Imprisoned

by JanetM74

Scott Tracy doesn't know why he is here, or even how long he's been here. But there must be a good reason. Surely? This is very much a work in progress, and the tags are liable to change as chapters are added. Thunderangst and Thunderwhump. Warnings for prison, isolation, mentions of torture. I do not own the characters

3. The Infirmary

The aftermath of his stay in the tank this time was far worse than before.

They had pulled him out of the tank after who knew how many days, and had tried to get him to straighten up, beating him when he couldn't stand on his own feet. Eventually they had dragged him to the infirmary.

It wasn't just the not being able to stand. There was more weight loss, dehydration, something about potential nerve damage from being in one position for so long.

He hadn't been so thin since being an adult. Not even during his incarceration in the Air Force had he been this bad. He thinks. The truth is, Scott's not sure anymore. Memories are becoming twisting. He didn't even know how long he had been here.

Or why he was here in the first place.

They had hooked him up with a drip and an NG tube. Didn't seem to want him to die on them for some reason. There were a couple of machines he knew the names of from experience, but he couldn't remember what they were.

He spent several days drifting in and out of consciousness. Then several more getting used to eating food again – or what passed as food here – and then finally they began to get him mobile.

The guards here were gentler than in the main prison, but Scott guessed that was something to do with the medical nature of their job. But even then there was harshness. There were bruises that were not there before.

By the time he had managed to walk unaided from one end of the infirmary to the other, he felt like he had been here for weeks.

There was something going on today.

They had told Scott he was to be moved back to his cell today. But just after the usual gruel for breakfast, instead of being taken back to his cell, Scott found himself fighting – attempting to fight off – three guards. It wasn't long before he found himself cuffed to the bed by both wrists, watching as a doctor squeezed air out of a syringe before plunging it in his arm. He fought the drug, but soon his eyes were closing.

His last thought was that something must be going on if they needed to hide him away. He didn't have time for that thought to blossom into hope.