A Broken Man.
Summary. . . . . . . . . How do you break a man, when pain is an everyday occurrence and can be controlled? Eliot and the team are about to find out, when an easy con turns out to be anything but.
Disclaimer. . . . . . . . Not mine, no money is being made; I'm just testing the waters of a new fandom.
A.N. . . . . . . . . . Thanks to everyone who has read this fic so far, and to those who have reviewed. Have a few days of for New Year now so hopefully I can get a few chapters out before I have to return to work. For now here's chapter 4, I hope that you enjoy. Peanut x
Legs bent and arms curled protectively, as best they could against the chains that were still shackled to his wrists, around a torso that was wracked with spasmodic trembles, a head that was thick and heavy, sagged, the strong muscles that usually held it so high, wasted away and weary. He ignored the stench, the rancid smell of waste and sickness and sweat. He just wanted to sleep, but every time he reached the cusp of dormancy, They stopped him, dragging him back to his living hell.
Eyelids slowly drooped closed once more. It felt like slivers of glass were ripping through the fragile membrane, but the gritty pain that little action caused was ignored, as the need to sleep grew stronger. All conscious thought slowed, his body becoming pliant and lose, his features losing the lines of fear and edginess, that kept him in a state of constant jumpiness, awaiting the beating he was still so sure would eventually arise. He started to drift. He knew it wouldn't be long, knew that they would soon come, but he couldn't help the images that invaded his brain of a happier him, of cons worked with the team, he started to lose himself; but the happiness those few memories brought weren't to last, and as a different punishment attacked, as the water hit him, the bubble he had lost himself in burst.
It was cold, so very cold, like ice against his fever heated skin; and the force it smashed against him with, knocked him back against the harsh stone of the wall, straining his bonds to breaking point, and stealing all air from his lungs. He couldn't help the scream that ripped from his throat as fragile bones snapped, and gasped against the onslaught on pain, his mouth floundering like a fish out of water, desperate for a breath, but dragging in nothing but icy liquid that burnt his already taxed lungs. He coughed and spluttered and floundered, tried to turn his body so that the powerful jets would crash against his back and relieve the pressure from his front, but weak and exhausted and in pain, he couldn't move an inch, couldn't stop the onslaught from slowly drowning him.
His lungs screamed, his throat instinctively closing against the invasion it didn't want to allow in, his body burning in agony as it tried to cope without the life giving air it desperately needed. His arms fall, his legs unfurl, his eyes roll back, and his struggles lesson as the effort to stay alive become too much. He stills.
The water stops then, but he doesn't move. Someone kicks at his side, but he doesn't register it, or the voice that curses at subordinates, or the hands that pummel at his chest; but he does feel the calm that shrouds him, begging him to let go and surrender to it, and he does feel the fiery agony as he is ripped away from it, and the blistering burning as the water he has swallowed is expelled. He's left alone once they know he's back with them; left alone trembling in pain and grief, mumbled begging escaping from his lips, until the exhaustion he has been battling finally becomes too much, and he's finally allowed to drift into the sleep that has been, for far too long, kept from him.
It's the noise that reawakens him, after hours, days even, without hearing anything but his own heartbeat and screams, it hurts. The sack is back, tied tightly around his neck, but he can barely summon the energy to attempt to move it. His hands were at last free of the chains, rough braided rope now bit into the bruised and torn flesh and the broken bones beneath, a feeling he was somewhat used to, a predicament he had been subjected to before and easily escaped from, but he didn't try pulling at them, instead he sluggishly tries to drag the bound and listless limbs above his head in a desperate attempt to drown out the cacophony.
He bites down a scream of pain as they move a little before they bang harshly against something above his head. He feels around, once the pain has abated, hoping and praying that he's not in what he thinks he's in, trying to calm his mounting anxiety and rapid breathing, when his search tells him he is. He ignores all his pain, all his suffering, and struggles, he can't help it, those feelings he'd fought hard against, those fears he'd fought hard to overcome, they all come crashing back down upon him, and claustrophobia grips him. He can feel the air start to dwindle, feel it become thick, and stifling, and stale. His mind begins to play tricks and he swears the coffin is getting smaller, the space slowly closing in on him. He's going to die here, slow and painful, gasping and suffering and alone. His struggles increase, he doesn't want to die like this, doesn't want to die this way.
He pushes at the lid with his damaged wrists. He bends his legs, as best he can, and uses them too; his elation rising as the wood slowly starts to give, only to fall as loose shifting sand, and small stones, seep their way through the crack and start to fill the box. His grip lessons but the damage has already been done, stones now preventing the lid from closing completely, and the sand continues to fall. He pushes at it, tries to get as far away from it as possible, but he knows that there's nowhere really to go, knows that sooner or later it will smother him, and he can't help but react. Panic overwhelms him, it overtakes his already troubled mind and clenches around his already struggling chest. He flails about, kicking and punching, using his legs and arms and head. His breathing becomes strained, each breath laboriously taken in, but his mind tells his brain that it's not enough, that the air is not there, and his brain believes it sending out signals for him to consume more and more, until his gasping and wheezing and choking, until stars seem to explode before his eyes, before the world once again turns dark.
They've tried. Used up every marker they have ever been owed; offered up rewards for information; turned over every snitch; conned their way into every diplomatic party hoping to glean just that little tidbit of knowledge; hell they'd even gone begging to Sterling. Nothing they had done though had turned up anything. Eliot had just disappeared.
The office door stands open slightly revealing inside a room almost devoid of personal possessions, and the back of a woman as she sits upon the window ledge, legs dangling out of the open window. The pot rests securely upon her thighs, her fingers brushing lightly against the foliage, the repetitive action bringing her much needed comfort; comfort she cannot gain from the other humans, not knowing how to ask for it. So she sits, and she strokes, and she tells the plant how she needs her Hitter back.
There's wires and circuits and breakers and boards strewn everywhere, numerous laptops are open and running searches, empty orange soda bottles and congealing microwavable meals litter all other surfaces. He's dealing the only way he can, by trying to make sure this doesn't happen again, by trying to create a tracking device that can't be found, or fried, and that can be tracked over greater distances; by trying to figure out who has his friend, and where they have him, and why. But so far nothing has worked to his standards, and so far his searches have turned up nothing. So he keeps trying, because anything is better than thinking about Eliot.
She copes the only way she knows best. Bags advertising numerous different brands clutter the usually neat and tidy room. Shoes and bags and clothes and jewelry tumble out of them. Each item having been tried on again and again, discarded and then retrieved. Each item helping to create a new persona, a character she can lose herself in for hours at a time, because if she stays as plain old Sophie it means she has to think about him, and she doesn't want to, doesn't want to think about what has been done to him, doesn't want to think about what is being done to him, doesn't want to think that after all this time he could be. . . . . . . . So she does what she does best. She acts.
That one drink hadn't been enough. As the days passed, and then the weeks, that one drink had turned into two, and then three, and then he stopped counting. Empty bottles are dropped where they are finished, new ones opened almost immediately, until his days pass in a blur of searching and drinking. He tips the bottle he's holding to his lips, disgruntled when only a few drops tantalize his tongue, it's time for a new one, but he knows he's out, knows he'll have to venture downstairs. He staggers and stumbles and somehow makes it down the stairs without falling, and trudges his way to the store room. He stops his fingers on the handle as his phone vibrates within his pocket. He answers, and listens, and sobers immediately.
A.N. . . . . . . . . . . I hope it was worth the wait? Will be back soon with another chapter, catch you later, Peanut x