A/N:

This story rated M – not because it's more graphic than my other stories, but for what it implies happens to Gray.

It's sort of a sequel to Repercussions and Jason doesn't appear and isn't mentioned till the end.

On Day Number Five in the secret detention center, the guards, in crisp army uniform, carried Gray between them and dropped him in Interrogation Room #8. This time, there were no table and chairs, and no Vivian waiting to ask him questions. The guards didn't even stay to give him the daily dose of torture that was, admittedly, quite professional compared to most he'd run into.

Gray knelt on the cement floor for a few minutes, catching his breath. He was exhausted; in his cell, except for sporadic reprieves usually lasting no more than 15 minutes, lights flashed and loud music played in order to disorient him and make him lose his sense of time and reality. Sleep deprivation was a classic tactic of wearing a prisoner down, and it would have worked on any ordinary man. But Gray was not ordinary. He had conquered most fears, even his deep fear of being trapped. The trick was to hold onto hope—hope that a way of escape would present itself if he was diligent enough. And to hold onto the belief that no matter what they did to him, he would always be better than they were. Their tactics were weak compared with his resolve.

After Sierra had handed him over to Vivian, who had brought him in chains to this prison, they had told him that Will had been captured, probably hoping it would damage his morale. Why did they still need him, then? Well, to provide intelligence on the extent and details of Will's operation, and any other ops Gray had been involved in during his career.

In other words, they had permission to keep him here indefinitely. Gray had a suspicion that Vivian had lobbied to personally oversee his interrogation. She had said as much; to honor the memory of the man she loved, she wanted to rip all of Gray's secrets from him. She also wanted to make him pay for killing Elliot. Daily, as she asked him questions and the guards did her bidding, he witnessed the hatred seething beneath her professional veneer.

As much pressure as she put on him, Gray had given them nothing. He gained no small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he was so valuable that even Vivian had no idea of the extent of his value, of the secrets of both allies and enemies of the United States that he held locked in his mind.

Here in this dungeon of darkness he had to manufacture his own hope. Barely sleeping at night, only to be hauled in for interrogation and creative versions of coercion, was not his ideal way to pass the time. He'd rather be out on a mission. But this was his mission at the moment, such as it was. To keep all his former assignments locked in his head, and constantly keep a lookout for a way to escape.

Gray climbed to his feet, making it known to the powers-that-be who were watching from the cameras in the ceiling that they would not break him. And he waited, bracing himself for the introduction of a new tactic—which, he realized, might very well be leaving him in this room for an interminable amount of time.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, the door opened and two guards walked in, followed by two gray-clad prisoners, followed by four more guards. No Vivian with her pristine suit and auburn hair and fierce eyes this time.

The guards did not even look at him, though the prisoners did. One looked of Middle Eastern descent, not surprising considering they were in a secret detention center. The other was blond, muscular, tattoos covering most of his visible skin.

The Middle Easterner, even larger than the other man, knife scars lining his face and arms, looked Gray up and down in a brazenly appraising manner. That look sent shudders through Gray; he only just managed to keep his returning gaze steady, hoping the other had noticed no falter in his self-assurance.

But Gray had an inkling of what was going on, and he desperately hoped he was wrong. It was the one thing that might break him, and Vivian knew this. Gray had to applaud her ruthlessness, her disregard of common morality in pursuit of a goal, even for a motive as petty as revenge. But that didn't mean Gray was looking forward to what would happen next.

He would not just take it lying down, however.

The guards confirmed his suspicions; two unlocked the prisoners' hand- and ankle-cuffs, while the other four stood at strategic angles, guns poised for any wrong move. No doubt about it; these were some of the most dangerous men in this prison, excepting himself of course.

Then the guards backed out of the room, the door locking with a click, leaving Gray alone with his fellow prisoners.

The man with the scar—Scar, Gray would call him for brevity's sake—stepped forward, rubbing his wrists which looked raw from the cuffs cutting into them. A foot in front of Gray, he grinned down at him, showing white teeth, some of them broken. "Yes, you will do," he said in a strong Arabic accent. Despite his scars and size, he was well-built and handsome in a way, although there was a gleam in his eyes that suggested insanity. "I finally get to get my hands on an American. You look as soft as most Americans, although that might not be a bad thing in this case."

"Hey," said the blond man in a southeastern US accent. Gray would call him Tattoo. "Keep your slurs to yourself, would you?"

Scar cocked his head, looked askance at Tattoo. "I do not even know why you are in here."

"That makes two of us. They say I'm a traitor—I say I was just doin' my duty. But if you mean why I'm in this room, I'm here to get my freedom."

Scar rounded on Tattoo. "They promised you your freedom for this?"

"Yeah. I thought, why not? Even if it's just another trick, might as well take what fun I can get." He grabbed Gray's arm.

Gray kicked out, hitting Tattoo in the shin. The blond man let go with a yelp, but his face did not reflect defeat, but savage glee, as if this was a game.

A kick in Gray's stomach knocked him to the floor. Scar, leering down at him, pressed a boot on his chest. It felt like his lungs had collapsed; he struggled to breathe.

"This is how you subdue a target," said Scar. Then he kicked Gray in the ribs once. Twice. Pain shot through him. Before he could recover, Gray found himself dangling in the air, one large hand like a vice grip around his throat. Dark eyes glittering with eagerness, Scar slammed Gray against the wall. He struggled, but it did no good. Just when he thought he would pass out from lack of oxygen, Scar hurled him forward onto the floor. Gray landed on his injured knee; he gasped. Too late to hold it back. He had betrayed his weakness.

Tattoo stepped down hard on Gray's knee. Gray clenched his fingernails into his palms, bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

"Let's see if he's got any other injuries," said Tattoo, grabbing Gray by the collar. He ripped it open, buttons popping off. "Look at this, Azzam. They sure did a number on him."

"Hm," said Azzam. –'Scar.' "The soldiers are usually more careful not to leave marks."

Tattoo brushed a cut with his finger. "Oh, well, makes it more interesting this way." He cupped Gray's chin in his hand. Gray pulled away. Tattoo laughed.

Gray tried to gather his energy, knowing he should be able to put up more of a fight. But after Sierra's and Vivian's interrogations, the past five days of limited food and sleep, even he had been worn down. There is just so much the human body can take before it affects the mind as well…No matter how finely tuned that mind and body is…

Tattoo tugged the remains of the shirt off Gray's shoulders, a thoughtful look on his face.

Scar stepped beside him. "He's mine."

"You can have him after I'm done with him."

"I was the one to subdue him. He would probably have taken you down otherwise."

"Yeah, right. I—"

Scar swore in Arabic and kicked Tattoo in the back, taking him out of the picture. He picked up Gray by the arm, pushed him against the wall, body locking him in place. Scar grinned, his face eclipsing Gray's vision with darkness.

G

The light hurt his eyes, beat down on his skin, burning him, exposing him. He tried to crawl away from it, but there was no corner to hide in.

Blaring music assaulted his ears, all the more agonizing because he detected notes of beauty in it, which was a mockery in this place.

He writhed in pain, only causing more pain and convulsions that tossed him against the hard floor and wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind—what was left of it—he knew he was in shock, he needed treatment. But there was only the merciless glare of the light and somewhere beyond, someone was watching, laughing, delighting in his agony.

And the memories kept him company, as demons might. Nightmares flashed across his mind, pain, worse than he had ever known, brutality mixed with a parody of tenderness, caress of calloused hands that slapped him the next moment, pressing into him, eating into him, he had never known the meaning of the word evil, that had only been a figment of

Humanity shattered, just a piece of torn meat for others' amusement, harsh laughter, struggle, resolve slipping—what was there? No questions to anchor to, just senseless pride, pride in what?

This naked form beaten to nothing, burned inside out

Where am I?

Endless pain, no there is no meaning in that.

I am—I am—Gray the agent who has won a thousand battles who has defeated all foes, but that Gray has dissolved, was no more than a mask…

…of whoever this is. I knew something, once. I knew myself but

Shame. He burned with it, and somewhere inside, he knew he had broken. He would tell them everything, if they asked him, for to betray Gray was to betray no one of consequence—Gray was merely a fabrication that hid the person capable of becoming this—something less than human, a creature trying to hide in the dark but failing.

He tried to recall past hope—anything—but all he remembered was harsh voices, fists, mockery. Who was the last person to touch him with kindness? He had shunned all human connections for pride's sake, for the sake of being the best—no attachments, no sympathy, no weakness.

Ha! He would laugh, if he could. This was weakness. No love, in the end, only the emptiness of hatred, brutality, lust, indifference.

Except—

One memory—recent?—of a touch that helped instead of hurt. No intention to harm him later. Astonishment blazed into him as the face appeared against the darkness of his mind, a face that belonged to a man he himself had tortured without mercy—

Jason.

A man who had hurt him—understandably so—but who had, inexplicably, set him free with words of forgiveness.

A cold tear slipped from Gray's eye to fall to the cement. A sharp ache pierced his heart; he wished to escape this feeling but at the same time longed to embrace it—for it meant that someone, even if that someone was an enemy, had given him hope. Hope to escape? He had no illusions he would escape this place, except through death. But Jason's single act of compassion shone brightly in his mind, letting him know that something good existed, somewhere in the universe, even if he could never again be free of the darkness he had chosen.