(no subject)
The thing about adults, Alex found, was that they were always changing their minds about him. One day, he was an adult, and they’d send him off to dangerous situations without a single thought. On others, he was a child. They wouldn’t let him have a gun, or any weapons at all. Most adults - especially those in the intelligence game - simply didn’t know what to think of him, other than the fact that he was useful, like some sort of tool. Indeed, he’d been “lent out” to other organizations often enough that he felt like an old library book at this point.
Somehow, the wires had gotten crossed here. He’d told the CIA everything he knew (which admittedly, wasn’t much), but they had decided not to believe him - again, treating him like a kid in Alex’s eyes. It would have infuriated him if their next move hadn’t been to decide he was suddenly old enough to torture it out of.
Waterboarding. He’d heard of it, of course. Apparently, it was effective; the average adult was supposed to last no more than 14 seconds, and Alex didn’t want to place bets on how long he’d manage. He was strapped to a slanted table with his legs elevated above his head. Heavy belts served as restraints around his arms and legs, and there was a black hood over his head. The darkness was almost worse than anything else, automatically incorporating an environment of fear, because he hated not knowing what was coming next.
“I want to know why you’re here and what really happened on that boat,” Lewinsky’s voice was muffled. Alex made a vague noise of frustration, trying to move against his restraints. “I’ve told you!” he shouted, hands curling into fists at his side. They didn’t believe him. No matter what he told them, they probably never would because he didn’t have anything else to give. Alex felt a sick sense of helplessness that always began when he had somehow found his way into a situation he couldn’t easily get out of.
A towel was laid over his face. He thrashed, trying to get rid of it, but then there were two strong hands holding his head still, and the first drops of water began dotting the cloth. It was terrible - Alex was a good swimmer. He could hold his breath for over two minutes on a bad day, and once had spent even longer than trapped at the bottom of a Scottish loch. But that hadn’t prepared him for this, even though it’s what he did now. Breathing in would just make things worse.
He couldn’t hold his breath forever, though. Eventually, the pressure in his chest grew to be too much and he had to inhale - except instead of air, there was only water. The cloth made things worse, sticking to his lips and his legs thrashed wildly against the table. He was going mad. This was it. He honestly thought he was going to die. It seemed ridiculous. Just a few months ago, a sniper had tried to shoot a bullet through his heart, but hadn’t succeeded. Alex Rider was not an easy person to kill, but these CIA agents, with their one bucket of water would succeed.
“What the hell is going on here? What do you think you’re doing?”
The noise was accompanied by a banging sound which Alex vaguely recognized as the door slamming into the wall. The voice was muffled, and his air-starved brain couldn’t quite pinpoint who it was. His legs still continued to kick, but more weakly, this time.
“Get that thing off him!”
Hands were scrabbling at his face. The hood and the cloth were pushed off at the same time, allowing both light and air to reach him. Alex took deep, greedy breaths, mouth already opened wide even before he could see. He was sucking in air as if he’d never have it again, and for a few seconds he was so busy with it that he didn’t notice where he was.
In another world.
[OOC - since it's been so long since I've done one of these, hell, why not? Traditional debut. Your pup can either find him at this moment and explain, or find him around the Compound later on after he's settled in. ST/LT always welcome, and tags will be done in-between study sessions on my part. This post is open until I say uncle.]
Somehow, the wires had gotten crossed here. He’d told the CIA everything he knew (which admittedly, wasn’t much), but they had decided not to believe him - again, treating him like a kid in Alex’s eyes. It would have infuriated him if their next move hadn’t been to decide he was suddenly old enough to torture it out of.
Waterboarding. He’d heard of it, of course. Apparently, it was effective; the average adult was supposed to last no more than 14 seconds, and Alex didn’t want to place bets on how long he’d manage. He was strapped to a slanted table with his legs elevated above his head. Heavy belts served as restraints around his arms and legs, and there was a black hood over his head. The darkness was almost worse than anything else, automatically incorporating an environment of fear, because he hated not knowing what was coming next.
“I want to know why you’re here and what really happened on that boat,” Lewinsky’s voice was muffled. Alex made a vague noise of frustration, trying to move against his restraints. “I’ve told you!” he shouted, hands curling into fists at his side. They didn’t believe him. No matter what he told them, they probably never would because he didn’t have anything else to give. Alex felt a sick sense of helplessness that always began when he had somehow found his way into a situation he couldn’t easily get out of.
A towel was laid over his face. He thrashed, trying to get rid of it, but then there were two strong hands holding his head still, and the first drops of water began dotting the cloth. It was terrible - Alex was a good swimmer. He could hold his breath for over two minutes on a bad day, and once had spent even longer than trapped at the bottom of a Scottish loch. But that hadn’t prepared him for this, even though it’s what he did now. Breathing in would just make things worse.
He couldn’t hold his breath forever, though. Eventually, the pressure in his chest grew to be too much and he had to inhale - except instead of air, there was only water. The cloth made things worse, sticking to his lips and his legs thrashed wildly against the table. He was going mad. This was it. He honestly thought he was going to die. It seemed ridiculous. Just a few months ago, a sniper had tried to shoot a bullet through his heart, but hadn’t succeeded. Alex Rider was not an easy person to kill, but these CIA agents, with their one bucket of water would succeed.
“What the hell is going on here? What do you think you’re doing?”
The noise was accompanied by a banging sound which Alex vaguely recognized as the door slamming into the wall. The voice was muffled, and his air-starved brain couldn’t quite pinpoint who it was. His legs still continued to kick, but more weakly, this time.
“Get that thing off him!”
Hands were scrabbling at his face. The hood and the cloth were pushed off at the same time, allowing both light and air to reach him. Alex took deep, greedy breaths, mouth already opened wide even before he could see. He was sucking in air as if he’d never have it again, and for a few seconds he was so busy with it that he didn’t notice where he was.
In another world.
[OOC - since it's been so long since I've done one of these, hell, why not? Traditional debut. Your pup can either find him at this moment and explain, or find him around the Compound later on after he's settled in. ST/LT always welcome, and tags will be done in-between study sessions on my part. This post is open until I say uncle.]