Chapter Text
The first thing Tom noticed when he opened his eyes, was the amount of red.
The carpet. The cloth lining on the chairs and couch. The accents on the wallpaper.
His skin.
The second his gaze landed on himself, he retched. His mouth tasted vile. Lacerations decorated his naked chest, dried blood and bruises covering his torso and arms. Sickening. If he’d had food in his system, it would’ve certainly been out by now. Instead, all that came out was bile, sticky and disgusting.
Tom’s breathing was erratic. With his eyes shut tight, he tried to recall where he was and how he got there. What happened before he’d been knocked out? Nothing came to mind. He opened his eyes a sliver when he was finally sure he wouldn’t throw up again.
Ah, yes. It was starting to come back to him now. He knew where he was. The few empty bottles around him and the jacket hanging up on a coat rack told him exactly what had happened. He was with the enemy. The Red Army.
The exact details of what had transpired, he couldn’t recall. Blurry details, however, were fleeting memories. There had been soldiers, guns, knives. And blood. A lot of blood. Not only on himself, either. An image of Edd and Matt covered in red was there in his mind.
His… friends. Where were they? They clearly weren’t with Tom anymore. He was by himself. How exactly they had gotten separated during the mission was beyond him. There had been a pact to stick together the entire time. So where were they? What had gone wrong? He strained his mind for more but found nothing.
Tom heard the door behind him open, and he spun around on the carpet. He would have stood if it weren’t for the fact that his legs ached.
Oh. It was him of all people. Of course it would be him.
“Tord,” Tom spat, eyes narrowing. He almost wished his vision-goggles were gone, so he couldn’t see the shit-eating grin on Tord’s face. Would have been better that way. Just the sight of his face made Tom want to vomit again.
“Ah!” Tord clapped his hands together joyfully. “Good morning, Thomas. Glad to see you’re awake.” He shut the door behind him, striding into the room with a confident swagger.
The use of his full name made Tom grit his teeth. He bit back a comment, eyeing up the man stood by the door. Tord looked different from the last time they’d met, whenever that had been. It had to have been at least a decade since the “robot incident,” as Edd had less-than-fondly referred to it.
Tord donned a jacket similar to the one on the coat rack. The fabric was thick, enough layering to fight the harsh winters of northern Europe. It was blue and red, with a white fur collar attached. The same colors as the Union Jack, but used as a symbol for something more sinister; a fascist dictatorship that strived to gain control over the country, and then eventually the world. On his feet were tall boots, probably leather and steel-toed, Tom guessed.
But his wardrobe wasn’t what caught Tom by surprise. Red metal peeked out from Tord’s long sleeves, where his right hand should have been. It rivaled Iron Man's own metal hand, Tom could see the impeccable craftsmanship even from where he was. His eyes rose up to meet Tord’s eyes, one of which he noticed was not a real eye. His left one was normal, a small pupil sitting inside of grey irises. Where the right eye should have been, there was a pitch-black orb. In the center of it, imitating an iris and pupil, was a single red, glowing dot. Robotics? Could Tord see out of it? The scarring that surrounded the unnatural eye was brutal looking. Shades of deep red littered the surface. And his right ear was just plain missing, brownish red marking the spot where the ear would have been. The flesh of his cheek and chin were ripped away, as if something had clawed at his face mercilessly. Pink and white scarring filled the obvious gaps, but not nearly enough to make the skin anything akin to smooth again. The severe damage made Tom’s own skin crawl. The amount of physical pain Tord must have endured during the injury (injuries?) had to have been unbearable.
But he had no pity for a man who had repeatedly tried to ruin him and his friends' lives.
Breaking his thoughts away from Tord’s appearance, he remembered just what the situation was. He was trapped in a room with the one man who they had set out to assassinate. Rage bubbled within him. Tom clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white.
“You son of a bitch,” he growled, standing up. Or, rather, attempting to stand up. He wobbled as he shifted his weight to his feet. What was the issue? Why couldn’t he get up properly? Something felt off. The only feeling it compared to was the feeling he used to get when drunk. But this feeling was different from the countless other times he had downed a drink. Perhaps he was drugged? Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough for his to feel the effects of it when sitting. But the second he tried to get up…
Tom’s head spun as he lost his balance. Toppling over, his skull slammed against the wall to his right. The pressure caused a jolt of pain to shoot through his body. Tom hissed. Refusing to shut his eyes, he chose to glare at the smiling man before him. He took a breath and managed to right himself. His legs shook, but he was up, at least. Better than being stuck on the carpet.
His nostrils flared. Logically, Tom knew he shouldn’t try anything. Yet, there was a part of his brain that refused to listen to logic. Was it the drugs in his system? Who cared?
“I don’t know what you’ve done here,” Tom began, his body tensing. “But you’ll pay for it!” He lunged forward, hoping to catch his captor off guard.
As it turned out, maybe that hadn't been his brightest idea. Instead of feeling his fist connect with Tord’s face like he’d planned, he got the sharp feeling of a knee to his stomach. And it hurt like a motherfucker.
Tom doubled over, spluttering and coughing. He groaned in pain, his fingers pressing into his stomach in reflex. Immediately, he realized his mistake. His whole torso shook in pain. His eyes watered behind the goggles. Opening his mouth to speak only earned him a kick to the chest. Yep, definitely steel-toed. Tom didn’t have to look down at his chest to know that the attack had reopened a healing wound, one that he had woken up with. More bile. A strong, metallic taste on his tongue. He would be willing to bet his own life that his teeth were pink with blood.
“You’ll have to clean that up, you know,” Tord said, sliding past Tom. “Staying here with me doesn’t mean you get a pass on your filth.”
Tom ignored him, panting. He was bent over on the ground, unable to move. Every breath felt like it could be his last. And knowing Tord’s reputation as Red Leader, it very well could be.
“What have you…” Tom managed to get out after some time. His voice was weak, hoarse with fatigue. “What have you done to me?” He had to have been drugged. Tom’s body wasn’t working right.
Tord laughed from somewhere behind him. Tom didn’t have the energy to turn and see it. What was Tord planning to do with him? Torture him? Murder him? It suddenly occurred to Tom that he may be the last of his friends to be here, alive. His arms trembled as he tried to hold himself up.
“Where are Edd and Matt?” he demanded, unable to mask the unsteadiness in his voice.
“Alive.”
That wasn’t a good enough answer. Tom needed to know for sure that they weren't gone for good. He coughed. Tord was lying to him, he knew it. The guy had a reputation of deceit.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A noise on something wooden. The desk, maybe? He wished he had upgraded his goggles with the ability to see behind him. He had been given the chance before, why had he passed it up? There was no way to know whatever sick thing Tord was doing back there. He could be getting a gun, a knife, or God knows what other sadistic weapons he probably kept with him.
“It’s of no concern to you,” Tord spoke, slowly. “They are alive. You have my word.”
“Bullshit, your word means nothing to me.” Tom’s breathing was labored as the fatigue began to hit him more. “Tell me the truth.”
Tom wanted nothing more than to beat Tord’s face until it was broken and bloody. He wanted to see his curved nose break to the side under his fist. Tom had never felt such anger within himself. Slumping down to the floor, exhaustion overcame him. Using his muscles wasn’t doing anything to benefit him. The side of his head was pressed against the carpet, and he angled his neck to see behind him. He was met with nothing more than a sideways image of Tord perched atop his desk, next to a nameplate that showed "Red Leader" in large lettering. Legs crossed, he appeared older than he really was. The years had really hit him hard, apparently.
“That is the truth.” Tord lifted his arms in an exaggerated shrug. The sleeves of his coat fell down he did so, revealing more of the robotic prosthetic on his right side.
At least half of his arm was replaced. Anything above the elbow was not visible, but Tom guessed it to be the same. It was not the time to be pondering the arm’s abilities, but he couldn’t help but wonder. How functional was it? Did it have nerves? Would it be a weak point on his body, or should Tom stay away from it the next time he attacked?
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Metal fingers against oak.
Tom didn’t have a chance to ask about his friends again. Before he could get the strength (and to a lesser extent, the courage) to speak, Tord stood from his position on the desk. In four strides, he was before Tom.
“Do you know how this happened?” He asked, gesturing to his right arm.
Tom would be risking more physical injury if he opened his mouth again.
Tord frowned. He bent down close enough for Tom to get a detailed look at his face. It was far worse up close. He could see that the skin had burn scars as well. Faint, but they were there. Some were the type you would get from sticking a finger into a car's cigarette jack. The right side of Tord's lips were a darker shade than the left. And that eye. Staring into Tom’s own. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from that red dot.
“What,” Tom’s voice cracked. “You gonna laser me to death with your robot eye or something?” He really should shut up now. Running his mouth wouldn’t do anything except harm him.
Tord sneered. He reached down to Tom and grabbed him by the hair.
As Tom’s head was lifted, his neck cracked. It hurt, but it was nothing in comparison to how the rest of his body still felt from before. He barely felt it.
“This happened because of that harpoon you fired at me,” Tord continued. “You tried to murder me.”
“You fired a rocket at me,” Tom choked out. It was hard to speak when his throat was twisted the way it was. Was Tord really trying to push the blame on Tom? He snorted. As if he’d expect anything different from Tord. “You tried to murder me first.”
“And what a shame that it didn’t work.”
Tom bared his teeth and tried to pull his head away from Tord. It was no use. Tord’s grip was too strong. And Tom was powerless under his control.
“Aw, cute,” Tord cooed at him. “Still trying to fight?”
Before he could respond, Tom’s hair was released, his head hitting the floor with a loud crack. He groaned. His ears were ringing. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on nothing. He felt the lull of unconsciousness grasping at him. No more fighting. He gave in, with the promise to himself that he would figure a way out of here when he woke up next. But as it was, the thought that he might not wake up again and have to suffer more injury from Red Leader was oddly comforting.
“Going to sleep again already? Suppose I’ll have to wait longer to play with you, then. Pity.”
He barely heard Tord’s voice. The pain in his body dulled as he drifted away. The vague knowledge that he could wake up with a bullet in his head was his last thought.
Life really sucks when you’re a prisoner of war.