Alex woke with a cry on his lips, still trembling from his nightmare. The room around him swam and spun as he gazed around blearily. His back was pure agony, his throat was aching and sore. His head hurt so bad it was as if his brain decided to take a trip through a washing machine before partying in a blender. Despite the pain, Alex chuckled grimly at the meager information he had gleaned from his time in captivity. He was still in London, caught by one of the more powerful local gangs… and that's all he knew. Oh, how he wished for jack to be here, to comfort him! But she was…he refused to say that word.
Jack… that thought pulled up memories that he wanted to keep locked away in that dark, haunting place at the back of his mind. That place where memories of terror, of grief and of darkness resided. That place that formed when he was first forced to join mi6. That place that only grew more terrifying, bleaker, more soulless with each suicide mission he completed.
He took a deep breath, trying to push those memories away. He straightened his spin from that curled position in his cell. My cell… he grinned at that thought. He had been trapped in here long enough for him to refer to this hellhole as 'his cell'. This cage that stank of sweat, vomit blood and piss. That reeked of despair and desperation. And of pain. The pain. At that thought, The stench suddenly became overwhelming, and the pain seemed to triple, accompanied by a ache in his heart that throbbed and pulsed insistently. (the pain, it ripped through his chest, it was too much, too much for him to handle. That flash of red hair, that American accent, that laugh. Then...the pain, the pain, the pain, he was dying, dying no SHE was dying, dead, from that explosion, that boom that echoed in his head…)
He jerked, gasped, as he pulled himself from that abyss of bad memories, that freefall into the dreadful darkness.
Just in time. His cell door rattled, a beefy tattooed guy came in. A lowly gangster, barely worth anyone's time. 'beef' that's what I will call him thought Alex as he steeled himself for what was to come.
"So, what do you have for me today?" Alex smirked. Easily pulling up that mask, that facade of a unbreakable, undaunted spy. Those masks, easily fooling people, but never himself (he hoped they would one day). The hundreds, thousands of masks, pulled up around the walls which housed his tormented, breaking, fracturing soul. He knew one day the masks would crack, would shatter, and others would see his weakness, the weakness that got people killed, that got Jack killed. But not today. Grimly, he held onto to his masks, throwing all his strength into maintaining this façade, trying not to think of the day when his strength failed and his masks slipped out of his grasp.
As the whip came slashing into his back, tearing though skin and flesh, all Alex did was grit his bloodied teeth, and spit at his captor.
Shudders ripped through him as he slowly came to in his cell (he was beginning to think of it as his permanent home). Slowly, feebly he lifted up his head, trying to ignore his pounding headache. His vision was blurry, the room merely a smear of colours, swirling and mixing, taunting and teasing, reminding him of his burdens, his torment. He let loose a breath, trying to ease the fire on his back, licking its way up his spine, to his neck. He lay on his stomach, pressed against the cold, cold floor, utterly at odds with the inferno raging on his back. A sudden wave of hopelessness, of utter despair, that came crashing onto him, smothering that wavering spark of hope in him. He would never get out, never see the sunlight again, never savour the cold wet London weather again. His chest tightened, his heart heavy and weary. Tears leaked out of his eyes, but he made no sound.
A sob, a soft whimper cut through the air like a sharp, sharp knife. Alex tensed, immediately spotting the source.
A child, a child not even ten years old. How could a child be here, in this…in this...hell on earth? The cracks in Alex's heart fractured a little more, even as he slowly crawled towards the child. He arranged his face into one of gentleness and worry, hoping the child would not sense his pain. "Hey, what's your name? Are you hurt?" He softly asked, hoping his voice, hoarse from screaming, didn't scare the child.
She looked up at him, innocence and fear shining brightly in her eyes. She whimpered, but didn't shy away from Alex. "I'm Helen" she whispered.
A sudden wave of fury crashed over Alex. How could they, how could they do this. Bringing a child, a clearly innocent child in here, into a world of torture, of pain? "Some big scary man took me away from my Ma, then shot her" at that she began to cry again. "My Ma was bleeding bad, there was so much blood, but those men didn't care. They took me and asked me about my da. But I haven't seen my da in years!'
Alex had heard enough. Gathering the child oh his arms, he stroked her hair, comforted her.
Now, more than ever, he needed to get out, to escape, to bring this child to safety.
.