3.
"'Cause it's 5 o'clock, the hour stops the sunlight,
the buildings shade the masquerade and kill time,
here we're nothin' more than fools and whores and sad highs,
through the summer sand, we're living in a wasteland."
As she rolled back and forth on the floor of the van, the only conscious thought she could process was his name, simply because it had always helped her before. Though she'd never openly admit it, it was true. Mac always saved her in one way or another, physically or mentally. Whenever she felt like giving up, she thought of Mac, and suddenly the strength to go on was available; abundant, even.
So now, as she lay with her wrists tied behind her back, scrubbed raw by the rope, she kicked as she thought of Mac. She screamed against the cloth that had been balled up, shoved into her mouth, and taped over. In her head, there he was—the voice comforting her on the phone, the man saving her from her own apartment. Smiling, laughing, working. Trying his hardest to find her and save her life.
She stopped writhing and stared at the van's floor. Hot tears stung her eyes pitifully. Her Glock. That was all she needed—her gun. She was free if she had that.
But she didn't, and she would have to improvise.
The van jerked to a halt and her captor left the driver's seat. Something she hadn't expected surprised her—a second door slam.
The back doors of the van flew open, ushering the previously warm but now frosty breeze into her prison. Roughly, the man heaved her to her feet, dragging her out of the warmer captivity.
"Don't try any tricky shit," he advised, and produced a shotgun from the back of the car, "or you both die."
"Both?" she questioned, and started to turn.
A shot rang out right by her ear, temporarily deafening her, and she cried out lowly. Someone punched her back.
"Keep walking," he instructed. "Call me Isaac. We're going to a warehouse, and you're going to die."
There was scuffling, and then there was a boy walking next to her—at least six feet tall, pale as a ghost, but not any more than eighteen—with a sickly bruise blossoming on his cheek. He looked terrified. She attempted to smile reassuringly at him, but with the state she was in, it probably looked more bitter and sarcastic than anything.
"Why?" Stella whispered at Isaac, and he flashed an ugly grin, dangling a blindfold between his fingers.
"Why not, Detective?"
"Mac, Mac, Mac!" Danny flew to his feet and crossed behind his boss's desk, which was still shuddering and creaking after being punched powerfully. "Mac. Listenna me, will you? She's gonna be fine. Stella's not gonna let herself get hurt, get me? Do you even understand who we're talkin' about? Stella Bonasera. She doesn't just go down without a fight." He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, exhaling loudly.
"I let her get away!" said Mac, shaking his head furiously as he stared up at the ceiling. "I should've gone faster, I should've driven. I shouldn't have let her out of my sight!"
"Mac," Danny's hand found Mac's shoulder comfortingly. "From the way Flack talks about how fast you were goin', I think it woulda taken longer if you'd taken a fucking race car. You did all you could, but it just wasn't enough this time. It happens from time to time. We don't know what this man's got up his sleeve. But I do know Stella, and I know you. I know that you won't rest until you blaze a trail right through this shit and find her and take her home."
The back of Mac's office chair was caving in beneath his fist as Danny spoke. His inspirational speech was having the opposite effect on him—in fact, he felt like he was suffocating in the kind words, his breaths becoming shorter and faster.
"If she gets hurt, Danny... if she breaks a bone, if he shoots her, if he..." he squeezed his eyes shut and turned away. "If he violates her, if he lays a finger on her, if she comes back in less than perfect condition, I will not be able to look at myself in the mirror for a long, long time."
"Mac, listenna me, will ya? It's not your fault, man."
From the middle of his chest, Mac released a wicked snarl, and punched the desk harder.
Instantly, his hyperventilating slowed and he leaned against his desk, folding his arms and placing his head on top of them. Stella would be able to help me now, he thought to himself, but didn't utter a sound.
Almost the entire floor of the office had gone silent, only the quiet beeping of a copy machine breaking the awkwardness. Flack came to the door with Hawkes close behind. Danny gave Mac a one-armed "manly" hug, looking helplessly up at his two fellow CSI. They shrugged, both equally as unexperienced with an emotional Mac as everyone else was.
Flack took a step forward and ushered Danny out of the way. "Mac," he murmured, a firm hand on Mac's shoulder, the other rubbing his back in circles. "We're going to get her back. There's no other way to say it—Stella's not dead, nor is she going to die. We're going to get her back."
Mac exhaled and pushed himself up, continuing to brace himself against the desk. He managed a nod and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Get back to the evidence," he directed.
Danny nodded with determination and pivoted, taking off down the hall. Flack lingered a moment, his concerned eyes bearing holes in the side of Mac's head. His boss offered a shake of his head and then motioned toward the door with it. "I'll be okay, Don," he muttered tightly. Unclenching his teeth, he sighed again.
"Get the fuck in there," Isaac spat, and slammed the door to the basement.
A hand on Stella's elbow prevented her from falling headlong down the flight of concrete stairs as she removed her blindfold.
When she turned, she saw the boy grinning at her. "Thank you," she whispered, and continued down the steps.
Before she'd been blindfolded, she'd seen a warehouse—tall, wide, grey and industrial-like. But now she knew she was underground—a small, rectangular window at ground level was the only other exit and source of heat and light besides the door.
Thoughtfully, she stood in the stream of light, shivering when she realized she could see her own breath.
"My name's Seth," the boy said in a naturally quiet, smooth voice. He sat casually against a pillar without making eye contact, instead staring down at his hands. "I'm seventeen. Started senior year recently... I'm doing really well."
Stella nodded uncomfortably and began searching.
She ran her hands along the cool cement of each of the walls, testing for weak spots, or something that could help her escape. There had to be something. There was always something, as Mac liked to say.
"I graduated at the top of my class junior year. Aced the SATs." Words seemed to roll off his tongue—Stella thought of a gentle stream every time he spoke. "I want to go to an arts college—maybe be a sculptor."
When she finally decided the room was empty of almost anything that could help her, she dragged a giant pile of musty blankets over to where he was seated, taking a seat a normal distance from him. "I play some guitar," he admitted. When he turned to face the door, his shaggy dark brown hair fell into his face, hiding it from her. "My birthday's in June."
It was silent after that. She handed him a blanket and placed a couple over her own body.
There was something about this kid that she couldn't place, but it was off. He sat for a few moments, his mouth making shapes but not words, seemingly trying to decide what to say. Finally, he sighed again and looked down. "So's yours."
Stella cocked her head to one side, but then froze when she realized what he meant. "So's my what?"
"Birthday." Cloudy grey eyes met hers. "The ninth, right?
The cloudiness of his eyes didn't go unnoticed by her. They were murky, a milk tone over the stormy.
Stella felt her heart rate multiplying and took a deep breath. One crisis at a time.
"How do you know my birthday?" She kept her voice even and strong.
He shook his head. "You're a cop, right?"
She nodded wearily.
"You're going to think I'm a part of this." He looked away. "You're going to blame me. I don't want to go to jail, Detective Bonasera. I've put up with so much—"
"How did you know my name?" she demanded, now becoming suspicious and defensive. "Seth—"
He stood up and kicked the empty dresser against the far wall.
It clicked in Stella's head then. He walked around the room with a sense of familiarity. He'd known where the pillar had been to lean against it, and he hadn't searched an inch. He'd known. Even if he wasn't blind or becoming so, any normal person would've looked for a way out with Stella.
"You've been here before," she said. "You're blind, too."
"Not blind," he growled. "Close enough to it. At least my sketches and sculptures don't suffer from it."
"But you know this place."
He nodded curtly once and scoffed. "Know this place? I fucking live this place, Stella. Look at me—I'm a fucking ghost. Do I look like I get sun to you? He locks me down here and leaves me here. Gives me a pencil and a piece of fucking paper and tells me to entertain myself, to draw myself out of this mess. Sculpt myself a knife to kill him with. He didn't accept me when I wanted to be a fucking artist. He wanted me to be a cop, like you—wanted me to be a marine. He wanted to capture your friend, Mac Taylor, but when he realized that he had his gun on him, he went for the next best prize."
Stella shook her head wildly, ignoring it when her curls hit her in the face. "Explain yourself."
"I just did!"
"Are you his son, Seth?
Seth stopped and paled. "I've never been his son. I've got his DNA, but I've never been a child to him. I'm a fucking prisoner."
He walked back to the pillar and sank to his knees, leaning his head against it. "He was obsessed with you, Stella. He watched you, fantasized about you. Obviously, he's a fucking whack job. Never takes his medicine. And now that he's got you," he looked up with a frightened glance, "he's not going to want to let you go. Not alive, anyway."
Stella wrapped the blankets around her and rose, standing near the window, looking up with hope in her eyes.
Seth closed his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"So am I," she responded. But she wasn't ready to give up yet.
And neither would Mac.
a/n: songcred: "Wasteland", Augustana.
just realized i suck at writing, too many commas and shit.
sorry, i'll try to improve.