Chapter Twenty-Four

'The strong will resist and the weak will saying anything to end the pain.'
-Ulpian

'No!'

Kurt's voice broke on the word, but he couldn't see. He could only feel the pressure of Blaine's arms wrapping around his shoulders, and then they were gone. The pain was blinding, red and hot behind his eyelids, and finally he managed to draw his eyes open and he could see the men with their arms around Blaine's chest, holding his arms behind his back. They were dragging him backwards towards the elevator and Kurt made to stand, reaching out to pull him back, as if his arms could cross that great distance.

His legs gave way and he stumbled again, knocking his shoulder into the wall. Another flash of pain blazed behind his eyes.

'Blaine!'

'Kurt!'

His voice was fading away, being taken away from Kurt as the elevator doors closed on Blaine and the Officers. He was gone and they were taking him, and there was nothing Kurt could do about.

He stumbled forward, using the wall for support as he made his way to the door, hitting it with his good arm in loud, thumping blows.

'It's useless,' a voice behind him said and he turned to see Santana, tied to Tina on the floor. Their wrists were bound tightly together, and then to each other, and the fight had gone out of them now that the Officers were gone.

'I have to do something,' Kurt pleaded.

'The first door on the left,' Santana said quickly. 'It's a stairwell. Head down that way. They're taking Blaine to the lowest levels, that's what the voice on the loudspeaker said. Find him, don't just pound at that door.'

He bit his lip, evaluating the door Santana had nodded towards. 'Okay,' he whispered. 'Okay.' He shot them a glance, but Santana only returned it with a look of steel.

'Go. We'll be fine.'

And he went, gripping the wound in his arm tightly with his spare hand to staunch the blood that was flowing freely again. He'd almost forgotten it was there.

'Well, hello.' The voice was calm, calculated, and it made Blaine shiver subconsciously against the arms of the man holding him and pushing him into the room. He grit his teeth and frowned, straining against the arms.

'I said "hello",' the voice said.

'Hi,' Blaine hissed, biting back a retort.

'Better.' He watched as the man moved across the room, motioning with one hand to a chair he had sat down in front of a fire place. It didn't seem much like a dungeon, despite what the voice on the loudspeaker - this man's voice - had said. It seemed instead like a posh living room, with a comfortable looking sofa at one side, and a fireplace at the other. Paintings lined the walls, and they looked real, not reproductions.

And in front of the fireplace was the chair.

It was facing the sofa, and Blaine had a feeling it was meant to be the evening entertainment. He was meant to be the entertainment.

'Sit,' the man said, and the Officer holding Blaine shoved him roughly onto the seat.

'Who are you?' he asked as the Officer moved away.

The man considered him for a moment and then spoke, as calm as ever. 'I am Terrence Drey. I am the leader of this operation.'

The leader. It made sense to Blaine, like cogs clicking into place in his brain. He had to ask though. 'Why-?'

'Do I have two names?' Terrence Drey continued for him. 'Do you really think serial numbers were around before the Regime? No, that's an invention of mine. It limits the idea of a family unit, removes the common link between members of a family. Before my regime, your second name was your family name. It came from your father, who got it from his father. A woman always took their husbands name when they married.' He smiled. 'My father gave me the name Drey.'

Blaine couldn't help himself. He knew he shouldn't be speaking, that he should be silent, if only to not irritate the man in front of him, who held so much control over ever situation he found himself in. But he couldn't stop his tongue from moving.

'So, what made you start the Reg-'

'Stop.' The voice was commanding and still calm, but it was beginning to rise in pitch, as if his control was slowly breaking. 'Question time is over. Now it's my turn.' He stepped behind Blaine, moving towards the fireplace. 'What's your name?'

'Blaine,' he said gruffly.

'Blaine.' Terrence Drey rolled it around his tongue as if tasting it, trying it on for size. 'You're gay,' he said after a pause. 'Aren't you, Blaine?'

'I don't see how it's any of your business-'

'I'll take that as a yes.'

'I don't see how it's any of your-'

'Behave!' Finally, tension was making it's way into the man's voice, curling around his vocal chords. 'I know this is so very cliche,' he said. his clipped and polished again. He reached beside the fireplace, out of Blaine's line of vision. 'But I do love theatricality, and I've wanted to do this for so long.' It was a poker in his hands, long and metal. It looked like it could inflict pain simply by hitting against. He dipped the poker into the fireplace behind Blaine, twirling it loosely in his wrist to evenly heat each edge. The grin that had previously stretched across his face was taut with anger. 'Everyone is just too… damn… obedient.'

And he brought the poker around, spinning it swiftly through the air.

At each corner, his shoulder hit the wall, grabbing at skin and nerves and sending blinding jolts of pain through his arm and his body. But it meant nothing. Not to Kurt as he ran blindly down the stairwell. His hands scrabbled at the doors he passed, his head ducking inside to check, if only for a second, whether Blaine was there.

He had to be somewhere. There had to be a way to get to him. He couldn't give up.

His feet pounded on the cement stairs as he ran, uneven, lumbered steps. His heart pounded in his chest, his voice rasped roughly through his throat. He was wounded and his body screamed at him to stop exerting itself, to rest and to repair itself before heading back into the attack.

But it was Blaine, and all he could think of was finding him and making him safe.

He ran faster.

'You're little boyfriend is dead.' Terrence Drey pressed the poker into the soft flesh at the top of Blaine's arm, where arm met shoulder. It burned, hissing and bringing up acrid smoke, but it was hot enough to cauterize, to stop the bleeding.

Blaine coughed, spluttering from the stench of it and unable to breathe from the pain. It was too much. Too much pain and too much numb and the nerve endings were screaming.

'He can't be,' Blaine moaned, voice high pitched and deep at once, breaking between the two. It sounded weak, even to his own ears.

Terrence Drey pulled the poker away, holding it into the fire again and twirling it. 'Didn't you see the hit he sustained from my Officer? The wound in his shoulder was bleeding profusely. That much blood loss and no one will survive.'

'He can't be-'

'He can. He's dead. That's all that matters. He's not coming to save you.'

'The others-'

'The others are held by my Officers at this moment. They're not getting anywhere near here to save you. You're completely at my mercy now.'

Blaine could feel the tears pricking behind his eyes. If he closed them, he could see the image of Kurt behind his eyelids, blood seeping from his wound. But he was never dead. He couldn't die. Blaine would be able to feel it.

'I- If Kurt died,' he began, feeling his voice shake. 'I would know.'

Terrence Drey smiled, a horrible knowing smile. 'You think you have a connection, do you? Some kind of cosmic belief in each other? Do you think that you could read his thoughts if you tried hard enough?' He laughed, short and sharp. 'You're an idiot child, and that is all you are.'

'But I love him!'

The laugh that fell from Terrence Drey's lips was the loudest yet. It echoed around the small room - Blaine was beginning to refer to it in his mind as a torture chamber - belittling him and making him feel worthless. 'Well, maybe you don't love him enough. Maybe that's why you can feel it. You've stopped loving him, and the connection has broken.'

He grinned an evil smile, almost laughing at his own words, but it made sense to Blaine. It fitted together like simple puzzle pieces. He had been rude to Kurt. He'd pushed him away because he didn't want to lose him, especially after he'd been shot. He hadn't said 'I love you'. And he'd done it on purpose.

'You're-' he whispered. 'You're right.'

And Terrence Drey smiled at him. 'Of course I am.'