Chapter Text
It had at least been six months; and the only reason he knew that was because the apartment he had been subletting to the cutest little American Couple had been pissed when he’d shown up half-way through their lease and told them to beat it. After that, the days had started to blur together, the apartment had deteriorated to resemble one of Andy’s safehouses, beer bottles piled up in corners of the room when flat surfaces had become too cluttered to handle anymore, takeaway containers left forgotten on chairs and counters - some even shoved under furniture, left to rot - while his clothing was strewn across the floor and left to mix with the various newspapers he’d collected to try and keep track of any possible sightings of his family. Not that he cared what they did; and he had to remind himself he couldn’t care - not for another 99 and half more years.
Booker huffed a melancholic laugh and tipped the beer bottle back, draining the last few dregs before twisting the top of another and flicking the metal cap to land somewhere in the grass. He shoved the door open to the building that housed his apartment and hissed when, in his drunken stupor, the bottle slipped from his shaky grasp to shatter on the floor below, foam splattering his shoes. He stumbled his way to the stairs that led to the upper floors and landed hard with a heavy sigh, moving to grab another bottle from the six pack when he noticed the door to his apartment was slightly ajar, enough that any other person wouldn’t have noticed until they were right up on it.
Booker grabbed his gun from the waistband of his jeans, hands trembling from adrenaline or alcohol - or maybe a little bit of both - as he pushed the door open and swung his gun up to land on a blonde woman wearing a fluffy sweater and a pair of khaki slacks, a smile that was all teeth gracing her angular features while she stood by the kitchen sink with her hands clasped in seeming innocence in front of her.
“Mr. Booker, was it? How wonderful to see you arrive home safely.”
“How’d you find me?” He croaked, voice rough and unsteady. “I hid my trail, used a safe house unknown to Merrick and his cronies.”
“Merrick had eyes everywhere, Mr. Booker.” Kozak said simply, her gaze flitting about to the corners of his apartment. He twitched wanting to shadow her movement but not wanting to take his eyes off her.
“And,” Kozak continued, taking a small step forward, “with his unfortunate and untimely passing someone had to step up to fulfill the role as head of the company. And while Merrick was a visionary, he only sought profit and fame. I seek nothing of the sort. My goal is to further science and I believe that is only achievable by discovering what makes the whole lot of you tick and unfortunately-or fortunately, I suppose- for that, I need you.”
“Well, sorry to disappoint but that ain’t happening.” Booker made to shoot her when a shadow caught his attention out of his periphery. With a grunt, he dodged to the left, bringing his hand up to knock the needle out of the unknown person's hands. He kicked out with his foot to try and knock the person off balance but instead stumbled backwards when the room started spinning and his stomach sloshed from the sudden motion. He felt his throat tighten and burn as he swallowed against the overpowering need to expel his stomach.
Booker planted a hand against the back of the desk chair beside him and swung the gun up to fire at the intruder when a sudden and jarring pain to his side stopped him with a cry. He grit his teeth and looked down towards his hip. He blinked bleary eyes and tried to focus on the dart sticking out of him, he forced himself to move, even though it felt like his body was wading through water, to pull the small projectile out.
Booker blinked dumbly at the object, his already addled comprehension from his drunken stupor exaggerated by whatever had been in the dart. He blinked again and realized he was now staring up at the ceiling, confusion wrinkling his forehead as he stared at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above. He went to stand but found himself unable to. He groaned and licked his lips when he realized how dry his mouth seemed, his head rolling to the side to see the very pleased face of Kozak towering a few feet away from him.
“Sweet dreams, Mr. Booker.”
Booker tried to force his eyes to stay open, strained his muscles to keep his sights on Kozak but the world was darkening around him, his mind betraying him, and with one last blink nothing.
O~oO~o~oO~O
When consciousness next returned to him, the first thing he noticed was how cold he was. An unwelcoming frigidness that seemed to have settled deep into his bones; reminding him of the days-weeks he’d been left strung up in the Russian winter with the other deserters, left as nothing more than vittals for the scavenging animals brave enough to face the bitter cold to feast on the corpses left in the wake of the war.
He shivered and shook as he tugged at his arms, unsurprised when buckled straps dug into his wrists and chest as he struggled to move, his lethargic muscles straining against his bonds but doing nothing but irritating the skin beneath the rough black straps of fabric.
Booker cleared his throat and took in his surroundings. White washed stone walls made up the basis of his prison, a set of cabinets attached to the wall hovered over a counter with a sink to his left, a solid metal door with no visible hinges was situated a few feet in front of him, and to his right was an IV pole and various medical equipment that he could only guess as to the purpose of; the whole room reeked of antiseptic and medicine.
With a sigh of resignation, Booker closed his eyes and shook his head. This had been what he'd wanted… right? An out for when everything became too much and the weight of continuing to exist in this shitty world had worn him down to the point of overwhelming exhaustion.
This had been what he wanted…
Jean-Pierre’s angry face flashed briefly against the back of his closed lids. Tears framing his son's irate face as his baby boy demanded answers to the questions he didn’t know.
It was supposed to be a gift Booker thought, squeezing his eyes tight to banish the image of his son.
It was supposed to be a way to help those who deserved a chance to continue to live their life while giving him an end to his. His life was not worth more than the sum of those more deserving, Copley’s wife a case in point. The woman had been a neurologist on the cusp of a breakthrough for Alzheimer’s before her body began to betray her and stole away everything.
He laughed bitterly, a hollow sounding thing, as he recalled Copley and his conversation over their shared losses. Brothers in grief as they conspired against the only family he had left. The only family that gave a shit about him and he’d used them as a means to an end for his sorrow.
God, he was such a damned fool. He swore he’d find a way to make it right and he had 99 and a half years to find a way to do so.
The creek of the metal door had him blinking his eyes open to see a set of blank faced medical personnel entering followed by Doctor Kozak, the heels of her shoes clicking ominously against the tiled floor.
“Good morning, Mr. Booker.”
Booker strained against the straps to watch Kozak grab a clipboard from the foot of his bed, her hands flipping through various pages before sighing.
“I need to take samples today, it appears as though the ones we have on file for you were contaminated beyond our medical capabilities to restore.” She explained nonchalantly, resetting the clipboard against the end of the bed. “I would advise you to relax, Mr. Booker, the more you strain the harder it will be to extract what I will need and the longer it will take.”
Booker watched as the woman nodded off to her right. He rolled his head to his left to see one of the no named medical staff plunge a needle into his shoulder. He hissed against the burn of whatever they had given him. Hating the way his body began to sag under the forced lassitude of the medication. He blinked and strained to keep the ceiling above him in focus, the slates of the ventilation system blurring to a darkened blob of unrecognizable color.
“I’m afraid that medication will only help with anxiety. I cannot give you anything for the pain.” Kozak explained, her gloved hands coming up to rest against his bare chest - explained why he was so damned cold - and poked at his sternum before swabbing a cotton ball over the skin of his chest. “I’ve learned from your brothers that pain medication,” Booker grit his teeth when he felt the cool touch of a scalpel split the skin right below his rib cage, “that anesthesia corrupts the data I need.”
“Go to… hell” He hissed, hands curling against the pain of his skin being pushed apart and held open by something cold and hard. He blinked when he felt his eyes start to itch against the burn of tears pooling at the corner of his eyes and tried his hardest not to think of Nicky and Joe being torn apart and dissected by the same hands working a metal instrument into his chest.
“Hopefully, if all goes well.” Kozak murmured, taking scissors and snipping away at something that had him screaming. “Not before you.”
Booker puffed his cheeks, breaths coming harsh and fast when Kozak brushed gloved fingers against the edges of his split skin, hating the way the woman’s eyes shined in amazement when whatever she had taken from him started to regrow, the faint itch of his body healing shooting pins and needles through him.
“Remarkable.” Kozak whispered, reaching to grab a vial from one of the medical staff and placing a small snip of something red into the clear container.
“Your brother thought me to be immorale.” She explained reaching for a long needle looking object with a tiny clasp on the end. “Thought my efforts to be misguided.”
She had to be talking about Nicky, the man was too damned understanding for his own good to those who thought themselves noble in the pursuit of knowledge. “And then we…nnnng...set fire to y-your sciennnn…shit!”
Kozak held up a tiny pin prick of something meaty looking before placing it in another proffered vial. “Tell me, how long does the pain last after your body has healed?”
Booker bit his tongue, trying to ignore the way he could feel the fibrous tissue of something start the arduous process of knitting itself back together. The faint notion that Nicky and Joe had gone through this same ordeal for days while he was dicking around and emailing Copley about how best to capture the rest of them had him tearing up from something other than the sharp pang he felt from Kozak rooting around in his chest cavity.
A gurgle of fluid surged up his throat and flooded mouth seconds after Kozak snipped and pulled. Booker gurgled, gasped and gagged for air, doing his best to stay aware of his surroundings but he couldn’t breathe! He jerked against his bindings, fighting for air even as the world around him dimmed.
He struggled one last time before everything faded.
This was what he’d wanted….
Right?