(no subject)
Movement is what wakes him. Movement, and the taste of blood, and pain in a dozen different areas of his body.
He's being dragged, held under the arms, his toes scraping across the floor which swims in front of him when he opes his eyes, or tries to. One of his eyes--the one that hurt more, the right one--wouldn't open much. His brain sends the message to his feet to lift, to try and get under him, but his feet aren't listening very well; he can feel them, but not move them much, not quickly enough. Some dim corner of his mind tells him that they'd likely drugged him with something, though he's too tired, too dizzy, too distracted by pain to figure out what.
Then, suddenly, there is dim light, and they drop him on a cold, wet floor, landing on his left side. He shifts slightly, trying to tilt his head enough to look around him (always scan an area for threats, for exits, for possible weapons; you need to be able to identify and use these within a split second), trying to find a position that doesn't hurt quite so much. But figures shimmer in front of his eyes, going in and out of focus, and he tilts his head to the floor, closing his eyes. There's a low thrumming noise coming through the floor, a subtle vibration that he knows should mean something, but it's hard to put it together now, when his head feels so fuzzy and when the desperation--that things can't be so bad now, not when he thought things were just starting to look up--swamps him, making him want to scream.
Someone grabs him by the hair, pulling his head up, and he sees that a figure moves out of the shadows, a figure in a dark suit and white shirt, black hair neatly combed. A figure it only takes him a second to recognise.
Thirty minutes before we were attacked, you asked our consul to give up Lee Jong. Before our government could comply, the consulate was attacked, Lee Jong disappeared. ...What are you trying to hide?
The name drifts forward, one he hadn't forgotten in two years, just like the face: Cheng, the head of security at the Chinese embassy in L.A.
Oh Jesus.
Cheng stared down at him for a long moment, eyes steely. "You surely must be aware, Mr. Bauer," he says, finally, "that China has a long memory. Only 18 months ago, you invaded our territory and killed our consul." He took a couple steps forward, crouching so he could stare Jack levelly in the eye. "Did you really think that we would forget?"
Jack knows what China does to its prisoners, and he knows it's unlikely that anyone will ever hear about what happens to him. That they'll never hear about where he is, or whether he's dead or alive.
That they'll never get a body back.
Chris--oh God, Chris, how long did she wait? Is she still looking for me? Does she know who it was?
He can't let people wonder about what's happened to him, he can't just disappear again. Kim, Chris...he can't let them wonder, days spinning into weeks and months, never seeing him again and not knowing; or worse yet, always searching for him, even long after he's dead, because he has no doubt that that's where this is going to end, sooner or later. He has to tell them; has to let them know that at some point they'll have to stop looking, that they'll have to grieve and move on.
He forces himself to stare Cheng in the eye, to ask, even though it pains him to ask for anything, to appear weak in front of his captors. But it isn't for him: it's for Kim, for Chris, for his friends. If it wasn't for them, he wouldn't bother, would prefer to remain stubbornly stoic. "I know how this works," he says, trying to swallow, to focus, his voice gravelly and nearly gone. "I need to make one phone call. Please, just one phone call."
Cheng just stares back at him, his expression stony. Though Jack hadn't expected even that little token of mercy from him, anger still wells in him. Glancing away from Cheng's eyes for the first time, he spits at Cheng's feet; as clear a fuck you as he can manage while his hands and arms are still too weak to give him the finger.
Cheng's eyes flash ire, a jerky hand motion signalling to his flunky to drop the prisoner. Jack hits the floor, his head swimming from the change in blood pressure, his face pressed against what feels like metal. He knows he's earned more punishment by that defiance, but it's hard for him to give a shit; he knows that there's acts of cruelty coming his way that even he's never seen the likes of before, and for a moment, he'd just prefer that they kill him now, get it over with. But then there's that one escape they may not know about; that one hope that all he'll have to do is wait three days, five days, not very long at any rate, and without his medication his heart will give out.
He can feel the vibration of Cheng's footsteps on the floor, hear them walking away, but the others aren't following. Rolling onto his back, he squints into the light, seeing four figures around him in a circle, moving closer, inch by inch. Looking over at his left hand, he tries to move it, to curl his arm around his head to protect it, but the best he can manage is to lift his arm a few inches before letting it fall again. Resigned for the moment, he tries to turn as far as he can onto his stomach, protecting as many vital organs as he can, and waits for the blows to start falling.
He doesn't have to wait long.
He's being dragged, held under the arms, his toes scraping across the floor which swims in front of him when he opes his eyes, or tries to. One of his eyes--the one that hurt more, the right one--wouldn't open much. His brain sends the message to his feet to lift, to try and get under him, but his feet aren't listening very well; he can feel them, but not move them much, not quickly enough. Some dim corner of his mind tells him that they'd likely drugged him with something, though he's too tired, too dizzy, too distracted by pain to figure out what.
Then, suddenly, there is dim light, and they drop him on a cold, wet floor, landing on his left side. He shifts slightly, trying to tilt his head enough to look around him (always scan an area for threats, for exits, for possible weapons; you need to be able to identify and use these within a split second), trying to find a position that doesn't hurt quite so much. But figures shimmer in front of his eyes, going in and out of focus, and he tilts his head to the floor, closing his eyes. There's a low thrumming noise coming through the floor, a subtle vibration that he knows should mean something, but it's hard to put it together now, when his head feels so fuzzy and when the desperation--that things can't be so bad now, not when he thought things were just starting to look up--swamps him, making him want to scream.
Someone grabs him by the hair, pulling his head up, and he sees that a figure moves out of the shadows, a figure in a dark suit and white shirt, black hair neatly combed. A figure it only takes him a second to recognise.
Thirty minutes before we were attacked, you asked our consul to give up Lee Jong. Before our government could comply, the consulate was attacked, Lee Jong disappeared. ...What are you trying to hide?
The name drifts forward, one he hadn't forgotten in two years, just like the face: Cheng, the head of security at the Chinese embassy in L.A.
Oh Jesus.
Cheng stared down at him for a long moment, eyes steely. "You surely must be aware, Mr. Bauer," he says, finally, "that China has a long memory. Only 18 months ago, you invaded our territory and killed our consul." He took a couple steps forward, crouching so he could stare Jack levelly in the eye. "Did you really think that we would forget?"
Jack knows what China does to its prisoners, and he knows it's unlikely that anyone will ever hear about what happens to him. That they'll never hear about where he is, or whether he's dead or alive.
That they'll never get a body back.
Chris--oh God, Chris, how long did she wait? Is she still looking for me? Does she know who it was?
He can't let people wonder about what's happened to him, he can't just disappear again. Kim, Chris...he can't let them wonder, days spinning into weeks and months, never seeing him again and not knowing; or worse yet, always searching for him, even long after he's dead, because he has no doubt that that's where this is going to end, sooner or later. He has to tell them; has to let them know that at some point they'll have to stop looking, that they'll have to grieve and move on.
He forces himself to stare Cheng in the eye, to ask, even though it pains him to ask for anything, to appear weak in front of his captors. But it isn't for him: it's for Kim, for Chris, for his friends. If it wasn't for them, he wouldn't bother, would prefer to remain stubbornly stoic. "I know how this works," he says, trying to swallow, to focus, his voice gravelly and nearly gone. "I need to make one phone call. Please, just one phone call."
Cheng just stares back at him, his expression stony. Though Jack hadn't expected even that little token of mercy from him, anger still wells in him. Glancing away from Cheng's eyes for the first time, he spits at Cheng's feet; as clear a fuck you as he can manage while his hands and arms are still too weak to give him the finger.
Cheng's eyes flash ire, a jerky hand motion signalling to his flunky to drop the prisoner. Jack hits the floor, his head swimming from the change in blood pressure, his face pressed against what feels like metal. He knows he's earned more punishment by that defiance, but it's hard for him to give a shit; he knows that there's acts of cruelty coming his way that even he's never seen the likes of before, and for a moment, he'd just prefer that they kill him now, get it over with. But then there's that one escape they may not know about; that one hope that all he'll have to do is wait three days, five days, not very long at any rate, and without his medication his heart will give out.
He can feel the vibration of Cheng's footsteps on the floor, hear them walking away, but the others aren't following. Rolling onto his back, he squints into the light, seeing four figures around him in a circle, moving closer, inch by inch. Looking over at his left hand, he tries to move it, to curl his arm around his head to protect it, but the best he can manage is to lift his arm a few inches before letting it fall again. Resigned for the moment, he tries to turn as far as he can onto his stomach, protecting as many vital organs as he can, and waits for the blows to start falling.
He doesn't have to wait long.