A/N (1) Previously on Chuck versus The Journey: Chuck lends Sarah a helping hand as people in a relationship do and supports her in coming to terms with her past. She decides to tell him about the dramatic and brutal events that earned her the frightening nickname 'The Enforcer'. This chapter is an account of that evening in her past, as seen through her eyes.
A/N (2) Before you write a letter to my beta-reader:
Yes, this is all my fault. No, not a mistake. I wanted to have it exactly that way and follow the plot by eavesdropping on Sarah's thoughts. A young agent with the heart of a lion and the cynical coolness of a seasoned killer will save herself while we follow her musings – listening to her thoughts was my main reason for choosing the format of her point of view. These two chapters coming up are a statement for strong, independent women, and a statement against forced sex (which a good deal of the society seems to think is enjoyed by the victims which is utter bullshit) - and whom better could I have found to showcase that than our favorite superheroine, fighting for her life and her dignity as a woman.
Yes, again, in case you are ever in a life-threatening situation, you have plenty of time pondering the most impossible and craziest things on your mind, and you very likely will be pretty cool most of the time. The quote by Tori Amos I choose for this chapter, a song about abuse, mentions that phenomenon too (the woman in her song thinks of a vacation to Barbados while being raped), and you can find plenty of reports about the brain racing at top speed in all directions in such dangerous situations and how time stretches. And I'm currently a guy who's stretching the patience of his beta-reader immensely. Who knows, Willie might introduce a character named Johnny Ray Chandlett to his fabulous Chuck vs. A New Day and have him tortured to death slowly. You all may save me by reading Chuck vs. A New Day by WillieGarvin immediately and leave a review, mentioning that Johnny Ray sent you. Will you, please!
Chapter 34: Sarah vs. The Enforcer (1)
You can laugh,
It's kind of funny,
Things you think
Times like these.
Like I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this.
Yes, I wore a slinky red thing.
Does that mean I should spread for you, your friends, your father?
"Me And My Gun" (Tori Ellen Amos)
•••••••••••••••••••
(Saskia "Sassy" Tomaszewski, aka Sarah Walker, about the night she became The Enforcer)
I am slowly waking up. I am too dizzy to move, feeling paralyzed. I am even too tired to open my eyes. There is a weight next to me. At least it's not on me.
What happened? Like through a thick fog, the memory comes back. Tony's loft, sipping Champagne, swapping stories of our lives, his true, mine lies.
The Champagne! Drinking Champagne, and feeling no pain, what bull. There was something in it, but it wasn't Tony who drugged me. That leads to an unpleasant string of questions: Who drugged us both? Why did they do that? Who was the target? Will I be the proverbial innocent bystander murdered because I chose the wrong time and the wrong place?
I can't be the target. Who am I again? If I only could blast that haze from my brain.
Ah yes - when not busy with spy work and gathering intel, I care meticulously about my cover persona. I am Saskia Tomaszewski, conceived and born in a CIA computer hardly three weeks ago, vacationing in Miami. By day I give all the boys heart attacks when sunbathing in my skimpy bikini. Making them roll on their stomach when hip-wiggling walking by as if I had no care in the world than to be sexy and on the prowl. By night, I enjoy putting on my high heels and most elegant dress to party with the VIPs at one of the exclusive clubs at Miami Beach's Ocean Drive, or I choose casual and explore the thriving craft beer scene. Causing wet dreams in all four cardinal directions, but never getting any biz myself as I'm here for a job.
So who would be interested in anything else but getting into my panties? Sonny Crockett? And where is he when a woman needs help?
Voices, male voices. Several of them. People walking around. The atmosphere is tense.
"Where has that bastard tucked it away? Have you looked everywhere?"
That is the voice of Mr. X!
Whom is he talking about? The uneasiness spreading through my body helps me a little bit to come to my senses. Somehow at least.
"Hey, bring me some ice from the fridge. If we can't find it, we need to wake him up."
Wake him up? So unless they are blind, they can't talk about me. I am somewhat optimistic that I can be distinguished as a girl even from afar. Yes, proud to be female, single, and open-minded. So this must be about Tony.
I force myself to open my eyes and manage that only so much. It is as strenuous as lifting a sleeping cat. Everything is blurry. I see myself lying on a king-size bed.
Huh? Am I already dead? Do I have an out-of-the-body experience? Is this my last view on Sarah Walker's physical presence before I leave to – literally – God knows where?
Will the next thing I see be a friendly old geezer with an enormous white beard? I can't imagine what I would look like with angel's wings. Sweet enough to eat, but ridiculous nonetheless, I guess. Chances are, I won't get my wings. I better prepare for the other option. Scantily clad, red-painted fingernails, small red horns sticking out of my blonde hair, a long pointy red tail, and the unavoidable devil's trident. Truthfully, that sounds more fun. If I had to choose between a boring angel and a naughty devil, I am inclined to the latter. However, I know guys prefer a hybrid - a sexy angel. Why they want someone innocently angelic and then want her to be all dirty is a question I won't solve tonight. Boys will be boys.
"I hope Doc Wacky didn't put too much stuff into the bottles, or we'll need hours to get him talking," I hear Mr. X say.
Doc Wacky? Don't tell me they call him that whoever he is. Is this a movie? Will he call his other companions Scarface, Baby Face, or Bugsy? Or is my numb brain fooling me?
The picture becomes clearer.
No, I am not dead. There is a large mirror over the bed where I am lying as I gawk at myself and the pretty clothes I wear. Why, Tony, you nasty boy, you wanted to see everything of me while we would be rolling around. Have you expected a mind-blowing sexy performance by Sassy Tomaszewski? Wanted to watch my shoulders, back, buttocks, legs, and feet in the rhythm of sex? In all modesty, I'm the hottest lay you would ever have, but I strongly disapprove that you obviously had been so sure how the night would end. I am not that easy to get, and besides, it's me picking the men and not the other way 'round. World, can you hear me?
Then I could smack my head as, of course, Tony did not set that mirror up specifically for me. Darn drugs!
The weight next to me is Tony. I see him peacefully sleeping in the mirror. But nothing is peaceful about the moment. Or just as peaceful as sitting in a C-47 on June 5, 1944, close to midnight, and flying into Normandy with a rifle and a parachute.
With two others' help, Mr. X pulls Tony up and drags him off the bed and into a plush brown chair at the wall, left of the room entrance, only a few steps from where my left foot lies, feeling as if it wasn't my own.
"I still can't believe he stole from me every time he was taking care of the catering. Doesn't he know who I am? The guy has balls, I admit. But we need to look for a new caterer for our Italian evenings, though."
I don't like his words. I don't like the look on their faces. I don't like how Mr. X puts a silencer on his weapon. I don't like how another man throws three large knives on the foot end of the bed - using these on a human body guarantees murderous pain and a bloodbath. Actually, I don't like anything at all.
I don't like Graham either. If it weren't for his orders, I'd be safely in Washington by now. Alone in my apartment without a mirror over my much smaller bed, but safe. I toyed with the idea of having an occasional man tonight because Tony was nice, and I hardly get the chance to have some harmless fun in my line of business. I made it into his bedroom after all, as I am on my back on his bed. I'm pretty sure that is not exactly what Tony had imagined. You can't always get what you want.
I still prefer my apartment over Tony's. I wonder if my next trip to D.C. will be in a wooden box in an airplane's luggage compartment. That is if they didn't feed my body to some resident sharks.
Mere thoughts. I need action!
X slaps Tony in the face, but there was no reaction. He looks over to two more men coming into the bedroom. They grin wildly, holding something up.
"It was in one of the freezer departments," one explains. "Looks like it is damn everything."
"Fine, saves us the trouble to wake him up," Mr. X says.
And shoots unconscious Tony straight between the eyes. Just like that. The little puff was barely audible. It was a perfect t-box shot, but then, a blind kangaroo with fettered paws could have made that from such a distance. The single bullet was all it took. I don't want to know how Tony's midbrain and brainstem look like now.
"Hey! She's awake!" some tattletale shouts. Mr. X. turns around to me.
"Get the body out of here," he points to two men who reluctantly leave. They look at me as if they will miss me. Well, tough luck, guys, I won't miss you, neither in this nor in my next life. The latter, I have a notion, is nearing much faster than I thought. And here's me, who always considered dying just a bad habit of older people.
I still have so many plans. Killing terrorists in Libya, quelling or sparking revolutions in South America, meeting with Carina for a drink, finally getting my own furniture for my apartment in the District. It looks like someone else will have to do all that.
I try to raise my head but fail after an inch or two. Dang drugs. Though lifting my noggin at all feels like a small victory.
"Now, who have we got here? If that isn't the little Polish bitch he brought with him to the party!" X says with a friendliness that sounds like my death warrant.
I wonder if it would make a difference to tell him that I am not Polish after all. Nay, he wouldn't change his mind. He looks like a liberal man, without prejudice against nations, races, genders, or killing girls.
X calls out orders to the men who took Tony away.
"Put him on the big table in the living room. Smash that bottle on his head. Break his teeth, you know what I want. Let everyone see that nobody fucks with me."
So he's old skool. Leaving his trademark but no traces that would lead back to him. Not my style, though. Get in, do a clean job, disappear like a specter.
"And the Polish slut?" a thoughtful fellow asks. "She's seen everything. We can't let her get away."
Thanks a lot, idiot. I hoped no one would notice, haha. Mr. X looks down at me.
"We can't."
He reaches out and touches my face before he slaps me. I don't react. What's the point? I count seven men, and the white cloud in my head is good for another three or four. I need time.
"But she's only on vacation here, if I remember right," X says.
That doesn't sound necessarily reassuring in my ears. Possibly I should have told them that I'm a good American girl.
I try to move my fingers ever so little. It works, but it's work.
If they think that I am actually from Poland and on vacation, then they will assume that nobody's missing me for a while.
"I guess she won't be missed for a while," X explains, and I ponder if I spoke my thoughts out aloud. No, can't be. I try to open my mouth, and this time I actually can voice something.
"Hey!" I gurgle, and it sounds like I spit out something way too hot to eat. There were times when I had been more eloquent.
"Now, what was that?" X asks. "She can open her mouth. Won't do you any good, bitch. One more hole to stuff."
He slaps me hard again, and my head rolls to the side. Mr. X observes me as I strain myself to turn my head back and send him a death glare. That's totally inopportune given my current situation, but it makes me feel better. He notices.
"We have a chick with an attitude here," he fleers.
No, douchebag, women don't have attitudes. They have style and standards.
He grabs my hand and pulls, and I pull back, but not as much as I could have. When my one and only chance comes, I better surprise them and not give away that I am recovering faster than they assume. Much faster.
Concentrate, Walker. You're strong, you're resourceful, you'll find a way to fight all these men and survive.
Walker does Miami. Yeah, Walker, be cynical, be sarcastic! See them as the scum they are!
"You know what?" X slurs to no one in particular. "I guess she will be in that condition for another two hours, give or take. She won't be able to put up any resistance. Let's have fun with her before we put her in the trash or make her meet some sharks."
Ah, trash or sharks. So possibly someone will find me, and I will ride home one final time to Wash D.C. - I wonder what coffin type the CIA uses for agents fallen on duty. Or I end up as the main course on the shark buffet tonight. Will these jerks watch as my abused body is ripped apart? Better people than me have found that fate, so in my patriotic mind, I bow my head before the men of the USS Indy. Considering that - I am not military, but CIA. Still, I want a flag over my coffin and a three-fold handed to my mother at my funeral. Either that or I won't be attending.
X seems to have second thoughts as he checks his pistol and then me. Hey, you don't want to shoot me! What will your men say? Are you all necrophiliacs? You just promised them a juicy, yummy girl. I showered, washed my hair, and put some perfume on me. I am a delicious little brat to have. We Sassy Tomaszewskis are well-known to be real freaks between the sheets. Does 'best ride of your lifetime' ring a bell? All that, 'natch, as long as we're given a chance and don't have a bullet or two in our heads. Gimme some time to recover, and I kill you later.
I am relieved that he does not shoot me straight away. Thank you, X, what a gentle bastard you are.
He sticks the barrel of his gun into my mouth instead. "Suck it bitch," someone shouts. It doesn't taste so good. After he mimics what they all want to do to me, he trails the barrel down my neck and chest and over my stomach. Just as I expect he will finish his work, he takes the barrel with his other hand and hits my head with the grip. I try to give him a stern look, but it comes out momentarily cross-eyed. Now was that necessary, asswipe?
The men walk up to me. Mr. X is the High Priest, and I'm lying here on the sacrificial altar. That was how these virgins in the middle ages must have felt. Pretty unsettling. Who am I kidding? Virgin? I should tell them that the burning of the witch would be more appropriate in my case.
That doesn't seem to be the first time for them, as they expertly handle me. It seems a hundred arms and hands hold me down and undress me at the same time. The way they treat my clothes spells out that I won't need them later anymore.
Would you kindly please sign here so the CIA can send you the invoice for the garment you tore apart?
I see the buttons of my blouse bouncing away as it is ripped open. Funny enough, I notice that one of them doesn't fall soundlessly but makes a clinking sound. There was something about that, but because of the drugs, I forgot. Thoughts come and go, flaring up like flashes on a distant sky, lightening my brain and then leaving it in grayish gloominess again.
I try to squirm and attempt defending myself but get pummeled. A blow to my temple hurts, but I realize I feel my head again. I close my eyes. Don't let them hurt your peepers, Walker, you'll need to see those pigs later – if there is a later in this world for me. I thought dying would be bad, but it seems my last minutes will teach me that there are worse things.
A finger wants to probe me. It's a spot where no one touches me without my permission. But I don't want anything from these jerks. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to enforce that. I swear, I will kill you all. Panic wells up. Before the finger reaches its goal, this time, I trash about with my legs as good as I can.
A brutal fist hits me between the legs, and the ass-hat lands a lucky punch. I can hear myself gasp loudly in dolor and misery. The yell is so loud it echoes in the room, or is it in my mind? Trust me, we girls pack a ton of highly sensitive nerves in a rather small spot there, and if it's on target, we are easily out with one stroke of the fist. Tears shoot not into but from my eyes, and I fear I faint from the pain. Only my willpower keeps me conscious, but I am a few moments occupied to accomplish that and do not register what's going on around me. Sorry, folks, I can't attend to your perversities for the time being.
When the pain ebbs away, and I begin to notice my surroundings again, I am completely nude, and I see those seven men in various stages of undress. Saskia and the seven hoods.
Buddy, with a stomach like yours, I would turn off the light before shelving my clothes. The fat guy of the bunch points at my crotch. "Look at that," he grins. "I bet she's a screamer." Huh? The only reason to scream tonight, as I just learned, will be from pain.
"Where you're going?" a muscular fellow asks X.
"Tony has some great booze down in the restaurant, and we don't know which bottles Wacky has manipulated up here," he grins. "Let's get some."
The beefcake looks at me and plays with my right foot, looking a bit lost—poor fellow. Yes, I can empathize with the dilemma. It's a grave decision for him. Either a naked blondie that will become a free-for-all very soon or a yet sober search for alcoholic refreshment while the others possibly ruin the toy. Speaking of that, I ignore the hand that's pulling on my hair.
"Well, get some, boss, that's what I actually wanted to do right now…"
X laughs. "There'll be plenty left for you. I promise you'll have your fun with her."
He steps closer to the edge of the bed, leans down, and spreads my legs. I try to keep them together, but since I can't give away that I am getting stronger, he succeeds. He starts kneading my left thigh, running his hand up and down, but to my surprise, not going up any further. Then he hits my stomach with a flat side of his hand and starts rubbing it. Thanks, but I didn't order a massage. All I wanted was a lovely evening with the man whose brain you poisoned with lead, and I left open how it ended. Now it seems neither the end nor the decision about it is in my hands.
"See? Well-toned body. She won't quit so soon."
Should I be relieved that I passed his muster? Asshole.
He slaps my breasts twice, and everyone watches. Let's have the Sports Network do a nice slo-mo replay, please, to see me being struck and the reddish marks his dirty fingers leave before they vanish again. Let's hear some live commentary from the press stand.
'You can see how the player's hand stretches, how tightly the fingers are pressed together, how he raises the hand and brings it down with a swift smack. A wonderful example of a breast slap, and now, would you believe it, he repeats the maneuver with the same perfection. Watch how the beaten flesh deforms, moves, gives in to the violence, almost shudderingly coming to a halt a few moments later. A textbook execution!'
It's not that I feel any kind of significant pain.
It is humiliation. Humiliation. H-u-m-i-l-i-a-t-i-o-n. Feeling small and abused and helpless. My nerves are finally giving up. I am screaming from anguish, and nobody can hear me, not even I can. Somebody help me! Help me!
If I had my way and my full powers, X would be dead meat already, but as it looks, that is my destiny. Walker, don't let it control you! Keep it together!
"And a fabulous bounce," X smirks, giving one of my nipples a painful twist for good measure and that bodybuilder a sleazy thumbs-up. "Now, let's get some hooch."
The two men walk out, which leaves me with five men for the time being. A fat one sits down on the chair where his boss had killed Tony. I was all good with him for sitting down. I could never fight all of them together in my condition, as improving as it is, so I was happy if fewer men stood around me.
Seven little criminals, all standing in a line, raping one by one this poor body of mine.
•••••••••••••••••••
A/N (3) This is a serious topic. It is somehow veiled because due to listening to the mindset of our favorite female superheroine, and it is exaggerated to bolster up the second part of this two-chapter-arc's action which, as you can expect, will be dominated by Sarah, but girls and women of all ages all over the world are subject to incredible abuse. The issue is way more than just MeToo. And it is not limited to Hollywood. It is everywhere. If you're a boy, stand up if you see abuse happening – it comes in so many ways. And from WillieGarvin comes a piece of advice that's easy to remember: "Don't be an asshole."