She imagined how movie night had gone without her. Sure, they would have noticed the lack of snacks, but they may have thought she'd found something else to do that evening. After all, movie night wasn't required. It just seemed to organically happen each week and had become routine to them all. Darcy wondered what Thor had ended up choosing for movie night. Maybe they had all enjoyed the evening together, not noticing she was gone. She pictured them laughing and having fun together, not noticing anything was amiss.
She had lost track of time now, and of where she was. She knew several days, at least, had gone by. No-one had found her yet, which meant they didn't know where she was. And if they didn't know where she was yet, they couldn't save her.
Didn't even know where to start. Might not even know to look. But they'd be looking, by now. Surely.
It was raining outside. Again. The leaky walls let plenty of it in, and the unavoidably large puddles quickly soaked her to the bone. The concrete floor was ice cold. Her teeth chattered.
She tried to count: one, two, three, four, five… like Natasha had taught her to do in highly stressful situations to keep calm. But she couldn't keep her dread at bay. She couldn't focus.
She tried thinking of the words to her favorite songs; humming, because her throat refused to work with her in the swallowing department. But she went through several songs in her head and, when she finished each one, the room was no less cold and wet and terrifying.
Her mother's voice echoed in her head, singing sweetly to her as a little girl. Darcy pushed the thought deep within her, almost angry at the memory for coming up. She couldn't cry now - she had to be strong, had to keep it together.
They had to be looking...had to be coming for her.
Or maybe she couldn't be rescued. They didn't know where she was. Did they even know she was gone?
If they didn't come for her, this might be the room she died in. The thought sunk inwards and downwards, like an anchor into the sea. She almost felt the crack in her heart at the thought, the moment the thought became her reality.
The thought spiraled in her mind and terrified her.
Had her mouth ever been this dry? Her tongue rasped against her palate as she tried to summon enough moisture to swallow. Coughs shook her, wet breaths that rattled deep inside her chest. She wondered if it was pneumonia. That would be something new. The horrible wet floor of the room was definitely a breeding ground for some sort of bacteria, if any could survive this cold.
There were heavy steps approaching the door. She'd learned to recognize the different strides of each man, but couldn't differentiate when there was more than one coming her way, like now. Darcy held her breath and shrunk back as the door creaked open and light flooded the room from the hallway. Not that she could actually go anywhere to get away from them. She cringed away from the light. God, how long had she been in the dark? The light fucking hurt.
Two men barged into the room. The shorter of the two, the one with a beard and a tattoo of a skull on the side of his face, quickly detached her collar and cuffs from the chains on the wall and yanked her up forcefully. She shrieked. She couldn't help it; not even her body listened to what she wanted any more. The hand gripping her collar wasn't enough to keep her upright, and she immediately began drifting to the side, perhaps towards unconsciousness. She could only hope.
The tall one, the one with a large gap in his teeth, held her upright and leered down at her. He stood a foot and a half above her, easily, and waited for a long moment, then another. Her knees trembled from the exertion of being upright. He had hate in his eyes as he glared at her, and she shied away from him immediately. He was the one she'd tried to bite...
The first time she'd seen him, he'd grabbed her jaw and stuck his thumb in her mouth, as deep as he could get it. And then, as she gagged, removed his thumb only to replace it with his three middle fingers. Her throat protested, spasming as she choked. His grin was terrifying.
It was reflex, what happened next. He was holding the back of her head with his other hand, pulling tightly on her hair, gripping it more firmly and yanking - it hurt, and she couldn't breathe - as she tried to escape his hold, and she couldn't get away, couldn't escape those fingers that felt like they would push all the way down her throat. She dared to look up at him, and he was fucking enjoying himself, choking her.
So her body had done the only thing it could to fight back.
She had bitten him.
Hard.
And she'd regretted it immediately, because the next thing they had done was brutally backhand her, followed immediately by her introduction to the collar. Every new thing was the worst, and they seemed to have no end of new things.
...
She felt the first blow before she even realised it was coming; a hard slap to the side of her face. It was white-hot; the force made her shaken brain go blank. She would have fallen to the floor had the other man not come up behind her, grasping the chain just where it met the collar to hold her upright.
"Wha…?" she gasped, confused, her vision going grey. White dots swam in front of her as she struggled to focus again.
He hit her again, backhanded this time, on the other side. Tears filled her eyes, her mouth dropped open, aching, and she felt her face start to swell. She felt her lip split on the left side and blood trickled down her chin.
Again, and again, he hit her, each one hard enough to bruise, across the face, on her arms, her legs, her stomach, her chest, her ass. The chains banged loudly against the wall, pulling her down with their heavy weight, tearing into her skin. Every time she crumbled, the man behind her would pull her back up, yanking on the collar and flaring up an agony that stole her breath away.
Some of the blows were outright slaps, some were punches, some drew blood. Each time, the man behind her righted her once again, compelling her to stand for more pain. When her legs gave out entirely, he grabbed whichever parts of her he pleased, and held her in position to be beaten again, and again.. Sobbing and begging them to please stop, to please let her go, she screamed and pleaded over and over, until her voice gave out. The man in front of her stayed silent and kept hitting her. Once, then twice, she heard a crack in her ribs - pure agony - until she finally blacked out while screaming, "What did I do?"
She couldn't move. Couldn't open her right eye. She could squint out of her other, but they both felt equally swollen.
The taste of blood, and a whining noise. Was that her voice? It sounded pitiful. She shivered, her face scraping against the cold, wet concrete. Her right arm was twisted and throbbing. When she tried to sit up, pain shot through every part of her. So she lay, bound and collared, helpless on the floor.
Darcy's blood pounded in her ears as the panic set in. She couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't take a breath. Her desperate gasping didn't suck in enough air to calm her racing heart. She was going to die. No one was going to come for her.
Fucking shit.
Steps came towards the door, voices grunting with sick laughter, louder as they came closer - and more than one. Maybe more than two. A fresh wave of terror tore through her, making her sick and anxious in her gut and it was hard to breathe.
Her breaths shortened as they approached the door.
Light flooded in, and before Darcy could even flinch, she was yanked up to her feet by one of the men. Again. Too quickly, and the chains didn't give in the slightest. With no time or energy to brace herself, knees buckled and she crashed roughly back to the floor. The same two men from earlier were laughing, and Darcy realised with dismay that yes, another male voice was talking to them.
They spoke English when they wanted to taunt her. She'd learned that early on.
"You see how good she looks on her knees?" one said.
"You are right, it is a sight to see," the other replied as they snickered to each other.
"Shut up, the both of you. We have orders."
One more. Three men now.
Awesome. Fuck.
"Вытащите ее из этой комнаты сейчас же," the third one said, the new one. Whatever that meant.
It sounded like Russian; she couldn't understand it, but she recognised the flavor. She wished she had picked up more from Natasha. She wished she had remembered to wear her comm when leaving the Avengers Tower. She wished...
Natasha was going to lay her up one side and down the other if she ever saw her again. She'd tried repeatedly to get Darcy to learn even the basics of both self defense and the Russian language.
Darcy crashed back to reality as she felt and heard the chain detach from her collar and fall to the ground The sudden absence of its weight left her feeling light headed. Her arms were unchained too, and the metal links scraped when they fell back against the wall.
The sound of the chains creeped her the fuck out. She should run, get away, escape. Fear kept her anchored where she stood.
In terror, she did nothing.
Absolutely nothing. She never tried to move, never tried to escape. She knew it to be fruitless. But still, when they were done giving her the long opportunity, which she never took she would berate herself with such anger and feel so vile at herself that made it difficult to breathe. Her stomach constantly burned, her chest tight. Every minute of every day, with no reprieve. If they weren't hurting her, she was directing her anger at herself. It went round and round.
One of the men grabbed her by the collar and started dragging her out of the room.
She cried out, choking, but her mouth was so dry and her neck so swollen, only a harsh, cracked gasp escaped her. Darcy was manhandled down the hall, feet scrambling to keep from being dragged, and slammed face down on a table. She groaned in pain, positive now that her shoulder was broken.
Something hit the side of her head, opening a gash in her temple. The blood seeped down her face, near her eye, and when she moved to wipe it off she was surprised to feel resistance. When had they tied her hands? Her arms ached when she pulled uselessly at the bonds, and she wasted another wish on her desire to be freed. Her legs seemed to be unrestrained, but that short-lived freedom was choked off by rough hands grabbing her ankles.
She gasped and sobbed, fear stealing her voice. Whoever had a hold on her legs spread them apart, and a knife slid coldly against her back, ripping through her shirt and bra in one sweep, cutting a thin line of skin from lower back to neck as it travelled. Blood welled warm against her cold skin, and her skin prickled as goosebumps bloomed over her torso. She was grabbed and yanked upwards by the collar, head jerked backwards, and her ruined clothing was pulled away by yet another nameless, sweaty, disgusting hand.
Something inside her shut down.
She actually longed in this moment to just be put back in the cell. With a shudder, she stopped crying, and a cold detached darkness filled her. They shoved her face down onto the table again, at least permitting her to roll it to the side so she could breathe.
You should have run when you had the chance, you fucking idiot.
Why hadn't I run?
Why didn't I even try?
Your stupidity deserves what it gets.
I hadn't run because it was fruitless.
But you didn't even try.
Why didn't I try?
"Her pants too." A calm voice spoke in thickly-accented English from the side of the room she was facing. That had to be the third man. If she could have opened her eyes she'd have checked, but they were still swollen shut, only open enough to let tears slip out to run down her beaten face.
Cold and sharp, the knife traced a line of pain down her right leg, drawing blood and helpless cries as it went. Its cruel edge cut easily through the fabric and into the skin beneath, and soon enough a matching wound ran the length of her left leg too. Unseen hands pulled her ruined clothes away; the movement was quick, practiced. Like they'd done this before. She was left bare and vulnerable and ashamed. Her smeared blood cooled on her skin, building into a cold that sank into her core, freezing and shattering the shields she had raised around her mind.
Darcy wailed.
The knife clattered to the table next to where her cheek lay, taunting her.
Her body shuddered. Tremors shook her and she sucked in breath, trying to ground onto anything, any thought that would keep her sane, that would protect her, to keep her safe. There was nothing but cold, pain, and fear.
The team would come for her. Oh, God, please, let them come for her.
The man behind her leaned down to her ear. He breathed his awful, hot breath into her ear. She shuddered. He bit her ear. She wept, bucking, shaking off the blanket of fear that had been weighing her down, and trying to get him off of her. Darcy didn't think of herself as a fighter, but fear had other ideas. The protective reflex that had kept her frozen like a deer in headlights was overruled by her survival instinct, and she fought with everything she had. The adrenaline hit her like a tidal wave, and she clawed at the blur of colors in front of her like a wild thing, unabashed, unbased, desperate to escape. There was a roaring in her ears so loud her panic heightened, her eyes wide and unblinking but unable to focus on anything
Until something… someone, large and intimidating loomed over her and grabbed her by the neck, shaking her hard. The roaring in her ears cut off and she could hear weird high pitched noises that were apparently coming from her. She couldn't breather, and she couldn't tell if it was from the terror or the hand gripping her throat.
"If you move one more time, there will be consequences. Immediately. Say, Yes Sir."
Darcy stilled, taking her thrashing panic inwards, hiding every instinct she could from this man. denying the impulses of her mind and body to fight against the imminent harm and possible death he appeared to have no problem with against her.
Terror of him overrode her many other current fears.
She bit her cheek, then winced and held her chattering teeth apart to keep them silent.. "Y…yyes, Ssir…" Darcy stuttered.
"For example," he continued, twirling the knife in his hands, "if you fight me on this in any way…" he leaned in close to her, and whispered darkly, "I will cut your throat, Whore."
Pure terror coursed through her veins, and she froze, unable to respond. He immediately grabbed her cheek and forced her to look at him. In a very calm voice, he said again, "Do not make me repeat myself again. But lessons are being learned now, and for rules already broken there will be fallout. What do you say to me in response, you fucking Whore?"
This fear was like none she'd ever felt before. She believed him. "Yes sir," she whispered, her voice trembling as she shook.
He backed off of her and she heard his boots move away from her. The other man followed suit.
The man from earlier - she recognised his voice now from the IV room - walked deliberately towards feeling of blood slowly sliding down her back had slowed, but the pain had only deepened. Deep breaths helped; giving in to the terror meant losing control of her body, and if she hyperventilated she'd faint and be helpless. Even more helpless.
She just had to hold on.
Survive.
They would come for her.
They would.
"Darcy Lewis. Age 24. Interned for Dr. Jane Foster for eighteen months. Currently employed by Stark Enterprises in the field of research." His accented voice was harsh and clipped. "Bachelor degree in Political Science and you are currently working on your master's degree with a Stark funded research grant. You work with the…" he sneered, "Avengers."
She jerked her head forward, trying to nod.
"You are going to give us every piece of information you know about the Avengers. About Stark Technologies, about Jane Foster's research, about Bruce Banner's research... every piece of information you can think about The Black Widow, about Captain America, about Tony Stark, about Bruce Banner."
He breathed on her face; she hadn't even realized he was hovering over her until she felt his sour breath against her nose. It was warm but did nothing to banish the chill in her bones, and the smell would have made her vomit if she'd still had anything in her stomach.
"I want to know everything you know about the Winter Soldier." She heard the sneer in his voice, but understood the importance of the statement.
So this - whatever this was - was about Bucky. What did they want to know? She didn't know anything, not… officially. She'd read his file when he'd arrived, but she hadn't been told anything…officially. What did they want to know? She didn't know anything. That much, really. Not a lot. What did they want from her?
Why couldn't they leave him alone? He'd been through so much.
She felt her captor's hand sliding down her naked and bleeding back and bit her bottom lip to keep from screaming. Her knees were buckling and she was about to fall. The man behind her must have seen her wobble, because he laid his hot, heavily breathing body over hers, weighing her down, pushing her stomach against the cold table. A distant, quiet part of her brain mused that if he was tall enough to do that, it must be the gap-toothed guy.
She jerked and gasped.
"The more you tell us, the longer we will let you live. The better the information, the less pain you will feel."
If Darcy could have willed herself to die right then, she would have. She was going to die. It was going to be long, or maybe short, but definitely a painful and drawn-out death.
"It's alright if you have nothing to say to us yet, little girl," he whispered. "today will be the wages of your disobedience so far. Just a sample of what is to come if you choose not to talk."
The knife scraped against the table. She heard the sharp hiss of sliding metal against metal as it dragged slowly closer to her cheek. She watched as a hand gripped the knife, and brought its bright edge against her throat. He pressed it just under the collar, angling the blade against her neck. Darcy's chest heaved as she gasped. Lifting the metal collar upwards, he shoved it against her jaw, and forcing her head back, he slowly slid the knife across the collar. As if to mime what he was capable of; threatening her.
"No...," she breathed, quickly realizing his intent.
The smooth motion of metal against metal hissed again, slower this time, the sound of it threatening to overpower her senses. Oh God, that sound.
Darcy could no longer control her body's base need to protect itself. She bucked against him, trying to jerk away, teeth snapping, screams tearing out of her. But his other hand, which had been creeping down her back to hold her ass down, lifted from her body and shoved against her skull, slamming her head hard against the table, forcing her still.
"No, please don't, please stop, no... please don't!" she pleaded, she begged, she shrieked.
He slid the knife, then, carefully the length of her throat, and she felt it cut her, drawing blood, but not pushing or going deep - oh god, he was going to kill her - and then he lifted the knife. Her vision blurred with tears, and the burn on her neck throbbed as she thrashed against him, sobbing.
Still shaking from the pain of the collar slipping back down over the cut on her neck, she felt her mind going dark again as the knife cut into her cheek. Deeper here than her neck, no big veins to worry about.
Somewhere amidst the agony, the darkness overtook her, and she blacked out..