I do not own Human Target; I am just addicted to it! This fic will make... less sense if you haven't seen the episode Cool Hand Guerrero. Regardless, please R&R! I feed off of reviews like a koala on acacia leaves.
Something is wrong.
It's been almost two weeks since Chance and Guerrero's escape (or re-escape, in Guerrero's case) from Redding County jail, and things have gone back to about as normal as they ever get in their little band of misfits. That's what Chance would like to believe. He wants to brush off the events that occurred during their stay in the Alabama Correctional Facility as easily as his friend seems to. He wants to pretend it didn't happen.
This is what happened:
At around 2 am, the guards paid Guerrero's cell another visit. This time they brought nightsticks.
Guerrero could have taken those nightsticks away, broken them in half, and force-fed them to the guards in under twenty seconds. It would have taken no more effort than tying his shoe. But Chance told him to stand down, to keep a low profile until legal means could be found to clear their names. So Guerrero stood down. When the jailers had entered, he'd sighed, removed his glasses, and placed them carefully on the bed before the beating began. He remained neutral, calm and passive as the sound of metal striking flesh reverberated off the walls. A few other prisoners called out, encouraging the guards or urging the assassin to fight back or cursing all of them for making so much noise at such an ungodly hour. Chance, in the cell opposite, watched his friend being clubbed with a terrible, silent intensity, his knuckles white as he gripped the bars. Guerrero met his gaze once or twice, in between grunts and kicks to his gut, and grinned as reassuringly as possible.
They broke three of his ribs. That wasn't so bad, honestly; he's had much worse, and nobody can take a good beating like Guerrero. It was when one of the guards, apparently tired of bludgeoning the prisoner, began to unbuckle his belt, that Chance snapped.
"Hey!" He'd raised his voice to be heard over the other inmates. "Hey! Leave him alone already!" When he was ignored, he bent down, grabbed one of his shoes, flung it with deadly (or what would have been deadly had it been anything other than a loafer) accuracy and hit one of the aggressors in the back of the head. The guard turned angrily, drawing the attention of his cronies. "I said leave him alone!" Chance shouted. "Jesus, guys, he's had enough!"
"Stay out of it, dude," the bloodied, battered man growled.
The guards laughed, and the one with his belt undone bent down to Guerrero's eye level. "Well, your pal over there says you've had enough. Have you had enough? Wanna tell us about the notebook? Maybe your friend wants some."
Guerrero spat a bloody retort into the guy's eye.
The guard's grin warped into an ugly snarl. "Fine." He stood, unzipping his slacks, and Chance's mind went into a panicked frenzy.
The other jailers pinned their target's limbs and the again-smirking guard crouched, reaching into his underwear- and a loafer struck him in the jaw.
"Motherf-!" the would-be rapist jumped up, raging, and spun to face Chance. "You got a death wish, asshole?"
"You wanna fuck with someone, fuck with me," the taller prisoner snapped. "Or are you too scared, seeing as how I'm not half your size and bleeding?"
"F-fuck you, man," Guerrero groaned from the floor.
Chance ignored him and continued, mocking the guard, frantically trying to keep the guy's attention away from his friend. "Or maybe you're just afraid someone'll see that pathetic little .22 you're packing down there."
The others laughed and the already aggravated man reddened. Chance definitely had his attention. Good, he thought. Good, keep it up; keep their minds off Guerrero until the day shift gets here...
But of course Guerrero knows him too well, knew what he was up to, and refused to let the attack be turned toward him. He yanked one leg free, swung it up, and the guard's eyes crossed as a bony knee slammed into the particular area of his anatomy that had, at the moment, most of his blood flowing to it. Even the other guards winced.
"Little shit!" The nightsticks swung once more, cracking the smaller man's nose and raining further blows on his arms and chest. He hissed when they struck his broken ribs but made no move to stop them.
"Okay," the affronted guard said at length, having regained his breath. "You two wanna play? We'll play." He motioned to one of his cohorts. "Go get the needle."
They unlocked the door to Guerrero's cell, two of the thugs trodding heavily on the injured man's arms to prevent escape while the other two stepped out. One headed down the hallway toward the Warden's Office, and the other, the ringleader, unlocked Chance's door. The instant it opened, Guerrero shouted for Chance to run, fucking run, dude, GO!
For a second he contemplated it, contemplated knocking the guard out, grabbing his gun, and hauling ass out of there, but the two holding his friend down drew their own 9mms and aimed them at the floored man's knees. Their expressions clearly said: We're not allowed to kill him, but we can kill you, and we can maim the hell out of him so don't try anything.
Chance bit the inside of his cheek, fists balled as his fingers itched for a trigger to pull. The guard grinned and leaned in to speak to him.
"So," the smug bastard said, looking more and more pleased with himself as his companion returned from the office with a syringe full of god knows what. "Since you queers like each other so much, here's what's gonna happen. You," he poked Chance's chest, making him stiffen. "You get a choice. Y'see, Cuckoo's Nest over here," he indicated Guerrero's hunched form, "is gettin' fucked tonight. That ain't negotiable. What is negotiable is who, exactly, does the fuckin'."
That was the exact moment Chance felt his blood freeze in his veins.
"Now, me and the fellas, we're good an' riled up, rarin' to go. We could give him a real seeing-to." The others nodded and shifted in anticipation, an eager light in their eyes that did not bode well for anyone. The speaker continued. "But seems like maybe you two would 'preciate an opportunity like this. So here's my offer, one-time only: you fuck 'im. Or we do."
There was a long, horrible silence as Chance weighed every option possible.
1: Let the guards fuck Guerrero. Sit back and watch his oldest, most loyal friend be gang-raped by a bunch of two-bit hoods who thought they could get away with it by hiding behind the law. Watch Guerrero lie back and take it because Chance ordered him to stand down.
2: Incapacitate the guards, grab Guerrero and run for it. And spend the rest of their lives running for it, hiding and ducking from every siren, every flashing light.
3: Actually... fucking... go through with it. Fuck Guerrero. Bring his deepest, darkest fantasy to life, every secret, twisted little dream he's had since he met the short, lean, long-haired assassin. A dream come true, he thought with a sick, bitter feeling. He'd never wanted it to happen like this. Rough and forced and cruel in a dirty prison cell, watched by a gang of drooling Neanderthals. He'd hoped- not for silk sheets and sweet nothings, per say, but for some semblance of intimacy, of consent on both parties' sides, of choice. In the back of his mind a ruthless, urgent voice whispered that this was the only way it was ever gonna happen. He closed his eyes, shutting off as much of his mind as he could, knowing already what he had to do.
"C'mon, boy, we ain't got all night," the guard's voice broke in, jolting him and he had to physically restrain himself from punching the man in the throat. He sighed, shoulders dropping, and the jailer chuckled. "Looks like someone's made up their mind."
Chance nodded once, twice, eyes opening, and the guard stepped back to allow him into the hallway. He halted in the threshold of his friend's room, his stomach a horrid knot of concern and terror and a dozen stifled emotions he didn't want to feel. The guards noticed his hesitance as the two restraining Guerrero released him and slipped into the hall, and the man with the syringe stepped up and jabbed Chance's arm, pressing down on the plunger. Immediately, said guard was in a headlock as the ex-assassin reacted to the unexpected pain.
"What the fuck was that?" Guerrero rasped, struggling to sit up.
"What'd you just shoot me up with?" He demanded as the captive man wheezed and choked.
"Just a little something to help you loosen up," the lead jailer said coolly, raising his gun. "Drop 'im."
Chance gave his victim's throat another squeeze, then let him fall, gagging, to the floor. "What was that shit?" He asked again, already feeling his pulse pound in his ears.
"Call it a free sample of some of our wares."
"Fucking crack? You fucks shot me up with crack?" Chance rubbed his arm as if he could somehow draw the drug out. His hand shook.
"Don't you fret none; it's pure," one of the other guards said from a distance.
"I swear I'm gonna murder every last one of you," Guerrero hissed venomously. "I will hunt each and every one of you down and hurt you in ways that will make you incapable of registering anything but pain for the rest of your very short lives-"
"Guerrero," Chance ground out, "Stop talking." The wounded man's voice, hoarse and raw and spiteful, was doing things to him it really shouldn't have been doing. His mind reeled, sensation rocketing, and he staggered. One of the jailers gave him a shove and he stumbled into his companion's cell, landing on his knees in front of him. The door swung shut, echoing.
Guerrero pulled himself up into a balled-up crouch, resting on his knees and elbows, curling around his broken ribs. "The fuck are they doing, dude?" He whispered, face contorted in pain and worry.
"They..." Chance couldn't bring himself to say it, couldn't even begin to explain this situation to his friend. "I..."
"Come on, now, boys, don't keep us waitin'," the guard called.
"What's he mean, man?" The bruised man asked, voice rising, trying to keep his calm.
Chance took a breath, shuddering, released it, reached forward and took hold of Guerrero's face, brushing hair away from his eyes, leaned in and pressed his forehead to his friend's. "...I'm sorry."
Next chapter will be posted whenever I write it.