The Prisoner's Dilemma (Fiction)

His hands are shaking. They’ve been shaking since five hours ago, when the silent policemen showed up at his door wearing black tactical vests on top of black sleeves. He lived alone—there was no one to call for, no one to beg to call his lawyer as they took him into the sealed van. The officers had no body cameras and no identification numbers, only a silver badge and a red stripe on which was stitched “EXTRAORDINARY RESPONSE TASK FORCE”. Now he is in a windowless room with a one way mirror and walls that sit in a nondescript grey. The walls have been grey and featureless the whole time since they took him out of the van in a sealed garage and led him to this thin plastic chair. He could be anywhere. He didn’t have a lawyer, anyways.He asks the one way mirror for his phone call in a trembling voice. No response. He asks again, louder. Still nothing. He starts to shake, to scream, his hands are still cuffed to the steel table that looks like it could belong in a morgue. He notices that the floor is scuffed where the door opens and closes. It brings him some relief to know that the world of physics and metal and wood still has some power in this void of law enforcement, this terrible black-suited dreamland.There is no keeping track of time in this place. Even the lights are sterile: too bright to sleep, too dim to think. Eventually a man comes in. He doesn’t have a mask, instead he has a crop of sweaty blond hair and wears a shirt that might come from Marks and Spencer. His arms are thick, but in an office-worker sort of way, not in the way that (he imagines) torturers or soldiers would have thick arms. The man clears his throat. Again, the existence of phlegm is reassuring to him.“Mr. Anderson. This is not an arrest.”“…What?”“You are not under arrest. This is an administrative removal under the 2027 Policing, Anti-terrorism, and Extraordinary National Security Response Act. You are not under arrest, and therefore do not possess the rights afforded to those under arr