Penance
Pain is Inevitable
CONTENT:
Rating: Mature
Flavor: Drama, Angst
Language: some
Violence: torture
Nudity: implied (m)
Sex: none
Other: did i mention the torture?
Author's Note:
First, I must say this. When Arrow went on a little break in December and people said it wouldn't be back until... what was it, January something, I complained and cried. Then they told me that MOST other shows were on break until March something. Now that we had some Arrow eps and it's on break (again!) until March 18... well, I mean, look how much better we have it than all those other fans of all those other shows! Right? Right!
Right, I couldn't sleep last night, so to get back at the CW for torturing us with a mid-season finale, and a demi-mid-season finale, I came up with... MORE TORTURE!
Yes, Malcolm gets tortured. You knew that, right? Hey, it's not even MY IDEA this time! :X But, my curare fetish does show up again. Come on, he's got to be at least a little phobic about that after 'Dead to Rights.'
All extra names are made up; any similarity to any actual person (or, heck, characters from other worlds), living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
I also have to warn you... I don't know how this ends. Sorta like how "Broken Arrow" went. My Brain gnawed on this chew toy for a while, then dropped it and went frolicking in the daisies. So... I dunno.
Pain is Inevitable
===#===
"No!" Malcolm yelled as they dragged him away. "No!" He wasn't ready. His plan was still in motion; his pawns weren't set up; his students were nowhere near ready. How had the League found him? He'd had no warnings from his network of informants, no hint they were about to shift their focus to the part of town he frequented.
He tried to struggle, to fight his way free, but it was useless. The chains they'd put him in were much thicker and much shorter than the ones they'd used to transport him. He couldn't even stand if he tried. He'd have to face his fate on his knees.
They took him into the depths of the fortress, the bowels of Hell. He heard a low thrum, growing louder. It was a gas-powered generator. What did they need power down here for? What were they going to do to him?
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional Even his inner voice sounded unsure when he was faced with a situation not in his control. He bit down on his fear. All he had to do was survive long enough. Long enough for Oliver to pull off a miracle. The boy would try, anyway. He had heart, Malcolm had to give him that. It was enough for a slim hope.
The assassins opened a heavy iron door to a room well-lit with both torch and electric bulb. It was large, of dark stone like the whole of Nanda Parbat, with channels cut into the floor beneath a stainless steel operating table. Some concessions had been made for the advances in the art of torture, while other conventions stood the test of centuries.
The guards carried him inside to meet his torturer. Whoever Ra's had chosen for this duty was cloaked head to toe in the anonymity of the League garb: hood, mask, leather, all black, save for the boots and gloves, which were crimson. To match the blood they'd be covered with soon enough.
Malcolm could tell it was a woman. She seemed so much smaller than his guards, and himself even, if he weren't down here on his knees. That didn't matter, within the League. All the elite assassins were trained to the utmost lethality, and a little thing like size did nothing to mitigate that.
Her eyes were dark beneath the shadow of the hood. She didn't bother to acknowledge him as she walked up, seized his hair to pull his head aside, and jammed a needle into his neck. He grunted more in surprise than pain. She turned away. "Unchain him. Take his clothes. Put him on the table." Her voice was low, smooth, devoid of warmth. Ra's had said he would take no pleasure in Malcolm's punishment; it seemed he picked an equally cold-blooded torturer. One less likely to get carried away and go too far, too quickly. Yet also harder to manipulate.
Malcolm hesitated. Should he fight? Or 'face his end with some dignity'? Considering the hair-thin chance of a rescue, he decided he had best exploit every opportunity. He dropped his head, slumped in defeat, as not to telegraph his intentions to his captors.
One of the guards unshackled his wrists, but kept him held in an arm lock while the other tugged at the zipper of his jacket and the buttons of his shirt. Malcolm didn't resist; he bided his time. His extremities began to go numb. He took a deeper breath to fortify himself against the drug, but then his lungs began to weigh heavily in his chest.
They shifted their grip to get the sleeves off, and still he didn't resist. They removed the ankle cuffs and dragged him upright. That's when he moved. He struck out at one guard's throat, then turned to pull the other off balance.
He lacked the strength. His knees buckled, and he fell against the guard. A heavy weight seemed to be crushing his chest; he struggled to draw breath.
Then they were lifting him and setting him on the table. He couldn't breathe; his vision dimmed. He tried to lift his arms, to push away whatever was pressing down on him, but he couldn't move. Curare. He recognized it from the time he'd been shot, from the nightmares he had afterwards, of lying helpless while the dark figure of Frank Chen and the Triad gunman closed in and killed Tommy. Then came for him.
Shadows passed over his eyes; he couldn't blink, couldn't focus. They gripped his his head, his jaw; a tube was pushed down his throat. There was the gasp and hiss of a respirator, and his lungs inflated. His chest rose and fell once more with agonizing slowness. His vision cleared, his senses returned. The table was cold. They tugged off his boots, his pants.
The woman, his torturer, wrapped his left arm in a blood pressure cuff. She took her job of keeping him alive quite seriously.
Then he heard Ra's Al Ghul's voice. "A'haDeb. Do not permanently damage him." Malcolm could not turn his head, nor even his eyes. He could still see the Torturer in his field of vision.
She turned in apparent surprise. "But his reputation. He'll escape."
"He has another task to perform. You may take any other measure to ensure he does not escape." The Demon moved closer, looked down on Malcolm. "Is he conscious?"
"Yes. He can hear us."
"And feel pain?"
"Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Watch his eyes."
She did something - Malcolm couldn't see what - to his hand. It felt as if his thumb was being crushed in a vise, the flesh pulping, the bone grinding. He wanted to react, but was unable. The respirator kept his lungs working at that slow, sedate pace. He couldn't open his mouth, he couldn't tense his throat, he couldn't flinch or blink or pull away. Pain ripped through his body unimpeded.
Ra's watched, a slight frown creasing his brow. He didn't seem convinced. Then his visage blurred in Malcolm's sight, and he felt wetness on his face. The Demon nodded in satisfaction as another tear fell unchecked. "Very well. I will leave you to it. When his presence is needed, I will send someone to fetch him."
Ra's had plans for him? The pain in his hand throttled back to a dull ache while Malcolm's mind raced to figure out what that might mean. It sparked hope within him. Oliver would come.
A'haDeb removed the blood pressure cuff and put iron shackles on him again, to secure his wrists and ankles to the table. They were not standard cuffs, these had spikes lining the inside. They dug into his skin and they would rip and tear if he tried to struggle.
Not that he could.
The Torturer approached his right side. Still, she did not look him in the eye to acknowledge his presence or consciousness or even his status as a living human being. "I want you to remember these names." She lifted a thin-bladed knife and began making small cuts along his arm, starting from the wrist. One for each name.
"One: Emelia Abernathy.
"Two: Brian Acacia.
"Three: Brenda Adams.
"Four: Nancy Adams.
"Five: Nicole Adams.
"Six: William Adams..."
The cuts stung. They bled a little, but all-in-all, the pain was minor. Malcolm didn't understand the significance of these names, but the recitation of them prevented him from thinking, from trying to plan. There had to be a way to escape.
The Torturer continued making cuts, up the inside of his right arm, along the web of muscle to the pectoral, then across. 100 names. 200. Over 300, and Malcolm began to understand their significance.
His limbs began to tingle when the curare started to wear off. His fingers twitched. The Torturer paused and looked at him in some concern, perhaps. After another minute or two, his chest hitched and he started choking, trying to gag out the breathing tube.
A'haDeb pulled it out smoothly. "Stay calm. Your breathing will return to normal in a minute."
For now, he gasped weakly, unable to fill his lungs.
She moved and turned off the respirator. Then she returned and picked up the knife.
"315: Kevin McPherson.
"316: Serena Meachum.
"317: Robin Medranger.
"318: Thomas Merlyn."
Malcolm clenched his teeth as the knife bit into the skin over his heart. A'haDeb didn't stop or pause, but continued the litany of names of all the people killed in the Undertaking.
===#===
A band of fire burned across Malcolm's chest, along his arms. Wet blood painted his skin. A small penance; he knew it wasn't over.
A'haDeb had completed the list. Her shadowed eyes studied him, like an artist contemplating a half-finished work.
A messenger came, saying Malcolm was needed. The Magician quelled his hope.
"He is not ready."
"Ra's Al Ghul demands his presence."
"Ra's Al Ghul ordered me to take reasonable precaution against his escape. Wait outside." Whoever the Torturer was, she must have some authority within the League, for the messenger and the guards sent to escort him left immediately.
A'haDeb removed the shackle on his right wrist and replaced it with another. This one was smooth, tight to his skin, and had a double band. One went around his wrist and the other around his hand, with a narrow slot between them for his thumb. She locked them closed and secured them to the table. She disappeared a moment, then returned with a power drill, its cord dragging across the floor from the generator. Malcolm swallowed.
She gripped his fingers to lay his hand out flat, and he saw the hole in the center of the palm band. He tensed and held his breath, but that did nothing to stop the scream from ripping out of his throat as she lined up the drill and squeezed the trigger. Blood spurted from his palm, then bits of meat as the drill bored through his flesh. He jerked against the other restraints, making the spikes claw into his wrist and ankles.
She pulled the blood-dripping drill out of his hand and replaced it with a long bolt. Malcolm screamed again, overwhelmed with pain. He wrestled with it to get it under control, but she hadn't given him any warning, any time to prepare himself. She slipped a nut onto the bolt and tightened it to the back of his hand, using a wrench, until it would be impossible to budge without a tool.
Malcolm breathed heavily through his clenched teeth. The thing hurt like nine kinds of hell. And whatever they chained him to, he wasn't getting loose - the shackle was bolted through his damned hand!
A'haDeb had disappeared with the drill. Malcolm got a handle on the pain and looked around. No, she wasn't done; she had another cord, another power tool. He saw the snub nose of a nail gun.
She put one hand on his knee and placed the gun firmly on the meaty part of his leg just above it.
K-CHOK!
Malcolm howled as four inches of steel was driven into his flesh. The Torturer moved around to the other side. He tried to brace himself, but she didn't give him time. Methodical and ruthless, she lined up on the quadriceps and fired. Another scream tore his throat ragged.
He panted, vocalizing to vent the pain. He had to get on top of it, get in control. Control. He focused on his breathing, slowing it down, exhaling strongly, forcing the pain away. For each red star of pain that raged within his body, he created a cocoon of energy formed by his will. He squeezed them down, compacted them into tiny marbles that were too small to overwhelm him. His mind cleared, his breath steadied.
He looked up to see the Torturer watching him.
She was studying how he handled the pain, judging how much more she needed to inflict to incapacitate him to her satisfaction. His breath hitched.
She unfolded her arms, bringing the nail gun out from under her bicep. Malcolm threw his head back against the hard steel of the table. He looked at the ceiling, willing himself to go out of his body, to flee the oncoming pain. But he knew that was not an option. He had to satisfy the Torturer's need for his suffering.
Her hand was on his knee again, making the pain flare. Now the nail gun pressed against his leg two thirds of the way up his thigh.
K-CHOK!
It hit the bone. He could practically feel it split. He gave up trying to stifle his reactions. He needed to conserve his energy for a fight he could win.
===#===
The four assassins outside the room waited. They were stealth killers; they dispatched their targets quickly and silently. They tried not to flinch at the loud retorts of the nail gun; tried not to cringe at the screams.
===X===