AN: A few friendly warnings before you start reading: this fic contains mentions of past rape/non-con, torture, captivity, and pretty much every other horrible thing I can do to these characters. This is dark, and may not have a happy, fluffy ending.

Which leads me to my second warning: this is a work in progress, which I don't have the greatest track record of being timely in my posting with. I am a busy human being, and have a lot on my plate. The story will be finished, I just can't guarantee when.

And with that, enjoy! Let me know what you think :) (also looking for a beta if anyone is interested.)

His hands shake, his feet, legs, shake. There's pounding in his skull, and he can't catch his breath, exhaustion settling deep within him. He's running. He's been running for a long time, ever since the familiar voice in his head told him Run, flee. He's not really sure where, direction and destination meaningless to him. Just away from Them.

Them with their hands pulling and taking things from his head without permission. Hurting and poking and sticking him with needles until he couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Strapping him to tables and asking questions and hurting, hurting, hurting. Stripping everything away bit by bit by bit. Until there was nothing left and all he had were questions, as he was laying on the beach - because he wasn't unconscious, he knows that, he just wasn't aware - not sure how he got there, or where he came from. Sand digging into his face, surf washing the too - loose pants around his waist and ankles. He doesn't remember being this thin, but he doesn't remember a lot of things.

—

As he runs, he struggles to keep the pants up with his wrists cuffed together. They're like prison shackles, chaining his hands in front of his stomach, chain leading around his jutting hipbones and down to his ankles, restricting his stride. His feet are bare and they sting and burn and throb as he stumbles across the hot sand. He doesn't care.

His neck burns and his stomach twists and rolls and he knows, knows, that they stuck him with something recently. Is he dreaming? Is this just a dream of his impossible escape? Are they just going to come and take, take, take again? He wishes The Voice would come back, The Voice in his head instructing him where his scattered thoughts fail. Sometimes it called him animal, and neanderthal. No matter what They did they could never take The Voice away, not that he told Them (he knew the consequences of talking without being directly spoken to, he was smarter than that). But The Voice was comforting, safe, familiar. It seemed to know things about him that even he didn't know, couldn't find no matter how hard he tried, how hard he tried to force his brain back, back to something as safe and soothing as The Voice. He had started to think of it as his friend, his savior that would one day come and chase Them away and bring him to The Safe Place that he sees in his dreams. Find him and carry him away from this, whatever this is. The Voice knew everything, it could tell him what to do. Unless They finally chased it away, took it and forced it out like everything else.

—

He started running along a dash of sand between trees and ocean, and somehow he knows it's on the North side of Oahu Island. Maybe Turtle Bay? He doesn't know how he knows this, doesn't know how long his legs and lungs have burned with an unholy agony, but he can finally hear people.

—

He slows his pace to a walk as he enters something his subconscious tells him is called Tent City. Information, images, and funny, fuzzy pieces of something (memories?) flit through his battered brain. The most constant fuzzy piece, the most loud blaring of them all, tells him to stay alert. Assess threat levels. Maintain situational awareness. Trust no one. It's not the same as The Voice. He stays on the edge of the "City", skirting away from what appears to be a gathering area, people, children, adults, the elderly; milling around, chatting, playing soccer.

Find a place, hide - rest, ride out the drugs once they really kick in. The Voice, it…. it came back! He almost wants to smile, but he isn't supposed to make that face anymore.

He burrows under a discarded mattress, curls into a ball, hidden in the shade behind a bush. Tries to force his eyes to stay open. You're safe. Relax, get your strength back. The Voice is soothing, like a warm blanket, wrapping around him, holding him together, protecting him as he succumbs to darkness.

—

"Mama! Mama!"

The small child races to her.

"Mama! There's a man in the bushes! Our ball went there and scared him and he won't come out, he has chains on him like bad guys after the police get them!"

The woman frowns. Her son has always had the most vivid of imaginations.

She follows him anyway.

—

"Ben! Hey Ben!" He startles awake to someone shaking his shoulder. Listens as the woman explains about the children finding a man in the bushes.

"You have the cop friend right?"

"Yeah, sure, I can call her, let me check it out."

He jumps when he sees the guy, his skin and bones, tattered, filthy cargo pants, body scarred and bruised. He knows he looks familiar, the tattoos on his biceps reminding him of someone. His face is obscured by a bushy, unkempt beard. Hair shaved in some spots, long and patchy in others, growing unevenly. There is blood on the back of his neck, the rest of it concealed under a padlocked metal dog collar, which makes Ben cringe. He reeks of sea water and grime and bodily fluids when Ben gently, so gently places his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Hey brah? You okay?"

The man jumps, flinches away with a gasp, arms instinctively jerk upward to protect until the chain stops him. His eyes widen in fear as he scurries out of Ben's reach until he slams into the base of a tree.

Ben recognizes that face, even under the dirt and grime. Anyone would, because for six months that face was plastered everywhere after his sudden and unprovoked disappearance. A huge reward was offered for any information leading to his return, the reward growing as money was donated by the families he had helped. The face is still everywhere, the money still available. He had seen what his vanishing had done to his team, his family. Seen their haggard, weary, faces on TV, determination undermined with fear as they pleaded for anyone to "please call the hotline number at the bottom of your screen if you have any information, the State of Hawaii will thank you."

Oh, shit. He dials the number so fast his hand hurts.

"Yeah, hey Kono, I'm sorry, I know it's probably not a good time. Uh… I'm not sure how to say this, I…., I think I found him. I think I found Commander McGarrett."