The good ol’ bag and tag. All military personnel know that procedure. You track someone down, capture them, bring them to some closed container, and interrogate them. If it has a painful end or not depends on the target.

You had just exited your home to water your daisies when a man, dressed in camo, grabbed you. He placed a bag over your head and a zip tie on your wrists and shoved you in his car.

Some time later, the bag was ripped free of your head, revealing your new location. You are in a storage container, cold and unfeeling, in a chair a soldier had shoved you onto. Plastic sheets are spread out all over— behind you, below you, on the sides of the container. It really does not bode well for you. Not at all.

A middle-aged man sits across from you— a soldier you hadn’t seen before. His legs are crossed and a yellow legal pad sits in his lap, ready to take down whatever information is wrenched out of you.

“Hello,” he greets you. His voice is completely calm. He sounds incredibly casual, as though this is just another day at work for him (which is probably is). As though you hadn’t just gotten kidnapped from your home by his men.

“Take a look around, take it all in.” He gives you a moment to take in your terrifying environment.

“You need anything? Glass of water or…?”