Chapter Text
He holds his eyes closed when he comes to, keeping himself still, maintaining the rhythm of his unconscious breaths; habits meticulously worked into his instincts. Every little bit helps when trying to assure one's survival. Any little thing could be the grain that tips the scale.
Vic tries to recall what happened, how he ended up here; feeling woozy and numb, cheek-down in a cold concrete room. It's difficult to recollect where he was leading up to this. He's certainly been drugged, but by who? Details of his mission come back in a crawl; a name, an address. A trap? Possible.
The first step in any escape is to take stock. He doesn't move a muscle as he mentally checks his body, immediately noting a dull ache in his arms and legs, deep and persistent despite the lingering effects of the drug.
Gunshot wounds? Broken bones? He won't know until he tries to move, until he opens his eyes, and he'll need the start of a plan before that can happen. He can tell this room is empty, but he doesn't know if there are cameras, windows, mics. Someone could come running the second they know he's awake, and that opens up a whole new assortment of variables. He can't have that happening, not yet.
His clothes are gone---a standard enough protocol, even if it sets him on edge---and he can't feel his hands or feet. Can't tell if he's bound without moving them, but Vic assumes it to be the case. A combination of cold and restricted blood flow will sap away any feeling before long; just one more obstacle to work through. Besides those restraints, there's something pressed into the bridge of his nose, wrapping around the back of his head, covering the lower half of his face and creating a secondary ache that still pales against the faraway pain in his limbs. It's some kind of gag or muzzle. Something that keeps him from moving his jaw, muffling the air he exhales through his nose. Trouble, but not that much trouble.
Order of operations.
Eyes first, scan the room. Look for cameras, equipment, watchers. If no one can see him, he can free himself. Just a little at first, a loosening of the restraints to allow circulation to resume its normal path, get feeling back, wait. If he's given enough time before his captor decides to pay him a visit, he'll learn to undo them in a hurry. Boost mobility. The mask comes next on his list of priorities. He can run with it on, but it seems designed to inhibit air intake, and he'll need to eliminate what disadvantages he can. Depending on the room’s security, there's a chance he can piecemeal the mask into a lockpicking set. Use their own tools against them. Almost makes him smile.
The pain in his limbs is getting worse, a throbbing ache that pulses at his thoughts, making it harder to focus. Things will be harder if they broke his legs. Mobility goes down the drain pretty quickly with that sort of injury, but he can run on a clean break if he makes a splint. He's done it before.
Before opening his eyes a fraction, Vic tries to squeeze his hands into fists, testing the extent of the numbness, breathing past the frustration when he can't tell. His hands are at least bound in front of him based on his position; a mistake on his captors’ part. He'd have no trouble if they were tied behind his back, true, but it's twice as easy to work on a restraint you can see. Twice as fast.
Vic opens his eyes, letting the tiniest fraction of light in. The room is dim, but he can vaguely make out the silhouette of his arms in front of him, half tucked into his chest, looking off, somehow. The drug is still fading, fucking with his senses, so he brushes it off, but the feeling of wrongness doesn't go away as he stares longer, as he opens his eyes the slightest bit more.
It's an angle that doesn't make sense, he tells himself. It's the drugs.
There's nothing there. No rope, no cuffs, no zip ties.
No hands.
It's the angle. His wrists are just bent horribly, which must be the source of the pain there, it's the angle.
Only it's not his wrists that are bending. Everything disappears halfway down his forearms, vanished somewhere into this dark room, gone. His breathing is getting faster behind the mask, hissing through whatever gaps allow for air, coming back at him hot and damp. He's going to hyperventilate, and that can't happen. He can't pass out again, he has to… he has to get ahold of himself. This isn't real. This is another drug, another effect, something he's never heard of before. He's hallucinating.
He lifts one of his arms, testing it, and there's nothing behind it, no bone bent at a gruesome angle, no numb fingers trailing the floor like dead branches. Gone.
No. This isn't real. He slams the false ending into the concrete, feels that deep ache spike into a real pain, carved in the shape of a hand that isn't there.
It's not real.
His other arm, ending at the same impossible spot. He can see folded skin, careful stitches under a layer of tape, and his stomach tries to turn itself inside out. Not real. His vision is blackening at the edges, dark spots flying across his vision like blowflies. Not real not real not real. He's too aware of the similar pain in his legs, the similar absence, but Vic refuses to look. His lungs feel tight, but the lack of air is a distant concern compared to whatever the fuck this is.
Vic slams his arms into the pavement again, ignoring the bright pain that bursts up with every hit.
Where are they?
He should be able to feel them, fuck, how did they manage something like this? It's mad science, it's… It's a nightmare. Only a nightmare, only a drug-fueled delusion, he's fine. His vision is a pinprick, lungs shuddering with effort, heart and stomach flopping around uselessly in his chest cavity as the darkness fully covers him.
He's fine.
He's fine.