𝑀𝑂𝑅𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐴 - S.S.

{three;}

Mieczyslaw bites the inside of his cheek and glances around once more, but he obeys without question. Always without question.

He slides into the leather-cushioned seat, back straight, focuses entirely on the man that's responsible for his being here.

The man emanates expensive cologne, chilli pepper and spice with a twinge of something like lavender, and sits in a plaid grey three-piece suit; a white shirt and a deep red tie.

His attire is a far cry from the black cargo pants and the crisp white lab coats Mieczyslaw has familiarised himself with.

Around seven months ago Stiles would've called the aura of expensive, dangerous, mysterious he seems to exude out for what it is — tacky posturing, overcompensation to the highest degree, a thinly veiled attempt at making himself look a little less small in the big bad world around him.

As it is, Mieczyslaw just sits, waits, lets the man regard him curiously — like he's weighing up whether the tortured soul is even worth his time.

Eventually, he must see something he likes in the sun-kissed whiskey of the younger man's eyes, because he says, "I've been waiting months to meet you since your arrival here, and I'm not a patient man."

He's not sure if he should apologise or not, chooses not, and feels instantly regretful under the Colonel's calculating glare.

"But I suppose," he continues, "if you prove yourself to be as interesting as Adeline seems to think you are I can find it in my heart to forgive you, for being so resistant to our treatment."

Mieczyslaw doesn't think there's a single word in that sentence he really understood, and it must come across in the expression on his face because the grey-haired man on the other side of the desk chuckles almost pityingly in his face.

"I know it's a lot to grasp-" he looks down at the folder in his hands "Mie- Mit- Mr Stilinski," he clears his throat, "but the good doctor insists you're ready, even if I'm a little doubtful myself — my little sister always knows best, you see — so, it's about time that you begin your real training."

"Real training?" He blurts before he can stop himself, and winces, because he should know better than to ask.

They'll tell him what he needs to know, not a word more.

The Colonel just smiles, though, like he expected it "you didn't think we brought you here just to beat the devil out of you, did you?"

Mieczyslaw, like usual, doesn't know. Figured it must've been amounting to something, sure, but he was pretty convinced that something was just to sit back and watch as he cracks and breaks.

"You're allowed to speak, when you're spoken to," the Colonel states, dissatisfied.

"Am I?" He doesn't mean for it to come out sarcastic and accusatory, but it does.

He thinks he sees the Colonel's eye twitch a little, "huh, maybe my team didn't manage to whip all the snark out of you after all, I was told you were a mouthy one when you first arrived," the elder man hums, almost amused.

Mieczyslaw hasn't had the energy to feel angry in months, but that? that pisses him off. For one, he wasn't even trying to be loud-mouthed or rude, he was just asking, sincerely, but if that's how this dick wants to play it then fine.

"Yeah, that's what it is," he states with derision, "your team aren't good enough at whipping your prisoners, you should really work on that, especially if you're going to make torture your whole schtick."

"Hmm," he agrees easily, then looks above Mieczyslaw's head, "what do you say, Mark? Is there room for improvement?" he talks to one of the two guards he forgot were still standing at the door, "Need a little practice? Why don't you take a belt to the kids back and show me your swing, see if I can give you a few pointers, huh?"