Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Randy Wolfe, and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. All other characters and entities are wholly fictional and belong to me; and any chance resemblance to any living person or entity is purely accidental. I made 'em up.
He gradually became aware of a man's hoarse mumbling, the words slurred and indistinct. He wished vaguely that the poor, drunk bastard would shut up, or at least move on to panhandle someone else. "I can't help you," he tried to tell the other, but the words refused to form themselves in their proper shapes, making it sound to his dazed ears as if he was mumbling as well. "Shut up already!" he yelled suddenly, filled with an inexplicable rage. "No one cares about your damn problems, just go away, get out of here!"
The fog in his brain lifted slightly, just enough for him to realize that the babbling idiot bothering him was mimicking him, only less clearly, if that were humanly possible. A feeling of dread he couldn't explain started to inch its way through his body. He tried to move his hands -- either hand -- and noted absently that his arms didn't feel right; slowly, painstakingly, he located a thumb by willing it to wiggle until he became aware of movement against his chest. Encouraged, he ventured the rest of his left hand, determining that the fingers still moved, but meeting opposition when he tried to move it away from his body. What the hell is this, he wondered fuzzily, his mind as blurred as the voice he had heard. He decided to repeat the experiment with his right hand, with similar success and ultimate failure. The fact that he couldn't lift his arms, or even his hands, slowly registered on his dazed brain, but for the life of him he couldn't get his cognitive processes working well enough to figure out why.
In sudden panic, he shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and realized that his eyes were screwed tightly shut. Okay, let's open the eyes, he told himself furiously, I have to get a look at the idiot, ask him to help me. It took some determined effort, but he finally forced heavy eyelids open, only to blink in total bewilderment at his surroundings. He was in a small white room containing himself, a cot and a toilet. There was no inarticulate vagrant drooling over him or anywhere else in the room. The sense of unease rapidly magnifying, he focused downward towards his chest to look for his hands. After the resulting nausea passed, he tried again, this time succeeding, only to have it return as he realized the cause of his immobilization was a strait-jacket. His dread heightened, making it difficult for him to breathe. Somehow, he managed to push it away until the heaving in his chest subsided, although the hammering of his heart still matched the rhythm of the nasty little pangs of sharp pain in his ribcage. Where the hell is this place? he wondered, trying to keep the hovering panic in check. And what the hell am I doing here?
"You're in a special facility, and you're coming down from a dose of pentobarbital," an amused voice said, startling him. He didn't think he'd spoken out loud. The voice sounded vaguely familiar; not necessarily a well-known voice, but one he thought he'd heard recently. He lifted his head with some difficulty and looked around, irritated by the voice's bodilessness, and finally noticed a speaker grille in a wall. He licked dry lips and deliberately tried to speak. The same rough, slurred voice he had heard earlier -- the drunk's? -- crawled reluctantly out of his throat. "What --" Now that he was consciously trying to talk, it hurt like hell.
"Water usually helps," commented the voice unkindly. "Maybe, if you're good, someone will bring you some." It paused. "And maybe if you tell me where Miranda is, you'll get some."
Renewed panic flared through him. Who was Miranda, and why did he have the distinct feeling he should keep his mouth shut? But he was so thirsty -- "Who?" he managed to croak.
"Miranda," the disembodied voice said encouragingly, but unhelpfully.
"I don't -- understand," he managed finally, hoping the words sounded clearer than they felt.
There was a rustling noise, as of papers, from the speaker, and the voice muttered, "Jeez, how much did you guys give him? He shouldn't be this out of it still."
Another series of rustles, and the low-pitched murmur of another voice. The first anonymous speaker sounded irritated. "That shouldn't have been enough to turn him into a gibbering idiot. He should be babbling away like a girl with her first crush right now. Let me see the list of what you found on him."
The occupant of the small white room experienced a sudden terror. What did they mean by "gibbering idiot?" He felt so fuzzy, so groggy, but, somewhere in the recesses of his barbiturate-dulled mind, he knew it was only a drug reaction, there was nothing seriously wrong with him. Well -- he amended that estimate as he slowly recognized a dull ache in his right knee along with the sharper pains in the vicinity of his ribs. Come to think of it, his face felt stiff; he wished he could free a hand to explore, even though for some reason he had a sinking feeling it was going to develop into something else a lot more uncomfortable.
He jerked from his reverie, desperately and painfully trying to focus his senses, as the mystery voice spoke again. "Methadone," it said disgustedly. "Didn't anyone check to see if he'd taken any of these before shooting him full of pentobarbital?"
The other voice apparently replied in the negative. There was a short pause, while the dazed listener continued to fight his way upwards toward coherence, not making much progress. A discussion ensued outside. Finally, he heard the first voice state flatly, "All right. I'm going in there. But you're coming in and dealing with him at the first sign of trouble."
Oh, goody, he thought insanely. It does have a body, after all. I'm not going crazy. Yet.
The door opened, and a striking-looking brunette entered. She looked extremely annoyed. "We don't have time for this foolishness," she grated. She stepped closer to him and leaned down, pulling his chin up and then letting go. He felt his head loll downwards again. Hell of a thing when he couldn't summon up enough motor control to prevent that, he thought miserably. He attempted to focus on the woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but she was also pretty blurry. Hard to tell, she could be anyone once she decided to take on definite outlines. He half-smiled, thinking this was pretty funny.
His visitor wasn't amused. "Get in here and get him sitting on the cot so I don't have to keep leaning over," she ordered over her shoulder. "And you," she said silkily, turning back to him, "need to understand that, right now, your life and well-being are totally in my hands."
He blinked at her. They were nice hands. But not as nice as -- he shook his head muzzily as the thought skittered away from him like a playful kitten. Irritated, she slapped him across the face. "You need to come out of your little drug dream and start answering my questions. I have other things to do, and we're wasting time."
He stared at her in shock. What the hell was her problem? He wasn't sure he wanted to cooperate, assuming that he was even capable of being cooperative. He glowered at her and mumbled something indistinctly blasphemous. Then the door opened, and he looked up, his attention diverted.
The other voice belonged to a mountain with a beard. That couldn't be right, he puzzled. But the mountain moved toward him on what looked like tree trunks, picked him easily up off the floor in equally sizeable arms, and flung him onto the cot with a force that made his teeth snap together. Something in the vicinity of his chest sent up a jagged yowling as the ends of his broken ribs grated against each other. He winced with pain, drawing the woman's attention. "Hmmm. He felt something just now; meds must be wearing off some." She jerked her head at the mountain. "Ribs or knee. Either one. Not too hard -- I want him awake."
As he stared at her in mounting horror, digesting her command, he saw the mountain nod its -- head? -- and one of those tree trunks began an inexorable arc, to slam agonizingly against his body. "Just a small tap," the mountain rumbled.
Small tap? the man convulsing in pain on the cot thought in disbelief, desperately trying to decide whether he would be better off passing out or fighting to stay awake, and which alternative would ultimately be less unpleasant.
"You don't want him to do that again, do you?" queried the woman, casually. He managed to summon the strength to shake his head, hoping she understood he meant no. The woman laughed. "Most don't." She reached over and took his head in her hands, noting idly the depths of the bewildered blue eyes blinking at her. "Now, listen to me very carefully. I will ask you some questions. You will give me the answers."
He stared at her resentfully. What the hell did she think he was, stupid? Of course, he realized, with some confusion, he wasn't sure if that meant stupid as in unable to understand, or stupid as in why would he possibly tell her anything. He wished with a trace of despair that they would just leave him alone until he could regain his senses more fully, had a better chance of figuring out just what the blazes was going on.
"And," she continued, apparently unaware of his silent dilemma, "if you give me the right answers, we'll make you a lot more comfortable. If you don't --" she shrugged in the direction of the mountain.
Abruptly bored with the cheap melodramatics, and still much too foggy from the drugs to think rationally, let alone sensibly, he turned his head away and squeezed his eyes shut. She hadn't started out with a body. Maybe, if he concentrated on not hearing her as well as not seeing her, she'd disappear back into whatever noxious pit from whence she came.
Wrong move. Despite his efforts, he heard her speak, and barely had time to resign himself to the inevitability of it when the mountain fell on him again.
Someone was slapping him, but not hard. "Where's Miranda?" the bothersome woman demanded.
The object of her attention shook his head. "Who's Miranda?" he forced through lips which still didn't seem to recognize consonants. "Pretty name," he managed, then, pleased by his success, he asked happily, "Is she pretty too?" He had just enough time to congratulate himself on forming a coherent question when the mountain came back.
He'd had enough of this. What the hell was her problem anyway? He thought he'd been doing admirably to enunciate that much. "Quit," he slurred. "'M trying best I can." To her credit, she managed to comprehend the garble posing as semi-coherent English. She held up a hand to stop the mountain, which had ominously drawn near again. "I think he may be coming down enough to answer questions now."
She turned back to him. He grinned at her inanely. "Okay," she said soothingly. "Where's Miranda?"
His eyes clouded, and the grin faded. "Don't unnerstand," he sulked. "Don't know -- 'Randa." But even as he mumbled the name, an alarm tocsin started to ring faintly in his brain. Something was very, very wrong.
Tanya Solario made an exasperated sound. "He's drifting off again," she observed with irritation. She pressed the intercom, asked for a number, then snapped, "Hey! How much pentobarbital did he get, anyway?" Something crackled through the speaker. She looked dubiously at the man on the cot. "That shouldn't have been enough, even with the narcotic, especially since he got it on the flight up."
The speaker buzzed again, and Solario's face reddened. "On arrival? My God, you idiots, he'd already had 100 mg -- how much?" She listened, shaking her head in annoyance. "Another 100. No wonder." She dismissed the unseen speaker and turned back to her involuntary guest. He had been watching her cautiously, unconsciously bracing himself for the imminent explosion and another encounter with the mountain. Unbelievably, she seemed to regain control of herself and smiled at him, not unkindly.
"Well, that explains why you're so groggy. They gave you too much by mistake." She patted his shoulder in what apparently was supposed to be a reassuring fashion, ignoring his reflexive shrinking away from her touch. "Now. Let's try this again, okay?"
He regarded her warily, unwilling to commit himself. She touched his cheek, her fingers cold as ice. "Where is Miranda?"
Why did she keep harping on this Miranda person? he wondered savagely. She was obsessed. Obsessed. Now there, he mused, his mind starting once more to wander, was a cool word. Obsessed. He said it aloud, wrapping his tongue around the esses with relish until he became hopelessly ensnarled in them, his voice trailing off in confusion. Fury sparked in her eyes, and he winced away from her hand, but not quickly enough. This time, it was her fist against a cheekbone which he immediately discovered had been targeted at some previous point. "Stop it," he grumbled, shaking his head to see if his eyes could focus more easily that way.
"Where is Miranda?" she repeated.
Sullenly, he turned his head away again. "Don't know," he mumbled. "Wouldn't tell you if I did. Bitch." He slid a look sideways at her from under his lashes. "Go 'way. Lemme alone."
Stung by his response, she started to react, then closed her mouth slowly and let her hand drop, regarding him steadily for a minute. "Alone?" she questioned, a touch of menace in her tone. "You want to be left alone?"
He looked at her dubiously, wondering why that word, which sounded so enticing a moment ago, suddenly had lost its appeal. Even in his less than lucid state, it was obvious that the wrong answer had the potential to produce extremely unpleasant consequences. She deliberately pretended to mistake his silence for agreement. "All right," she said briskly, "here's what we'll do. We'll give you some more medicine, and then we'll leave you alone."
His perception was not capable yet of distinguishing clearly between truth and lies. He only knew he didn't want any more pento-whatsit. Hating it, half afraid he had made the wrong choice anyway, he shook his head.
She smiled triumphantly. She had him, and they both knew it. Then -- "Where's Miranda?"
Oh, God. There was no way he could get this question right, whether he wanted to cooperate or not. Why couldn't this woman get with the program? Quietly, patiently, despite his screaming nerves, concentrating as hard as he could on speaking as clearly as possible, he whispered, "I don't know. I don't know who Miranda is. I don't know where she is. I just don't know." He hunched his shoulders, steeling himself against the pain he knew was coming.
There was a silence. Tanya Solario eyed the man who had put her in jail for five long years pensively, debating whether to retaliate just on general principles. The only sound was the harsh rasping of his breathing, as he tried to inhale and exhale without causing the abused ribs more discomfort. He didn't think it was working. She watched in fascination as his face tightened with pain and his determination to keep it from becoming too noticeable. Noting his struggle, she laughed out loud, relishing her revenge.
There was a metallic clanking of keys outside. The door opened, and Aubrey Wyler strode in. "Anything?"
Solario shook her head. "Not really. Can't tell if he's truly got a high pain threshold or if it's just the drugs, considering some overeager beaver tried to overdose him."
Wyler's eyes narrowed as he moved closer to the cot, registering the harsh, uneven breathing. "I thought I gave express orders not to break anything," he complained.
She shrugged. "Blame your boys back at the Ranch. They were broken before he even got here."
"Morgan's not going to be pleased," Wyler replied. "He doesn't like broken bones interfering with his experiments. Sloan's going to have to heal some before they can start." He deliberately spoke loudly enough for the words to be clearly audible to their guest, waiting for a reaction.
He was disappointed. The man in the strait-jacket was zoning truly and definitively; the blue eyes had dulled, and he had lost himself in some other world. Wyler stared down at him disdainfully. "This won't do. We need answers. Before I start tearing down my organization, I intend to know for sure what he knows!" He motioned to the mountain. "Wake him up."
Life was truly strange, he thought. How could he stand up without moving his arms or legs? It was almost like flying, he noted whimsically, except something wasn't quite right. He shouldn't be able to hang in mid-air without flapping his arms or something. A voice which woke a quick memory of fear and pain spoke. "Drop him."
The flying lesson ended abruptly. He realized, with somewhat greater clarity of vision than he had experienced earlier, that he was not quite face down on the floor, gazing in awe at the biggest shoe he had ever seen. "Bigfoot!" he gurgled, and started to laugh until his ribs stopped him violently. He choked, coughed, and choked again as a massive paw picked him up more or less by the scruff of the neck and stood him upright, where he watched his own unsteady feet with fascination. A strange hand swam into his line of sight. It wasn't as pretty as the woman's or as huge as the mountain's. For some reason, though, its vague familiarity made him extremely uncomfortable, and the memory of pain and fear inexplicably returned.
His fears were confirmed when Wyler spoke. "Lieutenant. You have some information I need." He winced as the rich baritone vibrated through his aching head, which hurt even more when he shook it no without thinking. "Where is your wife, Lieutenant? Where is Miranda?" Wyler pressed.
Wife? His eyes widened as he tried to assimilate this latest information. Was that who this mysterious Miranda was? His wife? Delighted at finding some clue to at least a portion of the mystery, he started to speak, only to close his mouth, panic-stricken, when he realized he still didn't know who they were talking about. Wyler misunderstood his confusion for recalcitrance. "One would think you'd had enough of playing games," he warned, somehow signaling the mountain.
He doubled over, coughing helplessly, from the gut punch he didn't sense coming. "I don't -- know," he gasped, willing himself to breathe. "Who the hell is Miranda?" Astonished by his ability to produce a more or less coherent utterance, he drew as deep a breath as his reviled ribs would allow and shouted, "I don't know! And I don't understand what you want! So can the crap about this Miranda!"
Oops. In his sudden rage, he had temporarily forgotten he was at somewhat of a disadvantage; drugged, battered and restrained, and he thought he was going to do -- what. Reality descended with the suddenness of the cruel smile, more a grimace really, which spread across Wyler's face and was mirrored on Solario's. "I think he's coming down now," she gloated.
"I believe you're right," Wyler agreed, still wearing the death's head grin. He nodded at the mountain. "Help our friend stand up better, won't you?"
He shook his head fretfully. Didn't the idiot think he'd stand up straight if he could? It hurt, and he was tired of hurting. The drugs were starting to wear off with a vengeance, leaving a growing catalogue of aches and pains behind them. The mountain, unconcerned, trundled behind him and yanked him upright, holding him in place when his knees tried to buckle. He wasn't sure how much he should appreciate the gesture.
A hand grabbed his chin to pull his head up; irritated, he jerked it away, only to have the mountain tap him on the less-abused cheekbone. No point in asking for more trouble, he conceded wearily, and he didn't resist when he found himself staring into the opaque black pools from which Aubrey Wyler viewed the world. He swallowed thickly. They were so cold, so blank, so utterly lifeless. As Wyler continued to gaze at him unblinkingly, he felt a sudden kinship with any small animal terrorized by a snake's hypnotic glance. He moved his head uncontrollably, attempting to escape that soulless stare, and Wyler laughed. "There's nowhere to run, Lieutenant. Not here. Not even in this room." The iron hand inexorably forced his head back to the ophidian gaze. "You can't pretend to hide behind a drug-induced haze now, so let's try it one more time."
Steve Sloan forced his weary eyes back to Wyler's chilling ones. "And what happens then?" he asked calmly, tiredly, managing somehow to control most of the slurring.
Wyler's smile broadened. "That depends on what you have to say," he remarked.
Steve said nothing, waiting for the inevitable arrogance of the man to manifest itself. He wasn't disappointed. Unfortunately, what he heard was less than encouraging. "I'm afraid you're going to have enjoy our hospitality for a while longer. How comfortable you'll be, however, is entirely up to you." Somehow, Steve didn't think they were discussing the deluxe accommodations, but he waited, although it took all of his hard-gained self-control not to flinch when the dead eyes fixed on him again. "All right," the rich voice so at odds with those eyes said. "Again. Where is your wife?"
He swallowed with difficulty. He must have taken a hefty whack on the head at some point, because he was just not connecting. "Look," he said hoarsely, "I still don't understand. What are you talking about? I'm not married."
Solario's hand stopped her lover's before it signaled the mountain. She leaned close to him, whispering, then both of them turned assessing frowns on their prisoner. "What's the last thing you remember?" the woman asked casually.
"Breakfast?" he hazarded, not sure where the interrogation was heading.
"What day?"
"Yesterday?" he guessed wildly. Solario stared at him, then looked at Wyler. "He's been pretty consistent in his response when we mention his wife," she pointed out, too softly for Steve to hear. "Could he be having some temporary memory loss from the drugs?" They both turned their attention to the bewildered man before them, then Wyler shook his head in disgust. "Bah," he snorted contemptuously. "What nonsense." His eyes flickered towards the mountain and back again. "Last time. Where is Miranda?" he demanded.
While the other two had pondered, Steve had noticed Wyler was wearing a watch, which apparently was one of the models which showed the date as well. He had been concentrating as hard as he could on focusing on it, hoping knowing what day it was would clear some of the fog in his head. Finally, he determined what it read, and something clicked into place in his mind as he felt the sick tension in his muscles ease slightly. Randy was safe, or they wouldn't be still asking about her. He coughed and answered hoarsely, "Miranda's gone, Wyler. Long gone. And the Feds are on their way." Wyler's blink of surprise must have been a signal, he thought dazedly, as his body screamed in protest from the impact with the mountain.
Wyler's voice was an infuriated hiss. "What makes you think we won't kill you now, then?"
Steve was desperately hanging onto every ounce of strength he possessed to keep from losing consciousness, but the prognosis was not encouraging. "I'm worth more to you alive then dead, and you know it," he stated baldly. "If the Feds aren't crawling through this place already, they will be soon."
The reptilian eyes widened slightly, then narrowed, and Wyler laughed. "Not here, Lieutenant. You're not at the ranch anymore." Seeing the other's eyes widen in turn, he chuckled nastily and gloated, "You're now a resident of a very exclusive facility for individuals suffering from drug addiction."
"What do you mean?" Steve growled, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer.
Tanya Solario stroked her lover's cheek, then drew the same hand along Steve's cheekbone, enjoying the sensation of the muscle jumping in his clenched jaw in response. "It means," she explained, "that, once your ribs have healed sufficiently, Dr. Morgan is going to be able to continue his fascinating research in the effects of methadone addiction."
His mouth went dry. "I'm not --" he started involuntarily, and this time did flinch from her caress. "You will be," she purred, "eventually. Right now, though, I think Aubrey has something else planned."
Re-enter the mountain. Fortunately for his abused body, Steve's resistance was already sapped to the point that it only took a few more blows slamming into him to send him into oblivion, drugs be damned.