Hopes Of Rescue
Author: Pharo
Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to ABC, Bad Robot, and JJ Abrams.
Summary: They have to come for him.
Spoilers: "The Abduction".
Feedback: pharo@newyork.com
It's strange that he can think so clearly while his entire body is trembling with fear. The shakes are so bad that not even counting backward from ten can help calm them. He knows that it's perfectly natural for him to be afraid – he's not a field agent, he never was. He's not prepared to handle situations like this and they know it. He draws some comfort from the knowledge that SD-6 won't let him die – the good side doesn't do that to their agents. They need to find him as much as he needs them to find him. It's mutualism in the agency at its most basic roots.
"What is your name?"
The face that the voice belongs to is masked in darkness. He hears the snap of latex gloves against the man's wrist. He tries not to think of what the man has planned that would require him to wear gloves. He stares at the ceiling because the moment he closes his eyes, he can see needles and solutions spurting out of them.
He reminds himself again that it won't end like this. He's not a field agent; it won't end this way. They won't let it. They'll come to the rescue and take him home so he can show his mother the pictures he took. They'll give him a couple of days off and he'll catch up on the National Geographic documentaries that he had taped while he was gone. He thinks the mini-vacation will be great.
They won't let anything happen to him.
"Mister, I - I don't know anything. I swear," he pleads, craning his neck to the general direction of the voice.
"What is your name?"
He was never a very good liar – worse under pressure.
"Mar – Marshall Lloyd – actually, no one really uses the Lloyd." he says after some hesitation. "My mother just liked Lloyd, but that's the extent to which I—"
"Tell me Marshall, how do you like your teeth?"
————
He slowly opens his eyes for safety precautions. Fear is now permanently lodged in his heart and invades his mind. It forces him to form a plan on how he should go about opening his eyes. In the end, he settles on one eye at a time, slowly so that he can close them without bringing much attention to the fact that he is conscious once more. He's afraid to open his eyes, but he's even more afraid of leaving them closed. The scenarios in his mind aren't comforting.
They'll come for him. He knows this. He can feel it in his bones. It's just taking a little longer for them to find him. All he can tell about his current location is that it's dark – not very geographically specific. They'll find him though. He's seen them do it thousands of times for people who are less important than him.
Besides, she promised that she wouldn't let anything happen to him. When she sees that he's not at the office, she'll know something is wrong and come looking for him. They'll brief her and Dixon, give them a location, and provide the necessary covers. They'll rescue him, send him to one of the SD-6 doctors, and fix him up really nicely. It'll be fine. He'll be fine.
"I'm glad you are awake, Marshall," another man says.
It's just a matter of time now.
————
He wakes up to a banging on the other side of the door. At first, he's under the assumption that he's dozed off at the office while working on new equipment for the next mission. He shakes off the thought and tricks himself into believing that he's in his hotel room and room service is knocking on his door. He entertains the thought that he's safe and on his way home and that's all that matters. For a few solid seconds, he is at peace. But reality is never far behind and it hits him hard to reminds him that the cold chains tying him to the chair are real and not a result of too many jellybeans.
He has to recite articles he read the night before the plane trip on how fear can be manageable – show no fear and there is no fear. He struggles with the concept now. The pain in his eyes is all too real from the intensity of the light above his head. They sting with the threat of hot tears that can only be curbed with the reminder that they will come for him soon.
"I don't know what you want," he says to no one in particular. "I swear."
His voice sounds strange even to his own ears. His sandpaper tongue makes a scraping sound as he speaks out loud to the empty room. He knows they are monitoring everything about him. He knows they can see him, can tell whether or not he's on the verge of breaking or a little more near-death exercise is needed to get him to talk about whatever it is they want him to talk about.
"Please, let me go. Please?" he begs.
The façade of courage be damned – he's scared and not so sure that SD-6 can find him anymore. He knows that they are looking – they must be looking – but he doesn't know the extent to which his captors are making sure he is hidden.
"Marshall."
He hates the way the man says his name. Mar. Shall.
"Are you – are you going to kill me?" he asks, forcing the words out of his mouth.
He shuts his eyes as soon as asks, afraid that the question will earn a blow from the man.
"That would be unfortunate, Marshall."
Mar. Shall.
"Please, I just want to go home."
"We would like nothing better than to send you home, but sadly, my associate tells me that you haven't been very cooperative in helping us access Echelon."
"I – I don't know what that is."
"You're not stupid. We're not stupid either. Don't lie to us."
"I – I'm not."
"We have many other methods to get you to work with us. I just thought you would want to spare yourself that kind of pain," he says, an ugly sneer plastered to his face.
"I don't know—"
"Very well," he motions to someone on his left before adding, "He's all yours."
All he can do to dull the pain is remind himself that they'll come to help him. They have to.
————
The moment they offer him water, he knows that his fate as a dead man is sealed. The situation is desperate, but he can't help survey the crystal glass they hold out in front of him.
"We don't need poison to kill you," the man in the heavy accent says with a smirk.
He wonders if maybe they're monitoring his thoughts now. If they've placed some experimental chip in his head that allows them to transmit ideas and receive his knowledge. He knows it sounds ridiculous, but he wouldn't put it past his captors to be able to do things like that.
He accepts the water. If it's deadly, so be it – all his attempt to argue with them have proven to be futile; he doesn't expect this to be any different. Nevertheless, he drinks slowly, not only as a safety precaution, but also as an attempt to calm the sob that rises from the back of his throat and mend the dam of tears starting to break. He's going to die and offering him water isn't going to help that a bit.
The man in the wheelchair enters just as the accented man leaves with the crystal glass.
He prepares himself for more questions, more methods of torture, and the man does not disappoint.
"Did you honestly think this would end well for you?" the man whispers, his hot breath smelling of garlic and coffee.
Yes, he had. He thought they'd come. He had been sure of it. He thought she'd slam the door open and run in or burst through the ceiling.
He thinks now that maybe it was foolish on his part. Maybe he overestimated his value at the agency, thought he was more important than he truly was. Maybe they had other agents in training who were smarter, faster, and better than him.
Strong hands grabbing his already immobile arms interrupt his thoughts.
His mind doesn't even have time to register the information. He's too busy staring at the man's smile – an evil grin that is enough to start the shakes again. The man's eyes glisten when catching fragments of light as he talks excitedly about truth serums.
"One in five…" the man says, his voice nostalgic.
"Mister, what—"
But the needle is in before he can finish his sentence.
There is a soft hum that stops him from trying to talk. It's the only thing that has comforted him in his whole time in the chair and he now wonders why they couldn't have provided it before.
He doesn't know why the hands tighten against his arm or why they dim the lights. He doesn't know why the man's smile moves farther away to a distance where it is no longer jarring. All he knows is that everything seems that the fear is decreasing in degrees as the lights dull a little more. It seems like he's seeing things from a different perspective and he likes the way it feels, the way he doesn't have to worry anymore.
He doesn't care that solid objects are fading from his vision faster now or that the nostalgic voice of the man is saying phrases like "one of the five" and using terms like "unfortunate." He doesn't even care that they were supposed to save him. All he can focus on is the relaxation that floods over his body as he achieves peace once more.