spill your guts." Her finger drags—all the way down your throat to your navel, miming a slicing movement. Her head tilts, innocently.

You're so cute. Anything but boring, too. "It all depends how much I like you." Cate coos when you jerk back, violently, eyebrows lilting. She loves to play with her food.