A/N: All translations are at the bottom of the page.

Rewritten: 7/19/2015

CHAPTER THREE
Lucky Fellow

The first thing he noticed was that his head hurt.

There was a throbbing that intensified with his pulse. Every heartbeat he could feel specifically in his head. It was weird, and it was painful.

He sat up, slowly, unsurely. How long had he been out? Memories were fuzzy. One of the last things he remembered was the phone call. The blurred image of a struggle and, finally, darkness. Now he was here, wherever here was.

This place was gloomy, and reminded him all too well of a prison cell: cold and uncomfortable. The walls were gray, the floor was rough, and the door was steel. Steel, with a small window - minus the glass. He could fit his arm through it, maybe. All the light came from that little opening; it was the kind of set up for a horror movie.

Feliciano tried to get to his knees when a strike of pain shook him. He winced and paused. Grabbing at his forehead, he felt cloth instead of skin. A bandage of sorts, nearly soaked through. A small amount of pressure on the wounded area not only stung, it also left crimson on his fingertips. He needed to rewrap the it soon, or he'd pay in the long run.

He was deciding which article of clothing would work best for bandages when he heard movement outside of the room. He watched the door open slowly, but only jumped when someone spoke.

"Ciao!" they yelled – loud enough to spook him and sent a wave of pain through his head. He winced and flinched, a "squeak" slipping through his lips. His first reaction was to cower. Cover his head, curl up, and turn away; because he knew this wound was fresh and he had a feeling the person who gave it to him wasn't far. But when no strike left him pained or dazed, he opened his eyes. One after the other, until he was peering up at the stranger.

They didn't fit.

The room was so dull and sad but they were the exact opposite. Vibrant and bright: clean cut blond hair, crisp white jacket, light pink scarf, and a pair of fitting shades. He looked like a runway model.

"Scusa, if I frightened you. I thought you saw me." The man smiled and Feliciano forced a grin of his own. This was awkward, this was weird, he wanted to leave. But he was trapped, with this man successfully blocking the exit. He looked Feli up and down, sizing him up and eying the bandage. The man opened his mouth to speak when his voice was cut off with a slam. They both jumped, and as the man turned to look back into the hallway, Feliciano could hear the pounding of boots against concrete.

A group was nearing, and his heart raced. There went any chance of escape.

The man quickly left the room, closing the door behind him. There was a moment of calm and quiet, before the peace was shattered. Yelling erupted outside the room, and Feliciano scrambled. He was trembling, his head was pounding, and all he could do was clumsily scoot back into a corner. Tears coated the rims of his eyes as he waited in unsettling anticipation.

All of this was terrible.

He was confused, scared, and would dig his way out of this madhouse if that was the only way he'd escape. But there was no time to devise a plan, not even close. The shouts grew louder as they drew closer to the door. There was a slam against the steel, and then silence. Feliciano held his breath as the pause faded. Footsteps out of the hallway calmed him down for the moment, but that calm quickly changed to horror.

The door slowly opened. Inch by inch it seemed, he wondered if this was some game or a chance to flee. Hesitance and fear was enough to convince him to sit in spot for just a while longer, see if this was fate telling him to run or a trap. His answer came quickly.

There was a whirl of steel cutting air. He didn't understand what was going on until the knife was in view.

Panicked, he dodged hard to the side. The blade stuck into the wall, at about head height. Later he would realize that the knife would have missed if he had just sat still, landing a bit further to the right than anticipated, but he wasn't taking chances. Now quivering on the ground, his hands covering his head, eyes shut tight: he began to beg. "P-please don't hurt me! I'll do anything you want, and I won't fight! Promise!"

"Shut up, idiota!" the man yelled, stomping over to where he sat. If he could have Feliciano would have shrunk down even more, expecting a beat down. It did not come so quickly however, as the man was more interested in his discarded knife. With a rough tug the blade was pulled out of the wall and twirled around a finger.

A mixture of fearful curiosity and desperation forced Feliciano's eyes open.

He wanted to see the knife when it stabbed, just out of hopes that maybe he could fend it off and live a little longer. But his eyes were quickly pulled away from the blade and to its wielder, in disbelief.

The man before him looked too familiar for his own good. He had the face, the hair, even the curl. But those eyes threw him off: they scared him the most of all. There was a blood lust found in those pupils, a craving for agony.

Those were the eyes of a devil.

"W-who are you?" he choked out through trembling lips. The tears hung loosely on the rims of his eyes, and he swallowed a cry.

Feli watched him smile. Smile, like a madman.

He swung the knife around a finger, and as Feli watched the blade expectedly, the man used it to put emphasis behind his words. "I'm you," he said so plainly. Like it should be obvious, and maybe it was, but that didn't make it any easier to swallow. "Well, maybe that's too simple." His grip on the knife loosened, and he let it hang limp in his fingers. "I'm you, with a bit of a twist." He effortlessly rolled the blade over the back of his hand, only to catch it.

Feliciano couldn't respond before the man stood up and turned away, eying the entrance. Feli swore he heard a chuckle, but wasn't about to ask aloud. His life was on the line here, no room for stupidity. "Call me Luciano, nothing else." The knife was held strong again. Movements too fast to react to, Feliciano gulped hard.

The blade pressed firm against his throat – not hard enough to draw blood, just to threaten it.

"Unless you want to die." Just as quickly as the first stroke, Luciano moved again. This time he left a mark: a thin cut across Feliciano's cheek. Though small, it was enough to omit an action. Tears now flowed free down his cheeks and mixed with blood. Luciano shook his head. "Weak."

Luciano turned to the door. He peeked into the hallway, waved a signal, and stepped to the side. "It's time to have fun," he murmured as his accomplice arrived. The man entered the room, and Feliciano started debating who he was scared of more.

Though his vision was tear strained and no amount of wiping at his eyes could clear the blurriness, it was obvious this was a man to be feared. Towering over Luciano, his blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail and he bore a red uniform. If Feliciano had been thinking straight he might have recognized it as the kind mounted police wore in Canada, but at the time all he knew was that it was red and he was wondering how it got that way. The second most notable thing about this man was the fact that he carried a hockey stick, and a grin.

Feliciano's mind drew questions at an arguably inappropriate time, but the distraction drew away from the image of what was about to happen. He had to ask, what had he done that brought him here? Why did these people hate him, who were they? He might consider asking later, if he survives that far.

The first strike was to his chest. Hard and painful, he gasped – the air was sucked out of him. Next came the fist. It connected with the bandage, and the throbbing pain intensified. Feliciano cried out as he crumpled onto his side. "P-please," he pleaded – but they didn't care for beggars. A hockey stick was brought down onto his back. He was yelling now, words becoming garbled and lost in his screams. He couldn't move, couldn't crawl away to safety. Every strike brought another dose of pain that left him paralyzed.

The cut in his head reopened and crimson streamed: all he could see was red.

It felt like hours passed before the onslaught slowed. By then he could feel the cuts, the bruises. There was a numbness in his fingertips. He could feel the vibration of footsteps. Someone left, only to return moments later. Muffled words were exchanged, and then Feliciano was being manhandled. They restrained him with chains, hands behind his back and feet locked tight. He was forced onto his side, and wondered what they planned next when there was a flash. He whimpered and flinched, opening his mouth to question but the words were lost along the way. Moving hurt, speaking hurt, he just wanted to sleep.

And finally he would have a chance.

Luciano and his companion were exiting. They were at the door when the Italian look-alike turned to face him.

With a devious little smile he spoke: "Dormire bene."

. . .

When he woke up again, hours later, Feliciano was flooded with pain. While it had subsided during his peaceful slumber, the agony was quick to return. His legs were numb, but his chest and back ached. Muscles tight, bones worn. The chains were gone, leaving red marks on his wrist and ankles. The cut in his head was no longer so irritating, but everything else was.

When he sat up it felt like things were popping back into place.

He let out a sigh of relief as a fraction of the pain faded. He stretched and groaned and tried to shake the numbness out of his body.

He could hear laughs and the murmur of conversation from beyond the door. This bunch was loud, and he wondered if there was a chance that he could sneak out while they were distracted. But his legs weren't working very well – he'd have to crawl out. Plus the risk of being caught, and the punishment, was enough to keep him confined.

But he was still curious, and with the support of the wall he stumbled to his feet. For a moment he sat there and caught his breath, before pushing off and reaching for the steel. He collapsed onto the door, and winced.

That was loud, he thought, I hope they didn't hear that.

But oh well, if they did there was no where to run. No point in cowering now. He clawed his way up and found a grip on the window frame. Slowly he pulled himself up, and slowly he peered into the hallway. Not surprisingly, the outside was dark and damp. Water dripped through the ceiling and the lights were old and dim. The door at the other end was open, but no one was there.

They didn't even bother to shut it, because they knew he wouldn't run. He couldn't.

Someone yelled from beyond the hallway, and he startled. He stumbled away from the door and caught his footing long enough to make a only slightly painful fall to the floor. There was a moment where he sat and waited for the world to stop spinning before he stood again. Then he went back to the window, and peered out: trying to spot what the commotion was all about. The murmur of laughter was still there, but now he could catch a conversation.

Strewn in thick Italian, this was right up his alley. But he had to strain to catch it all.

The first voice was angry. "Avrebbe potuto essere sfuggito, idiota!" He could have escaped, idiot!

The second was calmer, and quieter. "Ma sembrava così paura..." But he seemed so afraid.

Feliciano heard and tsk of annoyance before the conversation continued in a more hushed tone. With a sigh he spun around and slid down the door.

These people were going to kill him, weren't they?

It seemed obvious, right now they were only toying with him. By tomorrow he'd be gutted. That didn't leave him a very big time frame to escape. He needed a plan, or to accept fate for what it were. He wasn't sure which was more nonsensical.

His thoughts were cut short when he felt the door push again him. He panicked and dove away, just as someone entered. He expected another beating, or (a hopefully swift) death, but what came was neither.

"'Ello, champ! M' name's Oliver!"

Feliciano didn't contain the surprised look on his face. He wasn't sure what startled him more, the fact that this man wasn't killing him or the fact that he was so cheery.

With strawberry blond hair and bushy eyebrows to match, this man seemed like the embodiment of happiness considering the rather bright, neon colors. Pink vest, bright blue bow tie. He was even more out of place than the last guy. What was he doing in a place like this? "Could I interest you in a cupcake?"

The man's smile was big, friendly, and hard to trust. Feliciano was starting to wonder who worried him more: this guy or the devil himself. But his eyes were quickly drawn to the tray as it was revealed. On it sat six cupcakes, each decorated in their own special way. The one commonality was the colorful frosting, each a vibrant color.

Feliciano was still wary, the last thing he expected from his captors was a delicious treat. For all he knew these cupcakes filled with fish guts or bugs. But he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten.

His stomach was empty and groaning, and these cupcakes looked amazing.

Hesitantly, he reached out and grabbed one. It was covered in blue frosting with pink swirl, topped off with a small sugar flower and sprinkles. He let out a shaky breath, then without second guessing, he took a big bite. Incredibly, it didn't taste half bad. The cupcake more than satisfied his sweet tooth, and Feliciano couldn't remember the last time he ate a cupcake this good.

But when he met Oliver's shocked expression and wide eyes, he gulped. The cheerful man looked at the tray, then at the cupcake. With a smile he spoke.

"Well, aren't you a lucky fellow."

A/N: This chapter is 78 words shorter than the original. Which might seem bad since the last two were longer than the originals, but it really just means that there was a bunch of useless crap in this chapter that I got rid of. Yay me \ ･ω･/

Also this chapter took longer to rewrite than I wanted it to. I'm not quite sure why it was so difficult for me. But to say the least just about everything is the same, I just changed a few little details like the window in the door and some of Luciano's lines. Arguably I made him come off as more of a badass/asshole.

Ciao (Italian) = Hello

Scusa (Italian) = Sorry

Dormire bene (Italian) = Sleep Well

Avrebbe potuto essere sfuggito, idiota! (Italian) = He could have escaped, idiot!

Ma sembrava così paura (Italian) = But he seemed so afraid.