Note: "Dr. Armstrong" is a variant of a code used with a combative or dangerous patient.
"… It's Commander Captain to you."
"…Alright … Commander Captain… Do you know why you're here today?"
"You don't know why I'm here? You're the ones who brought me here."
"I know why you're here… Commander Captain, I'm just interested in hearing your view on it."
"…Reheheheeaaalllly? You don't want me to have views; that's why you've got me locked up in this goddamn prison in the first place. You just want me to agree to whatever your puppet regime is spouting this week, to call off my troops. Well I can tell you right now, no matter what the hell you do to me, my men are going to keep fighting without me. We're not going to give up --" His voice rises with passion, glaring at the man in the suit across from him. "You people destroy lives --"
He gets to his feet, towering over the sniveling man in the suit, who finally looks alarmed. He should be.
He makes a run for the door, because even though he's not afraid of torture at the hands of these people, his duty is to be with his men, leading their crusade –
He barely makes it ten feet down the hall before they recapture him and pump him full of sedatives.
***///***///***
He awakens in a tiny cramped cell. They've locked him away in a sanitarium, it seems. It makes the lie more palatable to the sheep of this country – surely he and his compatriots must be insane to fight against the government – to object to this utopia that the government provides.
There's one mattress on the floor and a toilet bolted to the wall. No windows, a light but no light switch –
He's also got a cell mate. He's a tall man that looks vaguely familiar to him, and the man's name dances on the tip of his tongue but he can't force it past his teeth.
"Looks like they double booked the room," He grits out, the sedatives still making him feel sluggish and exhausted.
The man smirks at him and he feels a blossom of something like comfort in his stomach.
***///***///***
They have kind 'benevolent' ways of torturing him – drugging him with chemicals that make him high, low, see spots, makes the walls swirl and melt around him. They're trying to weaken his mind, to get him to spill the location of the base, the names of the other leaders.
They're also trying to talk him to death, and if it weren't for the fact that it's exactly what they wanted he would've told them everything they wanted to know just to get him to shut the fuck up.
The tall man is always in his cell when they drag him back afterwards. He's asked him his name a few times, but the man just gives him a sad look and shakes his head.
He's suspicious at first that the man is some kind of plant by the government, placed here to spy on him. Except if he were he'd be talking, wouldn't he? He'd be trying to gain his trust… talking to him to get him to talk.
The government isn't into mutilation – it's not kosher in their kinder gentler 'perfect' world – so that rules any disfigurement to his vocal cords.
That's when it occurs to him that his cell mate might be that man. Most people thought he was dead after all these years – not just most people, most everyone.
He is in the presence of a legend – a man whose reputation by far outshines his own. The man who laughed in the government officers faces, drawing their gunfire away from the civilians trapped in that hospital and saving many lives that day when he supposedly died.
No one in this 'new' government liked to talk about all the blood they shed to get it – or the lives that they erase through psychiatry and drugs to maintain.
He's heard countless stories about this man from everyone he knows – really a part of him is almost honored that the government thinks he's even on the same level as this man.
His name is on the tip of his tongue…
***///***///***
The man starts appearing at his daily torture sessions – his interrogators never acknowledge the man, focused in on picking his life a part moment by moment trying to expose in inner neuroses that they can exploit instead.
He manages to keep his mouth shut, even as they strike closer and closer to the bone. Even though he hasn't given them any information, they have their ways of finding weaknesses and exploiting them. He looks to the man, whose sad expression never seems to leave his face nowadays.
He breaks the day they bring her in – the traitor who sold him out. He had thought her an ally – she was one of the founding members –
"Get that traitor out of here," He snarls, and the interrogator seems intrigued, which means she's going to stay – shit.
"…Commander --"
"You idiot," The traitor snaps at the interrogator, her dark eyes blazing. He trusted her… "I'm not paying you to indulge in his little fantasies."
The traitor gives him a pleading look, age etched into her features. He'd thought of her as a mother at one point.
"You have to stop this," the traitor demands.
"Just because you've lost--"
"We're all sad about it but you cannot, cannot keep doing this to us --"
He groans, his skull starting to pound, the sound of his pulse thundering in his ears, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of her voice.
"JACK, stop this, stop this right now," The traitor yells in his face, towering over him.
He can hear the interrogator grabbing the intercom and start calling for assistance as he shoves the traitor to the floor. He towers over her now, and now finally she is afraid just like he was –
He's shocked when the man starts forward and charges towards him – through the couch – his features angry as he reaches out towards him.
Oh god they're right – he is crazy.
The pounding in his skull grows, concentrating on the weird dark spot he feels between his eyes and nose – his knees get weak and he feels himself collapse to the floor.
"…paging Dr. Armstrong. I repeat, paging Dr. Armstrong."
His cell mate is staring down at him, face concerned. The name that has been dancing on the tip of his tongue finally comes to him in a flash.
"…Dad!"
***///***///***
He hates having to spend time in his Dad's office after school. It's so stupid – John and Brooklyn's parents let them ride in Steve's car. Steve's had his license for six months without an accident, it's completely safe.
"Jack, do your homework," His father rumbles, eyes never leaving the stack of papers in front of him.
"…this sucks," He mutters under his breath, cracking open his algebra book. "Why do I have to stay here every day until Mom picks me up? It's embarrassing, why can't I ride with--"
"Because your friends are morons," His father says flatly, glaring at him over the tops of the old man glasses he wears whenever he has to do paperwork.
"They are not! Steve has had his license for six months and yet somehow, miraculously, he's still alive! Why won't you let me ride with them? What are you going to do when I'm old enough to drive? You can't keep me a little kid forever--"
He's on a good rant, the words just flowing out of his mouth without hesitation and his voice has stopped cracking every time he gets stressed – except Dad's not even paying attention, already filling out another damn form.
"You have to be the worst dad ever! I hate you!"
His father pulls off his glasses, eyes getting that crazed look to them that means he's not just in trouble, he's in deeper than a fat man in a quicksand pit. Correction, he thinks as his father swipes his nose with his thumb, he's in deeper than sumo wrestler strapped down with lead weights in a quicksand puts.
His father opens his mouth to let out what surely will be one of the most blistering rants of the decade – but he never gets to start as the speaker crackles to life.
"PAGING DR. ARMSTRONG – PAGING DR. ARMSTRONG!"
Pages aren't that unusual in the hospital, but Jack doesn't know why the nurse sounds so freaked out. Maybe she's new – A few pops echo down the hallway –
It's not until he sees how white his father's face is getting that he even has a clue that something is seriously wrong.
There's a loud gunshot broadcast over the speakers and the nurse, who is still frantically paging this 'Dr. Armstrong', lets out an earsplitting shriek before dropping the phone. More cries begin echoing down the hallway, and gunshots coming closer and closer—
His father comes out from behind his desk, his face grimly blank and still so pale that it scares him a little. It scares him even more when his father pulls him into a tight hug. They just don't do physical affection in their family.
"Jack, I love you, I've never told you that enough. When you're old enough you'll understand why I am doing what I'm doing. Now get under my desk and don't come out until it's safe."
His father pushes him away, striding towards the door and entering the hallway.
"Hey, you asshole – I'm the one you're looking for!"
His father runs out into the hallway, and he's so in shock at the gesture he can't find the words to cry out in protest his father is gone, still catcalling the maniac roaming the halls.
He hides under the desk like a coward when he sees the barrel of the gun through the crack in the door and doesn't come out until the cops find him hours later.
They tell him his father was a hero – leading the shooter down into the morgue where there is no escape – but the only word Jack can focus on that the man used 'was' and not 'is'.
***///***///***
When he awakens they have him strapped down to a bed, but his head feels clearer that it has since that day – even if they have drugged him to the gills and the world seems fuzzy around the edges.
His mother smiles down at him, looking down upon him, and stroking his hand. She looks wearier than he could have ever imagined – she normally would never tolerate going out into public looking such a mess.
"Are you back with me," His mother asks softly, squeezing his hand tightly.
He finds the strength to nod.