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Killing a fairy is tough. Tricking one is tougher. Interrogating one is nearly impossible, but only nearly. It requires a great deal of preparation and foresight, something Dr. Clair Wythers would tell you she possesses in great quantities. She drains the last of her bitter black coffee from the cardboard cup and tosses it in a nearby can as she approaches the guards.

"Evening, ma'am." The soldier remains at attention outside the wrought iron containment cell. Dr. Wythers places both her thumbs on the pads to his left, in between him and the other on-duty guard. Her sensible flat shoes clacked on the rowan floorboards.

"My mother has taken ill recently," the other guard says as she keys in her serial number. "Do you think I'll be well enough to visit her next month?"

"A mother with no children is no mother at all." Wythers' response to the coded phrase is as precise and impassionate as her second set of identification codes.

"Your mother will be fine, I think," says the first guard. "But your sister should watch her back." Wythers relaxes a tiny bit as the man gives the correct response. She had to bribe, threaten, and bend over backwards to get the GOC to lock up this KTE instead of outright terminating it. In the end, all she had to do was pull a few strings, tell a few lies, and the thing got fast-tracked to 'Agent' status under her supervision, not that it would hold the status for long. Her request only violates the letter of the law, something for which Dr. Wythers has little respect, especially when fairies are involved.

The door to the cell flies upwards and Dr. Wythers hobbles into the enclosure as it clangs shut behind her. Her gaze turns to the figure in the center, suspended four meters from the ceiling by no fewer than seven iron chains. Her cane clacks rhythmically against the wrought iron floor, and the figure lifts its head. Its ragged hair curtains a withered face that lights up when it catches sight of her.

Clair Wythers begins to clap. The noise echoes in the hollow iron chamber. The woman in chains smiles from ear to ear.

"I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me, dearie," comes the raspy, tired voice, still somehow whimsical despite the situation. "How long has it been? Twenty years? Thirty?"

"Closer to thirty-five, actually, but who's counting?" Dr. Wythers pulls a cast iron chair across the rowan floorboards with her free hand. The fairy creature winces slightly, and Wythers cracks a wicked smile.

"I see you're taking pleasure in my pain and capture, little crumpet," the fair coos. "You've blossomed into quite the wicked queen."

"Here's how this interview is going to go," says the doctor, ignoring the fairy's jab. "I'm going to ask you several questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, I'll kill you quickly and permanently. Obfuscate, equivocate, and I'll leave you here to rot, suspended in the air away from your precious plants."

"Wisely chosen words," replies the fairy. "You know I cannot lie, so you say 'bewilder' and 'confuse'. I speak only truth. You're an evil queen gazing into her magic mirror, searching for all the creatures of the world fairer than you."

"Well sure, when you speak in riddles and half-baked metaphors, nothing is technically a lie," Wythers relents. "I could call you an evil self-absorbed snake, and it's technically not a lie because I believe it to be true. You still have arms and legs and wings and shit. You're not literally a snake, but it wasn't technically a lie."