"Mister Stark…" An average sized, generic looking local said. Going by the worshiping gazes of the lackeys that are digging their guns into his ribs, the speaker's own lack of a gun (unfortunately, not entirely defenseless going by the knife strapped at his waist) this one could be somewhat in charge. Not to mention the arrogance and pompousness – I'm important here, pay attention to me! So, not self-assured enough to be the top dog. Native Afghani, about 45 years old, give or take a year or two, right handed, his leg injury still healing, heard him talking about a wife, has a few daughters, only one son – possible pressure point?
Then someone else catches his eye: a tall, bald man standing behind him, half hidden by the shadows of the cave, in just the right spot – not too far, not close enough, but exactly where he can be easily spotted if someone is looking. And Jack is. He racks his brain trying to remember if someone with this description had ever been mentioned. Mission reports, debriefs, gossip – anything that would tell him more about who exactly was holding them. He comes up blank. Who is this?
"Your brother underestimates us, he mocks our power. I think it is time we teach him a lesson, no?" his attention is brought back to the mouthpiece. His arms spread wide, his elocution just a tad too dramatic. All to make the right, the correct impression, Jack assumes.
His eyes flit back to the man standing in the shadow. The smirk, the hateful fire that emanates from his eyes twists something inside him.
Slowly, he glances to his left towards a tub filled with stale water at best, and diluted sludge at worst.
Ah.
A lesson indeed.
He doesn't need to think hard about its purpose.
Idiot brother.
His hands don't shake, he doesn't even twitch, doesn't let on how disturbed he is at the prospect of witnessing the torture of his own brother. He is fully aware that showing any emotion at this stage would be fatal.
Instead, plans form. And are instantly discarded. He could try to shove the tub from its perch, but his chances of succeeding are rather low, what with the three goons that are still jabbing their Stark M16s into him.
Just how money hungry is his brother?
And anyway, they would just need to refill it.
He could try overpowering them, but after a week and a half on only water, barely any sleep and bound hands, his chances of survival – and extracting his brother from this hell-hole at the same time – are rather low. Even if he did make it out of this particular cave, which is doable, there are still the 13 terrorists he counted armed to the teeth, and who knows how many other there are. And he still doesn't know where exactly they keep his brother.
His thoughts are interrupted by the approach of another group.
Jack hears him before he sees him, the scatter of rocks as he stumbles over them, his labored breathing, the mumbled swearing. Twenty steps, ten. He hears him inhale sharply, but doesn't turn around to watch him be dragged in. Distance – both physical and emotional is what he is going for. Of course, there is that traitorous, cowardly part of him that is terrified of what he'll see if he does look.
"You are a reasonable man, are you not, Mister Stark? Tell me, why does your brother… why does he not cower before the might of the Ten Rings like you do?" The Afghan asks, his voice gleeful.
The Ten Rings. At least now he has a name, Jack thinks, completely ignoring the insinuation that he's apparently bowing down to them.
"What is he saying?" asks his brother indignantly.
Jack doesn't turn around, doesn't even acknowledge his brother's presence, only stares the Afghan in the eye.
"See, this is exactly what I'm talking about! No respect."
But Jack sees the twitches in his face, how he palms the sheath of his knife. Sweaty palms.
He's nervous, why?
Then the shadow man steps forward, still unrecognizable. He doesn't look at him anymore though. He strides forward, the three lackeys that are assigned to babysit him force him to step aside. As he does so, he finally comes face to face with his brother.
The first thing he sees is the giant car battery Tony clutches in his arms like a mother defending her newborn. Then he notices the wires. And where they lead. Oh God.
He remembers the screaming, the sounds of the saw against bone, echoing through the cave complex. Tony is pale, his hair matted, face covered in scabbed over scratches. But at least he's standing, and Jack breathes a little easier at seeing him alive.
The leader is standing right in front of his brother, who stares at him unflinchingly, with all the arrogance he's so famous for.
"I have a task for you," the leader says all of a sudden, turning back towards him. Dread starts to settle in his stomach. "We asked your brother to build us the Jericho missile. We asked nicely." He informs him in his broken English. What the leader says next almost brings him to his knees, his hard-held composure slipping through his fingers. "He refused. But I think a more personal approach – more familiar approach – is needed, don't you?"
Jack doesn't answer. Honestly, he doesn't think himself capable of forming any kind of words right now. All he can see – all he can perceive in that moment – are his brother's shaking hands and the tub full of water on that wobbly chair.
His heart is beating like crazy. He wants out, out, out! He can't – won't…
Snap out of it.
SNAP OUT OF IT.
In the end, it's the pain of the ropes digging into his wrists that manages to rouse him out of his internal panic. His senses hyper-focus, adrenaline fills his veins and the dark spots stop dancing in front of his eyes. A strange sense of calm descends upon him – one that he encounters right before pulling the trigger.
He could refuse. That should have been his first reaction, and how strange is it, that it wasn't?
Article III: If I am captured I will continue to resist by all means available.
But if he says no? What then? His brother will get tortured either way, and it is entirely possible they will make it more entertaining for him if he doesn't agree to their demands.
My own brother. With a car battery attached to his chest. An electr–. Fuck.
Alright, so he cannot refuse. Because if he does, Tony will get dunked into water – held under water. And he will struggle, he will flail. Water will get sprayed everywhere. That thing is only a couple of inches away from his head, it will get wet. If it gets wet, it will short-circuit. It will shock him. It can kill him.
They cannot be the ones to do it.
His face slackens, he can almost feel his eyes harden, emotion seeping out of them.
"If you'll get me a rag… and a jug…" His mouth is dry, throat scratchy from disuse, but he successfully forces the words out.
He hears his brother protesting, struggling against the arms that are holding him back. The leader's answering smile is grizzly, and his stomach heaves at the mere thought of what he's about to do.
Forgive me.