A/N: ok, so... this gets dark for a while. the chapter is important, but i wouldn't read it if you have an aversion to torture or gore. let me know what you think

...

Despite all the neglect he'd experienced as a child, despite all the hardships of being an NCIS agent, and despite all of the previous struggles he's endured as a flightling, never before in his life had McGee truly wanted to die. This night changed all of that. But then, never before in his life had he experienced suffering of this magnitude.

He and Victoria had been separated, dragged off into different rooms in the endless expanses of dungeon. Maybe this was so that they wouldn't be able to help each other escape or fight; perhaps the guards just wanted as much room as possible to do their work. Whatever the reasons, when they were finally put back in the same room together, their almost-identical bruises suggested that the young flightlings had received similar treatments. In the grand scheme of things, this was probably for the best, as Tim's biggest concern for his surrogate sister had been that they might take advantage of her in more sinister ways than "simply" getting knocked around the room.

Since they weren't being interrogated for information, and there was really no pressing need for either of them to stay alive, Thaddeus had given his guards the OK to have fun with their two prisoners for a little while, on the condition that their "fun" consisted only of beatings, at least until he returned. Bless his heart. Because of this, Tim had lapsed in and out of consciousness; those few moments of awareness he did have were often clouded by searing pain and the ringing in his ears.

The beating, he'd taken with resignation. Just getting knocked around the room wasn't too bad, especially in retrospect. Things didn't get too bad until Thaddeus returned and the knives came out to play.

McGee's stomach twisted the moment the ancient man entered the room. His presence alone would have been enough to make Tim feel sick, but in this case, it was the horrifying amount of blood that was spattered across his face and down his shirt. In fact, D'Amico's clothing was soaked so thoroughly that when he came to a stop, some of the liquid dripped down and created little pools around his feet. The fact that the blood was red and not inky black the way Thaddeus' blood appeared to be, suggested that whomever this once belonged to was far less deserving of such treatment than, say, Thaddeus himself. Though it didn't take any extra flightling powers for Tim to know that the blood had once belonged to Victoria, and chills went all throughout his body in fear and rage.

As per usual, D'Amico completely ignored said rage, though he could feel it radiating from his prisoner. "Hello, Timothy."

He signaled at his guards, who went on either side of McGee and lifted him from the floor. Now that he was propped up, Tim was able to glare in the face of his captor. Granted, it wasn't as effective as he would have liked, given one eye was swollen shut from the several consecutive times he'd been punched in the face. Black eye aside, he let out a growl.

"Yes, very good," Thaddeus approved. "Keep that anger. That's a good thing to have. It will come in handy when you're leading some of our new recruits." He said this like he was certain of the eventuality, and it only made McGee more furious.

The older, taller man saw the former agent's eyes flicker over his clothing, and he chuckled. "Don't worry, she's still alive for the time being. I don't know where Apollo finds you people, but you're resilient, I'll give you that."

He pulled a knife from his belt: the same long, shining steel blade that he'd used on his own forearm that night he spoke to Tim in the church. The weapon was spotless; it was odd, the fact that Thaddeus just finished using the knife on Victoria, and had taken the time to clean it before wielding it against McGee…even though he hadn't bothered to wash his own face or hands.

"I hope you're not particularly fond of this shirt," he continued, coming forward to where the younger man was now struggling against the thugs holding him. Without further preamble, he scratched the blade across Tim's arm, tracing a line from his shoulder all the way down and stopping right before his wrist. It wasn't deep, just enough to draw a thin line of red beads that rolled off of him, leaving red stripes painted on his skin. McGee sucked a breath through his teeth and the resulting hiss, however faint, made Thaddeus smile; a wicked grin split his face and his eyes lit up with a rare show of sincere emotion. Tim had wondered why he and Victoria were being tortured in this way instead of simply being killed, but now he realized that D'Amico got very real pleasure from this pastime.

Time began to slow down after this moment. Slices in criss-cross patterns were cut into both of his arms, and while the little wounds were deep, they brought little more than small groans and whimpers from McGee's lips. After an eternity of being beaten and cut apart, the first time Tim screamed only happened when that beautiful, intricate steel blade was driven clear through his shoulder.

Thad, with an impossible amount of experience in the art of torture, knew exactly how to make his victim feel maximum pain without dying or even falling unconscious. McGee's mind was fuzzy, yes, but he was very much aware every single time the blade entered his body. He was aware when that knife went through his shoulder. He was aware when that same knife was shoved into his back, cutting across both pre-existing scars and creating an ingenious and heinous variation on the Chelsea-grin: the next time Tim's wings unfolded, they would further split open the new cut and punish him with unspeakable pain…not that he wasn't enduring unspeakable pain already.

Once it felt like every inch of him had been opened, Thaddeus stepped back. The guards, now also soaked with Tim's blood, dropped him. The collision with the floor would have prompted its own yelp, had it not caused him to finally pass out from the pain. But of course, they weren't done. Not by a long shot.

A few minutes later, he was jostled awake when the same guards returned to his room and kicked him. This prompted McGee to vomit, though there wasn't much to void from his stomach and the movement from his subsequent dry-heaving only worsened his injuries. However, he didn't have much time to dwell on this because he was lifted by his shoulders and dragged out of the room. Tim choked back a sob, just wanting the whole thing to end, but knowing it wouldn't be over any time soon.

He was right. McGee was taken into yet another room, one that was much larger. The ceilings stretched far over his head, and while there were some electric lights here and there, the space was largely lit with hazy moonlight that crept in from the barred windows, which, given how high up and small they were, acted more as skylights. From the ground, all one could see from them were the clouds that rolled over Venice. It was hard to imagine that the modern world was still out there, that it was the twenty-first century, that, if he were just another human, Tim would probably be at his desk at NCIS, poring over leads for cases. How mundane and uncomplicated such events as murders, kidnappings, and corruption seemed when they were done by humans. It all seemed so far away from this dungeon, where odd contraptions of chains and gears sat along the wall. This, unbeknownst to McGee, was a room made for the express purpose of torturing flightlings, and those mechanisms that lined the walls were designed by Thaddeus' father.

Thaddeus was already in the room when Tim was brought in. Not a moment later, Victoria was also retrieved, and even in his present state, the simple act of looking at his surrogate sister brought him pain. She looked much as he felt; as though someone had dumped a bucket of red paint over her head, for while D'Amico's knifing methods were deliberate and by design, the way their blood ran over every surface certainly was not.

Tim and Victoria sent each other looks of strength and encouragement, though both were too feeble to speak. They were dumped at Thaddeus' feet, and the ancient flightling nodded to his guards, who retreated to the far corners of the room. It was quite a statement that even if McGee and Victoria were healthy, their captor would have been confident enough to be with them. In their condition, they posed no threat whatsoever. Neither were strong enough to stand for even a moment, let alone fight.

"This is all very unnecessary. If you would join me, you wouldn't have to suffer any more," Thaddeus began

Victoria and McGee merely stared at him, but he took it as a no.

"Why not?" he sighed, sounding much like a long-suffering teacher who has explained a concept to his students multiple times.

"It isn't necessary to survive. It's wrong. You can choose not to kill," Victoria argued, her voice strained from the effort of just speaking.

"Everything is a choice," Thaddeus conceded. "You can choose to eat less, you can choose not to drink enough water or get enough sleep, but why do this to yourself? How can you achieve what you're meant to if your body, your mind and your abilities aren't all that they could be? Why would an olympic athlete not train every day if the result is such greatness? Sure, you don't need to consume the souls of humans to stay alive, but you need them to thrive. It's survival of the fittest. Darwinism at it's most intense."

Tim started, and Thaddeus smirked. "Ah, so Apollo has a copy of that book too, does he?" he didn't need a response to see that the answer was yes. "So you know what I'm talking about. There's nothing wrong with following your instinct. And it is instinct. I can tell that you've felt it. It starts out like a bubble of anger or discomfort in your chest. It only happens when you're near a vulnerable human. That's you feeling the power of their energy. All you have to do is reach in and take it."

He was right. They couldn't argue that they'd felt it before. It wasn't a common occurrence, but it did happen. McGee remembered that night that he'd spoken to Tony in the church. DiNozzo had been frightened and worried for his friend; he was buzzing with energy, and just being near him made Tim angry and high-strung. He didn't understand it at the time, but now that he knew what it was, the horror struck him. Still, he wasn't going to give in so easily.

"Fine. Even if it is instinct, you can ignore it," he retorted. "Humans have lots of instincts from prehistoric times to hunt and kill. And they're ignored every day."

"Ah, but we aren't quite human, are we? We're the stuff of legends. Celestial beings," Thaddeus rolled his eyes.

Tim frowned at the thought Thaddeus had provoked. His family was never very religious, and spirituality never really found its way into his life. But as a child his maternal grandmother had a shelf full of angel figurines. McGee knew little about angel lore, but he'd grown up understanding them to be heavenly, powerful beings meant to do righteous work. Regardless of whether or not they existed, Tim wasn't arrogant enough to wonder if he descended from such a race, nor was he masochistic enough to entertain the idea that, if he was in fact descended from angels, that they were bloodthirsty, soul stealing monsters…he much preferred the innocent, cuddly-looking statuettes that his grandmother had looked to for strength.

Stil...

"Victoria," he called, hoarse. She raised her head and he tried his hardest to ignore the deathly pallor of her skin, instead choosing to focus on the spark that still remained visible behind her striking eyes.

"Instinct to kill…couldn't be from angel genes, could it?"

She absorbed the question and the implications behind it, and her face went an even scarier shade of gray at the thought.

"I…I'm not sure I'd want to know the answer, even if I knew where to find it," she murmured.

"Why not? The devil was an angel," Thaddeus' asked. "I think I've mentioned that I don't really put much stock in such things, but I've entertained the thought before. Nowadays, I can't imagine that any of it is true. Not heaven, not hell, and certainly not angels. I think that we are the result of genetic variation in humans and nothing more. I once heard a theory that our abilities, and the extended abilities you could have if you only joined us…they are a result of enchantment. Of magic. This was a popular theory in the Medieval era, when most people believed in such things. I prefer a more scientific approach. Although, between magic and religion, I'd choose the theories that have been developed over time by various religious groups. Though none talk about it now, each major faith has had some sort of explanation for why we exist.

Tim had a hard time grasping the idea that Thaddeus felt there was no afterlife if the soul was a real thing. "If there are souls that we can take, then how do you know-"

"That there's nothing beyond this? Who's to say there is anything beyond this? Why is a soul proof of that? They exist on this plane. I've seen no evidence of there being one after it." He chuckled without humor, and in that moment, McGee could have sworn he saw a flicker of pain behind Thaddeus' eyes. But before it spread onto the rest of his features, that mocking facade returned. "I'd love to continue this debate with you, son. But remember that I'm several centuries older than you. Every idea you could possibly have on the subject, I've had myself. And odds are, I've experienced enough of life to refute every argument you might present. Take my advice and don't interest yourself in what happens after death. It just makes your life seem shorter. What you should do is accept the abilities you have and make them stronger. You are what you are- there's no use denying it. You can consider us all monsters, but you're just the same as the rest of my family, with the exception of what you consume to give you strength. It isn't really a choice, just you putting off the inevitable."

"No. There's a difference between us," Tim snarled.

Thaddeus straightened and turned to gesture to one of his guards. "Is there a difference between you and him?"

"Yes."

"Your beloved Apollo was one of these guards, once upon a time," he reminded them. "So…is there a difference between you and I, or you and Apollo? Because it's the same thing."

"No, it isn't. He never stole a soul."

"His sister did. And what about your friends? They've certainly killed before." Tim flinched, and something dawned on Thaddeus. "I see. You've killed before too, haven't you? Was it a mistake, or was it intentional….or have you killed multiple times?" Another flinch. "You must have led quite the life before you came to Apollo."

Tim shook his head violently. "No. I was a federal agent. I was just doing-"

"Just doing your job. I'm sure. Very noble. A suicide bomber is just doing his job too you know. But with a suicide bomber, at least he dies with the conviction that everyone he's killing deserves to die too, because their deaths will advance his cause. Think back on everyone you ever killed, even if it was in the line of duty. Did they all have to die?"

McGee's hesitation was enough. "No. But you killed them anyway. And you have the gall to accuse me of doing wrong. We're all killers, son. It's just a matter of when and how. The humans are like this too…if not through their own stupidity or greedy motives, then through the butterfly effect that arises from their actions."

There were probably ways to refute these claims, but Tim couldn't find the words. In reality, this turmoil in his heart and in his mind was far more devastating than anything that could had been inflicted to his body, and anyone with eyes could have glanced over at Victoria and seen that she was suffering to a similar effect.

The worst pain they'd experienced yet was not torture, but fear of themselves. Fear of what they might become. It had been sitting in the back of each of their minds since they'd become flightlings. It was instinct to kill, and now they were forced to face it. What else could they do? Arguments for and against Thaddeus' opinion were present all around them, physically manifesting in the forms of the mansion, the people within it, and everything they were trying to accomplish.

Thaddeus knew this, and it above all else, was what he wanted from Tim and Victoria.

They could join him or not, though he would prefer it if they did. He greatly preferred and appreciated the strength and nobility of the two. It was a rare occurrence nowadays and he had an affinity for such traits, most likely because he recognized them in himself.

"I'm giving you one more chance," Thaddeus offered. "Here's the thing. I hate destroying beauty and strength. I love nothing more than having such qualities in my friends and followers. I truly do want you with me, especially since I've seen much more impressive individuals crack under the attention you've received in the past few hours. You have the power to make it all stop- not only that, but under my tutelage you could one day be impervious to knives and fists. Completely immune. I'll even let your friends go. What do you say?"

Under normal circumstances, Tim would be the first to say no, but he really was in tremendous amounts of pain….it wasn't that he was actually considering joining the man standing in front of him, but if there was any way to make this feeling go away, he gave it more than a second's thought. It was all starting to get to him. Also, this new promise that Tony, Ziva, Gibbs and Apollo would be released was something to think on. Of course he couldn't trust Thaddeus' promise, but Apollo did once mention that the ancient flightling was a man of his word. And why shouldn't he be? At this point, he had all of them trapped under one roof. What would lying gain him? Well, except for Tim and Victoria…

"Why the hell should we trust you?" he croaked, and his captor shrugged.

"For now, you can't. It's a risk you'd have to take. But I do promise that as of right now, they're all going to die anyway. The only way of shifting the odds in their favor is to join me, I'm afraid."

Victoria, this time, said nothing. McGee looked up at Thaddeus and shook his head. There was no way he could trust this man. No matter what he did, he would never willingly let Tim's loved ones go. "No."

D'Amico sighed. "You're foolish, son. Wasting your life, wasting your potential over a little bit of pride. And you," he turned to Victoria, running a finger along her jawline and making her shiver. "You, my dear, wouldn't have to do a day's worth of work if you didn't want to. I offered the position of second-in-command because you seem to be the type who would excel in such a rank. But if you wish, you could stay with me. You are very beautiful, after all. And like I said, I have an appreciation for beauty. Always have."

She was too weak to come up with some sort of sassy retort, so Victoria just shook her head and repeated after Tim. "No."

Thaddeus grimaced. "Fine."

He waved his hand and the two were carried to opposite alcoves- the whole expansive room was made up of a long nave, with a dozen carved out transepts of sorts lining it. Each of the dozen spaces had a pair of those chains connected to the floor, and another pair hanging from the ceiling. McGee knew that they were in trouble when he saw the massive meathooks at the ends of the dangling chains.

"Might as well get started, then."

Thaddeus went to the wall of the alcove, where the large set of gears were located. He pulled a rusty-looking crank, one that would have taken several humans to turn, and the chains lowered from the ceiling with a cacophonous amount of groaning and screeching from the gears. He didn't stop until the meathooks were lying on the ground, along with several feet of steel chain.

The massive soldiers went to him and wrestled McGee forward until he was directly between the two hooks. He was forced onto his knees and bent forward enough so that his back, sliced and flayed from before, was accessible to Thaddeus, who went to him and inspected the permanent scars that existed because of his wings….though really, it was safe to say that all of these wounds existed because he had wings.

D'Amico tsked and absently clicked his tongue as he surveyed Tim's back- as if he were choosing produce at a grocery store and not looking for- "Ah, there it is. You, know, everyone has pressure points. But for our kind, there is a pair of pressure points that will make your wings…" he pressed into two spots on either side of McGee's side, and with a groan, the younger man's wings unfolded involuntarily. "…expand like that," Thaddeus finished, stepping back so that he wouldn't be hit by the appendages. He grabbed both sides so that Tim couldn't fold them away again, and inspected the feathers up close. "Very impressive. Just makes me regret what I'm about to do even more."

His words made McGee's heart rate leap. Suddenly it clicked into place. He realized what was going to happen.

No. Anything but this.

Despite how it felt to move, Tim struggled. He flailed every which way he could against the grip of the silent men who held him in place. Of course he was far too weak to make a difference, but his mind and body recoiled from what he now knew he was about to endure.

He could hear the chains clinking as Thaddeus lifted the hook from the ground. He could feel the guards tense up, even their hardened, obedient minds cringed at the thought of this happening to them. Tim closed his eyes and hoped that he wouldn't accidentally bite through his tongue or break his teeth from clenching his jaw. Again, it would have taken at least two humans to achieve this, but McGee wasn't thinking about that. All he could do was attempt to brace himself.

But of course there is no bracing oneself for this.

When the hook went through his wing, Tim didn't, in fact, bite his tongue or break his teeth. However, his scream did cause his ears to ring. Or was that just the blood rushing to his head? That whooshing sound couldn't be his imagination, could it? Oh god…

He was in such shock that he didn't even get the chance to struggle before Thaddeus had the second hook through his other wing. It felt like he was burning, the flames ripping down his back. His screams and sobs didn't let up, even when the guards released him and he remained on the floor, on his knees, unable to move. That is, until his wrists were shackled with the chains that emerged from the ground like vines grown to main and kill.

McGee's mind was so fuzzy, but he could feel every fiber of his physical being screaming in protest- the sensation was so sharp that he couldn't even pass out. The world of unconsciousness rejected him, spat him back out even as he continued to reach for the darkness. And it didn't even occur to him that it wasn't over. The worst was yet to come.

He could hear the cranking of gears, but it didn't register in his mind. But suddenly, white hot torment wracked through his entire body. The source of this? The chains were rising, retreating into the ceiling above from the classic levers and pulleys that went into this mechanism. At first, gravity seemed to win, but eventually the hooks found resistance, and he was being pulled up, hoisted by his wings. Once again, no amount of screaming could ease his anguish. When he was raised up far enough, the chains on his wrists caught him, anchoring McGee to the ground. But still the gears continued their screeching, and still he was being yanked upward, as if by a puppet master annoyed that his toy would not dance. He was being pulled in two directions at once, suspended in the air by his wings. Soon enough, some of the joints in his right wing dislocated, and that sure as hell didn't help matters.

Yes, never before had he wanted to die. But this was the first time that McGee had experienced suffering of this magnitude.

It was a flightling's version of crucifixion, just without the cross. Worse yet, much like a real crucified person, the oxygen Tim was intaking in this position was inadequate, so his lungs burned and screamed even when his own voice gave out.

Heaven help him, Tim was so goddamn tired. Every fiber of his being felt like it was independently strung out and set on fire, as if his torturers had taken him apart and given each of his nerves its own taste of hell. It hurt. That was the short of it. It hurt, it burned, it was hell.

It was agony.

Thaddeus stepped back to admire his handiwork. "It is a little medieval," he noted, though to god-knows-who, as McGee certainly wasn't listening. "Quite literally, in fact. My father invented it during the dark ages. But it is effective."

Tim couldn't even hear him. Years before, when he and Tony were captured in Somalia and tortured for information about NCIS by Saleem Ulman, both agents were treated better than this. It seemed almost amusing now to look back at that experience. Tim would have given anything to spend the rest of his life in that Somalian camp- anything to escape this.

Finally, in a sweet, merciful turn of events, the darkness consumed him and McGee was unconscious even before the first hook went through Victoria's right wing.