(no subject)
He wakes - he's not sure if he wakes. He's not sure if he was ever asleep. There's a bag over his head (it smells bad, stale, and he'd like to throw up but he doesn't dare), so there's practically no difference between consciousness and unconsciousness.
(His head is clear, mostly, and he thinks that might be an advantage; might, anyway, except that whatever drugs he's been given have made it impossible to move. So, really, all he is is aware: aware that he's helpless, that he's somewhere he can't see and there's nothing he can do, just listen to the thrum of panic in his mind that's all he has to occupy himself with.)
Eventually, though, someone does take the bag off his head, and he almost wishes they hadn't. The light is too-bright and painful on his eyes, and it just starts the questions. Who are you. Who sent you. Why are you here. Wrong answer.
"This place where you are now, is a sugar mill. The machinery used to be steam-powered, but now it is electric. The sugarcane was delivered here by the colonos, the farmers. It was shredded and then placed on a belt to be crushed. You, Alex, are at the beginning of that process."
(It moves so slowly, barely a crawl.)
"I ask you to imagine the pain that lies ahead of you."
(At this rate, it will take him minutes just to reach the grindstones. And then - he doesn't want to think about what then.)
"How much of you will pass through before you are allowed the comfort of death?"
(He can't even lift his head.)
"Please, do not waste any more time. You have so little of it left."
(So little of it left.
He's fourteen. He wants to cry.)
"A nuclear bomb," Alex says. "They know Sarov bought uranium from the Salesman."
It's almost easy, after that. The words slip out. He may be giving away secrets, but there aren't many left to give away - and he never wanted them in the first place. What he wants, first and foremost, is to keep living.
"Now stop the machine and let me go."
No.
He's not even sure the word was spoken aloud, at first, just that he's still moving and the man interrogating him says No, I don't think so and he's still moving. He barely remembers anything after that, isn't even sure if he's capable of memory, just a rising sense of sheer panic at the rising certainty that he's going to die. He barely registers words after that, the new voice speaking in soft Russian over the sounds of the grindstones drawing closer. He's honestly not sure there's anything but that noise, and wishes desperately that it wasn't going to be the last thing he'd hear.
And then it stops.
And the voice says, in gentle, Russian-accented English, "My dear Alex, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
Gratefully, blissfully, thankfully, he passes out with the words how the fuck do you think I am? still unspoken on his tongue.
(His head is clear, mostly, and he thinks that might be an advantage; might, anyway, except that whatever drugs he's been given have made it impossible to move. So, really, all he is is aware: aware that he's helpless, that he's somewhere he can't see and there's nothing he can do, just listen to the thrum of panic in his mind that's all he has to occupy himself with.)
Eventually, though, someone does take the bag off his head, and he almost wishes they hadn't. The light is too-bright and painful on his eyes, and it just starts the questions. Who are you. Who sent you. Why are you here. Wrong answer.
"This place where you are now, is a sugar mill. The machinery used to be steam-powered, but now it is electric. The sugarcane was delivered here by the colonos, the farmers. It was shredded and then placed on a belt to be crushed. You, Alex, are at the beginning of that process."
(It moves so slowly, barely a crawl.)
"I ask you to imagine the pain that lies ahead of you."
(At this rate, it will take him minutes just to reach the grindstones. And then - he doesn't want to think about what then.)
"How much of you will pass through before you are allowed the comfort of death?"
(He can't even lift his head.)
"Please, do not waste any more time. You have so little of it left."
(So little of it left.
He's fourteen. He wants to cry.)
"A nuclear bomb," Alex says. "They know Sarov bought uranium from the Salesman."
It's almost easy, after that. The words slip out. He may be giving away secrets, but there aren't many left to give away - and he never wanted them in the first place. What he wants, first and foremost, is to keep living.
"Now stop the machine and let me go."
No.
He's not even sure the word was spoken aloud, at first, just that he's still moving and the man interrogating him says No, I don't think so and he's still moving. He barely remembers anything after that, isn't even sure if he's capable of memory, just a rising sense of sheer panic at the rising certainty that he's going to die. He barely registers words after that, the new voice speaking in soft Russian over the sounds of the grindstones drawing closer. He's honestly not sure there's anything but that noise, and wishes desperately that it wasn't going to be the last thing he'd hear.
And then it stops.
And the voice says, in gentle, Russian-accented English, "My dear Alex, I'm so sorry. Are you all right?"
Gratefully, blissfully, thankfully, he passes out with the words how the fuck do you think I am? still unspoken on his tongue.