Chapter Text
Mac woke, shivering in the frigid air. Everything hurt. His head was stuffed with cotton, thoughts muddled and slower than they should be- drugs, he thought- and his neck ached fiercely from an awkward sleeping position. Something hard was digging into his wrists, hands numb and tingling from a lack of blood flow, arms aching from the pressure. His shoulders, though, were the worst. They throbbed from being stuck in the same position for so long- far too long- sending spikes of pain rushing down his back.
The world was silent around him, nary a whisper of a footstep nor distant voice to notify him of his kidnappers’ whereabouts. He took the chance to open his eyes to slits, trying to gather as much information as he could without alerting anyone that might be watching him. He couldn’t see much.
His feet were bare, which explained why they were so cold, his toes resting against the rough cement floor and holding up what weight wasn't resting in his arms. The floor itself was a monotone grey, marred only by the occasional suspicious stain.
Deciding there was nothing he could garner from the small patch of floor he could see, Mac slowly lifted his head, fighting back a wince at his throbbing neck.
The rest of the room was not much more informative, truth be told. The floor sloped slightly towards the centre, close to where Mac was suspended, a rusty drain lying only a few feet from him. The walls were smooth and grey, none of them possessing windows, though the one directly across from him did contain a door. As well as a mirror. That was certainly interesting. He’d been kidnapped more than anyone rightly should have been, and Mac had yet to come across a torture chamber with a mirror. Perhaps it was for psychological torture, he mused, maybe watching himself be tortured was supposed to make it worse somehow. Or, perhaps it was meant to function like the one-way mirrors found in legal interrogation rooms. If his kidnappers were who he thought, then they were most certainly involved with corrupt law enforcement.
Letting his unconscious mind ponder that, Mac reclined his head back further, eyeing the heavy metal shackles around his wrists. He moved his hands carefully, trying to restore some blood circulation as his eyes followed the chains to the high ceiling. It would be some work to loosen the bolts, but it could be done if he had enough time.
Footsteps echoed from outside the room and Mac gripped the chains tightly in his hands, steeling himself for whatever awaited him.
The door opened with a juddering creak, the hinges screaming and sending shivers down his spine. It was probably designed to do just that.
Shoes- black, oxfords, expensive- stepped through the doorway and Mac lifted his eyes, trying to gather as much intel as he could before meeting his captor’s gaze with a dark glare.
Adam Turner. The Butcher.
Of course, who else would it be?
“Hello, Fifteen,” the man smiled benignly, looking every inch the generous millionaire he masqueraded himself as. “Shall we begin?”
Another person, taller, more musclebound- a hired thug, presumably- stepped into the room behind Turner, cracking their knuckles in a stereotypical bad-guy move, an obvious effort on their part to intimidate Mac.
The door swung shut, the harsh clang ringing with a finality Mac refused to think about.
o0o
When his torturers were done with him, Mac was dragged, stumbling, away from his interrogation room and down the hall. The cold, grey walls on either side of him were broken only occasionally by filthy metal bars, giving him brief glimpses into the cells that made up the underground prison he had been taken to. Other captives, bloody and beaten, were caged behind the bars, two to a cell.
He poured careful effort into memorising the route from the torture room to what he presumed was to be his very own prison cell as they moved deeper into the complex. He took note of the few doors he couldn’t identify the purpose of- more interrogation rooms? Offices for the guards? Or potential exit routes?- and tried to form some semblance of an escape plan.
“Yes, this one will do,” Turner declared as he stopped and motioned to one particular cell, as though he were choosing a puppy.
The third guard, the only one with their hands free, pulled out a set of keys to open the door, the other two guards keeping their death grips firmly in place on Mac’s arms. The cell door creaked open and he idly wondered if every door would creak in this place.
“Enjoy your stay, Fifteen,” Turner said with a sharp grin, cruel green eyes piercing into Mac’s soul, “it’s going to be a long one.”
Mac’s insides squirmed uncomfortably.
With a nod from Turner, the newest prisoner was tossed roughly into his new home.
Mac just barely got his arms up in time to prevent his face from smashing into the filthy floor. His knees weren’t so lucky, pain engulfing them as they took most of his weight from the fall, before the rest of him crashed into the concrete. He lay there for a moment, silent as he tried to regain his breath. Several pairs of footsteps retreated from his cell and Mac allowed himself some measure of relief at that. Finally, he began to push himself up.
He had only made it to his forearms when he heard something interesting. Clothes rustling, someone shifting their weight, measured footsteps. Someone crouched beside him and Mac pushed himself to his knees, ready to get his feet under him as he turned to assess who, exactly, was in the room with him- had a guard stayed? Or had he missed his cellmate lurking in the shadows?
“Well, well, well, Angus, this certainly is a surprise.”
Those words came from an all too familiar voice and, with a sinking feeling in his gut, Mac knew exactly who he was trapped with before his eyes could land on his cellmate’s bruised face. There was no mistaking that voice.
Murdoc.