#tickling interrogation

The gas mask isn't as uncomfortable as you imagined, and it is beginning to make sense why it is fitted (and why the interrogators are wearing them too).

It's the fact that two of your friends, who you know to be THE least ticklish people in the world, are currently laughing hysterically under the tortures being applied to their normally insensitive soles, that tells you what the gas that must fill the room does.

The interrogators explain anyway. It makes you unbearably, agonisingly, ticklish.

They offer you the chance to tell them the codes. You know that they'll take the mask off if you don't.

But you're a good soldier. You won't talk.

The mask is removed, another applied, and you are secured in the darkness of it. They leave you a while, absorbing the special compound.

By the time they return, feeling motes of dust landing on the tops of your feet is driving you wild.

When you're interrogating her to tell the truth about some information you found out about her but all she is telling you are ALL lies...

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Complete, total, utter helplessness.

We often talk about Lees becoming more desperate as the interrogation proceeds... but what about Ler interrogators on a deadline?! See the tickLING become more desperate as the time ticks down!

The interrogator slid open the left hatch, and began his questioning. These budget cuts had him literally working three times harder, having to run three interrogations at once for "efficiency savings". Sigh.

Predictably, the first prisoner claimed not to know anything about any codes. He closed her hatch, and administered another dose of sensitivity gas into the box her head was in, hearing the muffled laughter change in pitch as it kicked in, the tickle bot continuing its tireless work.

He opened the middle hatch, and began his questioning. Another tough girl, she claimed she didn't know anything about the location of the guerilla hideout. He closed the hatch, administered her a dose of the sensitivity gas. The prisoner's bare feet really strained in the stocks, she was a screamer. Ugh, this was going to be a long day.

Hatch number three opened. The prisoner within must have been insanely sensitive, she immediately started babbling a stream of numbers, which was a strange response as the paperwork said she was supposed to be in for a confession of tax evasion...

He closed the hatch, and gave her a dose of the gas for good measure. Shuffling paperwork, he debated going to admin for clarity... but the bosses would dock his pay for wasted time. No, he had to sort this. But there was the possibility they were in cahoots, trying to throw him off with inaccurate information...

He opened all three hatches, and was greeted by a cacophony of tormented laughter and muddled coordinates, codes, and confessions as the three women begged for the machines to stop tickling the soles of their artificially sensitised feet.

"Ladies, there seems to have been some kind of mixup. It is possible I am asking the wrong questions to each of you. However, I have to exercise due diligence and determine which of you is meant to give up what information. So, bear with me. We'll get this sorted out, then we can all go home- well, to your cells. It's Friday, so let's get this done..."

He closed the middle and right hatches, and dosed them up again.

"So, number one, let's get started. What is the code, where is the base, and/or, confess!"

Number one cackled hysterically, but managed to squeeze out between the laughs "I'll... I'll nehehever talk!".