And here comes a serie of crossover one-shots ( and perhaps first chapters ) between PoI and Escape Plan, with John eithe being Willard Hobbes, or his tin, or hi doppelganger, or it's just not explained, you'll see...
Peter Arndt wakes up in a cell made of glass.
Anyone else in John Reese withdrawal here? ( Yes, mine is not going well )
Prisoners: What does it make you?
Peter Arndt woke up terrified. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know why he was there, and he didn't know who had brought him here.
What he knew was little: he had fallen asleep in his bedroom, and now he wasn't in said bedroom.
He was on a simple, uncomfortable bed, and all he could see was a ceiling of glass.
Darkness behind the glass – lights, too, in the darkness, but far, far away, and articifial. Not stars. Just... lights, beyond the glass. Far away.
Peter didn't know where he was... but he was certain there was someone else there, with him – he could hear them breathe, just a few feet away. He could sense them, even – cold, so very cold... Should he turned his head, should he try to get up, he'd certainly see them.
And perhaps he'd understand where and why.
Was it because of that money he owed to the loan sharks?
...Was it a way to get him scared?
He was terrified.
He could stand back up, and look at the person he was sure was in the room with him, and tell them he'd pay – he'd do anything they want, they didn't have to worry about that, really. Their little game had worked, they didn't need to keep him here, here he couldn't make the money he owed them.
Except...
Except Peter was terrified. Even looking at that person, who was here, in the room of glass with him... He couldn't bring himself to look.
But he'd have to, he knew that.
Peter's breathing became worse, hard, jerky. The fear was in his stomach, in his lungs, in his brain. It was slowly, but surely, engulfing his whole being. It was like sinking into deep waters without even a light to tell you where you were – not that the light would prevent you from drowning, but still...
Getting a light, though... Peter could do that. It was easy to get one, in fact. All he had to do was to be brave, and get standing – to look at the person who was here, with him, in the room.
Surely, then, he'd get answers. If not the answers he wanted, at least some answers. It was better than not knowing. Even if the loan sharks decided they wanted him dead... At least Peter would know what to fear. Should he panick, he'd at least know why.
Peter forced himself up – and looked at the man standing before a door of glass. There were men in dark getups, with black masks covering their faces standing outside, and the walls were made of glass too. But what really mattered...
The man...
Three pieces dark gray suit, cold blue tie, cold blue pocket square. Tall, silver hair, grey eyes, in his forties, smooth face – not half a feeling visible on his face. A smile, perhaps, depending on the moment – but no real feeling there.
Nothing visible, at least.
If the man standing in the glass room had any feelings left, they were probably feelings of darkness. Hatred. Rage. Disgust. On the other hand, if the man standing before Peter had only one feeling left, it was probably... a feeling of emptiness.
Devouring.
Peter was certain he had seen him before. He didn't know when or where, but he was certain...
Something about Jessica...
"What am I doing here?!"
Peter tried to stand up – but he couldn't. His hands were tied to the bed, and he hadn't noticed until now. In fact, if he was feeling particularly clear-headed, he soon noticed that his body wasn't feeling anything physical. He tried to tug at the restraints – it did nothing. Of course it did nothing.
They – whoever they were – they wouldn't have him tied up if he could just shake it off.
The man – not a stranger, no, Peter was certain he had already seen him somewhere – the man looked at him.
Gave him a cold smile – half a smile. The ghost of a smile. A mere shadow. A soulless smile. A facial expression with nothing to express. A line, not a smile.
"Prisoner 0001. Peter Arndt. Welcome to the International Detainee Unit intake. I am Warden Hobbes." A jail. A jail Peter had never heard of, but a jail nonetheless. Illegal, perhaps, secret, for all he knew, but still a jail. A place to be held – for a long time. Peter was not getting out – the line, turned slightly upwards, on Hobbes' face, told him so. Here to stay, Prisoner 0001. You are here to stay.
Why was he here to stay? What had he done? Who was Hobbes?
Why would Peter deserve to rot in a hole? – he looked around, almost frantically. He was in a cell of glass, and through the glass, he could see more cells of glass, and beyond the unit of five cells, he could see other units. The lights let him see, more or less, vaguely, the dark walls of the large place they were in. Hundreds and hundreds of units. No sunlight.
Just the glass, the cells, the units, the guards, and Warden Hobbes.
And Peter Arndt.
Nothing else. No one else. He was Prisoner 0001 after all. The others would come, he could guess – and Peter worried. What kind of people would be forgotten here, with him? What kind of people deserved to be forgotten here? What kind of monsters was he going to live with from now on?
Why was he here?
A flash. Hobbes – but had it been Hobbes at the time? Peter couldn't remember – in a bar, in New York. Waiting for Jessica, taking a drink. Speaking with Hobbes – a stranger, at the time. Also from Puyallup, like Jessica.
Like Jessica...
Peter tried to stand up, but the restrainst and the abruptness of his attempt drew him right back onto the bed – and Warden Hobbes kept staring down at him, coldly.
But was it really coldness?
"Is... Is this about Jessica?! You knew her, didn't you? Her death was an accident, I swear! I had nothing to do with that! I was even injured in the car accident, the police will tell you! If it's about Jessica, please, just let me out! I... I didn't want her to die!"
That much, at least, was true. Peter had never wanted Jessica to die, and her death had been an accident. He hadn't wanted anything to happen, but... But she had been lying to him about that phone call, he knew it, and why couldn't she have just told him the truth, why couldn't she simply love him, like he loved her? Why?!
It wasn't his fault, damn it!
Hobbes' eyes told him the man believed him – and at the same time, it was obvious that the man could tell there was more to it, that the "car accident" had been a set up, that Peter had...
Somehow, the man knew everything.
And Peter knew, it was the only reason he was here.
Because of Jessica.
Hobbes didn't answer his questions – instead, he just smiled.
At that moment, Peter could tell, there was at least one emotion left in Warden Hobbes, despite the void he seemed to give off. A large, devouring wrath – all of it dedicated to only one man.
To Peter Arndt.
Hobbes turned to the door, passed it, letting the guards in. The guards untied Peter while keeping him in sight – not that Peter would have tried anything. He wouldn't even know what to do.
Just before the glass door was closed again, Hobbes pressed a picture – Jessica, smiling, and Hobbes in an army uniform, smiling, in a sunny place, with drinks – against the glass wall, and said:
"When you find that one person who connects you to the world, you become someone different. Someone better. When that person is taken from you, what do you become then?"
His voice was low, neutral, and yet... Hobbes tucked the photo back behind his pocket square.
"Mr. Arndt, your intake is finished."
The door to Peter's glass cell closed, the words, imprinted in the man's mind.
Peter stared, lost – terrified – at the Tomb.
Prisoner 0001, Peter Arndt.
