Hello friends from TeslaTheWalrus,
To clarify, this account is the imponderably amazeballs combination of writer and fangirl KT (FanFic: katietheunicorn, Twitter: Green_Tiger_21) and the brains in this business, Verity (Twitter: HummingAtNight). We thoroughly hope you enjoy what we write together and that you feel we have done our magnificent characters justice!
Now, read on, fine fellows, read on!
Love KT & Verity x
Waking up was hard.
The floor was cold and rigid. With a sweep of her arm, Kate Beckett also learned that it was damp.
"Castle?" she muttered groggily. If she was in such a mess as this, he simply had to be involved.
But all was silent.
Through the haze that engulfed her mind, Kate struggled woodenly into a sitting position and analysed the room around her. There was a small window at the top of the wall across from her, revealing early morning sunlight. The walls and floors were bare concrete and there was a metal door to the right. The sun streamed in through that window, promising a New York springtime's comforting warmth, and Kate could even hear the birds singing not too far away, as well as the distant hum of traffic as the city awoke, but in here it was cold and quiet. Turning away from the light, Kate stood and looked around. The room was wide enough for her to place one hand beneath the window and the other on the wall opposite. It was slightly longer than it was wide, and a narrow cot fit in the corner, opposite the door, without sheets yet still inviting after a night on the damp floor.
As the foam mattress sank under Kate's weight and the metal underneath creaked, Kate thought of how she came to be here. She remembered last night, talking to Castle on the phone for two whole hours after dinner and then going to sleep in her bed. Her soft, warm bed.
Kate did not truly begin to worry until the sun was high enough to glint off the damp patch on the floor, revealing its quite startling scarlet shade. There was only one likely origin. Combing herself for cuts and scrapes, Kate patted the side of her head and it hurt so much she let out a yelp. Her hair there was thickly matted through with congealed blood; it had been so soaked in places that the jellified clots slithered around whole like tiny worms swarming through her usually silky hair. Now her temple throbbed, the hammering in her skull sending pulses over her body, which worsened her shivers; she wore no shoes or socks, and while her shirt had long sleeves, the cotton was hardly insulating. She continued to shake; she rubbed her arms to warm them, and the hairs she could see on her forearm flattened, indicating she had achieved at least partial warmth, but her shivering continued. Cold or fear? She could not tell.
Drawing her legs up to her chest, Kate tried to think of any moment during which she could find a reason for her being here, but there wasn't one. She thought of drifting lightly to sleep in her bed, still chuckling and still feeling the flutter of butterflies in her stomach that only a phone call with Castle warranted, because it was the highlight of her day and she looked forward to nothing more. But after sleep, there was just blackness.
And that scared Kate Beckett.
She felt the skin of her back – there was a puncture mark. Kate sighed and put her head in her hands. Somebody had put her here and she wanted to know who. She hated them for taking her at her most vulnerable, dressed in a blue shirt of Castle's and an old grey pair of sweats, with her gun still safely shut in the dresser beside her pillow. Her personal weapon was in the closet, too. She felt bare.
Devoid of any other way to occupy herself, Kate approached the rusting door and knelt down to inspect it, earning a creak from her stiff joints, plagued by a night's sleep resting on the floor. She gazed at the dripping lines of red oxidation streaming from the lower hinge down, betraying the door's nature as some kind of ferrous oxide, based somewhat on compounds of iron. Probably steel, she assumed; it would have to be very old, very low-grade quality steel to be in this state, and that told Kate that she wasn't in any old apartment building; this structure was old. It might even be industrial; it was rare for apartment landlords to cover closets with steel doors, and they did, after all, want to generate some revenue, so they'd no doubt create a friendlier environment for people to live in. Kate worried she wasn't even in Manhattan, though she knew better than anyone that there were still neglected areas buried behind the glories of 5th Avenue and Times Square. She certainly knew that no building in central Manhattan would admit to such a door as this – if she remained in Manhattan, it was on the outskirts. There would be a river close by, she was sure. The door mocked her as she thought of flowing water. Even as she thought of the delights of knowing where on this planet she was. There was a sliding hatch at the bottom of the door, which induced a flutter of fear deep in Kate's stomach, for she thought of a long-term stay during which her captors might like to keep her energised. With this thought came an array of sick possibilities, and her shakes became shudders, so she tried to put that out of her mind; she didn't know yet that she was here to be tortured. There was also an eye-level hatch in the door which didn't surprise Kate much – they'd want to check she was still alive if they were going to feed her. The hinges of the door were heavily eroded but still sturdy, no doubt, and there were three of them. While Kate did not even want to thank about the lock, she examined it anyway, and noted its technical keyhole and distinguished brand name; she knew this particular locksmith company manufactured locks to sit in doors with up to ten tumblers, which even a mastermind may have trouble cracking.
Disheartened already by the disappointing nature of the door, Kate returned to her pathetic cot and sat with her back up against the wall and her arms propped on her knees. This was a terrible situation, she knew, and she'd been alone last night, so nobody would think to look for her, and, especially, nobody would think to look for her here. If memory served, it would be a Saturday today, and she was not working. It was wrong of her, but she almost hoped a body would appear somewhere; then her team would know something was wrong when she didn't show. They'd have the intuition they needed, and the incentive, to go looking. Then the only problem for Kate and for her search party would be her location.
Resting her head on her hands, Kate let out a deep sigh as she thought of her predicament and the sheer impossibility of escape or, at this point, rescue. She might feel better if she at least had a motive. She might feel better if she knew who had come to her home during the night and stolen her away. She might feel better if she had something to do, for her unoccupied mind was a hazard in itself for the images it conjured.
She wondered what Castle was doing – probably writing. Oh, Castle, she suddenly thought, and, in becoming overwhelmed by her longing for him, her demeanour at last faltered and a crack allowed what lay beneath to become visible. She took one sobbing breath, a gasp, then sat in silence, trying not to breathe. Again, a single snatched breath whistled through her like the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Tears of despair began to manifest at the corners of her eyes. She wanted Castle, she wanted him to come and find her. But how would he even know she was gone? They weren't due to meet today; neither had even promised to call again. Come on, Castle, she thought. She always seemed to know when he was getting himself into trouble – it was like a sixth sense. She could only hope that he shared the same affinity for personal danger. Please, Castle, she thought. Castle, she thought. She needed him. She felt hollow and empty without him. She wanted to know what he'd suggest – how he'd approach this. For the first time in her life, Kate Beckett found herself muttering to herself, Think like Castle.
But her every rational thought was scattered like rabbits in response to the sound of a gunshot as footsteps echoed along to her doorway. Somebody was coming. A man with a heavy tread, probably boots, like workers' or bikers' preferred adornment. Not too tall – his footsteps were not that far apart. All too soon there was the screech of metal from that top hatch – she knew she'd soon see who was holding her and she – Kate Beckett in her rawest, most instinctual openness – was scared.
She was afforded one final thought before a face became visible, and that, much to her surprise, was quite simply, Castle.