A.N.: thanks for the reviews, glad you guys liked :D although this was planned as a oneshot, thought I'd add. I have to say, though, that I don't really know where this is going or if there is a plot per se. Just trying to imagine being held captive from Jack's POV.
Disclaimer: yeah, I checked, not mine.
CaptivityChapter 2
"Jack."
"Jack."
A hoarse unforgiving voice calls his name. His eyelids blink. Once. Twice.
"Jack!"
And he wakes.
"Good to finally have you with us, Jack."
Words not said but sneered from a source his vision to weak to give form to.
"For a while there, we thought we'd lost you, Jack."
His name is spit in his face as though it were an insult.
He tries to move. Still bound to a chair.
"We've been waiting for you to wake up for a week."
He looks around him. Vaguely familiar room, smell, light. Excruciating pain.
"You must be quite hungry and very dehydrated, Jack."
Derision in those words. He tries to move. Overwhelming anguish dashes through his body. Every muscle burns. Head throbs with a million questions.
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions."
Jack tries to talk. Dryness. Weak-old blood occupies his mouth. Gagged. Heavy eyes drop to his arms. Three needle marks. Recognizes from a life he once had. Blood tests. Strains to remember how or when.
"Don't worry, nothing serious. We had to run a few tests. Probably what kept you out for a week."
Kate and Sawyer. They were not tested. Somehow he knows. Remembers faintly two voices bickering, through a mold infested stone wall, with three. Others.
"I apologize if your current quarters are not as lavish as the one you had provided for me once."
Henry.
"Don't worry. We will be moving you to some place more appropriate in a few minutes."
Rage. Confusion. Weakness. Guilt.
"We'll get you some new clothes. Water and food. Maybe let you shave. But first, security procedures."
A dirty blonde kid walks in, cannot be older than… older than Boone. Jack's breath clogs his throat. Wonders if he will ever get the chance to explain to a mother the death of her son, and her daughter. What was once the worst part of his job, wishes now he has to do a hundred times rather than live the nightmare that has become his life.
A familiar hood is drawn over his head. The same nauseating smell of sweat and mud. A faint scent of something pleasant. A memory from a day she cried into his shoulder and rested her forehead to his. A guilt-ridden smile visits his lips momentarily. Kate's hood.
No time or strength to struggle or attempt an escape as his wrists are temporarily released from their constraints before they are bound behind his back. Ropes around his ankles cut loose with a rusty knife.
Two more walk casually into his cell. One whispers to Henry and the other hauls him off the chair.
Piercing sunlight and a gust of wind slap him as he is pushed out of the cell. He drags his feet on rough concrete ground. Tries not to wince with every step.
"Hope we are not moving too fast for you, Jack."
Three giggle scornfully. He bites the rotting gag and clenches his fists behind his back.
He trip. Pulls himself up quickly. Travels with slower strides.
A shove from behind and he tumbles again.
"Boys, play nice. We have to treat the doctor well. He did save my life after all. Didn't you, Jack?"
Glares through the veil. Curses the day he helped a stranger, cleaned and sutured a wound. Wishes he had listened to a soldier. Knows it is far too late for regrets.
A sudden halt in their step, after kilometers of silent gray corridors. Keys rattle on a chain. A key into a lock and three clicks. A door swings open. Two steps forward.
"Welcome to your new home, Jack."
Words drip like bitter sap.
A gun cocks, targets his head. Ropes loosen around his wrists. Virulent struts and a door slams.
Bruised arms struggle for release from their restraints. A few minutes later and he is working on the knot of the black hood. Gladly removes a gag and spits our sour blood.
Grips the hood tightly. Separate her scent from the flood of odors invading his nostrils. Closes his eyes and apologizes to a sweet smelling cloth.
Opens his eyes and takes in his new surrounding. Four walls, surprisingly white and clean. A polished, stamped concrete floor. Two bright fluorescent lights. A white metal door. No handle. A white plastic basket in the corner. A thin mattress by the far wall. A water basin. A white plastic table and matching chair. A piece of bread and a small bottle of water. A notebook. A black felt-tip pen. A pair of dark blue jeans and a grey t-shirt thrown casually on the chair. He recognizes them as his. No windows. All corners dulled. No way out. No escape possible. No suicide possible.
A searching glance towards the ceiling. A surveillance camera stares menacingly at him from the corner.
Painfully, he removes his shirt. Walks over to the basin. Knees crack as he kneels down. Washes his head and face with lukewarm water. Futilely tries to wash away the accumulating emotions of two months. Wets his shirt and runs in over his chest, down his neck and back. Throws it carelessly into the basket. Kicks off his jeans and they follow the bloodied shirt.
He changes into the clothes that had been brought. He wonders how and when they managed to bring them from camp. Wonders if they had taken over their camp or hurt anyone else.
Aimless. Helpless. Confused.
He looks through the notebook. Blank pages.
Looks at the bread and water. He hadn't realized how hungry and thirsty he was. Takes a gulp of water, a bite from the bread. Just one. Does not know if he will be given more.
Looks up towards the camera. Walks towards the door. Bangs. Once. Twice. Soundproof.
Paces the room. Tries to make sense of what he can remember. Tries to find a reason of why them. Tries to diagnose the tests he had been subject to. Tries to think of a plan to get out. Out of where?
Callused palms run to black hair and fall to his face, rub his eyes.
One thing he needs to know first and foremost.
Looks up at the camera, stares, confrontational and stern,
"Where's Kate?"