Tim W█████ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
postictal) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-05-18 10:15 pm
postictal) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-05-18 10:15 pm
we will drag you from where you are to where you belong [closed]
[tw: some brutality and beating, later some panic and flashbacking to hospitalization]
Keep your head down, stay off the radar, just act like the normal person you aren't, and everything will be fine.
That was the general idea.
Was.
But then, he should've expected something like this. When you come home from work and the door's not been open a minute before a couple ominously stone-faced guys come striding in, it generally throws up a few warning flags. And when opening your mouth to ask um sorry, but what the hell incites one of them to bring you down in a hard tackle that sends your cheek stinging against the carpet and your knees scraping along the ground, pure fight-or-flight impulse kicks in. Fight and flight, actually, and Tim manages to crack one of them a solid right hook across the jaw that leaves a darkening bruise before they wrestle him into submission. Maybe if he wasn't him right now - fuck.
In the end, there isn't much he can do against two guys who look to have something like six inches on him, and a few minutes of hopeless thrashing and several well-placed kicks to his ribs later, it's pretty much a lost cause. The apartment interior's a wreck; Tim definitely heard something shatter on his way to the ground, and he feels the distant, bizarre urge the apologize to Jay for being responsible for fucking things up yet again. He's sorry, Jay, really he is. He didn't mean to this time, honestly.
And that's when one of the guys sinks a fist into his stomach, and Tim loses track of things for a little while as his entire respiratory system promptly goes to shit.
He wakes in a little square room of concrete walls and windowless gloom.
Fuck. Fuck no. He lurches to his feet, all dizziness and nausea, and pounds at the door that looks more solid than any locked hospital door fuck, and he screams let him out and is anyone there? and please I need help please until his voice rasps into hoarseness and his vocal chords feel wet, as if they're torn and bleeding. His fists sting from banging against the door, its impassively hollow tone drumming against his ears. His jacket's gone. His medication. They fucking took it off him, they took everything, they took him away, and if there's anything he can do to help his situation, it's think and be calm and be compliant and be cooperative and not panic right now, which he isn't, who would even think that?
Because he's not a scared little kid anymore. He's not, he swears he's not. There's nothing tall and specter-like in the room with him, and he's not curled in the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them and he's not huddled like he's eight years old again, because he's not the lost little boy crammed into a hospital room with a plethora of confusing and contradictory symptoms. He's not.
It's just a dream, and any moment he's going to wake up.
Keep your head down, stay off the radar, just act like the normal person you aren't, and everything will be fine.
That was the general idea.
Was.
But then, he should've expected something like this. When you come home from work and the door's not been open a minute before a couple ominously stone-faced guys come striding in, it generally throws up a few warning flags. And when opening your mouth to ask um sorry, but what the hell incites one of them to bring you down in a hard tackle that sends your cheek stinging against the carpet and your knees scraping along the ground, pure fight-or-flight impulse kicks in. Fight and flight, actually, and Tim manages to crack one of them a solid right hook across the jaw that leaves a darkening bruise before they wrestle him into submission. Maybe if he wasn't him right now - fuck.
In the end, there isn't much he can do against two guys who look to have something like six inches on him, and a few minutes of hopeless thrashing and several well-placed kicks to his ribs later, it's pretty much a lost cause. The apartment interior's a wreck; Tim definitely heard something shatter on his way to the ground, and he feels the distant, bizarre urge the apologize to Jay for being responsible for fucking things up yet again. He's sorry, Jay, really he is. He didn't mean to this time, honestly.
And that's when one of the guys sinks a fist into his stomach, and Tim loses track of things for a little while as his entire respiratory system promptly goes to shit.
He wakes in a little square room of concrete walls and windowless gloom.
Fuck. Fuck no. He lurches to his feet, all dizziness and nausea, and pounds at the door that looks more solid than any locked hospital door fuck, and he screams let him out and is anyone there? and please I need help please until his voice rasps into hoarseness and his vocal chords feel wet, as if they're torn and bleeding. His fists sting from banging against the door, its impassively hollow tone drumming against his ears. His jacket's gone. His medication. They fucking took it off him, they took everything, they took him away, and if there's anything he can do to help his situation, it's think and be calm and be compliant and be cooperative and not panic right now, which he isn't, who would even think that?
Because he's not a scared little kid anymore. He's not, he swears he's not. There's nothing tall and specter-like in the room with him, and he's not curled in the corner with his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them and he's not huddled like he's eight years old again, because he's not the lost little boy crammed into a hospital room with a plethora of confusing and contradictory symptoms. He's not.
It's just a dream, and any moment he's going to wake up.
no subject
"You need to leave," she rumbles, her voice distorted by the size of her chest cavity. "Now."
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no subject
Does Yuri know what's really going on?
"Have you seen their cages?" She turns her head to fix an eye on him. "Have you seen what they've been doing to folk?"
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oh yes look this thread exists
She glances back over her shoulder, one front hoof scraping against the floor and loosening a brick, then turns back to look at Yuri. "You'd best leave before that happens," she says. It's not a suggestion.
y halo thar
"We can figure this out," he protests, though he doesn't know what there is to figure out or how. "You don't have to do it this way, we can change things from the inside --"
yooooo
Enough chit-chat. She reshapes her mouth back into buffalo, then side-steps him to continue down the hall. Changing things from the inside would take ages, and probably wouldn't even work - there'd be too many folk against them. This way, she'll get the job done before they can rally their defenses. She might not be a master tactician, but she can figure out that much.
no subject
"Listen to me!" he protests. "You can't just -- break everything! There's information on those computers you wrecked, Daine, they're not just tools, they're records and we need that stuff!"
Knowing full well that she can make him regret it, he reaches out to snag his hands in her shaggy fur. He can't stop her, not by force, but if he can just get her to pause long enough to listen....
no subject
The hands in her hair are an annoyance, but not a hindrance. She continues her steady plod forward, leaving him to either keep up, let go, or be dragged.
"I know," she explains as she pokes her head through the next doorway. Another lab, deserted. She shoulders her way in. "That's why." Letting her mouth lapse back into buffalo shape, she lowers her head and demolishes a server with a grunt.