When Jericho regained consciousness, he felt himself floating. It was a strange sensation, breathing underwater, but he knew he couldn't open his eyes yet. There was some sort of oxygen mask around his mouth, but nothing covered his eyes. He was still barely aware of his surroundings, and he needed to be prepared before he opened his eyes to discover what horrors the mercenaries had brought him to.

His body ached where they had beaten him, and he was still drowsy from the tranquilizers. He could feel that he still had his pants on, but his neck, chest, and feet felt bare.

Good thing I hid the communicator, Jericho thought. They definitely would have taken it.

There were no restraints on his arms, but he could feel something wrapped around his ankles, probably preventing him from floating to the top of whatever he was trapped in.

Cautiously, Jericho cracked open one eye. Once he was certain that he was indeed floating in water that wasn't harmful, he opened both eyes fully to take in his surroundings. From what Jericho could tell through the water and the glass, he was in some sort of laboratory filled with wires and monitors and men in white coats. There were other men in black-guards, hired guns- at what Jericho presumed to be the room's only exits. To make matters worse, every single one of them had covered their eyes with that strange reflective material. And Jericho couldn't hear what they were saying and doing.

Trying not to panic, Jericho reached his hands out to feel the glass of his current prison. If they took him to ransom for information or money from his parents, why would they take his clothes and put him in some tube? What were all the scientists and machines for?

What do you want with me? Terrible theories flashed through Jericho's mind. He wrapped his arms around himself and curled up slightly, trying to stop the shaking.

This isn't happening. This can't be happening. Please, tell me I'm wrong. Let this be some sick joke.

To the mute's horror, the scientists became more active. Apparently they noticed that he'd regained consciousness. Several of them approached the glass, surrounding him, taking notes and making comments in distorted, disinterested tones. A ring of lights flickered to life at the top and bottom of Jericho's watery cage, as though the boy were some exotic animal on display.

A dark alley.

Men with guns, laughing as he cried, his breathing quick and shallow.

Familiar screams.

The cold steel of a knife against his throat.

A hissing noise snapped the body-jumper out of his flashbacks. He wasn't certain when he'd begun to hyperventilate, but he could feel that the air coming through his oxygen mask was changing. Jericho felt himself struggle to breathe and clawed frantically at the mask as his vision faded to black once more.

When Jericho regained consciousness, he was strapped to a table. Several wires and I.V.s connected to his pale, limp form, while various monitors beeped in the background. Whatever drugs they were forcing into him left him feeling... heavy. It was a struggle just to force his eyes open after every sluggish blink.

Fighting against the nausea, Jericho managed to make out the white-coated forms of the scientists and their reflective masks. They were discussing something… something important… All Jericho could decipher through the haze were a few words…

"...Odysseus…"

"...machine…"

"...transfer…"

The cell was cold. Cold and dark. Jericho had never felt so alone.

How long had he been here? Days? Weeks? They never kept him conscious long enough to find out. They had done some sort of sick experiment the other (day?) that seemed to have no purpose other than to see how long the mute could stay awake, but they hadn't been very conversational. The guards merely hit or shook him whenever Jericho started to succumb to exhaustion.

I hope they haven't gone after anyone else, Jericho thought, curling up beneath his cell's small, barred window and gazing out at the overcast sky.

The scientists always seemed to be striving toward a new level of torture for Jericho, but he found that nothing was worse than The Machine.

He'd awakened to find himself strapped into the horrible contraption, some sort of giant ball of metal that pressed and squeezed and pushed at his increasingly fragile form from all sides. He'd struggled at first, desperately pushing back and silently begging for the scientists to let him out.

Then they'd turned the monstrocity on.

It hurt. It burned. It blinded him with agony unlike anything he'd felt before. His mouth opened wide in a silent scream until dark nothingness blissfully returned.

Something shifted after Jericho's captors began his sessions with The Machine. It felt as though a dam was threatening to break open inside of him, longing to let out a force greater than any he'd felt before. Something powerful and deadly. It frightened him almost as much as The Machine.

They kept the body-jumper drugged and shackled, glowing pieces of metal confining his wrists, ankles, and neck. The one around his throat was especially bothersome. He shuddered at the feeling of cold steel against his scars.

Much to his dismay, he realized they were draining him. The cuffs would glow brighter the more awake he became. Whenever the guards came to retrieve him, they would draw his energy until he lost consciousness. The guards revelled in his helplessness, and Jericho hated every single one of them for it.

Dimly, Jericho realized that if he thought something particularly emphatically in his head, his captors would react to it. A jolt and a small struggle for control before they would carry on.

Jericho fought as hard as he could as the guards manhandled him into The Machine. His nausea was particularly overwhelming tonight, and his silent pleas were ignored as usual. He reached out as strongly as he could, searching for anyone who would listen.

Help… help me… please…

One of the guards laughed. Jericho hung limply in the machine, quietly crying out what little fluids he'd been given while he waited for the pain. The Machine hummed to life.

Please… no more, I don't like it…

The torture began.

NO PLEASE DON'T SOMEBODY MAKE IT STOP-

Jericho could feel his consciousness connecting, reaching for safety, familiar thoughts and intentions. He caught glimpses of a room, Titans' Tower, Robin and Starfire's concerned faces.

And then everything was gone.

As he regained consciousness- in his frigid cell once more- Jericho's first thoughts were of that mental connection. Had he imagined it, or did the Titans truly hear him? He hadn't wanted his new friends involved in this treacherous situation, but they were potentially his only hope of rescue. He didn't want to die in here. Taking a deep breath, he closed his haunted green eyes and reached out into the night.

Can you hear me?

Yes! He could see them! They were crowded around Cyborg and the computer systems. They appeared to hear him, but they didn't acknowledge him. The mute slumped to the floor.

I'm so tired… I can't… keep this up…

He heard Starfire so clearly, she could have been standing outside his cell.

"Oh, where are you, little friend!?"

He reached toward the window, a tiny spark of hope in his chest.

...Starfire?

H-Herald… It's not your fault…

Jericho could sense Herald's guilt. Telling his friend that he wasn't to blame didn't seem to help much, either. The only thing that would make Herald feel better was to have Jericho safe again. So the little body-jumper urged the Titans to find him. Fast.

"Jer, where are you?"

I don't know… it hurts so much… Raven can find me, but… hurry…

Jericho was asleep when the guards returned to drag him from his cell. Since the mute had been recharging rather than weakening when they retrieved him, he managed to regain consciousness en route to whatever hell they had planned for him this time.

They'd never allowed Jericho to be awake in the hallways before, so he took the opportunity to look for possible escape routes. He was passing a large, open chamber when he saw something that made everything so, so much worse.

Through a doorway into the grand room, he could see a large image painted on the wall. Orange and black with a gleaming, silver "S."

Suddenly, Jericho knew exactly where he was.

(So, I'm not dead, I didn't give up on this, and I still own nothing. Next: Where the hell is Slade?)