it won't give up, it wants me dead; goddamn this noise inside my head [closed]

[lottawork]

[ooc: this thread will likely be...very unsettling. It will involve interrogation, and probably torture. Tag-specific trigger warnings to follow.]

He has not slept in days. Presumably. The uniform nature of the lighting has made it difficult to determine, and he has never excelled at temporal sequencing. He has paced and scrutinized every corner, restless hands skimming the walls of his prison and curling around the edges of his arms and pushing through the tangling disarray of his hair to press back the sensation of something crawling and skittering and itching and hypodermic that has burrowed beneath, rooted below skin and below bone.

The pressure of palms against walls cannot tether him, and the drag of nails over his own skin does little but lend tiny, convulsive tics of his head to his nervous repertoire. Exhaustion has been seeded into every shift of his gaze, every weary, protracted blink. His eyes rake the air in scattered repetition. Prolonged tension is difficult to sustain over a period of days; even more difficult when sustained in conjunction with the grating mindlessness of fearful anticipation.

He trusts Fring will not keep him waiting for much longer.

The accuracy of this prediction is not a comfort.

The rasping scrape of metal over metal as the bolt slides back is the exchange of one form of relief for another form of mounting panic. Any efforts to appear dull-eyed and lifeless would be utterly worthless - he would not insult Fring with an obvious act, not when he has made no previous attempts to disguise his agitation.

In the absence of all other comforts, Rush may at least take solace in the warped form of release.

It is poor consolation.

The door swings inward in a heavy, gliding arc.

Comments

[mr_fring]

First the light is switched off, leaving Rush illuminated only by the harsh hall light. There are two men he will not know, prison guards. One is carrying a metal chair, which he sets heavily in the middle of the room. The other takes Rush and moves him, sits them down, holds him still while the first man cuffs him in place.

Gus stands partially silhouetted in the doorway. Light glints off the wire rims of his glasses. These he takes off, cleaning them gingerly.

He motions for the two men to leave, which they do. The door remains open. Gus steps in a little further, casting a shadow across the man in the chair.

"Doctor," he intones with a little nod.