Location: Unknown.

Tracer woke with a stinging, burning sensation in her head, as though someone had poured petrol inside it and set it alight. Her arms were twisted up above her head, and she couldn't think clearly. She spat out whatever was in her mouth-blood, by the look of it in the dim light- and tried to bring her arms down, to no avail. She glanced up, to see that they were chained to the wall above her. Slowly, things started to piece back together in her head.

The splintering of the door being kicked in. The men bursting into the room, balaclavas, armed and dangerous. The feeling of joy as she took the two of them down, seeing their shocked expression. Then, a sharp pain in the back of her head followed by everything going black. Must've missed one of them.

She knew that whoever had put her in here had taken her accelerator. She noticed as well that somehow, they had a miniature version like that she occasionally used at home, and she was wearing it on her wrist. But how did they know how to do that, or have the technology to do it? Only two organisations she knew of had the ability and resources to do this: she worked for one of them. Her mind meandered back onto the rapidly spreading inferno of agony all over her body.

Come to think of it-ARGH- this hurts. A lot.

Her body was slowly waking back up. And as it did, more and more pain flooded in. It felt as though someone had broken half the bones in her body. Her arms burned with the scars of at least a hundred marks where someone seemes to have whipped her. The small scorch marks on her chest and neck where some sadistic bastard had stubbed out a cigar on her. More information returned to her consciousness.

Being dragged through a damp, dark corridor. Thrown onto a metal chair. Questions being barked at her. Being beaten and whipped and scalded as she refused to comply. Her lungs screaming out for air as she was forced into a bucket of water and held under. The terror as the sensation of 30 Volts being passed through her with jump-leads reminded her of the feelings she'd experienced when the Slipstream test went to shit.

She tried to scream out in pain, only to manage a hoarse whimper. She panted, trying to regain her composure. Her throat was dry, and it felt like someone had fired superheated steam down it. Bet Talon's loving having me as a guest. Or they're gonna, especially with Ms Indigo leading the...

Her thought trailed off as she locked onto movement against the wall, close to her. She squinted as best she could to try and make out- No. This doesn't make any sense! A figure in a purple skinsuit. A tattoo on her arm, Cauchemar. And moreover, she looked twice as bad as Tracer felt, and then more.

Tracer couldn't understand. Talon HAD to be behind her kidnapping. So why on earth was Widowmaker locked up in here in just as bad a state as her? Unless...

Think, Lena! Who else have you pissed off enough over the years to get this kinda treatment? No faces or groups sprang to mind. Fuck! My head still feels like I'm hungover.

She froze, hearing footsteps thudding down the corridor. Shit! No, no, please no! Not again! The metal door swung open, connecting with the wall with a clang. Two guards stormed in. One removed her restraints. She tried to resist them- the only thing she could think to do, given what she knew was coming next- to be met with the sensation of a broken bone being grated in her chest as one of the guards whipped her with a baton, before kneeling on her as she lay face-down in the waste littering the cell floor and tightening another pair of restraints on her wrists, and dragging her to her feet. She shot one last glance at her cellmate as she was dragged into the lights.

And the process began again.

"Look, Ms Oxton- Tracer, whatever the fuck you call yourself- nobody knows you're here. So, we're free to do as we see fit to get what we want from you. Getting the idea yet, or do we need to run that over your head again?"

Tracer couldn't help but snort slightly with laughter- despite it causing her to cough afterward- at the ridiculous manner of her interrogator. The stance that tried to say "Be afraid of me", yet did the opposite, the all-black suit with the polished black brogues. Looks like HR need to hire a new stylist, hehe-

"Ah, you wanna be a funny bitch, huh? Don't you worry, luv, we have the perfect thing for that." He gestured to the guards in the room.

Before Tracer could react, she was on her back on the chair, lying painfully on her shattered arms. A guard brought over a hosepipe. It was forced into her mouth, and turned on. The water forced its aay through her throat into her stomach, some of it penetrating into her lungs, causing her to feel as though she was drowning. After what felt like an eternity, the water was switched off. She lay coughing and retching, as she attempted to get air back into her lungs. Her interrogator strode up, grabbing her by the hair and pulling her face level with his,dragging her up with the seat she was still cuffed to.

"You can try the 'unbreakable' act all you please, dear. It's not going to stop us from getting the information we want."

Another gesture to the guards, and a whipping sound behind her, followed by a sharp pain in the back of her head. She crumpled to the floor, her vision fading from the outside in.

Her hearing blurred, but she made out the conversation-barely- over the phone that her tormentor was having as she lay limp at his feet.

"...still refusing...talk. Shall...step up...tactics? Unders...d, sir."

The last words she could make out as she passed into blissful unconsciousness.