Whumpay Day Seventeen: To The Pain

For Sineater, who asked for John

Trope: "'To the pain' means that the first thing you lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists, next your nose... The next thing you lose will be your left eye, followed by your right. [...] Your ears you keep, and I'll tell you why: so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish; every babe that weeps at your approach; every woman who cries out, 'Dear God! What is that thing?' will echo in your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means; it means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery, forever."

— Westley, The Princess Bride

Torture. It can be slow, it can be quick, but it is always painful and, like all dastardly plans, goes so much better with a little gloating. Don't just cut the victim; tell them about it, describe every last detail to make them squirm. You can describe things that you couldn't show on TV, and any villain who would do this you know is either irredeemably evil, totally insane, or both.

If the villain has a more clinical approach to his work, however, there is often a meta version of this trope where the audience is treated to a slow camera pan across the torture instruments, which are laid out neatly on a table. He may describe the history of his technique or the specific effects on the body. This tends to underscore how cold-blooded and Wicked Cultured he is.

Expect the rule of Unspoken Plan Guarantee to apply, giving the hero an almost 100% chance of escaping the described fate.

Characters: John, The Hood, Scott

Warnings: Torture, Blood, Knives.

'I understand that you are the clever brother. The genius in a family of geniuses.'

The words drip with both venom and – bizarrely - curiosity, and bile began to rise in John's throat as awareness crept slowly over him.

Too slowly for the man currently standing before him it would seem, as a crack sounded and a white-hot sear of pain hit him, startling him from the dregs of unconsciousness and tearing a scream from him.

John blinked rapidly in the light and took stock of his surroundings as the Hood continued talking. It was too much for him to focus on the words, but John used the hated voice as a lifeline to drag himself to full awareness. He looked around him.

The room was stark. Off-white in a dirty way. Besides him and the Hood there was no one else. There was a table, but the contents on the table were not clear. A bucket of what he assumed was water. There was a thick curtain on part of the wall, hiding a window assumably.

He was chained to the ceiling, but unlike most movies his feet were solid on the ground. The clinical part of his mind viewed this with relief, for if he'd been hanging without the support of the floor both his shoulders would be dislocated by now.

It didn't stop the ache of having his arms strapped above him for goodness knew how long. As consciousness was returning so too was feeling – and it hurt. All he had on was his trousers. John frowned at them. They weren't his uniform and weren't his jeans. No, these were his suit trousers.

What had he been doing before he'd been snatched? Frustrated at the lack of memory John shook his head – and immediately regretted it. The pain exploded in the way only head injury and concussion could do.

The voice had stopped. He wasn't sure when the Hood had stopped talking but he was thankful that he had not received another blow to the head. The man came into his view, grabbing his hair and yanking his head up so that they were almost nose to nose.

'Are you awake enough now, John Tracy?'

The eyes were hard and there was a very slight amusement held in their depths. It was overridden by the hate, though. The hate radiated off the Hood like heat from a fire.

It drove the last vestiges of unconsciousness from him, and John's eyes narrowed. He spat out the words.

'Hood.'

'Ah. So grateful you could join me.'

'What do you want.'

'What I always want. Access to your Thunderbirds, your base and your technology.'

'Go to hell!'

'Ooh, so feisty!'

The Hood leered at him before gripping his hair tighter and pulling his head up to an uncomfortable angle before letting go, causing John's head drop suddenly. His vision swam for a moment with unshed tears of pain and he blinked them back. He refused to give that man the satisfaction.

As his vision cleared he became aware that the Hood was no longer in front of him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and he realised the man was behind him, moving in silence.

The feather-light touch of fingers trailed across his shoulder blades made him shiver, and the Hood chuckled in delight at the reaction. But the man was all business when he came into view.

'Shall we discuss what we are about to go through?'

'We have nothing to discuss.'

John frowned at him as the Hood's face lit up in glee, and he watched as the man made his way over to the table. The Hood caressed something that was there that John couldn't see.

'I was hoping you'd say that.'

Something in his tone made John go cold, and it took all of John's not inconsiderable self-control to not react when he turned around. There was a smirk upon his face and his eyes were alight with anticipation.

In his hand was what looked like a knife. A long, slim knife.

John couldn't help but swallow. He knew that type of knife – it was a filleting knife. A thin, tapered blade with a slight curve, he'd seen Gordon use one when preparing fish for the barbecue.

And then the Hood moved and the rest of the table came into view. This time John could see clearly what was on top.

Delicate knives, long, thin needles, dental picks, all bright and shiny in their sterile packaging. Some similar instruments that he didn't recognise and really, really didn't want to get to know…

Eyes wide, he watched as the Hood walked slowly towards him. John began to rattle his chains, trying to pull away from the approaching man, but the cuffs were tight and his wrists were already bruised from their pressure.

Seeing John reacting caused the Hood to smile widely, and he stopped moving and just watched his captive twist and turn, enjoying the show.

John stopped trying to yank himself free almost immediately, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath to get his fight or flight response under control. When he opened them he was back in control, and he glared at the Hood.

Who responded by turning his smile into a smirk. John worried and wished he could remember what he had been doing before being captured. The blank was nagging at him.

'Oh, did you think this was for you?'

The words caused his heart to stutter.

'I didn't think you were the one who was afraid of knives. Interesting.'

And John's heart stopped. How – how did their greatest enemy know that? That information should never have been available, and…

Where was Scott?

Seeing the look of horrified comprehension flash over his captive's face, the Hood chuckled. Knife still in hand, he strode over to the curtain and whipped it back.

Not a window, then. A mirror into the next room.

Where his eldest brother was held in a similar stance to himself.

Only, while John had merely been shown the instruments of his torture, Scott had clearly been subjected to them already, judging from the thin trails of blood covering his torso.

'I learnt from your brother that torturing one of you alone for information would never work, and certainly not him. So, John. The Eye That Sees…

How long are you going to 'see' my men work on your brother before you tell me everything?'