Participants:
| Scene Title | Exposed |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | In another bid for information, Khalid demonstrates more of Humanis First's famed hospitality towards those they capture. |
| Date | September 3, 2009 |
Somewhere in SoHo
It's a room in the basement of a warehouse that's been turned into a cell. Concrete floor with a drain, cinderblock walls. The Fed has been stripped of his tux, hands cuffed behind him and chained to a stretch of water pipe. They've bandaged the two gunshot wounds he took courtesy of Douglas, as well as the tendon cuts in the back of knee and ankle. He won't be going anywhere fast. Not on his own two feet. He's got a jerry-rigged IV propped near him, needle butterflied into the back of one hand. Nutrients, some painkillers to keep him coherent enough to talk (at least part of the time), and antibiotics that aren't doing their job. He's flushed with fever, body stretched along the floor as if he'd sink as much heat there as possible.
The concrete stretching away beneath Felix to the shadowed corners of his impromptu cell, however, contains little solace for his battered, blood-spotted body; if anything, it's as freezing as it is darkened. Cold, cold, cold, especially to motionlessly naked skin. Though they aren't visible, the fans of the warehouse's air conditioner have been circulating yet more frigid blasts of air throughout the room— someone's recently cranked their setting as far up as they can go, the minuscule increase in electricity bill a satisfying exchange for the torturous results of creeping, bitter exposure.
Yes, Felix Ivanov is doubtlessly in the middle of the time of his life.
Not that he'll be alone for long, at least. A skinny and impossibly long rectangle of light slides into the room, cutting across Felix's prone figure with blinding brightness; just a moment later, it's swallowed up again into the gloom, bit by bit. Where there had once been only silence, booted footfalls grow in audibility from a faint pinpoint; careless, but still quiet even when it's clear they've halted at a spot uncomfortably close to the prisoner's chest. Heavy breathing—
Khalid's easy, laid-back approach. There's something squarish, bulky, and whitishly plastic swinging from a hand-held handle like a shopping bag, but whatever it is, it appears a flat gray in the lack of light. "Hey there," comes the amiable voice from up above, curt and casual. An unfamiliar one. "Thought you might need some cheering up."
Only the dim glow coming in from under the door - enough to catch and glitter wetly in the Fed's bloodshot eyes, as they roll up to try and make out just who this new tormentor will be. He makes a questioning noise, perhaps English has deserted him for a little while. It's not Bill, and it's not Emile. Finally, he comes out with a choked, "Water?"
There is a dull 'clunk-thud' as the base of Mystery Object is set down onto the ground, none too gently. Not that it has to remain a mystery for too long— it's completely comprised of a barred, cage-like structure, as Felix will see: it's practically right in front of his eyes, should he roll his head that way. Yet another fan, battery-powered, off for the moment but— the room really doesn't need to get any icier. Felix is thinly clothed enough. At the question, Khalid quirks one brow upwards. "Sorry, man. Feed a cold, starve a fever."
A teeth-chatteringly metallic screeeeeeech of a chair follows, protesting against a resisting floor right up to the base of the Fed's skull; the Syrian deposits himself in it, relaxing into a lounged position with shoulders slid low down the wooden back, hands clasping themselves across his stomach. "Oughta be careful, or you'll make yourself sicker."
There's that little series of wheezes that'd be laughter, in some other life, some other place. He's…not really clothed, beyond a very ragged pair of silk boxers, and some patches of bandage. "Too late," he mutters, putting his cheek against the chill concrete. Shivering, teeth chattering, goosebumps marching up over the expanse of exposed skin. Ironic, that the last healer who helped him erased all his scars. Now he'll have a new set.
At least Felix's more private parts are staying private, which is more than can be said for a certain previous prisoner. Scraggy, cold sweat-drenched boxers rubbed so thin that parts of them have become patchworks of gaping threads are better than— nothing at all. Khalid interlaces his fingers together, brow quirking at an even more severe angle. His expression is politely, thoughtfully quizzical, though an unarticulated smirk is contained somewhere behind it. "In that case, I'd be happy to give you pointers. First: helps if you talk. Gets your jaw muscles moving, keeps your mind off the misery. Know what I mean?"
"I have nothing to say," Fel says, trying to keep his voice steady. It's hard - he's shivering, gripped by chill and fever at once, body hopelessly confused by conflicting stimuli. He lays his cheek along the floor, shifts like he'll find a more comfortable position. Good luck with that.
A moment of tense, breath-held silence. Then there's a significant sigh from Khalid, who shifts so that he is in a position to lean forward with elbows angled on his knees, lines creasing his forehead. "Sure ya do," he states simply, as though what the subject at hand is really Felix's charming modesty. "Everyone's got something to say. Fear of public speaking? Understandable; you just need something to get you started." With that, he outstretches an arm downwards, reaching for the circular dial on the fan resting at his feet to give it a single -click- clockwise.
It starts up with a low but insistent whiiiiiirrrr, blades whipping out a chilling breeze mere inches away from Felix's nose.
It's cold. And never to the point of bringing him to comfortably numb, as he so longs. Just bitingly so. The shivers wrack him, making the cuffs behind him clink in cadence. He's sweating despite it, beading at temple and lip. "Not to you. Not to any of you," he declaims, between chattering teeth. At least Khalid isn't hitting him, or burning him.
Khalid isn't hitting or burning. Yet. No, his is a totally subtle and sophisticated method of torture. There is a second and third clicking to the right; when he slides his hand away, the whirring increases until the fan's breeze is lifted into a flowing, miniature gale. Felix might find it difficult to keep his eyelids open should he make the silly mistake of staring into it longer than a few seconds.
In the meantime: "Not to 'any of us'?" the darker-skinned of the two continues affably, the air surrounding them both settling into the accumulating coldness of temperature dropping away, one degree by one. "Aw. Don't be like that, we're all friends here. Whassa matter, cat got your tongue?"
The sound of the chain is not loud, but now constant and audible, nonetheless. Until he grabs on to the pipe behind him, in hopes of making it stop, even as he curls up as tightly as he can with one hand. Not much of a grip, these days. "No, not to any of you," he mutters, closing his eyes. Hypothermia, the way to go. They say it doesn't hurt - that eventually it feels like going to sleep.
But sensual numbness is a gift, not a privilege, that always arrives fashionably late. Felix won't feel like his body is going to sleep— not even close— until after pain has run its frenetic course, mounting frostburn eating at skin and encasing limbs in impossibly heavy tingles. There is another long pause, several beats of a pensive stare, but then—
"Well." A note of resignation, real or not, has crept into Khalid's voice. Abandoning his seat, he levers himself to his feet using his hands, gaze staying firmly on the prisoner's face all the while. The fan is left precisely in the position it's in; Felix's personal, ongoing gale of artificial wind continues. "I'll give you some time to warm up to us, maybe," he remarks in a tone, offhandedly tired, that suggests that this is a decision utterly up to Felix's leisure. "S'up to you how long it takes."
For some reason, that's worthy of a smile. Not much of one, but there. Perhaps he appreciates a good pun. "'Right," he says, as his teeth rattle noisily. "Right," There's nowhere to go, no shelter even as he tries to tuck himself up against the wall. It's less warm than the chill air, even. "You never even asked me any questions."
"Oh, I know." One of Khalid's shoulders rises in a shrug of acknowledgement; no, of that he's aware. Moving himself directly behind the chair, he grips its sides and slides it up towards him, away from Felix, without bothering to look at it. Scraape. "Figure it's best if we take it slow, you know? Loosen you up. Gotta take time with these kinds of things." 'Time' mostly nude while industrial-strength air conditioners and a MightyBreeze operate at full capacity, clearly. Hours. Possibly even days, though too much can turn into something double-edged. A dead POW's a useless one.
Taking his time, the ex-mercenary nonchalantly lifts two fingers to the level of his chin in a wave, turning to sidle back into the area of deeper darkness enclaving the doorway. "…Later, dude."
Multiple drones of air continue.
