MacGyver moved in and out of groggy consciousness. He was aware he was in a vehicle in one moment. He felt the arm of someone next to him. When he was almost awake again, he could hear an EKG beeping and felt something wrapped around his arm. The room was bright. A light moved from eye to eye. He faded out again. He felt something cold and solid fastened around his neck. Someone coughed and the word cacophonous passed through his drugged mind as he faded away again.
#
MacGyver opened his eyes, but he couldn't move. Or was it he didn't want to move? He was hungover from some sedative, causing his normally sharp mind to be slow. It was slowly revving to full power. Suddenly he gasped and began to assess his situation.
His eyes traveled to the wall. The rocks and mortar told him he was either in a dimly lit castle dungeon (not likely) or the basement of a house (more likely). His eyes traveled across the basement; he counted thirty-four men in the room. They all looked like they had given up their freedom and accepted whatever fate this basement held. Or maybe they were just so drugged they didn't know to fight.
MacGyver sat up, now noticing a shackle on his ankle. A chain ran from it to an anchor in the floor. The lock was on the shackle, something easily picked. He reached for it and felt something move on his shoulders, resting against his neck. He reached up, finding a metal band was fastened around his neck and he couldn't pull it off. He felt a small panel at the back that was held on by a hex screw. Again, something easy to take off.
He started patting his pockets for his knife, but realized quickly he didn't have it, and he wasn't wearing his clothes. He was in a grungy tank top with the number 345 written on it and a pair of stained boxers. He looked at the other men around him. They were all shackled, collared, and wearing the same tank tops and boxers. The only difference was each had a different number written on their tank top.
He focused on the two men on either side of him. The one on his right sat in the middle of his cot, staring at the blanket on him. For a moment MacGyver thought he was dead, but then he noticed the man's chest lift on a breath.
The man on his left laid on his cot, staring at the ceiling. He had a thousand-yard stare and showed no interest in MacGyver.
"Where are we?" MacGyver asked them.
Neither answered.
"Where are we?" MacGyver repeated louder.
A couple of the men glanced at him, but no one spoke. He focused on the shackle. He tried to pull his foot out of the shackle but that didn't work. He noticed a bandage around his elbow. He pulled it off and found a faint bruise from a needle. What the hell had happened to him while he was out?
He looked at the man to his right. "Do you speak English?" MacGyver asked him.
The man didn't acknowledge MacGyver.
MacGyver reached out to touch him.
"I wouldn't do that," the man on his left told MacGyver.
MacGyver dropped his hand, looking back at the man. He had heard a British accent when the man spoke, but that was all he could assess from him. In another place and time, MacGyver would be joking at how closely the man looked like him, as did most of the men in the basement.
"Why?" MacGyver asked.
"He goes nuts when you touch him. He broke the last guy's arm."
"Where's the last guy?"
"I don't know. They took him away and haven't seen him since. That happens a lot."
"Are you from Britain?"
The man barely nodded. "London."
MacGyver turned to face the man. "Where are we?"
He shrugged.
"How long have you been here?"
He shrugged again.
"What are these?" MacGyver pointed at the collar.
"Shock collars."
"Shock collars?"
He nodded. "They push a button and it shocks you."
"They?"
"The men that come down here."
"Russians?"
"I don't know."
"North Koreans?"
"I said I don't know," the man snarled through his teeth.
MacGyver hesitated, not sure if he should keep digging for answers. "Is everyone here kidnapped?"
With a snort, "Are you really so stupid?" the man asked. "Or maybe you volunteered for this, eh? You some pervert that likes being kidnapped and shocked?"
MacGyver looked around the room. He noticed something very distinct about all the men. They were all around his age, fit and slender and light-skinned like him. There was a profile. He felt hot when he realized he was not kidnapped because of his work. This was something else, something dark and twisted. He looked back at the man again.
"What do you do?" MacGyver asked him.
"What?" The man finally looked at him.
"For a living – what do you do?"
"I work in a grocery store."
"What do you do there?"
"I stock the shelves. Why do you care?"
"I work for a think tank, an analyst. Not exactly jobs that would make us targets for kidnapping."
"No. Not exactly."
MacGyver looked around the room. "Do you know if anyone here has a belt or glasses or—"
"When I was out, they took all my clothes. Even my glasses." The man's voice began to tremble. "Who knows what they did to me while I was out."
He understood the unspoken, but he didn't understand why anyone would do that to so many men.
He heard the man softly sob and looked down at him. The man was trying to hide his face and tears.
"My name's Angus MacGyver," he told him. "But everyone just calls me Mac."
The man dried his tears. "Gerald Trinswald."
"Nice to meet you." MacGyver offered his hand to shake.
The man looked up at him. With a slight smile, he shook MacGyver's hand, "You as well."
MacGyver smiled.