Panic.

It's damn lucky the girls ain't here for this, Eliot thought, after.

There was no time to think as it happened.

It was dark, loud, fast. Before Hardison could even cry out, he was unconscious. The breath was knocked out of Nate before he could try to get a handle of the situation, and he was out too. Eliot hadn't been formally trained to fight the shock and awe tactic, his job always being to employ the blitzkrieg attack, but he reacted as quickly as a soldier would in instantaneous combat. The hitter didn't wait to understand the threat or to see the attackers; he didn't scramble for a weapon or an advantage. In a few seconds his teammates were out of play, but he'd foreseen that when all permutations of possible outcomes were determined in his mind at the beginning of the fight.

At a certain point in his life, he'd stopped waiting and thinking and just started fighting.

So he fought. All he could do, the only thing he knew to do, was fight. He couldn't see them, couldn't hear with the blood rushing in his ears, couldn't feel their presence before their fists met his flesh, but he fought. He closed his eyes, tuned out the distractions (feelings, thoughts, confusion) and just did what he did best. He didn't keep track of the blows he dealt or the bodies he dropped, but at some point he and the attackers were dancing over bodies in their battle.

He wasn't thinking, but he wasn't on autopilot, either. All he could do was keep track of the blows he took, because he couldn't know the damage he inflicted or where he was or whether his friends were still alive. It was just bruises, the injuries he received, and those were only from the hits he had to take in order to dole out much more severe damage. Eventually he felt one of his ribs crack, and then his nose was broken, and each injury impaired him a little more.

It was like playing chess with no senses except for the feeling of pain compounding. Finally, he saw the end of the fight in a final kick to his head. The last thing he saw was his teammates lying crumpled on the floor as he silently thanked his lucky ass for not having to see Sophie and Parker beaten down with them.

Lights flashed across his closed eyes, sharpening the piercing pain in his head. In between the flash floods of brightness it was pitch dark. Eliot realized he was in a car before he realized how he must have ended up there. It was night - the darkness followed by the systematic glare of a streetlight decided it before he'd opened his eyes - and the stiffness in his joints confirmed that he'd been trussed up for several hours. He opened his eyes suddenly when the image of his teammates resurfaced. The hitter twisted his head frantically in search of them, to no avail. They weren't in the truck. The balance between relief and worry was undecided as he considered his position. There was no question as to who was behind this. He had promised, after all.

The strange thing was, he wasn't scared. He remembered the pain of his past captivity all too well, and the fear, but he'd had enough time to consider this course of events thoroughly. Nothing could prepare him for the physical stress, but his mind wasn't nearly as easy to overpower. Now his thoughts were focused on the whereabouts of his team. He recited the fight in the apartment silently to determine whether they could have been injured in the process. Eliot Spencer knew Damien Moreau better than anyone, and he knew what the crime lord's plan would be, as Moreau knew the hitter just as well. At this, he paled.

Moreau knew his biggest weakness.

His family.

It was a while before he could move on from that train of thought, but he next considered his restraints, both literally and indirectly.

God, he was tired of handcuffs.

His arms were linked behind his back and his ankles were bound by rope. He was gagged but, clearly, not blindfolded.

Why?

He hadn't been conscious for a while so constructing a mental map using average speed, turns, and road construction wasn't possible, but his sight still gave him an advantage. He could see where he would be taken to from the vehicle, his handlers' features and traits, and what he'd have to work with to get out of this situation. In what scenario would all of this mean nothing to him? Something made Moreau think that these exact conditions would be perfect for his restraint and discomfitting.

One thing was for certain: nothing that transpired under Moreau's power was by chance. Every aspect of this was planned. So why did the man allow him his sight? The easy answer was that he wanted him thrown off, doing exactly this, questioning the strange gesture. The hitter knew, though, that nothing with this mastermind was ever that simple.

Letting the anomaly go unsolved, the hitter rested his head back on the floor, despite how the vehicle's rumbling exacerbated his pounding headache.

Hours passed, but he knew that time could not possibly be going as slowly as he thought. The droning monotony of his own utilitarian, detail-oriented observations and conclusions made his mind reel. Was this really all he could do? The retrieval specialist's breath was shaky when he sighed. He had to get it together now, before he was torn back down. Shit, he had been almost back to normal. The team had finally traded concern and pity for their old blind faith in their hitter. Only now it wasn't blind; they knew his limitations, fears, and weaknesses. So really, they just pushed that aside and trusted him. All this hurt his pride, but in the end, he knew now that he was theirs for good.

Good thing he was so sure, because that peace of mind would make it easier to forget them.

Eliot had to wipe them from his mind before they were used against him. They were his greatest weakness, which Moreau knew and exploited. So the weary man allowed himself one last moment to cling to his memories of them.

Sophie's knowing gaze, showing that she should be scolding, but she'd rather give you that coy grin saying, "I'll let that slip for now."

Parker's antics that were confounding, but actually either thoughtful or uplifting. She made him fight to hide his incredulous smiles with a "Something's wrong with you."

Hardison's petty complaints meant to rile him up, just so the hacker could find the real problem and patiently sort it out with that calm, low voice that lowered his defences every time and that simple, reasonable logic that took so much weight off of the stressed fighter's shoulders.

Nate's piercing gaze, always dragging the truth out against all tricks and denials. The mastermind pissed him off almost as much as he impressed him; Eliot had never trusted someone so thoroughly, but that honest man had his utter loyalty.

He indulged himself in memories, feelings, and comfort for a moment longer before tucking it all away in the back of his mind. He didn't avoid the thought of the team; he trained his mind to ignore their existence until he was back with them for good. Until then, they meant nothing to him.

It was the hardest lie he'd ever had to sell.