Author Note: Be warned that there is violence in this chapter as well as a mental breakdown. I'm not sure what constitutes mature, so let me know if I should change the rating.
Stan felt like he had been run over by a truck. He was fairly certain his right arm was broken, there were multiple bruises and lacerations all over his body, and any movement brought an explosion of stars in front of his eyes. He spat out a little blood and drew in a raspy breath.
As Jorge's grinning face moved into his line of vision he didn't even have enough energy to glare at him.
"So had enough, Pines? Any more witty comebacks for me?"
Stanley remained silent.
"Hmm, that's a bummer. I guess it's time to get rid of you."
He moved behind Stan and began untying the ropes. Normally at this point Stan would have tried to escape, but he didn't even have the energy to keep himself upright when the ropes fell away. He fell to the floor like a dead fish.
Jorge made a little tutting sound.
"Pathetic, you used to have more fight than this."
He retied Stan's arms to his sides, this time adding a gag to the mix, then he grabbed Stan's legs and started dragging him outside. Stan hissed as his raw wounds scrapped against the concrete.
Jorge picked him up and then heaved him roughly back down. Whatever he landed on gave slightly with an echoing thump. His vision was starting to fade out at this point so he wasn't sure where he was.
There was an acidic smell of ammonia under his nose and his senses came roaring back from the edge of unconsciousness. His eyes crossed a little as he focused on the rag Jorge was holding in front of his nose and then back to the man's face.
Jorge grinned.
"Wouldn't do to have ya out for this next part, ya should really take a look 'round."
Stan did and he felt a cold shock of fear run through him. He was in the trunk of the car. He sucked in a breath of air as a blinding flash of pain pierced his skull. In the wake of the pain came memories of being trapped and screaming for help, all the while knowing no-one would come.
He wanted to scream right now, but he could only get a small whimper past the gag.
"Have fun," Jorge said with a cruel smirk and slammed the trunk closed.
"Oh and just so you don't escape like last time, I will be welding the trunk shut."
There was a metallic smell and the telltale hum of a welding torch followed by silence.
The car began to rattle, moving forward and jostling Stan around, then there was a loud splash of water and things were silent.
Despite the cold that was now permeating the air Stan was sweating. His pulse was picking up in a way it hadn't ever before, even when Jorge was beating him. He whimpered slightly and tried to roll his body over so he could see if there was any emergency opener for the trunk. Oh. That's right. Jorge had welded it shut. Shit.
He needed to think of a way out of this, but his brain was refusing to cooperate. Tremors began to pass through his body. Not from cold, that actually felt kind of good right now with all his bruises, but rather from a deep seated terror that was starting to bubble up.
If he didn't get out of here right now he was going to die. He wasn't sure if it would be from the slowly leaking bullet wound in his side, the heat or from dehydration, but this was certainly not how he wanted to go out. He had so much left to do. He groaned as he changed positions.
The memory of the last time he had been in this situation was so vivid, for a moment he thought he was there. He shivered trying to scan the dark interior of the trunk for a way out.
He bashed his head hard into the tail-light trying to knock it out. He wouldn't go out this way he had to escape.
He had gotten out of there, right? He had rescued his brother, hadn't he?
He attacked the metal near the hatch opening with all the fury of a trapped animal, trying to rip it to sheds with his teeth.
He shivered violently curling in on himself. Where was he? Was anyone coming for him?
Images he had forgotten flashed through his mind.
The rough feel of the sidewalk against his skin on the night he was thrown out. The cold sting of the air during winter in his car. The sharp retort of a gun. The swish of grass as he fled his pursuers.
The feeling of being trapped and alone.
He was too weak to make any sound of celebration when the trunk popped open. He merely hulled his beaten body out. Blood dripped from his ruined gums. He stayed upright long enough to cut the ropes off his wrists on a jagged shard of metal from the trunk. He collapsed to the desert sand in agony, but it didn't matter, he was free!
He felt a drip of water against his face. No he wasn't free, he was still trapped. He writhed about partially to try to loosen his bonds, but partially in simple visceral fear. He let out a muffled scream as he rolled over onto his broken arm.
Another drip of water hit his face. He realized with dawning horror that the trunk was leaking.
He was going to die down here.
No! He couldn't die. Not when he had just gotten his family back. People finally respected him. He was living his dream of sailing around the world with his brother.
His brother.
His brother had to have noticed he was gone. Right?
A photo of them as children. A hopeful smile. "I want it to be you Stanley."
A sincere pair of brown eyes looking into his own.
"Will you give me a second chance?"
That's right. He wasn't alone anymore. He had people he could trust. His brother cared about him.
He felt a small spark of hope in the sea of terror and clung it like a drowning man to a plank.
This time his brother would come for him.
He just had to hold on.