His fitful sleep was interrupted as indifferent hands yanked him from the stone like mattress. The thin, torn blanket was pulled from his increasingly frail frame, as he was dragged to his feet with a rough force.

His eyes flickered open, as his heart sank in his chest.

These two….were his least favourite of an intensely motley crew. Whilst every guard under the seized prison's purview were hardly devout Catholics', some were more…hedonistic in their approach than others.

The two that pierced his softening upper arms with their clawing grips, were definitely in the latter category.

As he was dragged from his cell, he gauged by the fading moonlight and slightly orange sky that it was pre dawn. His feet missed every second step, as his weak body failed to keep up with the pace of the guards' brisk gate.

All too soon they were outside the door. The door that dogged his nightmares, the door that muffled his shrieks of agony from the room within. He had seen the wild look on other prisoners faces as they were dragged on the journey to that door, and their sunken expressions would remain with him until the day he died.

Which, if there was any higher power up there, he prayed to be soon.

The door was opening now, and four rough hands cast merciless pressure on his scarred back as he was thrust inwards.

The heavy oak snapped shut with an almost mocking flourish, as two different sets of hands grasped him as he fell, in some kind of sadistic guard relay.

He knew better than to fight as he was unceremoniously pushed, prodded and poked in the direction of the large, specially customised chair that sat in foreboding bleakness in the centre of the room. Try as he might, he never could stop himself from wondering which of the blood stains dotting the expensive wood belonged to him.

The small supply of oxygen that was housed in his lungs was knocked out of him as he was shoved heavily into the chair. The heavy steel wrist and ankle bindings were soon snapped into place, and his fate was once again sealed.

The two guards sprang from his side as soon as his shackles were secure, and took up post across the room, on either side of the door.

Outside, the two previous guards also stood, rapt to attention.

Not for the first time he wondered what was with all the pageantry. Did they expect him to miraculously leap from this binding chair, and fight off four or more military armed men?

His head lolled onto his once broad chest as he waited. He knew the wait wouldn't be long, it never was. His eyes fell habitually upon the tables full of bottled water and fresh fruit that lay in the corner. His mouth instinctively watered, as if pleading with him to force his vision into reality.

…but the reality was, that table might as well have been in the North Pole, for he was never going to sample any of its contents.

The small circular room was different in comparison to the majority of the prison. It was much more…equipped. Instruments of varying degrees of ferocity hung from the walls. A well worn defibrillator stood in the corner, its paddles at the ready to bring back any unfortunate soul that dared to have the audacity to try and die before their time was up.

He could still feel the marks from the oafishly placed paddles on his chest.

The wait continued, as he mindlessly roved tired eyes over the armed goons on his side of the door.

He had previously assessed them as in their mid to late thirties. True believers, not mercenaries.

Keeping his observational skills alight was like a small triumph to him in the beginning, a way of protecting his mind.

Now…now he didn't really care, they were just something to look at. Like an obscure painting in a up and coming gallery, that no one really cared about, but gazed at nonetheless.

The wait was over.

Snapping his head off his chest, he felt his abdominal muscles tense up of their own volition as the door creaked open, and the stationary men jumped to attention.

A confident bordering on egotistical wave of a hand set them back at ease, as the owner of the same hand walked slowly into the room, taking his sweet time, his footing meticulous.

The bare bulb that hung in the centre of the room illuminated in stark contrast this man's disturbing features. The first time he had laid eyes on them, the stale bread in his stomach had churned with a wrenching force.

Now…now as he looked up into the face of his tormentor, he felt only the fear he had grown accustomed to in his presence.

The terror.

The disgust, the automatic recoiling at the scarred and gaping visage at long since dissipated. The one blue and one brown eye no longer perturbed him. Even the missing ear lobe of the right ear was now but a mere detail, as too was the waxy complexion pulled tight over sunken cheekbones.

Suddenly the man was right in front of him, baring yellowed teeth in a manic grin as he ran appraising eyes over his long term captive. The malicious glint that was alive in his eyes could belong to no other than a sadistic sociopath.

The inmate knew that the man standing before him felt nothing, and therefore was utterly incapable of appreciating the horror he inflicted upon his various victims.

Like Curtis though, he seemed to have developed an expansive appetite for him. The scarred captive was the prisoner he spend the longest time with him, vibrating with a quivering pleasure as his pained shrieking would hit crescendo pitch.

The weak amber light emitted by the sole light bulb was cut off slightly as the man slowly began dragging a chair across the flagged stone ground, its metallic screeching not bothering him in the least, whilst causing the eyes to water of the three other men.

Swivelling the chair around, he sat straddling it, the cruel hands grasping the chairs back as he silently surveyed his prey.

Had he been a man capable of admiration, he would have perhaps respected the way his muted victim looked him in the eye, held his gaze with a still strong jaw.

…but he was not, and he did not.

All his concerns were bottled into making this bound man break, and talk. As soon as he talked of course, he would be killed, but there was no need to inform him of that little fact right now.

He was a stubborn one, maybe the most stubborn one they'd ever had.

They'd named him Mule amongst themselves in testament to his now borderline incredible obstinacy.

…but perhaps today would be the day, perhaps his tongue would loosen in today's light.

Carefully unbuttoning the clasps on his shirt sleeves, he rolled them up with a calculating slowness, his eyes carefully trained on Mule for a reaction.

He didn't get one.

He had to chuckle at that. This one really did have guts.

With the green heavy fabric tucked up to his elbows, he leered at the silently staring captive, his head tilted slightly as he assessed him.

When he spoke, his velvety voice was at complete odds with his less than suave appearance. The surprise that this had caused the captive in the beginning had long since faded, and he showed no signs of…anything, as the voice began to fill the room.

"Surely you see how fruitless your valour is my friend?" the tormentor crooned, his lips curving up as he spoke in flawless, though heavily accented English. "Why continue this fight? You surely know now that they, who you thought friends, have abandoned you?"

Silence coated the room as prisoner and keeper stared at each other. The keeper part of the equation, christened Vlada, drank in every macro and micro expression bursting of the bound Mule and felt his eyebrows contract.

Nothing. This maddening inmate showed absolutely no emotion whatsoever.

The thick, dark eyebrows eventually arched upwards as Vlada considered his next move. It was perhaps earlier than he had envisaged using his…visual aid, but this particular man seemed to have truly mastered the art of physical indifference.

It was time to test his mental indifference.

With a click of his fingers and a pointed look, the two guards at the door scrambled to obey and unspoken command.

Even the ruthless, merciless self appointed guards were terrified of the infamous Vlada.

The door creaked open as they fled, and it was just victim and abuser. Each stared at the other with a cultivated expression of blankness.

Inside the stomach of the captive, his internal organs were clenching with fear.

What had those guards gone to fetch?

The walls were adorned with every sadistic tool known to man, and his body bore the marks of considerable experience with them.

What else could there be?

He didn't have to wait too long to find out, as the distant sounds of squeaking became clear, becoming louder and louder with each muffled step of the returning men.

He wouldn't look.

He wouldn't show fear.

His years of experience and an unfaltering instinct told him that to show fear, even a flickers worth to the man gazing at him, would be tantamount to surrender.

The squeaking had entered the room, and he fought with all his might to keep his eyes faced forwards, petrified by the sudden thought that this could be an even larger Curtis.

If ever there was a place to house a genetically modified, gargantuan rodent, it was this godforsaken hellhole.

…but, it wasn't.

He blinked.

It was…a television, on a wheeled stand, being steered directly in front of him. With its remote being pressed into Vlada's hand, the guards sprang back to their positions.

Caressing the remote in his cruel hands, the militarily dressed man leaned back with a feral grin.

"You know Mule…you, over time, have begun to strike me as a visual learner. You sit there, like a proud peacock, determined to defend the honour of your country, even to your dying breath. You, like all you American's, labour under this…delusion, that you all care for each other."

He bared yellowing teeth as he chuckled dangerously.

"You think that you are all one big happy family, isn't that right? No doubt, in your earliest days here you slept securely in the knowledge that your team would come for you."

His sarcastic laugher danced off the walls, seeming to attack from every avenue.

"Over time I'm sure that belief must have dwindled, for you are not a completely foolish man. I have offered you a position, here, with us already. All you have to do, is talk."

He flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his knee before continuing, his perfect English heightened by his native nuances.

"You have gone through so much my dear man" he crooned, tilting his head like an inquisitive child. "Why go through any more pain? Hmm? Your country, your fellow countrymen…they have abandoned you. They have left you here, all alone, to die. They do not give you a second thought."

He scratched his chin.

"So why die for them? Why die for a country that would turn its back on you, that would send you into harm's way…"

His eyes lit up with that demonic glee.

"Send you my way…"

Silence descended as Vlada allowed his words, more than he had ever spoken in one sitting, to register in the brain of the man before him.

He waited for the rage, the hurt, all the emotions of lesser men to peter through.

He waited.

…and waited.

Nothing. The eyes merely stared back at his with an impassiveness that was illogical in nature and unseen in experience.

This prisoner…was definitely unique.

"Ok Mule" Vlada whispered softly in eventual response, "have it your way."

A button was pressed, and the television shuddered into life.

At first, his brain wouldn't cooperate. It tried to shield him from the reality he was seeing, blur the lines that were joining.

…but it couldn't.

All too soon, its defences fell and the images flickering on the screen in front of him bore into his mind with a hammering force.

There was someone else at his desk.

Everything he owned had been swept from it.

Although silent, he could imagine the joviality of the voices of those pictured, as they engaged in downtime banter.

Downtime…

The hours or so between a closed case and a fresh case were always the most relaxed, the most normal, and judging by what he was seeing, he was looking at just such a time.

They were having downtime whilst he….whilst he sat bound to his chair? This chair soaked with his, and others blood?

He could no longer school his features into nonchalance.

He felt his jaw drop as he read the real time timestamp, rapid calculations in his mind letting him know that the time being displayed slotted correctly with the time variance where he was.

He watched in piercing hurt as his team laughed and joked, and ate take out.

Then all of a sudden his heart lifted infinitesimally.

One of his possessions remained on his old desk, a gift given to him by a victim of an early case.

He had cherished that clay monument.

They all knew that.

Perhaps they had left it there for that reason.

He watched as a paper ball went sailing through the air, and watched as its target danced out of its way, accidentally knocking against his old desk.

His heart clenched as the force caused the heavy paperweight to fall from the surface top and crash to the floor, instantly smashing in two clean halves.

Surely this would cause waves.

Surely this would be like an omen to them, that he was one of them…or he had been, and they still had not found him, or his body.

Surely…this would garner some kind of reaction.

He felt his jaw drop another inch as the accidental breaker reached down for the destroyed gift, with all other eyes on him, and merely shrugged his shoulders before tossing it into the nearest bin.

The obvious banter that immediately started in the wake of a fresh paper ball was as jarring a viewing as he'd ever witnessed.

With a final glimpse of his obvious replacement being playfully tussled by another member of his…of the MCRT, the television suddenly went blank.

Curling his long fingers over the remote, Vlada tipped it gently against his chin.

"Well well…" he muttered softly, "it's almost as if you were never there at all isn't it? How sad, how very sad…"

This time he got the reaction, the eyes were filled with rage mixed with hurt. The scars on his face seemed to almost quiver with angst.

"Come, my dear man…tell me what I need to know, just tell me…"

He paused, drinking in the betrayal in front of him, before waving a lazy arm at the two men at the door, and by implication, the two men outside the door.

"Your country, the friends you thought were your family…they are gone to you now. You are dead to them, assuming of course, you were ever really alive to them…"

He licked his lips, like a lion toying with a wounded hyena. This man's pain was so delicious, so raw…so useful.

"Join me."

…

TBC

…