MariaShadow asks: Whumptober 2022 #23, at the end of their rope, dealer's choice on the descriptors, Scott. Prompts used: Forced to Kneel | Tied to a Table | "Hold them down."

This fic first appeared in the Whumptober 2022 collection.

Characters: Scott

Warnings: Restrained, Concussion, Knife, POW video, Ransom video

Scott woke up to the feeling of swaying. He'd never been carsick in his life – that privilege had been Alan's – but he certainly felt like it now. He worked on his breathing even as he tried to work out what was going on.

He risked opening his eyes just enough to see his predicament.

There were plastic ties around his wrists and his hands were bound in front of him but to a ring in the floor. He couldn't feel any on his ankles but the flight suit and boots could mean that he wouldn't anyway. Scott was curled up on the floor of what was likely a transportation truck.

He had no idea how long he had been out, no idea how long he had been travelling, but what worried him the most was that he had a good idea what his immediate future held. A captured American soldier was usually paraded for the world to see and then never seen again. The thought of being paraded for his brothers to see, and his father, and what that would do to them, had him swallowing back bile that had nothing to do with the dizziness of concussion.

Not much he could do about it now.

The steady movement of the truck coupled with his headache soon meant that Scott gave way to sleep again.

Rough hands woke him. He was no longer bound to the floor of the truck and two men were hauling him to his feet. They almost threw him off the truck, and Scott cursed as blood flowed back into limbs that had been stationary for too long, causing him to be unsteady on his feet.

Two men flanked him, one led the way and at least three more brought up the rear as they marched him through what looked like a barracks. Other soldiers stopped what they were doing and stared as he passed. There were jeers and catcalls. Some of the closer soldiers spat on the floor.

Scott held his head high and marched.

Eventually they entered a large office-like room. The man behind the desk wore a uniform of some rank – not that Scott knew what that was – and was festooned with ribbon bars and medals. He didn't look up as the men filed in, everyone moving to the side except Scott's two escorts, but stayed reading the file in his hands. This was a tactic Scott was well used to as it was one his father had taught him during his summer job to TI before he enlisted.

After an age the man gave a big sigh and closed the file, squeezing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. Then he looked at Scott. He stared for quite some time before speaking.

'Name?'

Scott took a breath. He knew the drill, had had his SERE training, and knew he could not withhold this information. The man raised one eyebrow and his lips thinned.

'Name, rank and serial number if you would be so kind.'

'Tracy, Scott. Captain. 559016.'

The man's other eyebrow shot up to match the first and Scott clenched his jaw, hoping the worry didn't show in his face.

'Scott Tracy? Eldest son of Jeff Tracy, astronaut?'

The man chuckled and Scott knew he had no need to deny or confirm his identity.

When Scott had first decided to enlist he and his father had sat down and had a long and detailed discussion about the kinds of issues being the eldest son of Jeff Tracy would bring. It wasn't exactly a secret that he'd joined the USAF like his father had.

Of course, neither had known back then that civil war would break out in Bereznik, nor that the USAF would be one of many organisations asked by the World Council and the UN to play a peacekeeping role, running escort on humanitarian aid being dropped into the country.

That discussion came back to haunt him now.

'Take Captain Tracy away and prepare him for broadcast.'

He was marched out the building into another and thrown into a room that had nothing in it. Scott's two escorts remained but neither moved yet to do anything, so he manoeuvred himself into a sitting position and waited.

He didn't have long to wait. Four men came back. One was carrying the cam that Scott was dreading. He busied himself setting it all up while the remaining five men advanced on him.

Once more he was hauled to his feet. Scott was held securely between two large men while his wrists were encircled with coarse thick rope before a small sharp knife cut the ties. Then they put a sack over his head. He tested his bonds but they were tight with no give at all.

He zoned out while they bustled around him, his two escorts not leaving his side at all. All too quickly though the broadcast began. Scott ignored the rambling of the spokesman until he came to introduce him.

Someone pushed him forward and he stumbled a little. Scott heard his name but the rest of the words were lost to him. Not for the first time he cursed the fact that he had no ear for languages like John, but he'd seen the broadcasts before, he knew roughly what to expect.

Hands clamped down on both shoulders and pressed hard, but his natural stance kept him upright. Until a boot kicked the back of his right knee and he was forced to kneel. The hood was torn from his head and he blinked in the sudden bright light.

More words were said. One of the men grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked his head back while another displayed the large knife Scott had been expecting. It was surprisingly warm against his throat.

A few more minutes and the man holding the camera turned it off. Scott was for a third time manhandled upright. He supposed that they would lead him away to a cell, but to his surprise – and pain – a fist to the gut had him doubling over while he listened to the sound of what he assumed was a chair being dragged over the floor.

Scott was pushed back into the chair and once more held down with hands on his shoulders. The door opened and the officer that he had seen earlier appeared. The man grinned at him, and Scott shuddered. But the man's next words had his blood turn cold.

'Time to send a private message to your father, Captain Tracy.'

He waited until the man had turned his attention to the cameraman before exploding up, using his momentum to take out one of his escorts when his head connected with the man's nose.

Another fell to a well-placed fist and foot combo, but it was a battle Scott couldn't win. He was trying for the cam, and the men seemed to realise it, dogpiling him before he could reach it.

'Hold him down!' shouted the officer and Scott knew it was over. He had failed in his objective and he wouldn't get another chance now. He was practically carried back to the chair and this time tied down.

The officer addressed his Dad directly, showing Scott off like some prize he had won. He grimaced internally when the man demanded a hefty sum for his safe return and then the camera was turned off.

Scott took a deep breath. There was nothing he could do now to stop that video reaching his family, so he centred himself and prepared for what would come next.

He didn't have long to wait.

One barked command and the men dragged him out of the room and deeper into the building. He was thrown down some steps. With no way of breaking his fall he felt battered and bruised all over. But they weren't finished with him yet.

He was picked up and taken to a room that would have filled him with fear if he hadn't already clamped down on that emotion.

There was a sink. A hose. A bucket.

And a table.

Despite his efforts it took the five of them no time at all to have him up on the tabletop and tied down securely to each corner. Scott pulled but there was no give at all in any of the restraints.

The officer leaned over him.

'Now, Captain. Tell me about your base of operations.'

Scott stared at him; teeth clamped shut.

The officer smiled in delight.