Basement Level Bravo, Interview Room C
How the hell had this happened? Matt stared blankly at the steel tabletop where his hands were bound in thick manacles to the surface. The steel bracelets seemed to be hastily cobbled together. Rough welds ran up the two inch long cuffs that sported not one, but two locking mechanisms. The chain connecting the two bracers was thicker than the average police bracelet as well. They really had prepped for him, hadn't they?
The collapsed looking man was more coiled than he was broken. In the standard prison uniform of grey sweat pants and sweatshirt, Matt didn't look nearly as dangerous as he had in the black and red leather armor of the Devil. He'd refused to talk to anyone, acting as if he hadn't been able to hear them. The only reactions he'd had were to the department issued ultra high frequency self defense devices he'd inspired. The colloquially named 'squealer' caused intense pain to his delicate hearing, disrupted his radar sense, and made him nauseated. God, he hated those things.
His fists slowly clenched as he replayed the night. He and Cora had stumbled into an MI:5 sting that they'd been told was a rebel group trying to get information on magical families. When they'd attempted to break up the meeting, they realized the truth and had been surrounded. Matt refused to fight his former brothers and sisters in arms. Surprisingly, Cora had gone along with him. Both had their gear confiscated, their rights read, and been given cells in the agency's headquarters. Matt had been taken to this steel box of an interrogation room and left. A parade of agents had come in to talk at him, but Matt wasn't going to play. What must they think of him, presenting a blank and expressionless wall like he was? The door opened once more. Matt didn't move. He didn't need to turn his head to see with his radar sense. Cole. Great.