There was a flurry of activity throughout the Initiative from the moment Hostile17 passed out. Doctor Angleman directed technicians into the cell, flanked by soldiers, lifting the unconscious bodies of Hostile and Feeder and securing them tightly to stretchers. As they were wheeled off to surgery, engineers were sent in to repair the microphones and to place steel cages around the cameras, preventing future breaks.
Maggie Walsh herself followed Hostile17 down into the operating room. There, blood would be drawn, temperatures taken, a toxicology screening performed… among other things. It was beyond time to discover just what made this Hostile different.
Swimming up from darkness, Spike groaned in agony, rolling to his side and curling his body in on itself in an attempt to escape the pain of the hard tiles beneath it, but immediately flattened himself onto his back with a scream as muscles tore. His eyes flew open in a panic, hands scrabbling at the tattered remains of his t-shirt, pulling it aside to expose his stomach. Two long incisions crossed his flat belly, and though they'd each been closed with neat black stitches, they went deep. Higher up, a third cut over his heart, flanked by burn marks.
Spike hissed between clenched teeth as he gently prodded his flesh, exploring the blossoming bruises and taking stock of each wound. He could feel burns on either side of his forehead and his vision was blurry, his head spinning as his ears rang. The skin of his wrists was black and blue, broken where he had thrashed and pulled against his restraints under the torturous instruments and blinding white surgical lights.
He'd woken up with the first twist of the knife, but he had been unable to focus, unable to move his body under the influence of whatever drug had been in the girl's system. He couldn't scream, he couldn't fight, he could only endure as masked hands descended, cutting, bruising, prodding, pulling at his organs and turning his insides out. Thankfully, both his body and his mind were accustomed to torment. While his consciousness retreated to a guarded place, his body fought off the drugs, slowly regaining control and then seeking to free itself without his guidance. Instinct alone had him bucking against the straps, arching off the table and snapping left and right while his sanity stayed safely tucked away, until he felt a sharp prick in his elbow and he was out again.
Now those same instincts were screaming at him to get up. Gathering what little strength he could, Spike tried to push himself upright using the wall for support, but the wrenching pain in his belly was too much. He wouldn't have made it but for gentle hands that suddenly reached out, guiding him, taking his weight and propping up his shoulders. Gasping, trying not to black out, he looked around, blinking rapidly as his vision slowly cleared under the glaring whiteness of the room.
He was back in the cell again, empty but swamped with the scent of a dozen different men. His duster and button up had been kicked into a corner; a quick glance at the ceiling showed the microphone had been replaced and the cameras reinforced. A touch on his shoulder had him flinching back violently, shying from the pain his mind was waiting for, but it never came.
"What did they do to you?"
She looked better. That was the first thought that flitted through his scattered brain when he looked up at her. She was more alert, more coherent. Her scent overwhelmed him as she leaned in close, parting his shirt and trailing her fingers down over his chest, tracing the lines of stitches that crossed his skin. He trembled under her touch, from pain, from shock, from fear, still unable to fully process what was happening.
"You're cold," she murmured.
Leaving his side, she didn't see him reach out for her, desperate for something to anchor him to this plane as he fought the nausea and the darkness that was threatening to pull him back under. She came back with his coat, helping him exchange a useless scrap of t-shirt for his red dress shirt, fingers buttoning him from the bottom up, leaving the top three open over his chest. He was grateful for that, left him feeling like he could still breath. Unnecessary, but he couldn't control the air grating in and out of his broken chest.
His coat came next, the familiar weight of it on his shoulders washing comfort and safety over an un-centered mind. The smell of it, the feel of the leather grounded him, brought back memories of another time. It reminded him who he was, returned a bit of his confidence, a bit of his swagger. He was the Slayer of Slayers! William the Bloody. He was Spike, one of the Aurelian four, the Scourge of Europe!
Slapping down the hand that reached out to touch his face, he thrust the girl away from him and forced himself to his feet in a violent stagger, arms tight around his middle against the wrenching. Glaring up at the cameras, the full force of his demon came down over his face, and he pulled back his lips in a vicious bearing of teeth, roaring with rage.
Feeder17 felt better. Better than she had in days, weeks. They'd wheeled her down into a surgical room, hooked her up to an IV drip, and began hydrating her; vitamins, electrolytes, pain killers, probably something else, all pumping into her through a clear plastic tube. But she felt better. Stronger. They'd taken a few blood samples, did some vital reading, and then she'd been brought back, back to her cage. Well, his cage. But he wasn't there.
She almost panicked, the fear of losing her purpose almost enough to send her tumbling over the edge, but she'd seen his coat crumpled in the corner and had immediately lunged for it, hugging it close in tight fists, inhaling the leather and smoke that had so quickly come to mean something. The waiting was a nightmare, rocking back and forth without thought, until the soldiers came, his limp body between them. Swiping a keycard, the barrier ratcheted down and they dropped him through into the cell, where he landed with a dull thud, like hollow wood.
She had approached him cautiously and with real terror, fearing him dead. Remembering that he was already dead sent creeping forward, her eyes roaming over his broken body. With a groan, he rolled onto his side, but only made it halfway before flipping onto his back with a scream. The pain must have brought him awake; he began to thrash and jerk, tearing open his shirt and exposing his torso. Her breath caught in her throat, a hard wave of nausea making her gag at the thought of the atrocities that must have caused such marks.
He began to struggle to push himself up; unable to watch him suffer, she finally reached out and took his shoulders, helping to lean him against the wall. There was a blind look in his eyes, his breathing harsh and ragged, and she could almost smell the fear coming off of him. Wanting more than anything to see that fear leave him, to give him some small comfort in support, she laid a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched away violently, and she withdrew.
"What did they do to you," she whispered.
Her voice seemed to center him, drawing his gaze and his focus. Holding his cold blue gaze, she leaned in close, easing his shirt open and running her fingertips over his chest. His skin was clammy and cold to the touch, and as she traced the edges of harsh blues and blacks mottling his abdomen, goose bumps rose, his skin quivering as he shook.
"You're cold."
Turning away from him, she quickly crossed the cell and grabbed his duster from where she'd left it on the floor. Back at his side, she knelt and eased the shredded remains of his black t-shirt from his shoulders, fearful of finding more damage beneath. Helping him get his arms through the red silk, she buttoned him up, leaving the top of the shirt open so as not to constrict him too badly. The more freedom of movement he had, the less likely he would be to pull something, to make something worse. The coat went next, tucked tightly around him, as if to keep in the body heat he did not exude.
Guilt flashed through her, hitting hard. He looked so much worse than he had before. Still horribly pale, his skin had taken on an alarming translucency, and was badly bruised under his eyes. They had clearly tortured him; cut him, beaten him, burned him. What had they done to her? Cleaned her up, bandaged her wrist, pumped her full of all the things her body needed. They had hurt him. Her eyes stung, and she reached out a hand to touch the side of his face.
He spooked her when he slapped it down. Suddenly he was lurching to his feet, clearly in agonizing amounts of pain, but managed to stand and stand tall. If she had worried about him before, wanted to take the fear away, she had no cause to worry now. As his eyes flashed amber and his teeth sharpened, he let out a sound so primal and ferocious that she was sent scrambling backward, her body searching for an escape.
