A/N: next chapter. I may go back and re-post the first few chapters with some stuff taken out so things move faster? Dunno.

The naked man in the cage didn't move as the beam of light swept over his bruised and battered body. Someone had beaten him severely, tortured him with maybe a cigarette and what appeared to be a knife, and left him bound tightly with electrical cables. A heavy blindfold was wrapped around his eyes and duct tape covered his mouth, but it was on his arms that the light faltered.

There was no mistaking the large, colorful tattoos on each bicep.

Lamar knew exactly who that was.

Yes, Scott had certainly left him a present. A wholly-unexpected present, and Lamar was not entirely sure what to do with it.

...

Lamar climbed the stairs up to the church sanctuary and pulled out his cell phone first. It was an old phone, a burner some might call it, but it was all he could afford at the moment. He dialed 911 and held it up.

No signal.

Lamar sighed and rubbed a hand over his head. Manoa Valley was notoriously bad for cell reception- he would likely have to drive all the way to the city before he could make a call. He paced the floor impatiently, trying to think.

The police would think it was him, of course. Lamar's stomach churned at the thought of going back to prison- he'd been lucky enough to get out early; he knew it wouldn't happen a second time. The few years since his release had been some of the happiest of his life since his son died; returning would mean dealing with the darker thoughts that haunted his mind, thoughts that had all but disappeared since his release. Lamar wasn't sure he had the energy to face those thoughts again.

He supposed he could walk away. McGarrett would probably die if he did, and it would likely be years before anyone found his body. By then, any evidence would be degraded. Lamar would be a free man.

But…

A faint thread of guilt suddenly caught him by surprise. He pulled up short in his pacing and stared in annoyance at the dark hole in the sanctuary floor. Thinking back eleven, twelve, thirteen years ago, he tried to summon the same hatred he'd once held for the man below, but he came up empty-handed. Somehow, in the intervening years, the anger had subsided, leaving only a singed spot on his bruised and battered soul.

Lamar stuffed his hands in his pockets and heaved a frustrated sigh. He felt no sympathy for McGarrett, but a faint thread of guilt persisted. He paced the floor of the church, trying to think. Why should he feel guilty? He hadn't touched McGarrett this time. What had changed?

He forced the feelings aside and tried again to leave, but again found himself inexplicably turning back.

This process repeated itself several times as he struggled to make up his mind. Life must hate him, Lamar decided as he rounded the altar for the fourth or fifth time. If this was some sort of test of redemption, then he would gladly skip being redeemed. After all, he had not asked for this test; he did not want this test. He glanced once more at his dying cell phone and his lip curled in annoyance. Life never played by the rules.

Unlike Scott. Scott, who started all of this, who dragged an unwilling Lamar into this mess without any thought as to whether Lamar wanted a hand in it or not. Lamar supposed it was his own fault- how often had he griped to Scott in prison about his quest for revenge? How often had Lamar started a sentence, If only I could get my hands on McGarrett again…? Scott had delivered exactly what Lamar said he wanted, except Lamar didn't want it anymore. Now Lamar had a mess on his hands, and he wasn't sure how to clean it up.

Scott was good at cleaning up messes. Scott never liked clutter or grime or dirt; the man was meticulously clean, to a fault. Their cell never had a speck of dust. Their few possessions were always tidy- not just Scott's, but also Lamar's. Scott kept the place clean for the both of them.

A faint worry suddenly stole over Lamar at this thought. Was Scott planning to clean up this 'mess,' too?

Returning to the basement, Lamar set up the flashlight first, hanging it from an old hook in one of the ceiling joists. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than clenching it between his teeth. His breath arose in front of him in short, foggy puffs as he rolled up the long sleeves of his work shirt. Approaching the cage, he took his first good look at the man inside.

McGarrett hadn't moved; curled up, head bowed, he seemed to be asleep. His arms were pulled behind him and bound with rubber-encased cables, and a heavy chain linked his feet. His forehead rested on his knees.

Was he dead? But no, Lamar could just make out the faint, rasping hiss of each labored inhale. Not dead. But maybe not that far off, either.

Lamar went to the corner and picked up one of the plastic shopping bags from the ground to see if there were anything useful. Inside the cage, McGarrett jerked and came awake suddenly, turning his head toward the sound of the rustling plastic. His face pointed uncannily toward Lamar, and Lamar stepped back uncertainly. But what was he afraid of? The man was blindfolded; he couldn't see to identify him. He couldn't walk. And even if McGarrett were out of the cage, Lamar could see from the faint shaking of his legs that he was in no condition to fight.

McGarrett was weak. Very weak, Lamar noted as he looked closer, and saw his chest rise and fall rapidly in a strange, exhaustion-driven pant. Lamar approached the door and cautiously forced the heavy, rusting bolt open. The door swung outwards, and Lamar stooped as he reached inside.

The bound and blindfolded man didn't move, but tracked him cautiously with his head, turning slightly at the sound of his approach.

Lamar didn't want to crawl any further into the cramped, rancid space than he had to, but the Five-0 commander had retreated to the furthest reaches of the cage. As Lamar inched forward, the other man pressed himself into the bars, as though hoping to melt through them.

How long had McGarrett been living in these conditions? Lamar didn't watch the news; he didn't even have a television. At the bar, he always focused on his drink, not the screens. If there had been some sort of news announcement, he had missed it.

Lamar grimaced and tried to ignore the filth around him as his head bumped against the low steel mesh overhead. Reaching forward, he seized McGarrett's ankle just below the chain and pulled, but the man had latched his fingers into the bars of the cage and refused to budge.

"C'm here," Lamar grunted, pulling this time on both an arm and a leg. "I don't want… to hurt you. Trying… to cut you loose." Pushing the man onto his side, Lamar managed to untangle McGarrett's fingers from the cage and began to drag him backwards to the opening. It was exhausting, and even with McGarrett's weakened state, his weight alone was a force to be reckoned with.

Once free of the metal enclosure, McGarrett twisted away from Lamar and began scooting across the room, placing as much distance between himself and Lamar as possible. Lamar let him: there wasn't anywhere to go. As the short chain connecting the man to the cage jerked taut, McGarrett came to a stop and lay on the ground, panting.

Lamar stared down at him. How many times had he dreamed of having McGarrett in this situation, completely at his mercy? But now that hoped-for moment had come too late, and the anger he'd felt years before simply would not come.

Bending down, he studied the chain around the man's ankles and realized that his vague plan to rescue McGarrett and somehow escape blame in the man's kidnapping wouldn't happen as he envisioned it: the chain needed bolt cutters, unless a key were to magically present itself, and Lamar doubted very much that Scott had left the key behind. The man's wrists, too, were hopelessly bound with wire, and Lamar's fingers couldn't disentangle the knots.

Lamar's mouth twisted into a grimace. With no way to free McGarrett, there was only one outcome for the choice Lamar had made to stay. Unless somehow he were incredibly lucky and Scott had, by some miracle, left some very solid evidence behind, Lamar knew this would be his last free night on earth.

He sank down against the wall and raked a hand through his hair. The naked man in the dirt did not move.

…

I'm going to die. Steve didn't have the energy for much coherent thought. He stirred slowly, his aching body gradually dragging him back to awareness. He could feel the damp earth on his skin and tasted the musty air with each inhale through parched nostrils. Despite the pain wracking every part of his body, he was too tired to even moan; his last, desperate scuffle in the cage minutes earlier had sapped him of strength.

Somewhere nearby, a bag rustled. Then footsteps approached, shoes scraping softly on the bare ground.

"Are you awake?"

Steve didn't respond. Breathing was enough of a struggle; even if he weren't gagged, he couldn't even begin to fathom speaking. Dehydrated, starving, feverish, and exhausted from his ordeal, he lay helplessly on the ground as a hand slid under his head, the tape was pulled from his mouth, and a water bottle pressed to his lips.

"Drink this," the voice ordered.

Was it poisoned? Steve recalled vague memories of another captivity years ago. He'd drunk from a water bottle, not knowing the water was laced with sedatives, and it had nearly killed him. Still, if he were going to die, then perhaps it would be better to die of tasteless drink than the long, slow descent of dehydration and starvation.

He opened his mouth and swallowed.

It tasted heavenly. Steve wasn't sure he'd ever tasted water so good. He could easily have downed the whole bottle, but his captor pulled it away before he barely had a few gulps.

"Easy. Don't choke," the man said gruffly. "When did you eat last?"

Steve's stomach quivered painfully. "Dunno," he whispered.

"One day? Two?"

But Steve wasn't sure how many days had elapsed since he'd been kidnapped. Everything seemed fuzzy and it was difficult to focus. At least two days had passed, he decided, maybe three. "Three?" he tried, his voice raspy in his own ears.

The man snorted and another plastic bag rustled. Then a small packet was shoved in Steve's mouth and a sweet gel squirted onto his tongue. "Swallow," the voice commanded.

Steve swallowed. He knew the stuff- a flavored electrolyte gel that he used for fuel on long runs. He also knew the energy boost would be short-lived. Aroused by the presence of food, his stomach growled suddenly with renewed hunger and Steve winced. "More?" he begged, too hungry to be ashamed for begging.

Another mouthful of gel followed. The taste was startlingly intense, and some of the fog clouding his mind began to clear. Steve straightened up. "Protein?" he rasped. The energy gel would be short-lived; he needed something that would last.

"Let's see if you keep that down," the voice said.

There was more rustling of plastic bags. A firm hand grasped his leg and Steve jerked back warily.

"Easy. Just want to look at these chains again."

The hands gently lifted Steve's leg and he could sense the man's eyes on the heavy iron around his ankle. Strong, thin fingers tugged at it for a moment, then traced down his foot toward the scarred sole. Steve tensed, waiting for a curious prodding, but instead the man set his leg carefully back on the ground.

"What happened?" the man asked.

Steve frowned. "Beaten," he rasped, confused at the question. He couldn't remember everything that had happened over the past several days- had it really only been days?- but he remembered the beatings.

"Who? Who beat you?"

Steve waited for further information, but none came. He tried to think. "Someone…" He stopped, losing track of what he wanted to say for a moment. He couldn't think straight, the words and events jumbled together in his mind. "Someone… beat me," he finally amended.

He clenched his teeth as the man brushed a finger over his heel. Sore was an underwhelming description for the tender nerve endings in his foot. Excruciating fire, a thousand shards of glass, a hundred piercing stings, flared from the lightest touch. A pained gasp escaped his lips. Thankfully, the man did not touch the worst places, where the skin had broken and infection set in. Rocking slightly and feeling nauseous, Steve rode out the pain with a low moan, relieved when the man finally let go.

"Looks like it hurts," the man said.

Understatement of the year, echoed Danny's voice in Steve's mind. Steve leaned back, finding an earthen wall behind him, and rested against it, sweaty and shaking. He didn't respond to the man's comment- what was there to say? His heart thudded dully, a fresh swell of pain riding on each beat, one after the other… after the other… after the other… after-

There was a splash and something cold touched Steve's foot. He flinched, stiffening in anticipation. "What… doing?" he rasped.

"Trying to fix it up a bit."

"Need a… a, uh, hospital," Steve fumbled, struggling for the word.

"And I'm trying to get you there. But you can't walk out of here like this."

Even through the fever, Steve understood he was sick, so he made no more protest as the man investigated the wounds on his feet and made some rudimentary attempt at cleaning them. Then the man rubbed harshly at some of the dirt caked onto his skin around one ankle and Steve hissed.

"Thought you SEAL types could take all kinds of pain."

Steve scowled. Somewhere deep in the haze of memory, the same voice surfaced. The faceless recollection felt unpleasant and Steve shivered. "I know you."

"Don't think so."

Steve didn't believe him. He wasn't sure why, and he couldn't think clearly enough to reason it out, but he was sure he knew this man, and that this man knew him. "Your voice," he muttered.

The man didn't say anything.

Steve didn't press the point- there were other things to think about.

The skin on his foot was not just sore but also broken, and his foot was swollen and inflamed with infection. Hot to touch, the skin burned under the stranger's hands as the man came closer to one of the open wounds, and Steve fought to not jerk away.

"Hospital," Steve muttered again.

"You'll get one," the man replied. This time, though, he wasn't careful and his fingers brushed over the broken skin where the rod had landed too many times and the bruised skin had finally split. Although Steve had expecting it, he was still overwhelmed by the sudden fire that erupted from his foot. With a sharp cry, he jerked away and twisted onto his side, bumping into the wall.

"Sorry," the man murmured, releasing his foot. "Didn't realize it was that bad."

Steve groaned, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched against a scream. He dimly heard the light click of cap being unscrewed from a plastic bottle. A moment later, a fresh stream of bottled water poured over his foot.

Steve remained lying on the ground, eyes closed, measuring each breath carefully. He didn't want to lose the little food and drink he had been given.

For a time, it was silent in the basement.

"Better?" the man asked.

Steve nodded, his eyes still clenched shut.

"Can you sit up?" the man asked.

"Yeah."

A firm hand gripped his arm, tugging, and Steve didn't have the energy to fight. Grunting, he allowed himself to be pulled upright and leaned his head back, resting against the wall.

It was then that he noticed that the lump of cloth behind his head was gone.

"Need more water?" the man asked.

Steve, preoccupied with his discovery, shook his head. "M' good." He rolled his head along the wall, feeling, testing. The knot where the blindfold had been tied was now behind his left ear, and the sore spot on his nose where the cloth had rubbed for days suddenly felt much better. The blindfold must have shifted when he fell over, Steve reasoned. He cautiously opened one eye.

He could see.