Bokeh lights shimmered and danced in tiny little specks just outside of reach. Sweltering heat of a fever bloomed from the festering, unhealthy flesh wrapped and poorly treated at Finn Macauley's calf muscle. or what was left. Gritty bits of something felt like glass were working their way into the injury, yearning to be itched but for the film of sweat accumulating and sopped into the wrapping. One hand trembled downward over the rookie's quad, the digits of that right hand wadding into the wet fabric and balling in an attempt to bore out the overwhelming addiction to scratch. Filth would soon cause the flesh to rot, and the wafting scent of decay would rise along with his body temperature. The skyrocketing flood of bacteria was going to fester its way into locking up every tendon by autolysis, until the joint itself refused to move, and once that thought became reality, all thoughts of escape could fly like mockingbirds out the open window. Dirty rivulets of salt clung and manufactured at an alarming rate along the trunk of the bomber's throat and pores, the younger man's face oozing from each beat red portion of flush cheeks. Muggy dampness of the cell began to bend reality behind seagreen orbs the iron bars melting away with his blurred vision, and became the framing of the window panes which overlooked the north Pacific Ocean.
Hallucinations of childhood overtook his sanity, staring out that window toward the sunny day, that bright bridge which extended across the waters. Longing to see those most beautiful of places which a child could not truly comprehend. That world was so small, yet to believe that the mass of water which surrounded San Francisco was just a drink in the great ocean, spawned the idea that a child so small could be anything. Toddlers and infants have the potential to become anything. Now reaching for the window pane, watching the boats pass by, while unheard, nefarious chuckles were filtered from this poetic scene dabbling about in the explosive technician's sight. To be anything, and yet here in this dank underworld, was to lose his mortality to the sickness which swam up through the veins, unable to be fought. Mr. and Mrs. Macauley thought that their child one day be something more accomplished, perhaps with his penchant for the inner workings of technological wiring, a computer networker, or designer. Careers with a zero percent mortality rate. Their faces glowed to look upon the cherub face of their child with boundless possibilities while its insides were eaten away with blight. Arteries began to darken with their strangulation of oxygen, feeding themselves sludge like blood heading up toward the heart, and pumping the zombifying disease out into the other extremities. The rookie could feel it, like cancer spreading and stealing away mental faculties such as thought. No matter how keen it was to chase the white rabbit, Finn forced away those memories which gave soul satisfying placidity, and gave a curt shake of the head.
Vertebra popped with the forceful twist, grimacing at the sound it made and deeply embedded within the flesh to vibrate deep down the spinal column. Everything hurt. Pain was subjective term, or so those at the B.S.A.A. would have you believe in training. The body is physically capable of sustaining endless damage so long as the mind is willing to continue its long suffered fight, which is where Finn chose to put faith. Allowing bravery or stupidity to well up in the chest enough to forget the damp sweat saturated limbs, and contract each joint inward, including that of the wounded leg, which instantly refused support on the part of the body. Shuffling each limb beneath, the blood which gushed from the serrated hole within the calf was at least stifled by that of the makeshift tourniquet. If very lucky, he would be provided a surgeon from the B.S.A.A. who specialized in limb removal who would make it possible to lose the leg entirely but not his life; if not…
Resolve grew as hands shimmied up the bars alongside the torso of the rookie's body, smearing away stinging tears and sweat from sea-breeze eyes, still hazy with what could have been if childhood hopes and dreams had not also extended into patriotism or self-sacrifice. Those sorts of thoughts which bred self-doubt and loathing while the triumphant jailors watched on with menacing eyes. "Wh… where?" Lips were numbed, dry and crackling with the effort of crafting new words, the croak of a toad which inquired after the AWOL commanding officer had desperately cautioned against doing so. Still defiance earned away the title of rookie, as Finn's gloved mitts gripped with resilience about the bars before his Irish visage, for both confidence and balance. "Where did you take him? Where is Piers?" A thundering anxiety began to patter the heart fast enough to keep lips breathing and quivering, despite the determination behind the words. Murky oculars danced a loopy waltz whilst attempting to clear up their sight, hoping to blink away the haziness and replace it as they finally landed, half lidded upon a figure which stepped closer. The drain in energy it took to stand as well as focus the remains of it upon that man which dared forward; made it impossible to be near as forceful nor intimidating as intended, even while connecting dots within the skull. Despite the lack of answer, that man he sought would never permit for either soldier to give in fight simply in hopes of maintaining life. Life was worth nothing if those lasting moments were still to be ended with the remote chance of being turned against that fellow man to devour him as some undead cannibal. "Where did you take him?
Deadened green sickeningly drew in the shadow of the outsider, Finn's right fight trailing down the side of that one uninjured leg, clutching the fabric at the hip, while fingertips began to work routinely at what they knew well. "Gotta speak up, closed mouths don't get fed. I didn't take anybody nowhere, ain't that right, boys?" Cleaning his nail with a small box-cutter, faceless heads nodded in the dark while accompanying male voices grunted in agreement. "Heh. Hey, listen, uh... he's, like, your faggot, right? Piers is it?" Snickering voices were pathetically stifled as the one man continued: "I mean that's what you jarheads are like, right? Bunch a'guys doin' push-ups, shave each others heads, learn to suck a dick after not lookin' at girls for a long time, right?" Jerking his hand lazily in the masturbatory fashion. "No, I know. You're, like, a sensitive guy. Hear that? Chum here is concerned about Ken doll." Cracked teeth, and poor hygiene stank up the nostrils, whilst this tyrant came closer, Finn sagging his weight to the bars while shifting the tightened knots of fabric without attention, huffing for air and spitting a glob of crimson dirt to the floor. "You want to know where he is, corpse kabob? I'll tell ya." Faded jail bird stripes of black on white gave something for eyes to settle upon over the nondescript face; blotched with acne and sarcasm; winding belted rigs about the fist which slowly undid the bits about the waist, making certain to maintain attention on his own haggard appearance rather than the busy fingers gathering a proper hold upon the looped fabric in one hand. "We dragged that piece of shit through all our piss, and left 'im for the Warden. Right now he's got him in corrections… Do you…, hey, do you know what happens in corrections, McNugget?" Murmuring roused from all those surrounding; burbling from them all whilst Finn took stock of every word. Strength failed in the limbs, as well as the coming waves of dizziness and ill which threatened to wash up over the features, turning pallor green. There would be no powerful show of physical prowess, but gravity… gravity could be a man's worst enemy. Just a few more steps closer and the worms of exhaustion leadening each limb would be heeded. "Ken doll ain't comin' for you. You can kiss those nigger-lips good-by-
Over the horizontal bar which held fast the others, Fin slipped his waist rig through like lasso with ease; accuracy skewed from sickly irises, though roping the cattle with simplicity before turning on the sorry sack of roped meat. About the neck of the assaulter his thumb-nail scratching the surface of the skin, the force of gravity tugged the bomber's weight downward whilst sagging off his feet, the opposing end wrapped up in calculating fingers, use to dealing with wires and explosives on a daily basis. The hangman's noose trapped that neck of the enemy into a gurgling fuss, cranium snapping against the cold metal with a dull thud, the world of buzzing and angered 'guards' fading out while Finn slumped ever downward, refusing to release the rigging which suffocate that man which would disgrace his companion. Drained of all ambition, the roaring of voices was nothing but a muted thrall, shoved and booted at until grasping hands flopped to their sides useless. Calloused, filthy hands ripped and torn, Finn's consciousness failing him while the confirmation of the dead man was made by those who would screech their fury; sliding sideways along until Finn's body struck the dais, grunting at contact.
"Motherfucker! I'm gonna kill 'im.
"Warden got a new pet. Says he gotta turn!" Get your hands off me!" Struggles of two arms clasping into a full nelson about the backside of the neck, maintained a perfect lock to stop any further fighting for freedom. No hierarchy among murderers, simply the one dictator above all. Together their fear protected their leader, but without guidance they were simply that. Killers. Straining muscles knotted up, working up until there was no resistance, released with a shove between those for the assumption of power over each other. Anger was not quelled, only the lash out of physical violence. A howl much like that of a banshee or territorial display of a male lion to any who might seek to overthrow them. That thud of corpse beside the inert form of Finn's body, unjarred by the deadman's box cutter gnawing through the rig belt which dangled about the throat, and thrown in its pieces at the unphased soldier.
"You think because I can't kill you, I won't bleed you!? You ain't scary in here, boy, and I'll fuckin' show you where he is! Here!" Outrage bellowed in voices Finn no longer heard, unconscious with both eyes open, one irritated to the point of burning as vessels exploded, with little regard to it. T-virus doing its job on the nervous system that slowly deadened while captors continued on. Raging… The click and hiss of a radio static buzzed noisily in one ear as another jailor came beside, smashing the device against the backside of a rattled skull while vigorously flipping channels until the entire room filled with a gut wrenching scream. One that brought life to minty eyes that jolted open, scrambling for that radio which was yanked just out of reach to hear that tenor scream. "Yeah, that shut you up good. Choke on it, you stupid little bitch. And when he's done with him? You won't tell him from a faggot to a hole in the wall, I'll make sure he holds my pocket before I put his cut fingers in 'em."
Finn's fingers grasped, reaching and straining against those bars, blocked by the body of the dead man he left there, while a taunting smile sat lopsided on that man which he had spurn the ego of. The radio clicked as it was set upon the ground just out of reach, straining for with tears welling up and streaking a longer nose, hearing that bewildering sorrow. A sound which bewildered and horrified him. Swiping at the device, Finn cried out in anguish his own voice matching that of Piers' as a large boot came smashing down upon digits, crushing and cracking of bone disfigured. A second stomp pinned Macauley's hand to the ground beneath the rubber, smothering it into bloody joints splitting through flesh and fabric.
"'Tut tut, Agent Nivans. All that screaming… We only just begun.'
Glassy orbs dribbled salt down to well into the corners, trembling the length of a longer nose, though not from the pain of broken digits as one expected, but the fierce degradation of the person who had into countless battle. That sound which could only be made from the application of extreme pain. Dripping tears trickled to chapped lips, and the skinned chin which ground against bars and cement at the base of the cell; groping for that radio which acted as the implement of heartache. Broken fingers refused to behave, even as the physical command of their owner was drained by the constant strain upon his system, working against the clock which would eventually lead to his own transformation into one of those things, and the single flicker of hope which the sat radio that had once belonged to the sniper being tormented; might be used as a one way ticket for their salvation. Those radios which were distributed to each individual of Alpha team, including that of their Captain. The very thought of the heroic symbol which drew so many to the cause incurred a gasp to stagger from Finn's abused mouth, tasting the tiny beads of sweat and tears which dribbled downward on his face. To believe in a cure or a place beyond this one, where he might see the faces of family members, portrait on the walls of a home long absent from. To see those of a team he now considered to be brothers in arms which he trusted wholeheartedly. It wasn't safe to nurture such thoughts, not as the corrosion of his body counted down the seconds and minutes it took to use effort rather than reserve those last few hours which he may have at survival. That tiny little black box which toughened pads grazed just as another boot came exploding down upon them, sending it to skitter across the floor, and his own hoarse voice to bellow into the air along with that of Alpha's own A.T.L.