Chapter Text
Waking up was supposed to be an everyday, fairly peaceful task that signaled the end of night and started off your day.
He, however, woke to a pounding headache and a deep set feeling that something was terribly wrong before he even opened his eyes. When he did… well he rather shut them and hope for it to be some kind of dream or half-asleep delirious haze he was experiencing.
Of course he wasn’t that lucky.
Swan’s first sight when he opened his eyes was that of a tall, intense looking man staring straight into him. He had dark hair loosely spiked up into a mohawk and a cigarette drooping out of one side of his mouth. Swan took notice of the black leather jacket—Bruiser—he noted. Neither of them said anything.
The surrounding room looked like a living room. A rather dilapidated living room. The paint on the walls was peeling and the edge where wall met ceiling was stained with years of cigarette smoke and other fire related mishaps. There was a broken TV set up on a busted cabinet. The door to the room was half off its hinges.
He leaned forward, but was stopped after only an inch of movement. Swan moved his arms and felt something digging into his skin. Tied. Figures. Then he noticed the lack of familiar weight that took up his back pocket. His knife was gone too.
The Bruiser across from him just kept staring. Swan stared back.
A high-pitched squeaking sound directed his attention to the door as it swung open. Swan felt a pit in his stomach open up.
A familiar face entered.
“Warrior.”
Swan felt the pounding in his head increase tenfold. The smile directed at him still as wide and eerie as it had been the first time he saw it.
“Knockout.”
The Bruiser’s grin grew as he stepped towards them. “You remembered.”
How could he not? Swan thought bitterly.
“You know you never told me your name, Warrior. It’d only be fair… considering I told you mine.”
Swan shook his head the slightest bit. He wouldn’t indulge Knockout no matter what. The less the Bruiser knew the better.
Knockout narrowed his eyes at him, displeased with the response, before looking over to the Bruiser sitting across from Swan. “All good, Reaper?” The ‘Reaper’ in question nodded and stood up, straightening his jacket, before leaving the room.
He bit the bullet and asked. “How did I get here?” Swan couldn't remember and thinking about it more than he already had was only pushing the knives in his head further in.
Before Knockout could answer, the door swung open again. This time, he was more surprised to realize he recognized it.
It was the guy from the bar.
He was… a Bruiser?
Shit. They had been there the whole time. They had been watching. Swan unconsciously jolted back against the chair. He didn't want his suspicions confirmed.
“Daze brought you up,” Knockout said, leaning towards him. “Walking home all by yourself. So reckless…”
It came back to Swan. How he ended up in this place. He’d walked Cowboy home, his friend unsurprisingly getting drunk after only three glasses. Cowboy had always been a lightweight, though he didn’t hold it against him. At some point between getting inside his friend’s apartment and getting him to the bed—Cowboy had passed out and Swan left without getting to say anything to him.
The other Bruiser, Daze, looked at him with a close-lipped smile eerie enough to rival Knockout’s. The black eye and gaunt appearance he had only served to make him more unsettling.
“Here Knockout,” Daze chirped, handing Knockout… what the fuck.
“What have we got here, a wallet, Warrior? Shouldn't leave these things around.” Knockout dragged the chair that was in from of Swan around to be beside him and took a seat, pressing into Swan’s side. He winced at the unwanted contact.
The Bruiser began to dig through the wallet, flinging out stray punch cards and receipts before pulling out the crumpled dollar bills he had in the pocket.
Then he pulled out Swan’s ID.
Knockout's hand stilled when he realized what he was holding. He looked over at Swan, a pleased look in his eyes.
Swan felt his heart drop. As much as he hated himself for it—his mouth opened before he could really process what he was doing. “Swan. My name is Swan.” Hardly anyone knew his real name. He wanted to hold on to that one—keep it locked away from others. The one that only caused hurt when it spilled out from someone’s lips. The one that never led to anything good. He didn’t think he could—
“Julien.”
A coldness ran through his veins.
“Julien… hm,” Knockout glanced up from the ID, blue eyes scrutinizing his face. It felt as if he’d just been plunged into icy water. His lungs filling up and rapidly losing air that’d keep him breathing. “Julien…” He drew the name out, elongating it with careful precision. Each time he said it brought him deeper into the frigid sea he was trapped within. “What do you think, Daze? Nice, fitting name.”
Daze fervently nodded. “Yeah. Nice to know the name of the guys you wreck ain’t it?”
Carelessly, Knockout tossed the wallet off to the side, it skidding across the ground to the corner of the room, before he shoved Swan’s ID in the waistband of his pants. He then handed the cash off to Daze with a smug look. “Go and tell Smoke and Striker he’s up. I’m sure they’ll want to know.” Daze took the money with a gleeful grin and left the room, slamming the door shut.
The Bruiser next to Swan turned towards him, inching closer. Uncomfortably close. Swan shivered as Knockout whispered in his ear. “Julien. We’re going to have fun with you here. You’re going to let us know everything about the rest of the Brooklyn gangs.”
Swan tried to shift away and not wince at the use of his name, but it was hard when he was tied to the chair. "No chance,” Swan bit out. “I’m not telling you shit.”
Knockout looked at him with consideration, before quickly standing up. In a flash, Swan went from sitting upright to laying flat on his back, out of breath, and head spinning. When he came back to himself, he realized that the chair was kicked over.
He looked up at the ceiling, somehow dingier than the walls of the room, and tried to figure out how he’d get out of this place. Then the light coming from the exposed bulb began to sear his eyes, so he screwed them shut.
It was only a moment later when a shadow passed over Swan, covering the light, did he realize someone was looming over him. He opened his eyes to find Knockout gazing down at him, scars around his mouth pulled upwards tightly.
Swan needed to get out of here.
Quickly, he was pulled back upright by his vest. Swan found himself almost nose to nose with Knockout again. He tried to bring his head back enough to slam it into the Bruiser’s, but wasn’t fast enough. Instead of being able to get one in on his captor, he found his head jerking to the right, a sunburst of pain lancing through his skull. He faced forward again, meeting Knockout’s cheery expression.
“Oh Julien,” he chided softly, putting an uncharacteristically gentle hand to Swan’s jaw. “I’m going to enjoy our time together.”
The touch scalded him.
———
There had been a point in time when Swan chased after attention.
Not in a class-clown, front and center kind of way however.
It was more of a desperate cry for help. A need for someone to care.
Naturally the first person he’d want comfort from was his mother. There had been a point in time where he knew he could go to her. Knew he could get the love and care he wanted. Knew that someone was in his corner.
She had been there. In the beginning. She would kiss the top of his head before tucking him in for the night, hug him when he got home from school, speak kind words to him when he did something that made her proud.
Of course Swan had taken it for granted. He never knew what he had until the soft, loving touches became sharp words meant to bite and hurt.
But when you’re seven and it feels like your mother hung the moon just for you, those kinds of things are irrelevant.
And when others stopped caring, she didn’t.
Until she did.
He’d still been in elementary school the first time he realized that her love for him had finally dried up. He came home with a busted nose and scraped knees—the product of a recess scuffle that hadn’t been broken up. His classmates weren’t much better off than him, and yet he still found himself being ridiculed for the way he lived. It wasn’t his fault his parents were the way they were, that they lived in the building they did, that he acted the way he did.
That didn’t matter now though, he figured, opening the door to his apartment. He wiped under his nose, smudging the blood, and wandered inside. Swan wanted his mother to commend him for his bravery, clean up his injuries, and let him help make dinner.
So he sniffled a bit, hoping to stop the blood still dripping from his nose, and found his mom laying on the couch, eyes closed and head back.
Swan pattered over to her, gently shaking his mother awake with childish enthusiasm.
She jolted awake, arm sweeping out to knock him aside the moment she sat up. Swan stumbled back, the force too much and too sudden for him to stop it, and barely caught himself from falling onto the dirty carpet floor.
“Shit, baby, why’d you wake me like that?” His mother groaned, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes,. She looked over at Swan as she combed a hand through messy blonde curls. “Oh my god! What happened to you?”
“I got in a fight,” Swan replied, sniffing again.
“Yeah, jeez, I see that. Do mommy a favor and get that cleaned up for me, okay? I don’t want you getting blood on the floor. You know where the Band-Aids are right?”
Swan stared at her.
“They’re in the bathroom, go clean yourself up before your father gets home. Mommy’s going to get a bit more sleep—and she has a headache—so be quiet, yeah?” His mother ruffled his hair for the briefest of moments before leaning back, covering her eyes with an arm, and after a few beats her breaths evened out again.
He frowned. She wasn’t going to help him?
“Okay…” Swan said to no one.
The following hour he spent trying to wipe away every trace of blood, his skin progressively growing pinker as he roughly scrubbed his knees raw to erase any bit of red he could see. Maybe if he did a thorough enough job, his mother would wake up and tell him how good he did. Yes…that’s what she would do. She’s just tired, he decided as he placed a third Band-Aid over the scratches on his knee. She’ll be so proud when she gets back up.
And when she did, she didn’t say a thing.
———
When the door next opened, three people entered. One was the silent Bruiser, Reaper, and the other two must have been Smoke and Striker. The first one who’s appearance he took in was tall, probably taller than Snow, with a hard-set face and hair that was styled up in a multitude of spikes. The other one was a fair bit shorter, fair-skinned with a scar through his lip and an undercut with stringy black hair. The tall one ignited a memory in him—of a white tank top and a demand for the Bruisers to retreat.
Swan realized after a moment that he was the Bruiser’s warlord.
If he made it out of this place, he’d at least have something to tell Cleon. More information about the Bruisers would probably do them good. That if was holding a particular weight though.
“You get anything?” The warlord asked, approaching Knockout with his arms crossed.
“Not yet, but we’ll get there,” Knockout responded, sliding an arm around Swan’s shoulders. “Swan just needs a bit of… convincing.”
The other Bruiser, the main lieutenant presumably, glanced at the warlord. “What do you wanna do Smoke?”
Smoke didn’t say anything for a minute. The air in the room stilled as each of the Bruisers waited for the next command. Swan couldn’t help but worry. He didn’t even say goodbye to Cowboy before leaving.
“Make the call.” Smoke nodded at Reaper and the silent Bruiser moved forward, grabbing one of Swan’s arms as Knockout took the other.
Striker, Swan deduced considering there weren’t any other unnamed Bruisers in the room, came behind him and cut the cable tying him to the chair. The Bruisers on his arms heaved him up as Swan tried to make himself a dead weight, intending to make it as difficult as possible for them to move him. Maybe if he pissed them off enough they’d let him go free and kidnap some other poor soul off the street.
Unfortunately for him, Reaper and Knockout hardly faltered in their steps; tightening their grip. Then he tasted blood in his mouth as teeth cut into the inside of his mouth—Knockout jabbing an elbow into the side of Swan’s face. He returned the sentiment by spitting the blood into the Bruisers face.
Black came over his vision, muffling the world from his senses. After a moment he realized that it was a bag put over his face. This was turning into a bad gangster film.
After being pushed roughly down several flights of stairs and into a few doorways, a chilly breeze hit Swan’s bare skin. Outside then.
“Right over here, Julien.” Knockout whispered, shoving him into a wall. A glass wall. Phone booth he realized belatedly. Swan was quickly jerked back before being moved back forward and actually put inside of the booth. The clicking sound behind him signaled the shutting of the door.
Now it was just him, the phone, and Knockout inside the cramped space.
“Tell me the number of your headquarters.”
He shook his head. He couldn't let them know that.
“Do it.”
“They'll come for me. They'll know.”
“No.”
Swan went quiet. What did he mean no?
“You're going to tell them you're fine. It'll be just alright. You're taking a day. Whatever you need to say to sound convincing, Julien,” The hand gripping his arm grew tighter. Fabric shifted as Knockout leaned in, menacing. “You won't like what happens if you don't.”
When Swan shook his head again, Knockout chuckled. A hand found its way to the back of Swan’s head, the touch almost feeling as if it exacerbated the already painful ache through mere contact alone, and he didn’t have more than a second to wonder what was so funny before his head met the hard metal of the phone.
His vision whited out and Swan thought for a moment that maybe he’d just died.
Hushed words pressed into his ear brought him back, somewhat, “We know a lot about your life… what kinds of things you care about. Smoke can make something happen to that friend of yours, you know.”
A swirl of horror formed, fighting against the sheer agony his head was in. Blood was soaking into the fabric of the bag, sticking to the part of his head where it was gushing out. His brain felt like TV static.
“Now tell me the number. Make the call, Julien.” Knockout lifted the receiver and put it against Swan’s ear before he heard the sound of coins being put into the slot.
Against Swan’s better judgment, his thoughts muddled by repeated injury to his head, Swan mumbled out the number, wincing with each press of a button as Knockout dialed the phone.
The dial tone went, digging into his ears and sending a sharp pain through his head. He tried to move from the noise, but Knockout still held firm.
After a moment, something clicked and a patchy voice came through.
Swan had hoped that Cowboy or Cleon would have been the one to pick up, but he was never that lucky.
“Warriors; who is this?” The voice was familiar enough, yet Swan couldn’t place it. It was a soldier he didn’t know well.
“Swan. I’m not…” His knees fell weak and his speech faltered. He would’ve collapsed if it weren’t for Knockout’s iron-like grip. “I’m not comin’ in today. Let Cleon or someone know. Got caught up with…” He trailed off. The words he wanted to say weren’t coming out right. Whatever. He hoped the Warrior on the phone got the point. More than the point. Maybe if he told Cleon the warlord would realize something was wrong. “Caught up. let ‘im know.”
“Uh… sure lieutenant.” The line clicked and that was it. Swan’s fate was in the hands of whoever the hell answered. Despite the black of the bag surrounding him, his vision still managed to swirl—a wave of vertigo coming over him as Knockout dragged him from the phone booth and back into whatever building they’d come from.
Time disappeared. Fortunately the bag did too.
Swan could see again—see that he was back inside the room he’d been in before at least. Though this time it was tilted a bit on its axis and diverging slightly into two separate rooms as his vision wavered and brain felt as if it were slowly being picked at with a knife. He missed his knife. He really wanted to know where they put his knife.
Then Knockout was back in front of him; Smoke and Striker stood there too. Though that part was hard to tell due to the blood from the gash in his forehead dripping down into his right eye. Sluggish blinks did nothing to clear it from his vision.
“And now?” Swan could hear Knockout asking one of them.
“How did the call work out?” Smoke questioned in return, deep voice sounding almost like a rumble.
Knockout patted Swan on the shoulder, the touch almost feeling… kind. “Convincing enough. A bit short, not too many questions. Should get to keep him for longer than we need, really.”
“Get him to talk. Find out what you can,” the warlord responded after a beat.
“Call Jensen if you aren’t getting anywhere,” Striker added, putting a hand on his hip as he analyzed Swan through a squinted stare. “And for the love of god. Keep Nick out of here.” The main lieutenant took a step back before something crossed over his face. “I’ll put Reaper on the door—to make sure that square doesn’t fuck things up.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever. Swan and I are gonna have a good time. Leave it to me, boss.” Knockout halfheartedly saluted at the two Bruiser leaders before they exited the room.
Now it was just Swan and Knockout.
———
By the time Swan reached middle school he was near desperate for a hint of attention.
Even the slightest bit would have made do.
So when his grades began slipping and his classes were spent with his head down, trying to get some sleep after another night kept awake by drunken yelling, there was a stray glimmer of hope inside of him that a teacher would notice his struggle.
He thought that maybe he’d get the care he craved. And it seemed so likely one day.
Once again he’d fallen behind in the lesson, uncaring of what the result would be because Swan knew that he hardly had a future.
His teacher, an older, kindly woman, was up at the front of the classroom, teaching a lesson on…whatever subject they were learning. Swan liked her enough, her voice made for good atmosphere to fall asleep to at least.
After a few minutes the droning monologue petered off, independent work beginning, and then he felt alight pat on the shoulder.
Reflex made him sit up, ramrod straight within moments, and swing his head over to face whoever it was that touched him.
His teacher.
She smiled at him, hand still on his shoulder, and for the briefest of seconds Swan thought that she was there for him. Him in the sense that she could see his worries and troubles.
And then she spoke to him.
“You’ve got to do your work,” she told him, softly and still smiling. “You’re falling behind. So get to it.”
And then she walked off. Over to a classmate with a raised hand.
Swan stared after her, watching her retreating form.
In a matter of moments his head was back on the desk.
He never did get the kind of attention he wanted.
———
“Julien…”
It was a soft voice. A lilting voice. Almost teasing in the way it dragged out the syllables.
“Wake up, Julien.”
He didn’t like that name. He didn’t want to be Julien. But he couldn’t hide it anymore because it was stolen from him and he wasn’t even able to put up a fight.
“Shit, Warrior, you’re fuckin’ out of it!”
A new voice. A new and grating voice.
The first voice spoke. The one he knew. That he hated. “Grab Jensen, Daze. Our friend isn’t talking to me like I wanted him to.” Stomping feet and a shutting door. Then: “Julien, come on.” He wanted to oppose this voice. “Julien.” A flash of pain. A hand across his face. “Don’t play this game with me.” Another hit.
And at last. Swan woke.
His head ached something fierce and the act of opening his eyes felt like a fiery poker was being shoved through his skull. Everything around him had a fuzzy edge to it.
“You’re gonna have to kill me.”
Knockout, sitting across from him on his knees, froze, smile stilling as he cocked his head to the side. “What did you say, Julien?”
Swan hadn’t even realized what words he’d spoken. They’d just tumbled out of his mouth before he could give a second thought to verbalizing them. It seemed as if his filter had been left outside with his blood that was spilled at the phone booth.
“Kill me,” Swan spat out a second time only to then be met with a fist to the nose. His head jerked back at the impact and he felt his ears ring as pain reverberated through his skull.
After a minute, or maybe ten, cold hands cupped the bottom of his face. When Swan’s vision became significantly less blurry he saw Knockout studying him. A thumb ran beneath his nose, wiping away steadily pouring blood. The Bruiser’s eyes grew intense, the pale blue sharpening into something as he gazed deep into Swan’s own hazy eyes. Knockout opened his mouth, leaning in even closer, and—
The door swung open with a loud bang as it his the wall. Knockout backed away from Swan, dropping his hands back to his sides, and turned to face the sudden intruder.
This time it was another unfamiliar face. An imposing figure, taller than any of the Bruisers he’d seen as of yet, with close-cropped light brown hair and a tan—by looks alone he was probably their heavy muscle. For a moment Swan thought he saw a peek of someone else he didn’t know pass by the open door, but was quickly distracted by the large Bruiser making his way towards him.
“You needed me?” The heavy muscle asked, cracking his neck.
“We need information,” Knockout replied. “And I need you to convince Swan here that he should probably tell us sooner rather than later. I trust you know the most efficient way?” He took a few steps back to Swan, resting his weight on the back of the chair. Once again, far too close.
Swan shifted to his right, trying to put at least an inch more between himself and Knockout.
The heavy muscle looked at him, shrugging. “Yeah, I can do it. Sorry, man.”
And then the world fell away from Swan.
———
Swan felt every part of him ache in a different way.
The most pressing thing he felt though was the slight sensation of fingers tapping on his cheek.
“Hey…”
He squinted, but couldn’t quite make out who he was looking out.
“Quick… so I can get you outta here.”
Whoever was talking—or whispering more like—was different. His voice was rushed, the words stumbling over one another, rife with nervousness. The tapping increased in speed.
“C’mon man, let me save you at least.”
Swan shifted, trying to sit up more, but between a twinge in his side, the sudden wave of breathlessness, and whatever was binding him to the chair now his effort was fruitless.
“Ah sorry… sorry. I can get that.”
The cable or cord or whatever around his wrists loosened and the blood flow rushed back into Swan’s arms in an instant. He leaned forward.
And then regretted it when one of his injuries somewhere aggravated another one of his injuries somewhere else. Safe to say it all hurt in some way. He didn’t quite remember what that Bruiser did to him but… it hurt.
“—are you listening?” Had the guy been talking? “We have to be quick before Knockout or one of them comes back here.”
Swan tensed at the mention of Knockout and tried to force himself to refocus back onto the conversation at hand.
The guy in front of him had dark skin and shiny brown eyes that almost gave the impression of tears not shed. He was crouched down, shoulders hunched, and wearing a Bruisers jacket. Swan stared at it.
“Don’t worry I’m… I have to wear it.” The guy—Bruiser?—commented with a lamenting tone upon noticing where Swan’s gaze lie. “They don’t consider me one; this is for them.” He shrugged, grabbing the collar of the jacket loosely and pulling it away from his skin like it burned.
“What?”
“Don’t focus on that right now. I have to get you outta here.”
He nodded weakly. Whatever. Even if it was a trap it’d still be better than being trapped within the four walls of this room any longer.
The guy helped him up, bracing an arm under his shoulders and began to lead him to the window located behind the chair.
“We have to leave through here, no other way out or else we’re spotted. I can probably get you as far as the Kings before they realize I’m missing. You can take the train back to your place?”
Swan nodded again.
The two managed to make it out of the window and down the fire escape in a decent amount of time. It was a long, arduous process, but once they were on the sidewalk, walking as fast as Swan could bring himself to.
The guy filled the walk with meaningless, rambling chatter that Swan instantly drowned out. Eventually they did reach the station, the guy quickly shoving coins in the slot to pay the fare for Swan before waving him off.
Swan couldn’t find any words he wanted to say, so he quickly mumbled out a low “Thanks.” As the not-quite-a-Bruiser left.
A few minutes after getting onto the train and collapsing onto one of the seats he realized he never learned the guy’s name.
Fuck. He was heading home at least.