Pinkgothic played:

Dread and Thomas Bennett

Bennett's pen tapped against the desk, a stern glance latched onto one who went by the birthname Ian Trafford, hoping to distill something out of his demeanour. Finding no guilt or nervousness, a light grimace played across his lips. The pen snapped to a stop, noise sharply dispersing the silence. "You have no idea why I've asked for you, do you?" he asks, curious if the so painfully honest man was perhaps simply not articulating some underlying sense of responsibility.

"No, Sir," Dread remarked, with an almost offensively casual and neutral tone, completely devoid of the rigor one might expect from such words, yet not nearly melodious enough to pass as a deliberately polite response. Indifferent.

Oblivious. The hint of a grimace on Bennett's face deepened into an actual one as he slid himself forward into a lean away from the back of his seat, slanting until elbows rested a few inches into the desk. He really was oblivious. On the other hand, it was subtler than murdering people, so perhaps it shouldn't come as a surprise. "You had a few interesting questions about D-band for Andrew," he observed, and a deep unrest within him sent the pen off into another tappity-tap. He didn't notice.

Dread remained silent, somehow completely unfazed.

"He told me about them," Bennett continued, finding the redundant remark somehow necessary, as if it would coax a response out of Ian.

No luck, just a quirked brow, presumably a quiet criticism of exactly that redundancy.

Creepy bastard. "All right, fess up, why did you ask?" Bennett exhaled sharply, straightening again, wishing that discussions with this psychic prodigy at some point in their relationship might morph to something other than trying to milk blood from a stone.

"If I may first ask a question of my own, have I encroached on confidential information?" Dread asked, concern creeping into his expression, pale lips pressing down into a thin line a moment later.

"No," Bennett admitted, resisting the urge to huff again. "No, there's nothing confidential about D-band. As you know we run on Amidigital. But I'm presuming you had a reason other than wanton curiosity to ask for a contact?"

"With all due respect, I would like to decline to answer that," Dread smiled wryly, sliding his fingers to fold in his lap. "Short of letting you know that an astral contact of mine wished to know."

"An astral contact of yours wanted to know about an ISP's store in Reykjavik," Bennett echoed, somewhat numbly, reminded of his earlier analogy. This rock wasn't even crimson.

"This is where you provoke me into telling you that it's for troubleshooting purposes, and subsequently regard me with clear disbelief," Dread skipped ahead in the conversation a few phrases, feeling no urge to play this cat and mouse game, either; a certain bitterness had found itself into his voice, though.

Tap, tap, tap. "All right," Bennett inclined his head, regarding Ian much as he might a particularly taxing opponent in a match of chess - but this was far less exciting a battle, of course. "Can you tell me why you would like to keep the details to yourself?"

"Because my dealings with the individual are private."

It was statements like that which made Bennett want to say something domineering and controlling, like: 'You're our captive, and any illusions of privacy are just that - illusions,' but they were already painfully short on common ground. How long had it been? Two years? A brick wall was more willing to budge than Dread. Frustratingly, the fact he played along with their schemes was EXACTLY why he had any leeway at all, short though it might be.

"Am I not allowed a smidgeon of privacy?" Dread asked, voice carefully tailored not to be carried by an insulting or provoking tone, instead fashioning it into a simple, harmless enquiry. "I assure you, I have not leaked any confidential information."

"Let's cut to the chase," Bennett snapped, finding the pivot he wanted. "Someone's asked you about D-band in Reykjavik. Is the location a coincidence? I can't help but doubt it. Why do they know you're here?"

"Because I told them," Dread responded, straight-faced and without pause.

"And how is that not a breach of confidentiality?" Bennett asked, left hand brought up to his face, fingertips kneading into his forehead as eyes closed.

"They're completely unable to act upon the information, nor spread it to someone who could," Dread shrugged, tone half quizzical, as if hoping to prompt Bennett to explain the issue to him in some more tangible fashion.

"Completely?" Bennett arched a brow, throwing that single word back at Ian in emphasis.

Dread nodded. "I assure you."

"Explain," Bennett prompted, adopting a venom framing his expression that spoke one language, and one language only: Give me answers or I will make you eat every word you haven't spoken.

The unspoken threat hung in the air as a pregnant silence. Right. No privacy. His right thumbnail dug a lazy scratching motion against his left thumb, gaze briefly winding itself into the corner of the room, before remembering that it was polite to look at your conversation partners, and sliding back to Bennett unmotivatedly. "There's a group of people trapped online." A pause, letting it sink in, watching Bennett's face scrunch up in the expected disbelief. "I'm serious. I'm not sure how much you'll find if you look it up, but I've spoken to them."

Bennett's head swam. Somehow this conversation had drifted from a simple enquiry into a mediocre summary of the latest net flick. Ian wasn't known to lie, but he did... stretch the truth occasionally, for lack of a better phrase, and this just seemed like the fabled 'There's a first time for everything'. He didn't buy it. "Who's your contact?"

"Anna Castillo. Reykjavik," Dread informed, response coming like the bullet from a gun, not one for hesitance. Nonetheless, his left brow twitched with an only barely subdued concern.

The pen whipped up, clicked against Bennett's thumb, and the tip danced across a sheet of paper. Anna Castillo. Reykjavik. "I see," Bennett acknowledged, dully.

Something twanged uncomfortably in Dread's gut, and the left corner of his lips fled downward in a lopsided frown, forehead crinkling unevenly. Was Bennett going to involve himself? Or was he just going to confirm Dread's story and leave the whole thing be?

"And it's Anna that wanted to know about D-band?"

"Yes." At least, effectively.

"Why would she want to know about a D-band contact if she's trapped online, though?" Bennett shot a faux-charming smile across to his current interrogation victim.

"Oh." Dread's demeanour abruptly flowered back into something far less oppressed, shoulders sagging comfortably and light smile reasserting itself on his face. "That's simple."

"Is it?"

"I'm going to play cable."