Disclaimer: Nope.
Captured
Blood trickles down Garfield's face, staining his already battered skin. He doesn't dare move, though, because it'll just give Tommy Terror a reason to prolong the beating. Four days—a thousand lifetimes—has taught him that submission is the only way to end the pain.
"Aw, is the itty bitty animal hurt?" the meta-human sneers, stepping on his fingers and crushing them to the ground.
With a gasp of pain, he turns bright green eyes toward his tormentor. "Please stop."
"Why should I?" A kick to his ribs bring forth a yelp. "Ain't got much else to do, y'know. Might as well have some fun."
"P-please." He can feel the tears forming, but he fights to keep them from falling. "Please stop."
"Give me a reason," the man demands, circling him. "One good reason."
There is no answer he can offer; he had given up on finding one two days ago. Shakily, he repeats, "Please stop."
"You ain't gon' last very long if yer this weak," Tommy mocks.
Garfield remains silent. This—the abuse, the insults—has become ritualistic. Initially, he fought, physically and verbally. Now, he accepts it. His body is bruised, his soul is breaking, and he's just so very, very tired.
"Maybe I should just kill you, put you out of yer misery. Wouldn't that be mighty kind of me?"
"Yes," he whispers, the right answer.
"Better death than what they gon' do to you."
His breath catches in his throat. Tommy never said that before. "W-what?"
Dropping to the floor, his captor grabs him roughly by the hair and forces him to his knees. Smiling cruelly, he explains, "They gon' experiment on you. See what makes you tick. They already workin' on yer friends. Lord, you should hear them scream."
"You're lying," he barks.
A slap across the face leaves his head spinning. "Don't you be callin' me a liar, boy. I'm the one workin' with these folks, remember? So trust me when I say that they can't wait to cut you open. Of the three of you heroes, they most interested in you."
"Then why haven't they already started?" he asks, voice barely audible.
Shrugging dismissively, he responds, "Gots their hands full with the others. They want to give you special attention."
Shuddering involuntarily, he shakes his head, stammering, "T-they wouldn't d-do that."
"Fine, don't believe me." Leaning forward, he whispers in the teen's ear, "But by the time they done with you, you gon' wish you were never born."
The fear that has been gnawing at him grows, devouring him in a single bite. The tears break free, mingling with the drying blood, tainting his lips with iron and salt.
Tommy lets out a howl of laughter. "Aw, the poor itty bitty animal is crying! Maybe I ought to put you to sleep for a while."
He raises his fist, but before he can deliver the blow, a cold female voice declares, "Enough, Terror."
Blinking rapidly, Garfield focuses on Tigress as she walks toward them. "Take the prisoner back to his cell. He is not your personal punching bag."
"I ain't doing nothing wrong," the other retorts, throwing Garfield to the ground.
With a roll of her eyes, she responds, "Just take him back. Black Manta wishes to speak with us."
"You ain't the boss of me," he growls.
"But Black Manta is, as is his son. And as I was hand-picked to aid him, I suppose that I am the boss." Narrowing her eyes, she commands, "Now do as I say. And please refrain from killing him—he is no use to us dead."
Grumbling, Terror obeys, taking Garfield by the arm and pulling him to the cramped, dark cell. Shoving him inside, he mocks, "Sweet dreams."
Crashing onto the cold floor—there is nothing else in his cell, not even a mattress—Garfield curls into a ball, burying his head in his arms. Breathing deeply, trying to control himself, he inspects the damage from today. The few areas of his flesh that hadn't been battered are now gracing indigo contusions and scarlet cuts. Tentatively, he places two fingers on the slash in his forehead. It's still bleeding.
"Souvenirs," he mutters bitterly to himself.
As soon as the word leaves his mouth, memories of his life with the Team invade his thoughts. The missions, the laughter, the happiness. Everything he needs, everything he's ever wanted. And he may never get it back. Despair destroys the hope that had nestled within his heart, and a few hiccups and whimpers give way to full-fledged sobbing as he hugs his shoulders tightly, struggling so hard to make no noise.
He wants to be free of this inhibitor collar. If he had his morphing abilities, he wouldn't even use them to try to escape. All he would do would become a turtle. He'd submerge himself into the conscious of the reptile, the one which carried its home and its life and its safety on its back, the one that could hide from the world and all the bad things.
He wants to be with Jaime and Bart. That first day, they'd awakened together, staring at the crew under Black Manta's command. Bart had been in the middle, and the warmth emanating from him and the buzz of his heartbeat had dulled Garfield's fear. It was then that Kaldur'ahm, the traitor, approached them, silver eyes dark, and Jaime started screaming, a mix of Spanish and English, demanding how he could do this. A single snap of Kaldur'ahm's fingers and Jaime was dragged away. The last thing he'd said: "Don't hurt them! Don't you dare hurt them!" Because he was the oldest and he was trying so hard to save them. It meant nothing, though, because he and Bart were then separated, each being taking in opposite directions. No more warmth, no more heartbeat, no more comfort. Just darkness and damp air and degradation.
He wants to be with Megan. She'd hug him and kiss him and ruffle his hair and make everything better.
He wants to be with Rita. She'd tuck him in like she did right after he joined the Patrol and tell him as many stories as he needed to fall asleep.
He wants to be with his mom.
The sound of approaching feet launches him into reality. Sniffling, he gets himself into a sitting position, mentally preparing for what is to come. To his surprise, it's Tigress who stops in front of his cell.
They stare at each other for a few minutes, neither saying anything. He's trying to read her, understand why she's here, but he can't. Behind her mask, her face is blank, void of emotions. For a split second, he almost thinks he sees pity, but that can't be because she is Kaldur'ahm's right hand, his most loyal minion. Besides, as quickly as he distinguishes it, it is gone, apathy once more. He's imagining things. He's wanting things.
When she leaves without a word, he lies down and sleeps. In his dreams, he is home.