A figure lay slumped over in his bonds in a small chair in an empty room. Time passed strangely as he waited for his suit-clad captors to return; speeding by and grinding to a halt as beatings and interrogations began and ended. Interrogations were the lighter of the two, often, but not always resulting in a show of force.
He found it difficult to figure how long it had been since his capture. Since being taken away from his partner on their latest mission, he had endured eight sessions; two of which ended with sharp blows to the head and his vision succumbing to darkness.
This was one of those times. The brightness of the room struck him when he regained consciousness, and the pain in his head was made sharp and clear against his aches from previous sessions. He could make out the pinging of the outdated radiator in the corner, and the way the cheap folding-chair creaked beneath him when he tested his bonds again. Someone was talking, but to him it seemed far away once it meshed with the ringing in his ears.
They were shouting now, followed by a handful of quick snare beats of gunfire.
He could hear the wheeze of his own breath in the silence that followed.
There was a loud blast, then a second, then a third.
"Deimos?"
He turned his head, fighting the air as though it were a thick, syrupy liquid. "Hah," his voice small and hoarse in the wake of his brutal capture. "What took 'ya so long, Sanford?