A/N: I own nothing save a pair of "Chucks" circa 1943. But if I did………
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It's dark where he is. Dark and cold and cramped. Suddenly movement and with it an ocean of vertigo. His stomach drops. The feeling of momentum tells him he must be in the trunk of a car. He shivers. Tries to adjust his position. Bad idea. He knocks his head against something. The pain is shards of glass behind his eyes. Razor blades at the base of his skull. His entire world is misery sharp and distinct. His eyes are shut. He squeezes them tighter. Willing away his reality. It doesn't work. He can hear voices. He tries to recall how he came to be in this place.
The last thing he remembers is checking into some no-tell motel with his brother. The carpet threadbare. The art deco wall hanging outdated by at least three decades. The comforters scratchy and the sheets nothing short of questionable but the beds had been soft. Probably from years of acrobatic use. He hadn't cared then. He had been so tired.
He is so tired. He shifts a little again forgetting himself and brings on another onslaught of nausea bile burning the back of his throat. It takes all of his concentration to push it back. Bad enough in here without wallowing in his own vomit.
He sleeps or maybe he just faints. Time passes even without him. Till he opens his eyes. He wonders how long it's been since the motel. Tries to see his watch. He realizes his hands are tied in front. He twists them. No matter. The darkness insists upon itself and time has no place here in the dark. He drifts again his eyelids slabs of granite.
As suddenly as it had started the movement stops tossing him none to kindly back into the world. Doors slam. Footsteps on what sounds like gravel outside. He brings his knees to his chest feeling with bound hands for the knife he carries in his boot. Again misfortune smiles. His mind is like a whirlwind now. Adrenaline kicks in. Fear and anticipation clamber for supremacy making his heart dance a jig. Keys in the lock a musical tinkling, like wind-chimes. Hinges cry out in frustration demanding oil. Day light begins to slip through the expanding crack as it becomes a fissure. He smells earth, green things and the dirty musky stench of exhaust. Sol is a brilliant blaze against a cloudless sky. A shadow descends partially blocking the sun so that all he can see is a shape. Human in aspect it's face a blank mask devoured by the glare.
"You're awake. Good."