A/N: This story takes place after (but with) the original 60's show (American Version)
Chapter 1
The two North Korean guards pulled the man into his cell. They didn't even want to think of him as a man. The things that had been done to him…were inhumane at the very least, too painful to even think about. Yet he was resilient, they had never seen anyone so resistant as him. He was beat and starved the most, out of all the prisoners. He was worked the hardest and the longest out in the quarry, doing slave labor. Yet, he still had spirit in him. Spirit that made the prison officials steam in anger. However, they knew that he'd give in one day. One day, his spirit would be broken. They all were—eventually…
Once the guards had closed and locked his door, the man opened his swollen eyelids slowly. Using his one working hand, he pulled himself toward what served as his bed. Settling on his flea-ridded cot, he reached underneath and pulled out a torn rag, which served as padding. Tearing and tying between his working left hand and his teeth, he made it into a makeshift sling for his broken right arm. Once that was done, he painfully straightened out, letting his body rest and repair the rest of the damage.
Running his fingers through his blood-matted, uncut hair, he could practically feel the lice crawling underneath them. The smell of urine and feces conquered the room, but after sixteen weeks in this place, he hardly noticed it. He'd gotten used to a lot of things. You had to, in order to survive in this hellhole. How had he gotten here, to this place in time?
Thinking back to months ago, he remembered entering his small apartment along the Champs-Elysées. He was just about to arrange a meeting with his contact, Lis Rourgois alias: X Rouge. She was his source for a big sting he was on, surrounding a group of racecar-driving phantom thieves, which were taking Europe by storm. Yet, as he entered, he had sensed something wasn't right. His instinct was right on the money! No sooner had he walked in the door, when he felt the arm going across his throat! With one fluid move, he tossed his attacker off. Before he could even reach to turn on the light, a second attacker collided with him, pushing him to the ground! Fighting in the dark, he managed to push him off with one smooth kick. The fighting went on and on; when one was down, the other would take his place, just as energized.
He had been practicing all day in the Shooting Star, and was tired. He didn't know when it was, but at some point, he made a mistake. The two attacked him as one, pinning him to the wall; each one holding a separate arm. He struggled to get loose, and that's when he heard a voice. It came from further back in the room. It was in another language, Korean it sounded like. Mentally translating it, the new intruder said, "Hold him."
In response, his attackers' grips became steel. As he began to make out the figure of the third person coming toward him, he could also make out the shape of the gun in his hand! Was this an assassination attempt?
Struggling harder, he found it was no use! The hand that held him down, didn't give an inch. Looking in fear, he watched as the man raised his weapon, aimed, and fired…
He felt something hit and sting his neck, but it wasn't a bullet! The assailants released his arms, and he went up to feel where he had been hit. There he could feel a cylindrical object protruding near his left jugular vein—a hypodermic dart!
Just as the realization hit him, he was hit by a wave of dizziness, followed by sudden nausea! Falling to his knees, he suddenly vomited up all his dinner, all his energy leaving him in a rush. Lying out on the carpet, his vision slowly began to fade. His last thought, before he lost all consciousness, was—This isn't an assassination, it's a kidnapping…
He woke up groggily a couple times after that, only to be shot with another dose of tranquilizers. The next time he came fully awake, he was locked in this cell, and from then on things just kept going from bad, to agony.
He silently wondered how he had ever managed to stay sane. They certainly weren't making it easy. His cohorts weren't coming for him. He was in no shape to escape. Why didn't he just give in? Why didn't he do what they wanted?
Because this is bigger than me, or anything they can do to me. If I give in…He turned, not even wanting to think about it. Giving in, wasn't even a question. His sharp blue eyes still hadn't lost their defiant gleam; a look which drove his interrogators and captors mad with frustration. No matter how much they tried to threaten and torture him, he was untouchable.
They had spent the last few months, trying to forcibly brainwash him into thinking he was one of theirs. That he had never been an agent
of the free world. That he had never raced in his life. That there had never been…a Racer X.
Sometimes, he even believed them! But even then, he didn't give in. So what? If he had never raced? So what? If he had never been the Police Judiciaire's best agent? So what? If there had never been such a person as Racer X: The Masked Racer? SO WHAT!
In the end, what did that stuff really amount to? Yes, Racer X was part of his identity, but only—a part. He had a whole other half to him, a half they couldn't touch. He was more than Racer X: The Masked Racer, he was also Rex Racer: The Firstborn Son of the Racer Family. Keeping that part of his identity as an anchor hold, he was able to keep his sanity, and resist their indoctrinating, psychological tormenting.
Yet, one thought did worry him. What would happen if, on the remotest chance, they found out? And it wasn't himself he was thinking about…
