He can't keep doing this, he realizes. He's been trained in torture resistance like every CIA agent. Knows the things to focus on, when to scream in pain, when to stay silent. But there's always a breaking point – either he'll spill what he knows, or he'll die. Neither option really appeals to him, but he's reaching that moment. He's drifting in and out of consciousness, his head lolling; he no longer has the strength to keep it up.

Derek's wrists and ankles are bound to a steel chair, which has been bolted to the floor. His arms are wrapped behind him on the chair, pulling at his shoulders. He's also naked, so he had no access to any gadgets that could have helped him. His kidnappers are more experienced than he'd like.

They had started by dousing him in cold water, trying to find his threshold. He appreciated, from an agent standpoint, starting small and slowly moving to bigger things. His fingernails had gone next, followed by a blowtorch to his feet. When he reflexively stretches his fingers in response to the thousand tiny cuts they carve into his skin, he yells in pain; his fingers are broken.

His tormentors move on to electrocution. He's dry, so water isn't a factor, but he is still tied to metal. He screams through the electrical currents.

They're very effective, he thinks. They'd be useful in interrogations. He laughs to himself at that thought. They haven't broken him yet, but he feels like he's losing his sanity.

There are small breaks between the torture session – they leave him alone in the room for stretches of time, but he's not sure how long. He tries to use these breaks effectively, but the lack of sight and sound encroach on his thoughts. He looks at his surroundings, questions the people coming in and out of the room as they sort out their equipment. He wants to know who these people are, how many of them there are, where he is, and mostly, he needs a way out.

Derek figures he's in the middle off nowhere since they've allowed him to scream all he wants. He also believes that he's underground – the room is damp, and there are no windows. Unfortunately he was unconscious when he was brought in. The floor and walls appear to be made of concrete. The only light he gets is when one of his tormentors brings one in; he doesn't know how long he's been in this predicament. He's given barely enough food and water – again they want information, not death, at least not yet – but they don't let him out to use any facilities. He's sure the room stinks with his own urine and excrement, but he can't tell, used to the smell as he is.

He's aware that they're using a combination of methods – physical pain, sensory deprivation, dehydration, polyphagia, and humiliation. He thinks the only method they're missing is psychological. The rest are enough though – no one can withstand this much torture for long, and these people aren't in a rush.

They inject him with something, lower his defenses, and he babbles. What he says is mostly meaningless he thinks – hopes – but he manages not to answer them directly. He becomes bolder, insisting on asking his own questions in his desire to escape. He's sometimes not sure if the sounds coming out of his mouth are even words anymore.

He's not sure why he doesn't just tell them what he knows – he doesn't really owe her anything. They've worked together a couple of times, sure, but that's the extent of it. They were working together just before he ended up down here. He does always enjoy seeing her though, getting her worked up. She's beautiful when she's angry, and that seems to be her state of being when she's around him. But there's something to be said for her passion about her work, her drive, her determination to be successful, but also in her resolve to do the right thing, to be the better person.

His captors don't acknowledge his questions, don't speak to him except to ask their own. They have only one question, and it circles around and around in his head, demanding to be answered.

"Where is Sydney Fox?"