A/N: A big thank you to all who are reading and following and have favorited the story so far and especially to Dinogal95, Penny Blossom73, max2013, and SiouxAnne3 for faithfully reviewing. As someone who doesn't get paid to write, reviews mean the world to me and makes sharing my story with you worthwhile.

QUESTION: As the next few chapters are about the same length or shorter than this one, I was wondering if you'd like twice weekly updates (Sundays and Thursdays) for a couple of weeks? Please either PM me or leave your answer in a review or comment. If I get 6 affirmative replies, I'll post the next chapter Thursday; otherwise, I'll keep the Sunday schedule.

"Q" is for Quirt

He woke when the Color Guard took his pillow and blankets. Colby blinked blearily in the muted light from the other side of the bars as they filled a dish with dog kibble and one with water, setting them just this side of the bars.

His muscles seized and he lay where they dropped him, just breathing, trying to meditate on a happy moment to combat the pain, but nothing came to mind. There'd only been these walls, these bars, this floor for so long he couldn't remember what had been before.

Maybe he was still on the freighter. Maybe he was in China. Maybe he'd never been rescued. Maybe it'd all been a drug-induced hallucination or his mind fabricating the whole thing in some sort of effort to protect itself. As Colby contemplated this, they told him it was August second, a Thursday, his forty-first day in hell, and took the water, leaving him alone in his silent musings.

In Seymour FCI, he corrected, slowly remembering.

Forty-one days.

Not many remaining.

He lay for a while where they'd dumped him, even after his muscles calmed enough he thought he could move, before pulling and pushing himself up into a seated position against the back wall. He was depressingly short of breath after that endeavor, but then Colby remembered why and reminded himself it'd be over soon.

He glanced lazily at the porta-potty. He was glad he didn't need to use it. He didn't think he could stand, let alone walk, not with the headache and dizziness currently afflicting him.

He shivered, leaned more heavily into the wall. Colby didn't think it was particularly cold per se, but ever since basic training, since Afghanistan, he'd become intolerant to cold. His sister and her husband had teased him mercilessly about it the few times he'd gone home, taunting him and making it into some sort of grievous flaw against him. His mom had just seemed disappointed in him.

Although, considering the letter, it probably had never been about the cold. Just him.

He sighed. He wanted to go back to sleep.

He hurt and burned. He was restless and edgy and more than physically exhausted. He was bored. He was surprisingly hungry. He hadn't felt hunger since … well, a few days at least, maybe sometime during the fifth week? He wasn't sure. Thirst, though. He was thirsty. If the Color Guard hadn't been in such a hurry earlier, Colby would've degraded and shamed himself, slurped out of the bowl like the creature they treated him as. But by the time he could move even a little bit, they'd already taken the water and left.

His mind couldn't focus on xanthosis, couldn't focus on any one thing before skittering off onto something new. Colby decided he was in no danger of falling into a compartment, into the only one that mattered, and let his mind roam where it would.

It was a mistake.

But maybe he deserved it. Colby didn't really know, not anymore, and tried to take control of his mental wanderings.

For his perverse mind had conjured up hallucination-team again, despite the light, despite the fact he wasn't particularly lonely. At least no more than normal. Hell, he couldn't remember not being lonely and concluded his subconscious hated him the same as his old team, his once-family, the FBI (the world).

Hallucination-Megan had no mouth. Colby couldn't recall her face well enough (he couldn't decide if that was a bad thing let alone what he felt about it) or Liz at all. David was yelling at him, disappointed and angry (what had become the norm) and maybe hurt.

Hallucination-David, Colby reminded himself. Not real.

But weren't the emotions behind them real?

Hallucination-Don was in his face, bitter and furious, threatening to end him—in his time, not Colby's—and Colby wondered if those last two days with the team had happened, if Don had been kind to him, had shown sympathy, if the trip to the hospital had been real or another figment of his imagination. It seemed to take the wind out of hallucination-Don: his expression faltered, and he looked as confused as Colby felt and when Colby blinked, they were all gone. He was alone.

And now lonely.

It was better this way.

While he was grateful to be (finally) running out of time, he was a little afraid of dying, and wished he wasn't alone. Colby had accepted dying by violence and bullets a long time ago—protect and serve—had made his peace with it so much so he didn't fear it, but this. This slow death, by degrees, by moments, leaving him too much time to think, isolated and lost in his head (when he wasn't being physically assaulted), this made all of it frightening. Here at the end, he didn't hide from his feelings, didn't deny them even to himself, hadn't tried to compartmentalize in days and mentally took stock—at least it kept his attention off his discomfort and suffering. He found fear but also relief, almost anticipation, regret, loneliness, some sadness.

A monstrous cramp struck between his shoulders and Colby gasped, screwing his eyes shut, trying to outlast it. He didn't have the strength to vocalize his pain.

After that cramp came another and another, coming in waves, ripping through his abused muscles, abusing broken bones and damaged sinews in turn.

When they finally subsided—after what felt like hours (and it could've been)—Colby slumped into the wall, spent and shaking. He wanted to straighten up—his biggest fear was Franklin finding him like this and intervening again, although Colby didn't think the warden's rudimentary medical knowledge could keep him alive now. Still … why take that chance?

And what if he took him to the infirmary this time? Colby didn't want to go there, didn't want to be hauled back, didn't want his escape thwarted. Not again. He couldn't go through this again.

The old bullet wound—turned into something so much more, so much worse—flared as Granger knocked it into the cinderblock wall shifting into a more alert position. The cold felt good against the burning arm, but it burned in its own right, taking his breath away.

God, he just wanted it over. He was done with all of it.

He shivered where he huddled against the back wall, his chin on his chest, unable to even brace that arm with the other against the sick pain radiating from it.

Soon, he knew, soon.

He closed his eyes against the gray and dismal cell, the light and shadowy room beyond, all his world had become, had maybe always been. He wanted to sleep, to dream of blue skies and starry skies, of wispy clouds and thunderheads, of trees and grass, of gentle breezes and rousing winds, of mist and driving rain, of pounding surf and lapping waves. They only existed in dreams, now, and Colby couldn't find them anymore. Not awake, not asleep, not passed out.

He wanted to feel the sun on his face, on his bare arms. He'd settle for a window at this point, watch dust motes dance in the sunlight as the world went on without him. He wanted to walk on soft dewy grass, on a sun-warmed sandy beach. He wanted to run, to lift weights, to swim, to surf. He wanted to see the heaving, swelling ocean, smell the tangy, salty breeze, feel a board beneath his feet, ride the waves, leaving tension, stress, and anxiety behind in the sand. Hell, he'd settle for walking, for watching something as pedestrian as a flower, a bee, a bird. Anything out there.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been to the mountains or camping or fishing or surfing. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the ocean with its breaking waves. He couldn't remember the park near his apartment where he used to jog. He remembered the FBI building was on Wilshire Blvd but not how to get there, though he'd driven there hundreds of times.

He knew how to get to the interview rooms from his cell, knew there were four of them plus a larger one they'd never used for him. He knew where all the cracks in the ceiling were, where rust flaked from the bars, how the water spigot squealed on and off.

He missed trees. August second meant midsummer, so the trees would be green and dusty and full. He'd miss the bright fall colors and coolness of winter and growth of spring. Colby missed all of it. He couldn't even imagine himself out there, bring it to life in his mind, escape there for a little while. No matter how hard he tried, all he saw was this cell.

He tipped his head back against the wall. His eyes were too dry to produce tears, but they stung nonetheless, facing the magnitude of what he'd lost. Losing his family didn't hurt as much as losing the world outside this cell. Losing the team….

Colby didn't want to go there and broke the thought off.

He wondered what the likelihood of Franklin, of Olsen and the Color Guard not coming today, of finding outside in his dreams, of dying peacefully in his sleep. Too bad he couldn't ask Charlie; Charlie would tell him.

Then he remembered Don'd warned him away from Charlie and despair welled up in place of tears.

Wait. No. That'd been hallucination-Don. Don had told him … had said…. Colby didn't remember but thought Don hadn't been angry when he'd consulted Charlie on the Kaufman cold case. Had he?

Or was Colby only fooling himself? Look where he was … if Don hadn't been angry, Colby wouldn't be here. He let out a soft breath, blinking rapidly.

All he had left was that one compartment, the one filled with memories and certainty, where he still had a team, friends, a family. He wanted to lose himself there now, not think, remember how it used to be, but it was too early—if only by a few hours—to go there, so Colby drifted on a wave of nothingness and lost himself to time broken only by fragmented nightmares he never fully woke from.

Until an icy spray of water slashed across his face, pulling him irrevocably awake. Awareness was slower in coming.

It wasn't until after Olsen had stripped him, strung him up, dousing him with what must've been half a box of baking soda, and hosed him down that Colby became cognizant of what was going on. He hung by his wrists, pain ripping through his wrecked shoulders and down into his ribs. He breathed in quiet sobs, uncomprehending, as the hose was traded for the industrial fan. It took a long time to get his feet firmly under him, to take his weight off his arms altogether. It took longer to get his breathing under a semblance of control. By the time Olsen turned off the fan, Colby felt a smidgen of trepidation and agitation. He didn't recall the last time he'd had interrogations so closely together and knew nothing good could come of it.

Olsen kept up a barrage of insults as he dressed Granger in a new long-sleeved tee (white, of course, so they'd have an excuse to beat him later when he inevitably bled on it) and new DOC scrubs, black stamped on orange. Colby neither helped nor hindered. He hurt too much to do either and let the guard dress him as if he was a child.

After putting him in full shackles, Olsen tied his leash off around a couple bars, strengthening the foreboding wrought by the pre-interrogation routine.

Olsen grabbed something from the other room and held it up. "Do you know what this is?"

He did.

Colby stared at it, wishing he could unsee it, wishing it had been anything else, only one thought registering: David must've told them.

And if David told them, what he was telling Colby was that his full disclosure came too late to matter, it wasn't enough to excuse Colby's spying; that there'd be no leniency or goodwill for him. He didn't deserve either. That David would never forgive him for lying, for pretending. That David hated him. That Colby wasn't wanted, wasn't worth … well, anything. Granger bowed his head, giving in to defeat and despair. He only kept himself from finding solace in that last compartment by replacing xanthosis with quirt.

Quirt, a noun, meaning a short-handled riding whip with a braided leather lash.

Quirt, a verb, meaning hit with a quirt.

Quirt, the word from the day Ashby had gotten David's attention on the Sixth Street bridge. Colby'd shared it later than normal, that morning so chaotic, and with little enthusiasm because Ashby's appearance meant his time with this team he'd come to love more than his family was almost up. Once he confessed, it'd be over.

Maybe for good.

But Colby hoped otherwise. Hoped they would understand, that they'd see the bigger picture. For two years he'd given everything to that team, to each and every case, never holding anything back. He'd hoped that would mean something. Hoped he'd mean something.

If he survived the op.

He hadn't known what to expect when he came back, not really. He knew he'd failed Don, that Don'd feel deceived and wouldn't trust him. That Megan would be disappointed. He didn't know how much that would hurt. He thought he could handle it.

Because he was stupid.

Because, somehow, he thought David'd have his back. For some reason, he always thought David would grasp the situation, would know in the back of his head that something was wrong with the confession; that he'd be there for Colby.

He hadn't expected the distance David put between them, hadn't expected David to loathe him.

In hindsight, he should've.

He tried to make amends, but the team didn't want any part of him. The office was even less understanding, though Colby could deal with them if he had the team. Instead he had nothing.

Because he was nothing. Everything he did amounted to nothing.

Because he didn't matter.

Had Don only let him come back so they could do this to him? Show him how much betrayal hurt? To make sure he understood that what he did, what he said, who he was had no worth? To them or to the FBI.

The quirt in Olsen's hands told him yes.

"Good. I see that you do." Olsen played with the quirt, getting a feel for it, figuring out how to use it. "Zach made it for me—just for you."

He came closer, shoving the quirt in Colby's face. The leash kept him in place.

"He used ball bearings for the core, makes it heavier, but when the whole thing is used on you, it has to get your attention. 'Cause let's face it: you're a dense one, Bright Eyes. Here, check it out."

Quirt, a noun, meaning a short-handled riding whip with a braided leather lash, Colby thought against the torment as Olsen quirted him with the base, using it more as a bludgeon than a whip; quirt, a verb, meaning hit with a quirt.

And Olsen did, over and over. Colby hissed a sharp intake of breath, trembling, and reminded himself it was almost over, so close now he could see the end. He shifted away, as far as the leash allowed, but the quirt followed.

Until it didn't.

"Look here," Olsen crowed. He was like a kid showing off a new toy, and Colby couldn't help the shudder when he saw what had Olsen so excited. "It's not a traditional quirt—doesn't have to be since it'll only ever be used on you—so he went with discipline over aid and enhanced the design. Just for you."

Of course he did.

Holes had been drilled into several coins, which were threaded through and secured to both falls, making it jingle when it moved. Making it hurt that much more against flesh, Colby guessed, and tried to brace himself for it when Olsen inevitably tested it.

Quirt, a noun, meaning a short-handled riding whip with a braided leather lash.

"You wanna try it?"

It was rhetorical, for Olsen started quirting Colby with a vengeance.

Quirt, a verb, meaning hit with a quirt, Colby thought, riding out the whipping because, really, what choice did he have? He couldn't escape, they wouldn't stop, so all he could do was weather it and not give away how close relief was. Hours only, and then it'd be over. He held fast to that, and Olsen kept going. Colby lost quirt and xanthosis and shied away from his head, grimly repeating hours only, and then it'd be over, a mantra in time to the lashing.

By the time Olsen finished, Granger's legs had given out, leaving him on his knees, the leash tightening the collar around his throat enough to make his breathing sound like he was slowly being strangled (he was) but not enough to break his neck or hurry up and kill him (he wasn't that lucky).

He felt a hand on his back and flinched; he couldn't get out from under it.

"Whoa," Olsen breathed. "That didn't damage your scrubs. Did it hurt?"

Colby realized his eyes were closed and pried them open. He exhaled a soft breath, looking away.

"Did it hurt?"

The quirt accompanied each word, and Colby tried to pull into himself to reduce the size of the target.

Olsen took that as an affirmative for the quirting ended. "Still don't wanna talk to me? Good. Did you know Mikey's birthday is on Saturday?"

Colby's muddled brain couldn't figure out that significance.

It must've showed in his face (or Olsen liked listening to the sound of his own voice too much to ever shut up), for the guard continued, "I told him to hang out after his shift on Saturday, that I had a surprise for him. 'Course, I had to tell him it was you to get him to agree. He's really looking forward to his birthday."

Oh, that.

Colby couldn't care less, wasn't worried about it. He wouldn't be here Saturday. Instinctively, he knew he wouldn't live to see tomorrow, so Saturday was meaningless to him. Hours only, and then it'd be over.

He was nearly free.

It struck him suddenly with more force than the quirt had: after forty-one days, freedom was only a matter of hours away; not months or weeks or even days. The day after tomorrow meant nothing to him, tomorrow barely held any meaning. His nightmare was almost over, and Colby sucked in a shaky breath. A few more hours, and he'd be done. With that promise, he could endure whatever they had in store for him. He could do that.

Olsen's next words shattered that confidence.

"FBI sent a team for you today," he commented off-handedly, unwrapping the leash from the bars and taking it in hand. He tugged Colby after him. "Patrick said they're pissed. Guess they're done dicking around with you, huh?"

Colby tripped up the steps, more focused on Olsen's words than where to place his shackled feet.

No. It couldn't be his old team. They hadn't come once in the last six weeks, so why now? He wanted to believe it was a different team (who else would be pissed at him though?), but why would the FBI send a team at all? He could only assume interrogation was going to be much more physical than normal.

Apparently, Olsen assumed the same.

"I hope there's something left of you when they're done," he said, manhandling Colby up the rest of the steps. "I mean, Mikey won't much care what shape you're in, so long as he's the one who gets to stretch you out. And I don't care either. But if I can give him a virgin; dude, he'd owe me so much! Especially if I record the first time and give him that too. A souvenir, you know?"

Why were they coming now? Had they seen something in one of the interrogation videos that Franklin and the others missed? Did they have cameras in his cell? Colby couldn't say he'd notice any; not now, not for a long while. He had never tried to hide his condition when he was alone. Had they been watching him? Had they seen how poor his health truly was?

Were they coming to help him die? Coming to stop it from happening, so he could continue to suffer, because they weren't done with him yet? Wasn't that what hallucination-Don told him? Was he right?

Or was it merely their turn to interrogate him? FBI thought they'd get the answers from Colby that no one at Seymour had been able to get?

If it was his old team.

"Come on, Bright Eyes," Olsen snarled. "Patrick didn't give me enough of a warning to get you ready, and the Feds have been here a while now. They're already pissed; I'm sure waiting on your slow ass isn't going to improve their moods any."

With the timing of the visit, with the quirt, Colby didn't see how it couldn't be his old team. David used the quirt as a sort of calling card, a promise (threat) that he was coming.

No.

But Granger felt his heart pound harder, his breaths come faster. He didn't know it was Don's team. He didn't. Maybe it was coincidence. The cold ball of dread in his belly told him otherwise.

"Goddammit, Bright Eyes, you'd better start paying attention."

Olsen struck him repeatedly with the quirt, until Colby went down heavily. Then the CO kicked him and pulled him back to his feet, shoving him into a wall.

Colby looked around, stunned. They were already in the interview room corridor, and he had no recollection of the walk there.

Olsen propelled him forward, then quirted his back because he didn't move fast enough. The coins hit the wall with a raucous clang and Colby hit it with a soft oomph.

The door at the end opened, the room he'd never been in before, and a pair of feet came into view. Colby's chest constricted painfully, and he briefly closed his eyes. Was it them? What were they going to do to him?

The quirt came down solidly on his arm, on his shoulder, but it was as insignificant as Saturday. Who…?

Before he could raise his head and look at the person's face, he heard that voice, furious and yelling, transporting him right back to the FBI interrogation room after they'd arrested him outside the oceanside safehouse, David storming in, jabbing and pushing at him, flinging accusations—

No, no, no. Please, no….

Colby gave a tight shake of his head, coming back to the here and now. He couldn't make out David's words—there was a roaring in his ears—only the tone, and his heart cracked. He couldn't do it. Not this. And so, Colby fled deep inside his mind, slamming the door of this unused compartment behind him, locking his self up in happier times, the only place he wanted to be for this. He wished he'd been able to reinforce the walls and door, but he hadn't the strength or energy. He hoped it was strong enough. Was terrified it wouldn't hold and they'd tear him apart before killing him … that he'd be aware of what they did. Aware that his old team, the people he loved most in the world, were the ones who killed him.

Please, he prayed, as the quirt struck. He barely felt it as the memories and conviction enveloped him, and Colby gave himself over to them.

Please.