Cairo, Egypt 1938
[January 19th, 1938 @ 5:34 pm EET]
Indy crumples to the earth floor, gasping for breath. It's almost a routine now. An hour or so of torturous beatings after his resolute denial to help fathom out the Crystal. Slamming into the rough adobe of the back wall under the momentum of a hard shove. The guards cawing their derisive laughter. Shifts change and the interludes between torment vary in length, but the end result is always the same, no matter who is in charge.
He spits a gob of blood-tainted mucous into the dirt and struggles to sit upright. It's just another day. The door clangs shut, followed by the sneck of the padlock. Total darkness settles in like an old friendironic considering how much its presence is loathed. The thud of jack boots recedes up the corridor.
Today was what he would deem a medium pain experience: a few cigarette burns, some clumsy bayonet work on his forearms, the little stoat-faced guy's favored riding crop across his back, and a wealth of kicks and punches dealt by a couple of low-life privates who just happened to be hanging around the barracks this afternoon, enjoying the Egyptian sun. Not as bad as the electrocution days, or the days when he is lashed with his own whip. But still far from tolerable.
It has been almost three weeks. He broke a long time ago. However, he still continues to defy his captors. Why? Because death would be a blessed relief now. So he takes the pain and rolls with the punches. And when it's over each day, he just lays there bound (listening for them) in the filth, with his rags hanging off him, where they aren't stuck to closing wounds and lacerations.
Indiana Jones is not a man of prayer. His thoughts do not stray far. Hope and recent memory have faded from conscious thought. (why won't you come home?) He occupies his time with mental rune work. So far, the need for light or water has not been life-threatening enough to invoke the power for his benefit. He keeps trying though. He'd like to read the letter. He'd like a nice ice-cold glass of water. And a cheeseburger.
The heat is suffocating. (the water's too far away) He snakes his way over to where the tin cup sits (you always find what you're looking for) and braves the pain of his thrice split lip in order to clench the rim between his teeth and take a gulp. The contents are hot, disgusting and bacteria-ridden. As always. His dysentery-wracked stomach roils as the liquid finds its way there. He curls up and braces himself as the spasms start again.
These are not good times. What can he do? There is still one option. (you know what you have to do) He hates to entertain it, if he can even focus enough to do so. But it (she) is all he has left.
Indy crumples to the earth floor, gasping for breath. It's almost a routine now. An hour or so of torturous beatings after his resolute denial to help fathom out the Crystal. Slamming into the rough adobe of the back wall under the momentum of a hard shove. The guards cawing their derisive laughter. Shifts change and the interludes between torment vary in length, but the end result is always the same, no matter who is in charge.
He spits a gob of blood-tainted mucous into the dirt and struggles to sit upright. It's just another day. The door clangs shut, followed by the sneck of the padlock. Total darkness settles in like an old friendironic considering how much its presence is loathed. The thud of jack boots recedes up the corridor.
Today was what he would deem a medium pain experience: a few cigarette burns, some clumsy bayonet work on his forearms, the little stoat-faced guy's favored riding crop across his back, and a wealth of kicks and punches dealt by a couple of low-life privates who just happened to be hanging around the barracks this afternoon, enjoying the Egyptian sun. Not as bad as the electrocution days, or the days when he is lashed with his own whip. But still far from tolerable.
It has been almost three weeks. He broke a long time ago. However, he still continues to defy his captors. Why? Because death would be a blessed relief now. So he takes the pain and rolls with the punches. And when it's over each day, he just lays there bound (listening for them) in the filth, with his rags hanging off him, where they aren't stuck to closing wounds and lacerations.
Indiana Jones is not a man of prayer. His thoughts do not stray far. Hope and recent memory have faded from conscious thought. (why won't you come home?) He occupies his time with mental rune work. So far, the need for light or water has not been life-threatening enough to invoke the power for his benefit. He keeps trying though. He'd like to read the letter. He'd like a nice ice-cold glass of water. And a cheeseburger.
The heat is suffocating. (the water's too far away) He snakes his way over to where the tin cup sits (you always find what you're looking for) and braves the pain of his thrice split lip in order to clench the rim between his teeth and take a gulp. The contents are hot, disgusting and bacteria-ridden. As always. His dysentery-wracked stomach roils as the liquid finds its way there. He curls up and braces himself as the spasms start again.
These are not good times. What can he do? There is still one option. (you know what you have to do) He hates to entertain it, if he can even focus enough to do so. But it (she) is all he has left.