Chapter Two: The First Time

His captors usually brought Champion and his fellow captives a small meal once a day; the foods varied according to the capi's whims and desires.  To the average Bellevillian, that amount of food would have been barely enough to keep them alive, but Champion subsisted on that meager meal surprisingly well; at least it had been no more than what he had received at home.  In fact, he felt rather grateful that his captors were conscious of his need to maintain a strictly controlled racing weight.  Other than that, his contact with the diminutive capi and his square-shouldered bodyguards consisted of periodic openings of the secret compartment that allowed them to observe his every move.  But that day, it had been different. They had not shoved a minimal dinner through the picture's hollow.

That day had changed his life forever.

~~~

Champion was vaguely surprised when the door on the wall adjacent to the picture opened, and a pair of Mafia gunmen entered.  His life before Belleville had been ruled by undeviating routine, and this change in routine, though small, was at least mildly interesting.  Lack of stimulation had made his mind slower over the weeks and his brain seized the chance for activity.

The two racers caged with him shrank back fearfully, terror evident in their horse-like faces.  The black-suited men ignored them for a moment, however, and converged on Champion instead.  The cyclist obediently stepped forward when one of them shoved him roughly through the door—resistance would achieve nothing.  The last thing he saw before the men continued to push him down the hallway was one of the racers he had left behind, staring at him. 

The two bodyguards jostled him down the hallway, dragging him up by the collar when he stumbled.  It seemed they enjoyed mishandling him whether or not they had a reason.  He quietly bore the mistreatment, allowing them to direct him into another room, equally dark and dank, but somewhat larger, and with a peculiar red light refracting from the ceiling.  He began to crane his neck to look upward, but the two generic bodyguards abruptly gripped his arms, jerking his head downward.  They dragged him against the wall at the far end of the room and held his body prone against the cold brick.  He regarded them with indifference, no visible emotion in his brown eyes. 

There was a dripping above his head, and although he was careful to keep his head level, his eyes darted upward.  Clear tubes hung suspended from bottles on the ceiling.  The bottles were filled with a crimson liquid the color of blood.  Light from a single dim bulb filtered through the glass and the liquid and threw cherry-colored rays around the room. 

The situation suddenly ignited a spark of recognition: Wine.  The liquid that sloshed in the glass bottles above their heads was wine; he could smell it on the breath of his captors.  He blinked.

The door to the small room creaked menacingly as it opened.  A nearly bald man with a semi-circular crown of white hair and a small, snub nose entered the room.  He surveyed Champion with a cruel smirk before he approached, and looked at one of the guards.  He spoke with a thick French accent.

"Has he not struggled?"

The silent guards shook their heads.  The man grinned, displaying jagged teeth.

"Pity.  It almost seems pointless…he wouldn't go anywhere anyway.  Too dull to even realize he's caught."

There were chuckles of approval from the guards.  The man moved directly in front of Champion, and stared into his eyes, as though trying to shatter the cyclist with his glare.  The young man was silent.

"Or perhaps he thinks he's strong.  Is that it?"  The man cocked his head and sneered maliciously.  "You think you're strong?"

Champion said nothing.

The man's sneer deepened.  Impetuously, he snatched something from one of the guard's hands.  Champion saw only a flash of silver before the man's fist closed around the object.  Champion ignored the closed fist, oblivious to the clear tube that stuck out of it.

"We'll see how strong you are."  In an aside to the guards: "Is the formula prepared?"

Wordless nodding.  Champion thought he saw the man's eyes dart up to the bottles on the ceiling.  The sneer became a smirk again.

"Perfect.  Hold him."  Suddenly, violently, the guards yanked Champion's arms backward; his bare elbows smashed into the wall.  He opened his mouth in a small breath, but did not cry out.  He had learned long ago to endure pain.

This seemed to anger the man.  He was sneering again, at least.  His closed fist rose, positioned just before Champion's left forearm.  The young man did not flinch.  He did not know what was in the fist; therefore, it meant nothing to him. 

"We'll see how strong you are."

With that, the fist opened.  Resting on the palm was a long silver needle, the end of which was attached to a clear tube.  The fingers of the hand maneuvered the needle between thumb and forefinger—poised, delicate, dangerous.  Despite himself, Champion shrank back, although he knew nothing he could do would help him now.  His eyes darted up to the bottles on the ceiling, and for the first time, a tendril of panic entered his mind, reflecting in his large eyes.  He did not know what was being done to him.  Fearfully, he looked at the man and the needle inching closer to his arm.  His flesh recoiled from the hollow tip.

"Qu'est-ce que vous—"

His words were cut off as they devolved into a high-pitched shriek.  The needle plunged into his forearm and sent lances of pain through him.  He squirmed and kicked, trying to escape the pain, fists clenching and unclenching uselessly.  The guards gripped his thin upper body more tightly until he felt as though he was being crushed to death, and the needle still drove through his flesh.  Deep.  Deeper.  Fire radiated out from his forearm.  The man was laughing at the fear in Champion's innocent eyes.

Then…a trickle of cool fluid entered his pierced vein.  Champion rolled his eyes upward.  The red liquid in one of the bottles had snaked down the tube and was draining into his body, slowly erasing the agonies and engulfing him in a seductive peace.  His struggles weakened and then ceased.

The man drew back, leaving the needle embedded in Champion's forearm.  The cyclist was completely subdued, almost relaxing.  A cool smirk returned to the man's features.

"Make sure he gets it all.  We will repeat this exercise tomorrow.  I have other hapless captives to attend to."

Without so much as a backward glance, the man turned and left the room.  The creaking door groaned shut behind him.

~~~

That had been the first time.  Before long, he'd found himself starting to enjoy the doses, which were smaller after that.  He had not minded the conditions during the long winter; he had complied with his captors as they gave him another bicycle to ride on and forced him to compete with his fellow racers for their own cruel sport.  He was still indifferent to his captors, but he had begun to enjoy what he was doing.  Cycling and this newfound pleasure became what he lived for, and he adjusted quickly to his new life.

His grandmother had found him, eventually, as he'd known she would.  He had felt some of his happiness return after he'd been liberated from the gambling dens and seen the sun again.  He'd been satisfied to escape his cruel captors—but now, unwittingly, he was sold a slave to worse.

His body craved the drugs that had coursed through him in Belleville, and it refused to cooperate with his lethargic mind in their absence.  During his captivity, he had become completely dependent on them to function.  He knew that his situation was terrible, and he hated the continued secrecy of his intolerable addiction, but he also recognized that he had to appease his body and give in to its demands—he couldn't risk losing his ability to ride.  Any further sacrifice was merely secondary to that all-important necessity—he had to be able to keep riding. 

He had to…

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