My fill for Whumptober Day 1 - Bound. Enjoy! :)
A Few Basic Questions
The first time someone attempted to abduct him, Nicholas didn't even realize that he had been the target.
At this point, he had yet to grasp the full scope of the Emergency, though he was aware that his attempts to counteract it needed to remain secretive. People who poked their noses into the matter had a startling habit of turning up missing, after all.
Still, the idea that he might be in genuine danger had yet to truly sink in. He still made regular trips into Stonetown, sometimes for conspicuous reasons (such as gently interrogating the locals on their feelings regarding the Emergency), without much hesitation. Milligan came and went as he pleased, and they rarely stuck together even when they did leave the house at the same time.
During one of these casual excursions, Nicholas was inspecting a squash at the farmer's market when he felt a prickling on the back of his neck.
Though it was a faint sensation, and he had no real reason to believe it meant anything, Nicholas immediately felt uneasy. Still, he tried not to act rashly or let on how uncomfortable he was. Instead, he finished inspecting the squash, paid for his produce, bid the stall owner a friendly farewell, and then headed off in the direction of his favorite used bookstore.
The tail he seemed to have acquired―a man in a sharp gray suit―was hot on his heels.
Nicholas took a long, winding route just to be certain that he was being followed. Finally, he entered the bookstore through the front door, chatted amicably with its owner for a few minutes, then slipped out the back and made his way home.
Milligan was concerned when he recounted the tale that night, but neither man was quite as concerned as they should have been, in hindsight.
After all, they determined, it seemed most likely that this man had intended to follow Nicholas back to the house. If he had succeeded, it would have been devastating; he could have easily stolen or destroyed a great deal of evidence, research, and complicated machinery. Nevertheless, the threat was minimal. Even without being on guard, Nicholas had managed to catch and shake his tail, so these clearly weren't professionals of any sort.
They agreed to be more cautious―to leave the house less frequently, stick together when possible, and generally stay aware of their surroundings―and, other than that, mostly put the incident out of their minds.
The second time someone attempted to abduct him, Nicholas put the pieces together.
Again, he was running a few small errands in Stonetown, albeit with Milligan and Number Two loitering nearby, ready to back him up if necessary. Their diligence had paid off so far; since the first incident, neither Nicholas nor his companions had been followed again.
Perhaps that was why they had grown complacent.
One second, Nicholas was stepping down a side street that wasn't even particularly secluded, idly going over the list of topics he intended to research while they were in town. The next second, a large, surly-looking man in a gray suit was stepping around the corner, blocking the way forward.
Nicholas stopped dead in his tracks. Behind him, he heard a soft pair of footsteps follow him into the alley, boxing him in.
He understood the situation at once, yet he just stood there for a moment, woefully unprepared for the impending confrontation. Mentally, he calculated the amount of time it would take for either Milligan or Number Two to catch on and come to his rescue.
Then, without dallying a moment longer, he dropped his bag of groceries with a wide grin. "There you are!" he said, hurrying down the alley to meet his would-be assailant head-on.
The footsteps behind him slowed to a confused halt.
Startling, the surly man paused halfway through the process of cracking open a very menacing briefcase to shoot him a perplexed look. Before he could regain his bearings, Nicholas seized his hand and gave it a vigorous shake.
His palm was rough with calluses in familiar places (undoubtedly the hands of a working man) and slightly damp with sweat (as if he was more nervous than he was letting on); his clothing was meticulously clean (as if he had never worn it before) and carried the strong scent of the harbor (brine, fish, and sweat); Nicholas stole a glance and saw an indent around his left ring finger (likely left by a ring, which he would have removed before getting into a fight).
"It's been a while, hasn't it, my friend? How's the wife?" Nicholas asked, shooting the surly man an unassuming smile. Without waiting for a response, he clicked his tongue sympathetically. "Wish this darned weather would clear up. The fish haven't been biting all week, have they?"
The surly man yanked his hand out of Nicholas's grip, though he looked more flabbergasted than irritated. "I―the fish―?" he floundered. "No, they've been―erm―" His unlatched briefcase began to fall open, and he hastily grabbed the handle before it could spill onto the floor.
Behind him, Nicholas heard a faint, muffled noise of alarm, followed by a brief scuffle.
"Oh, dear, how thoughtless of me!" he blustered, leaning forward and reaching for the briefcase to keep the man's attention on him. "Do you need help carrying anything, my good man? We still have quite a ways to walk, don't we?"
"I don't need your help," the surly man snapped, yanking the briefcase away. Shaking his head as if to clear away Nicholas's blatant attempts at a distraction, he glanced over Nicholas's shoulder, presumably to share a baffled look with his co-conspirator.
His eyes went wide.
Nicholas didn't need another sign. He stepped aside just as the surly man lunged past him, abandoning his open briefcase entirely. It clattered to the ground, its contents spilling every which way, and its owner walked directly into Milligan's fist.
As the surly man hit the ground, a pair of handcuffs fell from the briefcase, skittered across the pavement, and skidded to a stop against Nicholas's shoe.
(He felt a strange, phantom bite around his wrists as he looked at them.)
Shaken, Nicholas allowed Milligan and Number Two to escort him directly home. It was now quite clear that their research and evidence was, at most, a secondary objective to these men. Nicholas himself had likely been the real target all along.
He felt rather foolish for having missed that fact in the first place. It had simply been too unsettling to grasp, he supposed.
After a long and heated discussion on the topic, they managed to come to a consensus. From now on, they (meaning Mr. Benedict) would further limit their time spent outside. Milligan would run errands for him whenever possible, and, if Nicholas did leave the house, he would be accompanied at all times, rather than just letting the others linger vaguely nearby.
Having what were essentially bodyguards assigned to him felt strange, especially since one of the guards was a young woman whom he was seriously considering adopting, but Nicholas didn't push back too much against the decision. Perhaps noting his uncharacteristic quietness, Milligan and Number Two let the subject drop.
The handcuffs sat on his desk, making him nauseous each time he caught a glimpse, until Milligan took them away for reasons Nicholas didn't ask.
The third time someone attempted to abduct him, they succeeded.
Other than that, Nicholas remembered very little of the abduction itself.
He was sure of this much: it had been early evening, and they had just concluded another session of tests, which not a single child had passed. Number Two was still wrestling with the last of the angry parents and Milligan was busy destroying the evidence that they'd conducted any tests at all, so it fell to Rhonda to escort Nicholas home.
He remembered bits and pieces of their conversation as they made their careful way through the quiet outskirts of Stonetown. Rhonda made some clever play on words that had him stopping in his tracks, muffling giggles behind his hand, and praying it didn't send him to sleep…
Something much more painful than narcolepsy knocked him out, instead.
The next thing he knew, Rhonda was shaking him awake, but this wasn't a usual wake-up call―her voice was frantic and his body felt as if it were made of rubber. It was all he could do to groan and roll onto his back; luckily, when Rhonda yanked him insistently to his feet, he managed to stay upright.
As she pulled him away, he tripped over the sprawled arm of an unconscious man in a gray suit.
No time to process that. Every inch of his body burned, and his head felt like a bag of cement, and his vision seemed to fade in and out. One second, Rhonda was leading him down into the sewers, her grip around his wrist almost bruising; the next, they were already underground, and she was gasping out a sentence which he listened to attentively, though he wasn't able to parse a single word before the whole sentence slipped from his brain like sand between his fingers.
Then, there was a brief moment of clarity.
He was clinging to the rungs of a ladder, reaching up through an open manhole cover for Rhonda, who had already climbed through and was now leaning down to haul him up, haloed by the evening light behind her.
He remembered thinking, 'If I'm holding onto her when they catch me, then―'
And then he remembered letting go of Rhonda's hand; dropping back down to the ground as Rhonda's expression changed from one of determination into one of disbelief; shouting "Go, go!" in a voice which was not nearly so strong as he wanted it to be―
Hands gripping his shoulders from behind; an intense, burning pain that made him seize and cry out―
Rhonda's voice calling his name―
Nothing.
When he awoke, the world was a nauseating kaleidoscope of unpleasant sensations.
The surface he lay on was cold and damp, and it felt as unyielding as steel beneath his shoulder. At the same time, it seemed to lurch dizzyingly, like a ship being tossed about by the ocean's waves. His head spun incessantly despite being stuffed with enough cotton to drown out coherent thought.
The overall effect was so disorienting that he could almost forget about the pins and needles which assaulted his extremities without mercy. The key word in that sentence being "almost". Nicholas had never been blessed with a particularly high pain tolerance, but he defied anyone to endure this without complaint―his every finger and toe felt as if they were being stung by a thousand insects all at once.
Suffice it to say that his immediate instinct was to make a pitiful noise and try to go back to sleep.
But something was wrong. A tiny whisper niggled at the back of his brain, urging him to stay on his guard. This wasn't the result of a simple fainting spell, it insisted. He didn't have time to roll over and wait for his head to stop pounding; he had to come to his senses. Rhonda…
Rhonda.
His memories, as disjointed and incomplete as they were, came flooding back to him. The ambush. The chase. The look on Rhonda's face when he pulled his hand out of hers.
The way she'd shouted his name as he fell into the enemy's grasp.
His eyes snapped open, though he could see nothing. Just an expanse of black. A blindfold, he realized.
As his mind began to race, Nicholas became suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings, despite his muddled senses. He was lying crumpled in the dirt. All around him, he could hear slow, steady breathing and the soft shuffling of several pairs of feet. There was something else, too―a faint electric whine, almost like radio interference.
Or like the hum of a charged stun device.
Nicholas held his breath and remained perfectly still. If anyone had been paying close enough attention, they surely would have noticed him stirring, but luck seemed to be on his side. A moment passed with no acknowledgement from his captors.
For the people surrounding him must have been his captors. If he hadn't been successfully kidnapped, he would have doubtlessly woken in the safety of his home, likely with a fretful Number Two pacing at his bedside. Milligan would check him over for injuries, trying to act less frazzled than he clearly was, and Rhonda would scold him for pulling such a reckless stunt―
A reckless stunt which may very well have been for nothing, if she hadn't capitalized on the opportunity and fled, which she may very well not have, knowing her―she may have attempted to fight off their assailants instead; she may be unconscious on the ground next to him, or worse―
"Still no updates yet?" someone said nearby, and it was only the persistent pain lingering in his muscles that kept Nicholas from going damningly rigid.
The man who'd spoken was standing very close by―perhaps only a pace or two from Nicholas's head―and he spoke in a flat, unaffected drone. At his question, several of the people standing around him shifted on their feet (Nicholas was in no state to count them), but only one replied: a man standing some distance from Nicholas's other side.
"Think this one through, Fischer," he said in a deep, smooth voice that put Nicholas in mind of a slightly condescending politician. "You've been standing there, within speaking distance, this whole time. I'm holding the radio. If Crawling had contacted me, would you not be able to hear that?"
The first man―Fischer―huffed quietly and mumbled "I'm just asking," under his breath, but he didn't otherwise protest the rude treatment. Perhaps the man with the radio was his superior, or simply had a notoriously short temper?
Barely a moment had passed before the man with the radio sighed deeply. "This is getting a bit ridiculous," he conceded, though it sounded as if it physically pained him to do so. There was a sound that Nicholas couldn't identify (a sort of plastic-on-plastic scrape?), and then the man raised his voice to speak to everyone. "We'll give it another five minutes. After that, we go with Fuller's plan."
There was a general murmur of acknowledgement. One woman, who was somewhere near Nicholas's left foot, scoffed loudly. "Reduced to this," she mumbled, though Nicholas missed the rest of her complaint.
In response, a man standing near her snickered. "No hard feelings," he crooned.
"Stuff it," she snapped back.
"Both of you stuff it," said the man with the radio, who was evidently in charge after all. After that, everyone present returned to their quiet breathing and occasional foot shuffles.
None of them paid Nicholas any mind at all during this whole exchange. Still, he held his breath for a long moment afterward, trying not to make even the slightest twitch in any direction. When he remained undetected, his racing pulse began to calm back down.
Thank goodness that they were evidently not very observant. If any one of them had taken a good look at him, they could have easily realized that he was awake when his chest began to heave. His brief lapse in composure would have endangered not only his own life, but possibly Rhonda's as well, if she had, indeed, been caught.
The mere thought sent his heart hammering yet again, but Nicholas forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose.
He could not afford to work himself into a panic right now, he told himself sternly. Whether Rhonda was in danger or somewhere safe, planning a daring rescue, she would be better off if he remained awake and alert. He could catastrophize about the worst-case scenarios later. For now, he needed to get a grip.
With a few more deliberate breaths, Nicholas wrangled his heartbeat back under control and began to take stock of his situation.
It was about as dire as one might expect. As he'd already surmised, he was currently sprawled in a heap on the ground, limbs numb and useless. His teeth were clamped down on a strip of fabric, and a cloth sack had been tied around his head in lieu of a blindfold; it brushed against his nose each time he inhaled.
That struck him as odd. Clearly, he'd been taken to someplace secluded; he could hear no sound beyond those made by his captors and the faint rustle of leaves. Why, then, would they have bothered to blind and gag him? There seemed to be little chance that he would be able to shout for help or spy an escape route.
As he pondered this, he shifted subtly to alleviate the pressure on his neck. Only then did he realize why his arms were twisted so awkwardly behind him; both they and his legs were bound tightly with rope.
It was something he would have already noticed were his thoughts not so scattered, and something he definitely should have predicted. Still, the discovery brought Nicholas's already sluggish brain to a screeching halt.
Before he could catch himself, he flexed against the restraints―or tried to, at least. They were cinched so tightly around his wrists that he'd lost feeling in his left hand, and he suspected the bonds around his legs had contributed to the tingling he felt in his toes. Though being electrocuted couldn't have helped, either.
Unbidden, his mind conjured up a vivid memory: Milligan, that first day they'd met, sitting uncertainly in Nicholas's study as he recounted his tale.
It was quite an unbelievable story, but Nicholas had never really doubted its veracity. Not just because it lined up with some of his suspicions regarding the Institute, and not just because of Milligan's solemn voice and trustworthy face.
It was the way he held himself in the plush armchair Nicholas had ushered him into: rigidly, with his spine straight against its back and his wrists pressed against its arms, as if he was tied down ("…my hands and feet are chained; my head clamped into some metal restraint…").
Nicholas recalled the sympathetic horror he'd felt as he watched Milligan visibly relive his interrogation. 'What a strong man,' he remembered thinking, 'to tell this story so calmly. Waking up like that―blind, restrained, confused, surrounded by enemies―must have been terrifying.'
This same thought had turned his stomach each time he looked at the handcuffs that had been intended for him.
(Perhaps Milligan had understood. Perhaps that was why he'd taken them away.)
Steadying himself with a deep, slightly trembling breath―and reminding himself that he needed to remain calm for Rhonda's sake as well as his own―Nicholas discreetly tested the restraints. He found them to be as unforgiving as before, though at least they didn't bite too sharply into his bare wrists. This wasn't rough enough to be hemp rope or elastic enough to be nylon; the texture and tensile strength were closer to that of polyester. Possibly polypropylene; it was hard to say.
He pondered the implications―both polyester and polypropylene ropes were most commonly used in boating. They certainly wouldn't be the first choice for something to bind a hostage with. It seemed more likely that they'd simply had this rope on hand and decided to repurpose it from its intended use. Perhaps they had arrived in Stonetown by boat.
That line of reasoning dragged his thoughts, inexorably, back to the island. The Institute. The Sender. His heartbeat spiked.
They hadn't "perhaps" come to Stonetown by boat. They must have. Just to leave their base of operations, they would need to board a boat, and they likely intended on returning there the same way. Waterproof material that floated would be in abundant supply.
He had the sudden, irrational thought that perhaps they wouldn't need to recruit any more children to their cause, after all―Nicholas would end up on the island one way or another.
Not that he'd be of much use to anyone if he was dead or locked up.
Nicholas swallowed thickly, the fingers on his good hand twitching. Unlike Milligan, he was not a man who could fashion a makeshift key, fight off his captors, and escape by sea. His areas of expertise were his wits, his penchant for invention, and his ability to tell people what they wanted to hear.
If they took him to Harbor Island, he had a sinking feeling that no amount of sweet-talking would get him back to the mainland.
'Though I suppose sweet-talking isn't really an option at the moment, regardless,' he mused, flexing his jaw around the cloth in his mouth. Which, in hindsight, perhaps explained why they'd gagged him in the first place―to prevent a repeat of their last attempt.
"Hey," the impatient man (what had his name been? Fischer?) said, and Nicholas stilled. "It's been―"
"I know how long it's been," the man in charge interrupted, his voice flat and unamused. "I have as many watches as you do." There was a soft tap, tap, tap which Nicholas thought might be the leader's fingernail drumming irritably against the face of his timepiece.
There was a brief silence; then the man in charge hummed. "This is partially my fault, I suppose," he said, though there was no true humility in his voice. "I should have warned the boss against putting Crawling, of all people, on reconnaissance." He sighed again. "…Alright. Go on, then, Fuller. But I won't be the one explaining it if your little plan fails."
The woman Nicholas had heard earlier growled. "Unbelievable," she said through gritted teeth. The man who'd taunted her laughed. One of them must have been Fuller―presumably the man―because, after a brief, tense moment, the woman clicked her heels disdainfully and they both strode off in the opposite direction as Nicholas was facing.
"If Crawling gets on comms at any point, just go wait on the boat. Don't waste time screwing around," the man in charge called after them, and they both made non-committal noises. Nicholas winced slightly at the mention of a boat, not that it was entirely unexpected.
The crunching of the greenery beneath their shoes rapidly faded into the distance, even as Nicholas strained his ears, trying to hear something of note (if they passed over a path or road, he would be able to hear the difference in their footsteps). Alas, no such luck.
"What a mess," the authoritative man sighed. He opened up his briefcase and seemed to rifle around in it for a moment, though Nicholas couldn't tell whether or not he took anything out before closing it again. Then, at a leisurely pace, he circled closer to Nicholas, whose hair stood on end at the sound of his approach.
"No reason to dally," he said. "Rouse him."
That was all the warning Nicholas got. At once, another of the abductors approached him, carrying something that made a dull clank-sloosh in time with each step―a bucket?―and he barely put the pieces together quickly enough to hold his breath.
Seawater spilled over his face and head, shockingly cold and bitingly painful against his split lip, and Nicholas couldn't help but jolt. Only the fact that he'd braced himself kept him from choking. Still, he spluttered as the water coursed down his face and saturated the fabric pressed against his nose. His limbs spasmed clumsily in their bonds.
"There he is," the man in charge said lightly as Nicholas struggled for air. He was now standing right at Nicholas's feet. "Finally. I'd heard that you spend a lot of time sleeping, but it would have been quite rude for you to sleep through your whole welcome party."
Nicholas bit down on the gag in his mouth, trying to keep his cool. It bled a dribble of saltwater down his throat.
This lack of response drew a thoughtful hum from the man in charge, as if Nicholas had made some deep philosophical point. "Fair enough," he said, and then snapped his fingers.
Before Nicholas could catch his breath, two of his captors seized him beneath the arms to haul him off of the ground. Instinctively, he tried to get his feet beneath him, but they were numb and aching and still very much tied together, so all he really managed to do was jar his ankle and scuff his shoes uselessly against the soil.
The man in charge clicked his tongue. "Ah-ah. If I were you, I wouldn't waste my time trying to struggle," he said in the same tone as one might offer advice on a friend's wardrobe. "So long as you comply, we won't be forced to get rough with you."
The men holding Nicholas, presumably in response to some gesture from their leader, pushed him onto his knees, still gripping his shoulders with unnecessary force. He went easily―resisting would do him little good, and he didn't want to provoke another shock―but he couldn't hold back a soft noise of complaint when his poor abused knees hit the ground.
Though he was aware on some level that he'd been made to kneel at the leader's feet, Nicholas still nearly flinched when the man spoke again, his voice far too close for comfort.
"I imagine you must be wondering what this is all about," he said conversationally, even as he loomed above Nicholas like a funnel cloud slowly stretching towards the ground. "Far be it from me to keep you in suspense. You see, we're here to organize a meeting between you and our employer, but, before that, we just need to ask you a few basic questions."
A second later, another bucket of water was upended over Nicholas's head―this time with no warning at all. The sodden sack was plastered against his face once again, smothering him, and Nicholas hastily tilted his head forward, trying with little success to dislodge the fabric that clung to his nose.
His wheezes earned him a series of snickers from the onlookers, which was more juvenile than he would have expected from a troupe of professional kidnappers.
"Just making sure you're fully awake," the leader said.
Unexpectedly, the sack was yanked off of his head, its damp cloth peeling off of his face, and Nicholas sucked in a grateful breath. Saltwater dripped off his forehead and into his eyes, but he forced himself to blink them open and squint up at the man before him.
Like the rest of his ilk, the leader was dressed in a sharp gray suit, though he cut a much more impressive figure in it than most. Even if Nicholas hadn't been kneeling, he would have towered over him, and the broadness of his shoulders seemed slightly excessive even for a man of his considerable height. In sharp contrast to his intimidating form, his face was handsome and almost approachable, though his eyes were sharp.
Likewise, when he smiled, his expression looked more diplomatic than cruel, although the latter emotion wasn't entirely absent. "Where are my manners?" he said lightly. "Good evening. My name is McCracken."
'What an appropriate name,' Nicholas thought absently to himself.
"Now," McCracken continued as if Nicholas had responded in kind, "on to business." He bent down to rest his briefcase at the ground by his feet. "I don't need much from you. Just an address. After that, we can go somewhere much more… comfortable. Does that sound agreeable?"
Of course, Nicholas couldn't respond, and McCracken didn't pretend otherwise. Instead, disregarding Nicholas entirely, McCracken lifted his wrist to his mouth and spoke into a receiver which Nicholas supposed must have been hidden in the mechanisms of his watch. "Still there, Crawling?"
"Of course," responded… Fuller? The man who had left the clearing not five minutes ago? His voice was difficult to distinguish with the slight distortion of the radio, but…
His attention was dragged away when McCracken stepped closer, looming over him even more. "Here's my offer," he said, placing an almost companionable hand on Nicholas's shoulder. "Tell us the location of your base of operations, and Crawling will let your companion here go. Refuse to do so, and… well."
With a sympathetic click of his tongue, he held his wrist out as if he were showing Nicholas the time. Then, from whatever radio was concealed in the watch, a young woman's voice let out a sharp, pained cry.
Rhonda―
Nicholas lurched against the hands holding him.
Of course, even if he had managed to pull free of their grip, he wouldn't have been able to do anything―and, in either case, he was easily yanked back into place, and the men holding his arms simply tightened their grips.
This reaction seemed to please McCracken, who smiled down at him almost indulgently. "Now," he said, "I need one thing from you. The location of your headquarters. Say that, and absolutely nothing else, if you would like for your friend to be released without further harm."
He made some gesture to his associate, who tugged the gag free from Nicholas's mouth.
For a moment, Nicholas just swallowed thickly, his mind racing. The man on the radio who answered to Crawling, although Nicholas was sure his name had been Fuller; his female associate who took offense to his plan, annoyed at having been "reduced to this"; the actual man named Crawling apparently still being MIA―but could he be sure? Sure enough to gamble with Rhonda's―?
He'd hesitated too long already; he doubted these were particularly patient men. Nicholas cleared his throat and looked up to meet McCracken's eyes as steadily as he could.
"Please give your associate my compliments," he said hoarsely, "on her excellent performa―"
The slap wasn't necessarily unexpected, but Nicholas sucked in a short, ragged gasp despite himself. McCracken put such force behind it that it felt more like a bludgeon than a backhand, making his ears ring and his vision spin. His head snapped to the side so quickly that his neck creaked.
For a moment, the pain was so sharp―and the crack of hand-on-cheek so loud―that Nicholas feared his jaw had been dislocated, or his cheekbone broken. Neither was the case. The pain quickly cleared, leaving only a fierce ache across the side of his face and down the back of his neck.
Still, his heart soared in his chest, if just for a moment. If he'd guessed incorrectly, then it wouldn't have provoked such anger. He'd been right. This was a poor attempt to trick him. And, if they'd actually managed to capture Rhonda, they would never have bothered having one of their own merely impersonate her over the radio. They would have simply dragged her out in front of him and made good on their threats in person.
She was safe.
Oblivious to his captive's joy, McCracken sighed, absently shaking his hand as if he'd hit Nicholas harder than intended, although Nicholas suspected it was actually to make the moonlight glint menacingly off of his watch. "How disappointing," he said. "I never took you as the type of man to get stuck in denial."
Nicholas hummed. "I wouldn't say that I am," he said with false cheer, pushing his luck a little in the hopes of buying time. Once they realized their ruse had failed without a doubt, they would surely move on to… other methods of persuasion. Any brief reprieve he could give himself would be welcome.
Slowly, McCracken cocked his head to the side. "No, I suppose you wouldn't," he said, almost amused. "A madman rarely calls himself mad."
"True," Nicholas allowed. Then, with the least apprehensive smile he could muster, he added, "Though, when a madman thinks there are men in suits hunting him down to interrogate him, he's usually not proven right."
For a moment, McCracken just stared at him blankly as if he'd just spoken in tongues. Then a grin stretched across his face―much more genuine than his earlier facade, and much more intimidating with how much it resembled the open maw of a shark. "It's a shame, Benedict," he said, although Nicholas had never introduced himself. "I think I would have liked working with you, in a slightly different world."
With that, he raised his watch to his mouth yet again. "Crawling, give the young lady another shock."
It was a bluff, Nicholas told himself, even as he went tense. The scream he was about to hear wouldn't really be Rhonda, but the woman who'd left with Fuller―it hardly even sounded as if it could be hers, he tried to convince himself, even though he'd technically never heard her scream, so it was possible―that he'd misinterpreted this whole situation and now she was going to be―
McCracken's watch remained silent.
Nicholas's thoughts stuttered to a halt at the realization. For his part, McCracken was clearly trying not to look perturbed, but his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly as he glanced at the watch. "Crawling," he repeated, sounding much more irritated this time. "Do get on with it. We don't have all day."
He waited for a long, tense moment. The silence that fell upon the clearing was heavy with anticipation. Still, there was no response.
McCracken put it together before Nicholas did.
He sprung into action, lurching forward and grasping Nicholas by the collar. As he yanked him off of the ground, the other kidnappers standing behind him let out cries of alarm.
Something clicked in Nicholas's brain, and he managed to jerk free of McCracken's hold, tumbling back onto the ground. There was a commotion behind him, which meant―which meant he had to get out of the way and let his comrades work their magic―were they here?
But he didn't have time to think it through any further, because McCracken reached for him again, and he couldn't roll out of the way quickly enough with his arms bound, and wires flicked out from McCracken's watch―
This shock must have been of a much lower amperage than the previous ones, because it hurt considerably less. It also, more relevantly, didn't knock him unconscious; he simply seized for a moment, choked out an involuntary shout, and fell helplessly limp in McCracken's grasp.
Nicholas lost track of reality for a moment. Several watches crackled, people were shouting, and there were the obvious sounds of a fight; McCracken dragged him away from the noise, tugging him upright and spinning him around in a way that made his vertigo even worse; his numb feet did nothing to support him―
By the time the world had stopped tilting nauseatingly around him, Nicholas was trapped between McCracken's arm and chest, and his captor also had a tight grip on his shoulder. His bound legs dangled uselessly. Blinking the dots from his vision, he looked up from his shoes.
Across the clearing, surrounded by fallen suited men, was Milligan, his tranquilizer gun levelled at McCracken.
Nicholas's rush of relief was somewhat tempered when McCracken pressed something sharp and cold against his neck.
Ah. He was a human shield, then.
"Move an inch and he dies," McCracken said conversationally, though Nicholas could hear the concealed aggravation in his voice. The tip of the knife (?) at his neck didn't quite pierce the skin at the hollow of his throat, but it was a close thing. Disoriented, Nicholas tried to meet Milligan's eye, groping about for the plan he hadn't been privy to, but Milligan's focus was on McCracken, not him. He didn't respond to the threat at all, except to narrow his eyes, but neither did he move an inch.
The noise McCracken made wasn't quite a laugh; it was too angry for that. "Not one for words, I see," he said. "Nevertheless, I appreciate your compliance. Now, if you would be so kind as to drop your weapon and kick it over here."
Much to Nicholas's dismay, Milligan dropped the tranq gun without much hesitation. He did pause for a second before kicking it across the clearing, but Nicholas thought it was more to scan the ground for obstacles than to ponder his options. The gun skittered across the grass, bounced off of a tree root protruding from the dirt, and stopped when it hit the toe of Nicholas's shoe.
"Good," McCracken said. "Now hands where I can see them."
Again, Milligan complied. As he lifted his hands above his head, though, his eyes flicked briefly to the left, over McCracken's shoulder, then cut back to the right to meet Nicholas's gaze.
For a moment, Nicholas just stared at him, his vision blurring and sharpening seemingly at random. His addled brain had difficulty even comprehending the interaction. Milligan being here made a vague sort of sense, as Milligan generally went wherever he pleased with little regard for logic, but Milligan looking to him for assistance in a combat situation seemed a bit odd, especially since he couldn't move at all, except to flail his…
Oh.
Oh.
With great effort, Nicholas leaned all his weight against McCracken, lifted his bound legs off the ground, let his shoes flop down on top of the tranq gun, and then clumsily slid it back between McCracken's feet.
"What do you think you're―?!" McCracken snapped, pressing the knife more tightly to Nicholas's neck, and then it hit him. He hastily whirled around, releasing Nicholas's shoulder to flick out his watch, but it was too late.
Rhonda snatched the gun up, aimed at the large target of his shoulder, and fired almost point-blank.
Cursing viciously, McCracken stumbled a few steps away from her, fumbling for the feathered dart as if removing it now would even help. The knife cut a short, shallow stripe across Nicholas's throat before it slipped from his fingers and he slumped backwards to the ground.
Nicholas, of course, went down with him.
The impact jarred him enough to dislodge another grunt from his throat, but he'd landed mostly on top of McCracken, so he didn't knock his head.
At once, Rhonda and Milligan descended upon them both in a flurry of motion. "Mr. Benedict!" Rhonda cried, yanking McCracken's limp arm off of him, and Milligan eased him up and away from the unconscious man entirely. "Are you alright? Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"I," Nicholas managed to reply, almost lightheaded with mood whiplash. And perhaps the aftereffects of multiple electric shocks. "I―no, I'm alright, my dear―are you―?"
The term of endearment slipped off of his tongue, and he remembered only belatedly that he'd decided to stop calling her that after she turned eighteen, worried she might take it as a sign of condescension. But, while her face immediately crumpled, the emotion written all over it wasn't indignation.
"I'm fine," she said a bit thickly, her dark eyes glistening in the faint moonlight. "Honestly, asking me that when you're the one who―"
She interrupted herself to lean forward and grasp Nicholas's shoulders, holding him upright while Milligan reached for the ropes binding his hands. The first unexpected brush of his fingers against Nicholas's wrist made him jump.
"Ah," Nicholas said stupidly, flexing the fingers which he could still feel (less than half of them, at this point). He'd only been awake and bound for perhaps ten minutes, but some pessimistic part of his brain had resigned itself to remaining immobile forever. Now that the concept of freedom had been introduced, he had to restrain himself from vibrating impatiently. "I―thank you, Milligan," he croaked.
Rhonda, meanwhile, had conjured a square of gauze from somewhere unknown, and she pressed it against the cut on Nicholas's neck, which he had honestly forgotten about in the confusion. "It doesn't look serious," she said with a sigh of relief.
Then she lifted her wrist up, and it was only then that Nicholas realized she was wearing one of his captors' silver watches. "All clear," she said into its hidden radio.
When the ropes finally did fall away from his wrists, Nicholas almost missed it, so caught up he was in trying to suss out why Rhonda was using one of the Sender's watches. Only when Milligan softly asked, "Can you hold that gauze there, sir?" did he snap back to reality.
He could, with some difficulty, as long as he used his better-off hand, which was only slightly numb. The other, he could barely move at all. As Rhonda moved on to untying his ankles, Milligan steadied him with one hand and used the other to gently rub feeling back into Nicholas's.
"Ah," Nicholas said again, and he was mortified to feel tears well up in his eyes. Now that it was over and he was back among friends, he only felt the cruel treatment from McCracken even more acutely. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it simply felt all the more monstrous in comparison to his comrades' tenderness. "Thank you, my friend," he repeated, his voice tremulous.
Milligan paused for a moment, as if Nicholas's gratitude was something so unexpected that he wasn't quite sure how to handle it. "Of course," he said at length, and continued his ministrations.
Once Rhonda had freed his legs and he'd regained some semblance of feeling in both hands, she and Milligan heaved him to his feet. He certainly would've toppled right back over had it not been for Milligan holding him upright, but it was an improvement over laying crumpled on the ground.
No sooner had he steadied himself than Number Two crashed loudly through the foliage behind them. Milligan and Rhonda both snapped to attention, then relaxed when they caught sight of her.
"Oh, Number Two," Nicholas greeted, caught off-guard, but, before he could say any more, she stomped across the clearing to meet him, completely ignoring the unconscious men strewn about, and Nicholas's words withered at the sight of her half-furious, half-terrified expression.
Even in the low light, Number Two's face was a very concerning shade of red. "You―" she spluttered once she had reached them. "You―!" Rhonda stepped aside, traitorously making room for her, and she immediately took the opportunity to grab Nicholas by both shoulders.
"You unbelievable―self-sacrificing― idiot of a man!" she cried.
Then she threw her arms around him with such force that it was only Milligan's steadying hands on his shoulders that kept them both upright.
For a moment, Nicholas stood frozen, staring dumbly over her shoulder as she hugged him with all of her might. Then he remembered that his hands were no longer restrained and quickly returned the embrace, though it had to be one-armed since he was still holding the gauze to his wound.
"Oh, my dear girl," he found himself saying, figuring he could blame both slips on the electric shock. "I'm alright―" Then, "Shh, shh, I'm alright," when he felt her shoulders begin to shake.
Glancing up from the back of Number Two's head, he met eyes with Rhonda, who was blinking with suspicious frequency herself. Not that Nicholas was dry-eyed, either, mind you. Wordlessly, he extended his arm and gestured her impatiently forward.
She paused, then moved forward to meet his demand, the corner of her mouth twitching up.
It was this sight―Rhonda, slightly tearful but blessedly, blessedly unharmed, smiling at him over Number Two's shoulder as she stepped forward to join the impromptu group hug―that pushed Nicholas over the edge. His vision went dark almost immediately, but he dredged up one last wobbling smile before the magnitude of his relief knocked him backwards into Milligan's waiting arms.
It was many weeks until he was permitted out of the others' sight again.
Neither the electric shock nor the cut-off blood flow to his extremities had caused any lasting damage, which was very fortunate. Nevertheless, Nicholas couldn't seem to stop rubbing the raw red marks around his wrists.
(It did help soothe the sting there slightly, but whenever one of the others caught him, Number Two would get this stricken look on her face, and Milligan would stare at him the way he did when he wanted to offer help but had no particular help to offer, and Rhonda would look downcast and guilty even though it wasn't even remotely her fault, so Nicholas tried to keep his hands occupied with other tasks.)
During those first few weeks, no one other than Milligan left the house at all, and even he only made very brief and clandestine trips outside. Judging by the radio chatter Rhonda picked up from her pilfered watch (up until their enemies realized that their messages were being intercepted and presumably switched to a more secure channel), the Sender and his men still had no idea where their "base of operations" was, so they were likely safe here.
(Still, Nicholas was fairly certain that Number Two and Rhonda had taken to sleeping in shifts to ensure that there was always someone in the room with him, although he spent so much of that time asleep himself that it was difficult to say.)
Stonetown, on the other hand, could not be more clearly un safe at this point, hence why only Milligan ventured there, and only in disguise.
(The thought of never again making an early-morning trip to the farmer's market or exchanging banter with the owner of his favorite bookstore made Nicholas's heart feel unbearably heavy. This was only until they could be certain that the Sender had lost the scent, he reassured himself. Or, failing that, until they could solve the Emergency once and for all.)
(Perhaps he never should've indulged himself with so many other distractions to begin with.)
Eventually, with the tools he'd accumulated over the past month, Milligan installed an alarm system that connected to every possible point of egress in the entire house. There were twenty-one in total, he reported gruffly, four of which he doubted anyone else would be able to access, but it was better to be safe than sorry. If someone did manage to find them here, they would be ready.
Less than a week later, Number Two and Milligan collaborated to make another addition to Nicholas's house: an absurdly well-armored safe room which was more categorically akin to a fallout shelter than a "room". If the alarm ever sounded, Rhonda, Number Two, and Nicholas were to immediately lock themselves into this room while Milligan neutralized the threat.
(Nicholas was glad, at least, that Number Two and Rhonda would be safe as well―even though the thought of Milligan facing off against the suited men all alone made him feel a bit faint.)
With the addition of the new alarm system and the panic room, the tension in the house slowly began to simmer down to a more reasonable level. Milligan stopped trying to keep an eye on all three of them at every moment of every day. Number Two stopped grabbing a weapon every time someone made a noise in another room. Rhonda stopped looking at Nicholas as if she had failed him in some way.
(But Nicholas never stopped sleeping with one leg curled and the other stretched out, flexing his wrists and ankles periodically as if to double-check that they weren't bound together.)
When the time came to conduct another series of tests, Milligan, Rhonda, and Number Two handled all of the legwork. Nicholas received frequent updates where he sat in his study, doors locked and shutters drawn.
It felt profoundly wrong to put the weight upon their shoulders―both the weight of deciding which children would pass and fail and the weight of danger―but he trusted Number Two and Rhonda's judgment, and he knew Milligan would keep them safe.
(Safer, perhaps, than they would be if he was there to draw even more unwanted attention.)
The fourth time someone attempted to abduct him, Milligan's security system came in terribly handy.
When the lights went off, it caught Nicholas completely by surprise. His head snapped up as if he could see well enough to tell whether the light fixture was damaged somehow―even though the silence of the other machines should have told him all he needed to know. When the alarm began to blare, he nearly jumped out of his skin.
The others didn't hesitate. While Nicholas was still stunned, Rhonda shared a grim nod with Milligan and they both ducked out the door. Number Two brushed past Nicholas and closed the door behind them.
He should have jumped into action as well; he should have gathered the children quickly and ushered them to safety. But Nicholas just continued to stare, his pulse kicking up. The house was safe―the house should have been safe. None of these children should be in danger yet, before they even had a chance to refuse him.
Rhonda and Milligan were more than capable of protecting themselves, he reminded himself as he stared at the closed door, watching the alarm lights flash off of its polished surface. Even if McCracken was among them, they would… they would be able to…
"What's happening?" Sticky demanded, the pitch of his voice rising in a way that made Nicholas's heart feel unbelievably heavy. "What's the alarm for?"
Shaking away the untimely distraction, Nicholas turned to the children. There are intruders in the house, and we must relocate to the safe room, but it will be alright, he meant to say. We won't allow any harm to befall you. He intended to pair this reassurance with his best approximation of a smile.
Instead, he simply stood there for a moment, speechless. The sight of their young and fearful faces, each awash in a harsh red light, had knocked the wind out of him.
They were just children.
This thought, which had been nipping doggedly at his heels all day, finally seemed to have caught up with him. These children weren't even in their teenage years; they were much younger than even Rhonda had been when she first passed the tests. They were so―exploitable. So vulnerable. So alone, as Reynie had astutely put.
He was always so careful not to take advantage of that vulnerability; he hated that he had so much undue power over them simply because of his age and size and connections, but―but these men, the ones who had somehow tracked him down, they were people who liked making others feel vulnerable; who even reveled in that position of power―
Nicholas recalled the cold gleam of McCracken's eyes; his bruising, merciless grip; the casual way he threatened Nicholas and the ones he loved; the crackle of the stun device right before the burning pain overwhelmed him.
Abruptly, all he could see was Reynie spluttering for breath under a deluge of water; Sticky's spectacles knocked ajar by a slap; Kate seizing with a jolt of electricity.
He blinked. Reality replaced fantasy: all four children were standing before him, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for him to explain.
His vision was dimming around the edges.
"Your responsibilities, uh," he said breathlessly, feeling increasingly lightheaded with each blare of the alarm, "seem―seem to have begun quicker than we thought." He capped this explanation off with a slightly hysterical giggle. Young Constance raised her eyebrows at him judgmentally.
The mental image of her small frame writhing within the grasp of a grinning McCracken chased him into unconsciousness.
Milligan: you are the tough and cool one and you don't need to join the group hug
Mr. Benedict: [falls asleep into his arms]
Milligan, through tears: nice
hoo, boy... this one fought me for a while. luckily I started it well in advance, so I was still able to finish in time. otherwise this would have been very belated (like any other whumptober fills i manage will be, lmao)
anyway, tv mr. benedict and book mr. benedict are very different characters in a lot of ways, and I like to theorize about the cause of some of those differences. for instance, in the book, mr. benedict is very flippant about being kidnapped, whereas in the show it seems to shake him a bit more. my justification for this is that he's actually been successfully kidnapped in the show universe, which would make him understandably more fearful of it (and particularly more fearful of the kids getting caught up in this whole mess)
anyway I love mr. benedict and his daughters and gruff amnesiac cousin milligan so much you don't even understand