Military senses wouldn't stay down on long journey from the cell; dragged by chains that were hooked to the shackles on his wrists, clamped tightly against his joint whilst they dug into his flesh with unforgiving force. Unconsciousness had swallowed him whole like the unhinged jaws of a python. Thanks to the torture he had endured, his unruly captors were damn near promised an easy time in moving his body like a sack of potatoes. Dragged across the swill coated floors, filth and grime clung to ragged fatigues as they looked as worn out as he felt. The concrete stairs gouged into his sides, each step a stab of pain in the sensitive, exposed areas of broken bones, Extensive injuries were further aggravated as the concrete, ground against abused flesh. The old, rusted metal railing which bumped into him snagged fabric from over his back, opening a gash that left a trail of fresh crimson along the steps, a trail of blood for frickin' Hansel and Gretel to follow. A new scent trail for those undead ghouls trapped within their cells. The only part of their mind that functioned took in his scent, undoubtedly ready to chase his blood that played like bright ruby, upon dirty slate grey floors. Limp, numbing legs dragged along behind him, and how he yearned for them to still possess the physical energy to fight. Instead, they flopped along the stairs to bump and flail unconsciously. Head dangling like a bobble betwixt his shoulders bouncing between them. His skull struck the hump of a stair, briefly seeing pure white rather than the ugly, unwashed floor beneath. It would have been a beautiful change of scenery, but it most likely was a mild concussion. His shoulders being the only raised parts of his body from the tension between the restraints and his captor. Prisoners serving an unseen face, took joy in intentionally dragging him along mercilessly. Fabric tore and snared on every askew object as they refused to give two shits about the dirt stained features that weighed down each of their steps.

Dark, rusty colored red seeped in, staining the personalized combat gear, but one thing those assholes couldn't taint, and that was his B.S.A.A. patch. Twisting and jerking his weary limbs out of position with every yank upon the noisy chain, burning the irritated flesh at the wrists into sores. Arms hoisted up and over his head, the nagging pain was just another of almost a gross of other injuries that plagued the soldier. As an elite soldier, his pain tolerance was high enough that he gave these fucks no satisfaction, despite his angry grunts and the occasional exhale. Some of the pain from wounds across his body he could hardly be remembered, yet it spared him from knowing how certain patches of flesh were missing from his back. Attempting a smirk, it hurt too much and became a grimace, giving thanks to the big guy in the sky that he'd been so recklessly unconscious when they attempted to prolong his suffering. The tortured trail to where ever, was ushered by the hoarse screams of undead, moaning and wailing as if they were victims starved for weeks, all for a piece of his flesh. Bony fingers grasping at a boot as they reached desperately and clawed, only to find the decaying pursuer pushed to the side by the foot of another prisoner. The gray fingers which held a grip were forced to release as it scraped for food. Hungry teeth clacked continuously far behind as the tortured moans grew in number. Finn's screams was the only discernible voice that pierced the hefty bellows of dead throats, squishing and scrapping in their cells. Begging for the return of the man who even then could hear nothing but silence in his subconscious.

"Fucker is heavy. Gotta take him halfway across the fucking compound, for fuck's sake."

He was grateful for that. Dragged halfway across this Hell hole meant being that much farther from Finn. As callous as it sounded out loud, Macauley would only find himself more aggravated with the prospect of what may eventually happen. How could anyone blame him? Macauley wasn't some kind of Hollywood super-soldier. The guy was still a rookie, for Christ's sake. Who else was going to stare him dead in the eye to remind him that they couldn't show fear, that they were the good guys? Good guys win. If anything, he could spare the kid from having to endure any more mental anguish than his body was already going to endure. The only thing Macauley needed to worry about was not giving in, not giving these sons of bitches the satisfaction. Save his strength for the possibility... No.. Even whilst his own bruised body hit the floor without the strength to pull back up, he sighed as the sound of more steps greeted his ears; and to his dismay began the descent. Pulled by gravity, all he could feel was the nagging pain from gaping wounds that hadn't been properly tended to. No... Piers would not nurse the idea of rescue. Nor would he lead himself to believe there was a method of escape in store for the soldier under his command. Piers alone might be able to do so. But it wasn't in him to leave a soldier behind. Finn was green as they come, and only half a soldier, but it was his duty to bring the man safely home. Even upon his own freedom; were that even remotely possible, with his injuries; the sniper knew full well he was incapable of supporting the bomber's weight. Finn would have to carry himself; and with the infection it was a fair bet that by the time Piers was returned to his cell, there explosive's expert would already have succumbed to his gruesome fate. A surge of pain, and static charges of white exploded behind his eyes once more; the nerves within his dislocated kneecap, shooting agony through his thigh and lower back, welling in his intestines. Rolling with gravity, he couldn't stop the awkward cry of pain, met only with a boot within his injured ribs. That alone may not have brought on the wave of sick that bubbled up the acid in his gut; but his sounds were silenced by that the heel of his captor, colliding with his temple until only darkness prevailed like a bass dropping at full volume between his ears.

Whatever pain was wrought was dulled in the subconscious mind. Only indiscernible darkness that filled behind the heavy lids of copper orbs. The trek through the mutilated dim was a blessing for some. For Piers it was yet another death sentence. One can only imagine escape, if they could swallow deep down and remember their way to and from their captor's lair. At this point, in the freezing dark, with only the dim sources of light; the sniper had already begun to lose track of where it was he'd started from. Too much unconsciousness that he never knew of some of the corridors and paths they passed, or just how far down the rabbit hole he'd fallen. There were stairs, two sets, and then the swell of a concussion that threatened his sharper instincts. Finn's voice, pleading... It still rang within his ear drums, making it impossible to hear only the silence; to be alone with his thoughts and recall the details he'd missed. With one of his keenest senses at a loss, and motion no longer an issue; a soldier's first job is to take in the scenario. Prepare yourself and evaluate what exactly you needed to be prepared for. He could be pessimistic whilst dragged like a formless mass down steps, and through shit; but in the end Piers Nivans was a soldier. Even with the reality of their situation heavy in his chest and head, knowing there could be no bleak rescue..., he was unwilling to let fate ever have its way with him. It was easy to die in some hellhole like this. He'd already knew in advance that this chosen profession would be his end; however it wasn't in him to watch Finn die like this, or leave him alone in misery. His own courage and fortitude was too big for that. Even in situations where there was no hope, it had always been Piers to come out of it. He'd never been taken yet, and there would be no chance of his starting that habit now. Conviction, and fortitude, were all he needed, and as long as he still had that much to him, there would be no giving in like some backdoor bitch, to lie down and take it. He had fought since the day he enlisted with the Army, and he wasn't going to stop now.

One by one those senses which seemed only muted, came back to him; only to awaken to the foul smell of the... four walls his captors had deposited him in. Nothing would have prepared him for that fresh reminder of what fresh..., no, stale hell he had found himself. Mold, mildew and the dry scent of old and new ammonia from the urine that stained walls. His gag reflex threatened to work, whilst his body remained motionless. The stained walls had waterfalls of dried sticky fluids; sickening enough to make the air itself rotten. The ringing in his head had died down to that of the ignoble dull roar he experienced when shooting his anti-material without ear plugs; pleasantly something he could ignore to make out his other surrounding noises. The buzz above made a recognizable hum of an uncovered bulb, winking above his head. He didn't care for the prospect much, of moving his body after being unconscious and immobile for near on what felt like a century... Each shift would bring about its own set of problems, however it was his duty to get up and get the fuck out. Therefore finally shifted himself against the stinking, sticky floor; rolling to his bloody back so that his face no longer ran flush with the fluids and grit coating the ground. It was enough to make the healthiest person alive want to shrivel up rather stay in that room for any period of time longer than a second. The rank air made his blurry eyes sting as he tried to focus them, watering the instant he made an effort to bring vision back into the equation; made worse by the intermediate blink of the one eyed light. Shining new light every few seconds whilst he listened further for whatever sounds might make their appearance into his newest equations.

Only taking so much time from already swelling his resolve to gather himself up; vision finally restored, it was plain enough, a man or woman would not step into a room like this voluntarily. Captain Chris Redfield certainly wouldn't lie here like a witless worm, waiting to become part of the grisly decor. A alleviating thought, which made it easier to remember, just how long their fearless leader would spend kicking his ass, for walking himself into this mess. They would simply have to survive and explain it to him; once the unwavering leader of Alpha team had discovered their disappearance. It had been near on 50 hours since his last check in, by his figuring, and if he knew their Captain as well as he liked to think..., after hour one without a response from their coms, he would have already called in H.Q. about this, with a demand that they double back. They'd say no, because casualties were casualties, but it wasn't in the six foot giant to cave in. Nor was it in him. A relieving thought to know that Chris Redfield was out there, effectively searching the world for two missing special agents. His compulsion to save people was that akin to a St. Bernard, shoving through the icy snows for days. If he expected that much of his captain, the least he could do was nurture the idea, that he was strong enough to get them out alive.

Once padded walls were torn and yellow with time, areas darker than others because of the urine stains that had never been washed off. Black mold was growing along the corners of the floor and up the walls where the wet could be visibly seen, even from the center of the room where they dumped him. Where it had run off into. The flesh of his cheek was stinging from being against the floor, and with a sneer of distaste he knew why. Injuries left to settle against this caked mess on the ground would be inviting infection with open arms. This, indeed, must be what Hell was like..., but as far as the circles of Hell went, he was definitely in the one smelling of shit. For the most part. Coughing and choking involuntarily on the mildew strewn air, his body naturally curled in; suddenly made aware of every cracked, fractured, and broken bone along his rib cage, and back. His cry was muted, as gathering back his strength become a necessity, before anyone had the chance to realize that he was awake. If they indeed cared. For all he knew, he was being placed here to be forgotten about and become part of the decor of this rancid filth. He'd been in worse situations. Disgusting as this was, he had to remind himself that he was alive, and that in this particular instance that he wasn't being torn apart by undead monsters. He'd seen his fair share of monsters, and these..., people, weren't even close. Rather than continue his self-torture of admiring the scenery, however, it was time to finally take a look at himself, and get a good idea of what it was he was looking to have to push through in order to get Finn out of here in one piece.

Before ever moving himself, there was freedom to his wrists, that he was painfully aware of. In his unconsciousness they had fallen to his sides; using his arms to prop up upon his elbows, for a better look. Though they took his shackles off, the sniper instantly became aware of the stiffness from making an effort to move his hands or wrists. The kind that told him a story of how long it was that he'd been lying in this filth. All those years in training, and every hour spent on the range. Dumping almost 450 rounds downrange every week, you learn what the body is capable of. Where the proper aches and pains settled in from that routine action. The stress from the torture made the muscles in his entire body tense, unable to fully act on his will. But his right arm was going to be completely useless. The mechanics of firing a weapon was the same for both hands, but that didn't stop a righty from having trouble shooting left. A habit he'd kicked in academy, so he knew he could manage without. The strain of the chain had dislocated the wrist. That on its own wouldn't have stopped him from firing, not with the amount of struggle he'd learned to endure over the years, but running the fingers of his left hand over the swollen joint, he could feel the broken bones that had snapped under the squeezing pressure. The carpal bones, and meta carpal were too damaged to even hold his own weight, whilst pushing his body upright, let alone swallowing the fierce-some kick back of a .50 caliber rifle. Being dragged by chains had done in the feeling in his hand nothing left but a dull tingling. Both pinkies broken, and his left hand middle finger out of place. Seated upright at last; he cupped the dislocation, and coddled it only for a second; psyching out his mind that nothing was going to happen to it, just before yanking it back into position; groaning with his mouth clamped shut, hissing through his nose. The left hand wouldn't close proper around the right wrist, but pinning it the floor with the heel of his boot, allowed him to yank it with a unsettling crunch that caused fluid to rush to the area. Hazel eyes widened, irises pinpoint from the pain as he fought to muffle his voice into his shoulder, spit clinging to his lip as he gasped for air, shuttering from the pain. It was a terrible position to be in, the cold stone floor, where the padding had been torn out smelling as much of decay as the air. If he didn't get up soon, his wounds would surely get infected if they weren't already. He had no idea how long he had been in that room.

When the soldier was finally able to sit up, he had been able to get the full look of the room. It was worse than he had imagined. Old cobwebs full of dust and small debris hung all over the corners of the ceiling. Piers looked behind him at the rusted steal door that lead to the corridor and found the opening slammed shut before he could really memorize the color of the eyes that had been watching his movements as he awoke. The soft footsteps that drifted away told him that the door was think and heavy, and that at least one person gave a shit that he was still alive. The young sniper had to keep his calm and be patient if he was to survive this kind of hell. that was when it came to standing... His kneecap bulged beneath the bloodied, disgusting fabric that covered the joint; at least obscuring that much from view. His shemagh still dangled about his neck, suffocating in it's tightness about his throat, as it stuck to the ground from the bloody bits still trapped inside it. He could forget sometimes that he wore it, hanging loose about his neck and hiding any other bits of flesh from view, but in that moment it made itself known, just enough to remember what he had to do. Plying the mesh from about his neck in loose ringlets that landed in a fabric heap upon his lap, Piers eyed the injury to his leg once more. It'd need a splint... Splints take too long. They limit motion. And right now he needed all the motion he had left. All he could do was line up the necessary parts, and set it. Anything further, and it was almost evident he'd never walk without a limp. This wasn't just a dislocated kneecap..., it was a dislocated knee.

Strangely the difference meant all the world. When the knee is dislocated, damage to the peroneal nerve is more than likely, particularly in this case, since he could already feel the destruction of his limb and the nerves and tendons that had snapped as a result. If he was lucky he'd muscle through it. Unlucky, he'd lose the ability to move his foot right, and make it impossible to run again. He would force himself..., its called a superman complex, when you work passed the normal parameters of what the human body is capable of, and survive long enough to save the person you are hell bent on saving. He'd help Finn... no matter about the injury. The displaced cap was all he was going to bother with for now, to cover the nerves, even without knowing they would function properly, you have to do something. Never putting his full weight upon the joint; the mesh always about his neck, found itself bound about his upper shin, tied in tight klemheist knot. Tentatively, fingers found the lump within his thigh meat, quickly reconsidering; and grasping the piece of his rigs that were still caught in their loops, yanking it free and placing a bit between the teeth. Jaw clenched, fortitude built within his chest, turning his face into his shoulder. His scream was muffled only by the black rig in his mouth whilst the cap in his hands jostled the loose knob of bone, sliding it into position as quickly as he could; features turning red starting from his cheeks until all his unique countenance were coated with stress; whilst tying up and wrapping the upper part of this leg for support. All of it wrapped, he would at least taking in a huge gasping breath, falling backward, the bit falling from his mouth, harnessing the rest. Laying with his 30 degree bent joint, restraining himself from coddling the injury and causing further harm, Piers swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat, mustering what adrenaline from the pain he could, to at least prepare himself to stand.

"You have to forgive me..." A sickly voice carried to exhausted ears; enough to make him jump; as the rusted door gave, creaking with the sound of a thousand years behind it. Had he had the power in him to do so, he would have rushed it. The sound of feet crossing the room with such slow cadence, greet his finer senses. Relax the senses. Be sharp. Raising his head, the sniper took in the sight. The metal slot closing as the great door to the lion's den snapped shut. A man as well put together as perhaps Charles Manson; clad in that unique uniform. WARDEN, proudly upon display with a golden breast pin, the menacing grin suggested that of inmate. "I have been waiting a long while to meet you." Shuffling weight to his heels, in a speed version of a crab walk, the sniper pushed his back against the wall. Using leverage to hobble himself to a partially standing position, wedged against the wall for stability; blessing the adrenaline for granting him that much speed. Hands braced upon the snags of ruined padding along the walls, shuffling in the opposite direction as the so called 'Warden' as he neared. Attention to detail was The predatory method of speech wasn't the only reasoning behind the sudden jump in the sniper's heart rate. Rather the wild look in the eyes that were gobbling up the vision of the sniper's struggle to his feet; or how drastically aware he was that he seemed like a cornered lion. Bracing weight to the leg that could yet take it, leaving him without agility. No weapons; but he was trained to be a human weapon by his captain, he didn't need anything but his hands to kill a man. And even if his knee was ruined, and his hands were needed to keep himself upright, he would never stop fighting. Silence is the best interrogator. If you give someone time to talk, and they will spill all their secrets; and give him time to put together a thought or two about how systematically rip off this man's face off his skull.

Nearing with painstaking slowness of pace, eyes raked over him, devouring the sight of the sniper's physical condition, until coming to a grotesque feast upon the shift of weight from one leg to the other. Even whilst attempting to make the obviousness of his own physical impairment less so, the man before him examined the way he moved. For anyone else looking at him, his injury wouldn't have seemed as bad as it truly was. Perhaps a limp, or at most a tweaked joint; however, all his careful planning didn't seem to hide it from this man. All creeping aside, the sniper jerked back his leg at the knee, his calf tightening as the 'Warden' grinned wide, watching the adjustment and before the sniper could manage himself to put weight upon the joint; a hand snapped out, like a viper striking; a hand grasped hold of his kneecap, only set just seconds before. Their bodies crushed against one another, the taller man almost a foot towering over Piers; and with the younger man slumped against the urine stained padding; even shorter still. Finer features pushed against the weight of the other man's chest, pinning him there, unable to speak but for the grimace of pain. "May I?" Without warning, the molding grip squeezed tighter, grinding the bones together enough to make the sniper force himself to stifling a cry. "Ahhhh yesss..." The gravelly low purr melded with that of the sniper's tenor yell, squeezing tighter and groping the injury; causing the grip the sniper maintained on the wall to whiten his knuckles. Furious fingers, wrapped in the rigging supporting his injury, twisting it tighter until he could feel the kneecap shifting, until it bulged on the side; tendons swelling and screaming with pain. Baring the weight of another body was becoming a burden and with his face shoved against the piss stained walls, Piers was unable to see the flutter of eyelids and the aroused musk of pleasure that flowed upon feeling the lump of the joint wobble with each grope; flesh bunching.

"Yessss... feel the pain? Its... beautiful." Bony fingers, gripped the kneecap violently, nails gouging into the joint whilst giving it a violent jerk, chuckling darkly as a shoulder shoved Piers' body back, forcing him to flat against the grime. Without preamble the urge to touch seemed unfulfilled, hands furiously ripping at the fabric that guarded the wound; fibers of his fatigues snapping under pressure; and his captor growling like a maniacal beast until it was bare, ripping and jerking at the shemagh that protected it. "Delicious... Oh, you are beautiful. Look at you. And here I had prepared myself for such a disappointment." The conversation was between the sniper's knee, and that of his unhinged captor, still yet groping his injury; fingering the cap that he could move with ease. "But oh, you are... so much more. Let me..., no no, let me do that." For all he was worth, moving had become less of an option, however he tried to pull away, one hand releasing the balance of the wall behind him to jerk a backhand that almost landed it's mark upon the face of his captor; until the shift of weight allowed the man to stand him up like a rag doll; feeling hands on his thigh and knee, shoving it down back until there was a crack, the grinding of bones against the wall; his scream trailing, as a bellowing laughter of piercing sound filled the air, his leg manipulated until it was flush despite his skeleton's refusal to do so until it gave out, and cracked. "Theeeere. That's better now, isn't it. Look at that..., pretty bone, I can almost taste it." Piers didn't want to see it. He could feel it as a hand cupped the injury and the out of place bone grinding his palm into it, massaging the wound; wincing as sweat poured down his neck from trying to keep consciousness throughout. "Oh... and you are special, aren't you..., Agent Nivans? That is your name, isn't it? Agent... Nivans, Piers? So convenient, those pretty little jewels you wore around your neck. B.S.A.A. What does that stand for I wonder? Never you mind... That doesn't matter now. No. You are... a present. That's right, a gift from God, just for me."

"I'm going put you in your grave."

Blood spattered from pouted lips, teeth grit together, as his jaw clenched at the feeling of those hands squeezing the torn tissue and muscle, nestling up against it. "Now, now, Agent Nivans, no need for that. So filthy... Your mouth is deceiving, isn't it? All pouted and sweet, but your words are like poison... The outside should match the in, don't you think? Can you be good for me, Agent Nivans? Or do you suppose, a hammer for your pretty white teeth?" Silence was earned, and the man who clung to his leg as though Gollum from one of those fantasy movies that Macauley went on about. "That's better. That's what I thought. The way the soldiers try to be brave. But they break... they all break. It starts with the poison words, and the fighting spirit, but in the end they always break... Whenever they see Agatha. But you..., you killed Agatha. She was so beautiful, don't you think?" Bloodied lips, grimaced, imagining that the creature they called Agatha was the one that had taken its hefty sized chunk of flesh from Finn Macauley's calf. Sycophants. "Mmm, you are one of a kind. Never cried, never losing control," Jerking his head, a mouthful of yellowed teeth smiled down at him, releasing the leg and both hands coming up, one about his neck, the other, stroking his bleeding cheek. "But you don't understand, Nivans. Nono, you don't understand. Not yet. You see, these infected, these beautiful... zombies if you will. They are exactly on the outside, who we all are on the inside. And this beautiful work of art,"wild eyes flickered downward, indicating the wound he seemed more than captivated by. "That work of art is just the beginning. What right do you have to hide what you really are on the inside, by pretending to be so brave. No, no, you should have to look just like the rest, Agent Nivans. They shouldn't see this..., superficial exterior. Your flawless, pretty flesh. They should see whats in your ugly, disgusting heart. And I'm going to make this," a hand splayed across the sniper's face, about to mold over his features when teeth nearly caught that hand, jerking it back quickly. "Oh yes, I'm going to make this, perfect. I can't wait... This I want to taste." Hazel sharp eyes, still rattled from their concussion narrowed and settled on the face before him, those eyes from the parted blinds, and the heavy breathing from the intercom the final give aways that this was indeed the man responsible for their capture. "Go ahead... ask what?" The words were a kind of disgusting kindness; fingers drawing a heart on the side of the sniper's face in blood, smearing it with his palm once he'd finished and grinding Piers' face into the cement. "Assskkk me..."

"What do you want to taste?"

"Your tears."