Lucas

Россия - Russia

Consciousness struck, and it struck hard.

Bloodshot eyes snapped open to full alertness, but it took him a moment to register that he was on the floor. Face down.

Why was he on the floor?

He turned his head to inspect his surroundings, instantly regretting the action as a nerve in his neck twanged and locked.

He blinked.

Squinting into the dirty floor tiles he tried to reassemble scrambled thoughts.

Failed.

Time passed and he remained on the ground. How long had he been here in this position? Minutes? Hours? He flexed his spine and it cracked audibly, lances of pain shooting up it and exploding behind his eyes in response.

Ouch.

More than a few minutes then.

Rallying strength he didn't have, he struggled to his knees; his laborious movements would have been painful to watch, had there been anyone there to pay attention to his lack of agility. Shuffling closer to the wall on his knees, he reached up with stiff arms to pull himself up onto his feet.

His face slid up the cracked, stained cell wall as he slowly, painfully became vertical.

Upright.

Good.

Upright was good.

His forehead pressed against the wall and his legs trembled, his nervous system rebelling against him as the evening's activities were reminded to him.

Oh yes, that's right.

Electrocution had been the order of the day.

They hadn't even asked him any questions this time.

Eyes that had once been clear and smiling, slid purposefully to the rickety chair that rested innocently in the corner of the cell. The eyes then flitted to the ceiling panel that concealed the motley collection of rags and sheets that would facilitate his escape.

Escape.

Seven years of work, of retaining the sanity that had threatened more than once to slip away; it was a long time to throw away on this kind of escape. But it was tempting.

No.

He'd lasted this long.

But...

There was, of course, another option. Arkady's option. He could go home.

Bile rose up his gullet and he fought back the urge to empty the meagre contents of his stomach onto the cell floor. To go home, he would have to betray his country, betray the very home he wished to return to.

Home... ay, there's the rub, Horatio old chum.

His home had forgotten him.

He squeezed his eyelids shut, blocking out the chair and the ceiling panel. He had lasted this long, he could last longer.

Right?

Kachimov's face, fixed in a mocking rictus grin, swam behind his closed eyelids. They snapped back open again and he gasped for breath, suddenly, inexplicably winded and frantic to get out of the room.

He staggered to the door on rubbery legs and hammered at it, desperate to attract the attention of his guard; even a beating or more electrocution was preferable to being left alone with his thoughts.

No-one came.

He whirled, his bare back pressed against the rusty steel door and his eyes skipped everywhere in the room.

Kachimov in the corner,

Kachimov on the bed,

Kachimov on the toilet,

Kachimov in my head!

Murmuring the ridiculous, spontaneous rhyme to himself, he felt his nails digging into the door at his back, felt flakes of metal paint come free and wedge themselves painfully in his nail beds, felt his knees begin to knock as the formerly solid weight of his sanity turned to thready wisps and began to drift out of his ears.

Then suddenly, a cold calm asserted itself and he released his death grip on the door. Stepping into the middle of the room, he smiled thinly in thanks as Imaginary Kachimov slid the chair over to him.

Climbing up onto it's unsteady platform, he reached up and uncovered his salvation.

The noose slid from its hiding place with a quiet hiss and hung with the patience of a snake, awaiting its purpose, directly over the chair.

Imaginary Kachimov folded his arms and shook his head sadly.

Head bowed as he disappointed his master, he stepped down from the chair, retreated to a corner and huddled down with the rat droppings, rocking silently and staring, unblinking, at the length of grubby fabric.

Lucas North,

Lucas North,

My name is Lucas North.


AN: This piece will be a series of one-shots as I attempt to dig as far into Lucas' head as I can. The rating will inevitably go up as there's a lot of darkness in that lofty cranium that I fully intend to explore.

As this is an exploratory piece I am very open to critical review on the nature of the character I portray; I can live with it if you don't like my writing style but if you don't like my Lucas - or rather, you don't believe in him - then I'm doing something wrong. I won't know this, however, unless you tell me!

For the smut lovers out there, there will be a piece within this for you; you'll have to sit tight though, as any sexual anxieties will not be looked at just yet. I need to get to know him much better before we go there ^_^ Expect Elizabeta to make an appearance a little further down the line.

On this subject, for those of you who are more critically minded, there's a very murky mention in season 7 that he may have been subject to sexual manipulation while in prison. I'm unsure whether to explore this or not, but if I get a convincing argument from one of you lovely reviewers that talks me into it, then I will. It has to be convincing though (and I can be hard to convince), so just putting "Pleeease write slash!" in your review will fail to sway me!

Thank you for choosing to join me on this journey.

Doc