Chapter Text
In another situation, Joaquín might’ve laughed at all this. Compared to every other time he’s been kidnapped by whatever evil science group, this is almost mundane.
It really speaks to the level of absurd his life is that being taken by an illegal organ trafficking ring is his version of mundane. But just because it's unremarkable doesn’t make it any less awful.
Currently, he’s tied to a cot in a dark and damp room that smells so strongly of chemicals that it burns in his throat. Under normal circumstances breaking out and storming the facility would be a simple task. Well, it’d be hard, but no harder than he’s used to, being a superhero n’ all.
His captors thought of that though, and he’s hooked up to… something that keeps him teetering on the edge between awareness and sleep. It serves to make him feel even more pathetic about his situation; the IV is just right there, in his forearm, but he just can’t reach it. It seems laughably easy to just escape, but he can’t.
If there’s any upside, though, it’s that whatever they’re pumping inside him is keeping him from panicking. Sure, his brain is running a hundred miles a second, but his body is far too lethargic to keep up. Small blessings though, at least he doesn’t have to stew in anxiety while he waits for the “doctor” (if they could even be called that) to come back for whatever they need next.
Once they had found out he had a healing factor, they could hardly wait to dig around. They first took out a kidney, since that’s the easiest organ to start with. Luckily, Joaquín had still been out for that one. Unluckily, the doctor’s excitement grew when it had regrown within the hour. After all, how could you ever run out of money if your patient had unlimited organs?
Joaquín wasn’t given the pleasure of being out for the others. Drugged, but lucid. Just hazy enough that he doesn’t remember any clear details - he thinks he cried out for Sam at one point - but his body definitely remembers, even though he doesn’t even have the scars to prove it anymore.
But the worst part, in Joaquín’s opinion at least, is that he doesn’t know if anyone is coming.
Sam had been called off on some Avenger/Captain duties, something about space empires? Maybe? It’s outside of Joaquín’s field of expertise, and Sam hadn’t told him much other than that he’d “be back soon” and “take care of New York.” So Joaquín had stepped up. With a big portion of the Avengers away, he had to.
In his opinion, he had been very responsible. Coordinating with the other local heroes, managing small crises, checking in with Sam. Although apparently all that responsibility flew out the window (haha, bird joke) the minute he’d walked into the facility.
Luke Cage had messaged Joaquín about some organ trafficking facility over in Jersey - it’s always Jersey - and Joaquín agreed to do a quick flyover and check things out.
Of course, his flyover had turned into a confrontation once he’d discovered there were innocents actively in the building. He’d never been one for unethical procedures after all, even if he benefited a lot from his. And well, once that happened…
He isn’t even really sure how they managed to take him down. The whole thing is hazy, and he’s not sure if it all happened that fast or the drugs. Although it doesn’t really matter now.
He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, but he knows he’s missed at least one check-in with Sam and that his mentor will worry himself into oblivion. And even though Joaquín knows Sam would be here in a heartbeat, neither of their jobs are convenient like that. So he knows eventually Sam will come, but it won’t be anytime soon.
Waiting has always been the hardest part. According to his abuela, “you are always going too fast, pollito, hay que tener paciencia.” Which is true, but that doesn’t make it any easier.
He wishes he was just out completely, though. That way he could just wake up in Sam’s apartment bundled in clean linen sheets and a cup of tea beside him. Then maybe he wouldn’t remember the sinking feeling in his gut every time he hears footsteps approaching and everything they promise afterwards.
Of course, this train of thought is when the doctor decides to come back into the room. He’s a lanky man with wispy hair and thick framed glasses hanging around his neck. Despite his stature, he’s a meek little thing. He barely speaks to Joaquín, not even the dignity of acknowledging that the person he’s operating on is alive and awake.
That’s how Joaquín knows he’s at least a little uncomfortable with what’s going on here. Just not uncomfortable enough to do something about it. Joaquín’s met people like that before, who prefer to ignore whatever makes them uncomfortable rather than do something about it. There’s a sick sense of banality with it, as if turning a blind eye makes you any less evil than the people who are responsible.
And maybe he just doesn’t understand it because he’s never been afforded that luxury. He’s never been able to have the pleasure of looking the other way when it benefitted him. He’s never been the type to want that luxury, not if it means others have to suffer for it.
So no, he doesn’t feel any sort of benevolence towards the doctor for “just” being the middle man. Not when he’s content to watch Joaquín’s suffering day in and day out.
As usual, though, Joaquín’s not going to let him get away with ignoring him.
“How can you sleep at night?” He asks with a strained voice. Every day it becomes harder and more painful to speak up, but that’s never stopped Joaquín before and it sure as hell isn’t going to stop him now.
As usual, the doctor doesn’t respond but he flinches whenever Joaquín first speaks up each day. As if he’s expecting - wishing - that this will be the day Joaquín is too exhausted to shove his actions in his face.
That doesn’t dissuade Joaquín though. In fact, it only strengthens his resolve. If this is the last day he can speak, he’s going to get in every last word.
“How many people came before me,” he pauses to cough, “How many didn’t survive?” He knows the answer, at least an estimation. Luke had counted at least 8 disappearances he could connect with these people, but there’s always some who fade away quietly never to be noticed. It makes Joaquín sick to know some families will never get to know what happened to their loved ones.
“Joshua Pearson,” he starts again after a minute when he can muster up the strength, “went missing two weeks ago after his shift at the corner store. His mother lives in Louisiana and won’t ever hear from him again.”
Joshua had been the first body Luke had found. When Joshua had finally died after who knows how long in captivity, they had harvested his heart and dumped it in a back alley on trash day. It was only sheer chance that Luke had found him and started the investigation.
“Do you have kids?” Joaquín asked. The look on the doctor’s face told him yes, “How would you feel?”
All of a sudden the doctor’s hand snapped to Joaquín’s wrist, “Just shut up. You don’t know anything.”
Of course, Joaquín wasn’t going to let that deter him from speaking. He’s been threatened worse by tougher men. “I know that people are looking for me, and when they find you, your kids will grow up without-”
Anger flashed over the doctor’s face, “You don’t know anything!” And before Joaquín could come up with a response in his sluggish brain, the doctor fiddled with the IV and a tidal wave of exhaustion came over Joaquín.
Sinking under the swell, Joaquín let it pull him under. Panic fluttered through his body, wondering how his body would look when he woke up next but being powerless to stop it. Again.