Chapter Text
Simmons woke to an icy cold feeling locked tightly around his wrists and ankles. He moved his foot to the side but the cool sensation seemed stuck to his skin. He heard the slight clinking of chains when he curled deeper into his fetal sleeping position, and that was what made the anxiety shoot up through his chest and tear open his eyes.
He found himself in the center of a metal cage just tall enough for him to stand upright in, but not wide enough to allow more than a couple feet of movement in either direction. The thick, sturdy bars of the cage were only inches apart, too close together for him to put his waist through. A tray of mush sat in the back corner of his cage, untouched, for god knows how long. The chain which linked his feet close together came from a small hole in the floor, too small for him to reach his hand into and tug on the source of his restraints.
He had no weapons, no armor -- he panicked looking down at his unsheltered body. His regular clothes under the armor were still on, thank goodness, but he still felt bare and vulnerable in an unknown location without protection. Their armor and weapons had been taken, and he was locked in a cell. None of this looked good.
The others.
Simmons looked to his right, where another cage was containing a sleeping blonde. Donut . The other soldier was wearing a pink shirt and jeans; his styled hair looked hardly rustled, which was a miracle considering they’d been knocked unconscious and ripped from their armor. His hands were up beneath his head; he was subconsciously using them as a pillow, lying on his side in a relaxed position. He looked like he didn’t have a care in the world. Nothing unusual there.
Simmons looked to his left, where one more cage stood. He almost flinched upon seeing Sarge without his armor; he wasn’t used to seeing the older sergeant look… well, so human . He was still out cold, lying on his back with his fingers clenching and unclenching in his sleep, as if he were pulling the trigger of his shotgun over and over again. How typical.
Simmons almost relaxed, seeing the two of them relatively safe, relatively unharmed. It was a miracle they hadn’t endured worse.
Then he realized who was missing from the team, and his anxiety shot up again into his throat. He swallowed and raised his head to face the glass wall before them, separating them from a white tiled room containing a set of closed double-doors and a single metal chair. Sitting in the chair with his arms and legs tied down, his head leaning back against the stiff seat, totally clocked out (as usual), was the final member of their team.
Grif.
He felt himself start to panic. “Sarge…!” Simmons gripped the bars of his cage, trying to keep himself stable. “Sarge…!”
“Hm…? Wha…?” Sarge blinked himself awake, and his face darkened in a flash. He was on his feet in seconds, taking in their environment just like Simmons had. His eyes fell on Grif in the next room and he frowned. “What in the Sam hell is this?”
“I don’t know, but it can’t be anything good!”
“Dunno, might be -- who knows, maybe they’ll kill Grif for us!” Simmons hated how bubbly his voice sounded.
“We need to get out of here, fast .” He glanced over at Donut’s cage. “Donut! Hey, Donut!” he tried to whisper-yell, to keep their captors from hearing their noise and reacting to it. The longer they stayed under the radar, the better.
Donut stirred. “Hmm…?”
“Donut, get up. And be quiet. We’ve got an emergency.”
Donut blinked at the chains and cuffs around his wrists and ankles and his face went pale. “Oh no…! I’m going to die in a drab gray prison!” he cried.
“We’re not in prison, we’re just im prisoned,” Simmons hissed. “Does anyone remember who hit us? Anything?”
“Not a damn clue.”
“Nope.”
“Well, sh*t.” Simmons glanced back at Grif, who was still fast asleep -- per the norm. He didn’t look injured from here, so that was a relief, at least. Still, Simmons did not like this arrangement one bit. “At least Lopez wasn’t captured.”
“You think he’ll come for us?” Donut asked hopefully. “I didn’t think Lopez was the type to hold out for anyone, you know?”
“We can’t count on Lopez. We’ll have to dig ourselves out of this mess all on our own!” Sarge replied. “Now, men, do you see any cracks on the chains? Any weak spot we can exploit? Any sharp weapons in your cages? Get to lookin’!”
They weren’t given much time. Not even a minute into their search, the sound of doors swinging open had them jumping, eyes flashing toward the open doors in the room Grif was still sleeping in. A tall figure wearing a large shape-concealing sweatshirt and dark jeans came forward, pushing a wheeled cart with him that contained various tools and knives. His face was covered with a scarlet mask. Simmons felt his anxiety spike with every second the masked man slowly approached Grif’s chair.
“Thanks for the warm welcome!” Sarge snapped.
“You should be thanking me,” the man replied, his voice smooth, covering up an underlying aggression. Simmons felt like he was looking at Temple again; he couldn’t help but shudder at the memories that swam to the forefront of his mind. “I could have killed you all by now.”
“And you’ll regret not doing that!”
“I could retract my decision.” The man sounded contemplative; Simmons was sure he was just being an asshole. “But there’s some information we want from you. And this way is far more fun for us, anyway.”
He placed a hand on Grif’s shoulder. Simmons clenched his teeth, unable to move his eyes from the man’s hand, unable to see anything beyond this asshole putting a hand on his -- his teammate.
‘Don’t touch him,’ he thought warningly.
“Wh-What do you want?” Donut asked nervously, his gaze fixed on the cart of what they were pretty sure were torture tools. Simmons didn’t allow himself to look at them; he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from snapping.
“A lot of things. Among them, I want to know where your little Blue friends are hiding.” The man paused. “ All of them.” He had a knowingness in his tone, and Simmons was worried just who he meant by ‘all.’
Simmons paled. That was one of the few things they just couldn’t do. “W-Well, they’re not always in the same place--”
“You know where they are; you just won’t tell us.” The masked man clicked his tongue. “By the end of this, you’re going to tell us everything.”
Simmons dug his nails into his palms. “D-Don’t…!”
“And what makes you think we’ll do a thing you say?” Sarge demanded.
“I’m sure you’re smart enough to know where this is going.” The man placed a hand under Grif’s chin, holding his face upright. “The more you cooperate, the less he suffers. The less you cooperate, and… well…” His mouth broke into a wide, unsettling smile. No one could see it beneath the mask, but it was evident in his voice. “The less fun for everyone but me.”
Sarge shrugged. “Debatable! I’d pay for some Grif spanking!”
“While I love a good spanking, I don’t think Grif wants it from this guy!” Donut replied. Simmons groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Unfortunately, even I have limits. I prefer blood over bruises. My comrade… she might take you up on that.” The masked man paused. “Regardless, we’re going to get the information we want. I’ll start nice; we’ll give the choice to you for now.”
“What in tarnation’s that s’pposed to mean?!”
“You have three choices for how we wake up your friend, and five seconds to vote.” He raised a finger. “One. We take a finger.”
‘Eh, he’s lost worse,’ Simmons thought to himself, though he still winced at the thought.
“Two. We waterboard him.”
Donut’s eyes brightened. “Oh! I love waterboarding!”
“You’re thinking of surf boarding, Donut,” Simmons hissed.
“O-oh.”
“And three. Electric shock.” He lowered his hand. “You have five seconds. Vote. And I would suggest you vote, and not trouble us with a tie.”
“I-I vote for the shock!” Simmons cried, immediately questioning his own choice.
“Bluffers.” Sarge scoffed. “At least it’s Grif. This is what he’s made for! Off with his finger!”
“ Sir! ”
“And your vote?”
Donut stalled. “I, uh… I, um…”
“I warned you to vote.” He turned his head to the ceiling corner of the room; Simmons supposed there must have been a camera there. “We’ll do all three.”
“Donut!” Sarge and Simmons yelled.
The masked man took a step away from the chair, taking a sharp knife into his hands from the cart. Simmons shivered as he moved back over to Grif, just a foot away from him when an electric current ran through his chair and zapped him.
Grif’s body jerked violently, waking up with a pained yelp. All he knew in his first few moments of consciousness was that his body was hurting and his heart was beating fast. His eyes were still foggy as they passed across the room, vaguely registering his teammates locked up in the room in front of him. Before his situation fully dawned on him, a sharp and sudden pain exploded in his hand.
“Gahhh! F*ck!” His legs and arms pulled on his restraints, but he was locked down tight. He risked a glance down to find the source of the unbearable pain in his hand, and realized he could only count four fingers. His pinky was gone, replaced by a spurt of blood. He didn’t dare look down at the floor; he didn’t want to see it lying there, dismembered. He was going to be sick.
His brain was still rapidly trying to comprehend what was happening to him, when Simmons weakly called out his name. Concern pulsed through him, his head looking up to face his nerd. Simmons had his fists gripped around the bars of his cell, his soft green eyes trained on him, forehead creased in worry.
Not even a second later, his head was forced backward, something was pulled over his head, and complete darkness clouded his vision. Grif tried to shrug the material off by raising his shoulders, but it was pulled tight over his head and under his neck, and without being able to move his hands, he was helpless.
The instinctive urge to speak, to drown out his fear with sarcasm, was shut down by the overwhelming tension. It was already hard to breathe in this position. He tried to ignore the phantom pains in his lost finger, as well as the hot stinging across his body from his wake-up call, and listened for the sound of what was to come.
He knew what was coming, but it still didn’t help the anxious thrumming in his chest as he waited, not knowing when he should take his breath, not knowing when would be too late.
Then the water poured down on him and he closed his eyes, telling himself to keep calm even as his heart raced and the water continued in a steady downpour over his face. It made the cloth dampen and press against his skin, removing his access to air.
‘It’s just for a few seconds, it’s just for a few seconds, it’s just for a few seconds,’ he told himself, even as the burning in his throat and chest began to pressure him to open up. He knew he could hold his breath in the water for thirty seconds easily, so why was it hardly ten seconds in and he was already losing his goddamn mind?
The water wasn’t coming out, he realized. It entered through the cloth covering his face but it wasn’t escaping, just building up inside and seeping into his nose. The urge to gag made his body spasm in his restraints, and before he knew it, his mouth had opened and he was drowning.
Twenty seconds passed, and Grif was gurgling strenuously, his mind lost to the need to get out, out, out. His survival instincts kicked in at full force; he pulled against his restraints with all his might, trying desperately to move his head from where the masked asshole was keeping it still. His skin was cutting into the metal, but he had no conscious awareness of the additional pain, not even of his limbs at all -- he only knew the darkness, and the sensation of drowning, and the uncontrollable terror taking control of his every movement.
He hadn’t even noticed when the water stopped. Without warning, the cloth was ripped off his face and his head was released.
“Son of a b*tch,” Grif gasped, his body doubled-over and coughing out water. His teeth chattered, his mind still running in circles, but far more controlled after a few labored breaths. “What the hell…?” he whined.
“Grif!” Simmons’ voice cracked.
“We’ll give you five minutes.” Their captor glared. “I’ll be asking questions next time. Be ready.” He left the cart in the open for them to see before calmly walking out of the double-doors, leaving the four of them alone.
Grif lowered his head, trying to rub his wet face against his shirt, but unable to do so effectively. His eyes and nose were still burning from the water, which was left in cold trails down his face. He shivered, wondering if they would freeze against his skin; it felt like a f*cking ice machine in here. “Well, this sucks.”
“Yeah, no sh*t,” Simmons huffed, his voice falling back into its usual crankiness.
“You did really well, Grif! But you shouldn’t have tried to swallow it. We all know that’s not your thing.”
“Yeah, because I was trying to drown myself, Donut.”
Sarge gave a nod of approval. “You’re finally doin’ yer job, dirtbag. Keep it up!”
“Thanks a f*cking ton, Sarge!” Grif let out a groan. “C’mon, is there anything you guys can do in there??”
“You’re the one with the weapons, dipshit.”
“Oh yeah, and I can just magically pull myself out of this metal chair.” He tried pulling his arms up but the restraints kept them in place against each armrest. “If I couldn’t budge any of these when I was literally drowning, I’m not gonna be able to do it now.”
“Oh, calm down, princess, that wasn’t drowning. You weren’t even under there for thirty seconds!”
“Yeah? Well, you try it!”
“That would defeat the purpose of your existence! I’m not that wasteful.”
“And besides, Grif, what do you think we can do in here?” Simmons raised a foot to show the chains connecting his feet. “You think we can break out of here any easier than you can?”
“Well, what other choice do we have? We just wait on the off-chance that someone knows exactly where we ended up, has the means to come and save our asses, and actually gives a sh*t enough to do it -- and right away?” Grif paused to think about their unfortunate situation, then let out an exaggerated sigh. “We’re all gonna die here, aren’t we?”
“No use b*tchin’ and moanin’ about it! Soldiers, look for a weak spot! There’s sure to be one somewhere!”
They started their search, but once again, they had no luck. Sarge tugged on his chains in aggravation; Simmons looked carefully into each little loop for something that might give; Donut tried to pull himself through the bars of his cage, but the chains kept digging into his ankles and holding him back. Grif stared down at his missing pinky, at the blood that had quit spilling from the wound.
“God, I hope this doesn’t get infected. I can’t deal with that sh*t right now.”
“You’re lucky it was just a finger and not a hand,” Simmons stated.
“F*ck you, Simmons, I have the right to be pissed.”
“No, you don’t, fatass. That was my finger in the first place!”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t yours when it was cut off!”
“Still mine!”
“Ladies, ladies, you’re both--”
Two yells in unison. “SHUT UP, DONUT!”
They all shut up as the door to Grif’s room opened, and the masked man stalked back in with the same cool, calculated movements. Grif tensed as the man approached him, this time with his eyes set on him rather than his teammates. He stood directly in front of Grif with his arms crossed behind his back.
“Where is the Epsilon unit?” he demanded. Grif kept his glare fixed on the floor. The man sighed as if he had no other choice, then with a quick pounce his hand was yanking back Grif’s hair, pressing the blade of his knife against his cheek. “I said, where. Is. The Epsilon. Unit.”
“Good f*cking luck, ‘cause I’m not giving you sh--” His voice trailed off into a poorly-disguised whimper as the blade cut into his skin. Droplets of blood peeked out onto the surface.
Their captor looked back through the glass at Sarge, Simmons, and Donut, awaiting a response from one of them. Sarge raised an eyebrow, as if egging him on. Simmons had looked worried, but his expression hardened as soon as the masked man turned his way.
“We don’t know anything!” Donut cried, clearly not getting the memo. “Epsilon was never with us!”
“Donut,” Sarge said warningly, slowly.
“Oh? Then who was he with?” their captor asked, and Donut went silent.
He turned on Grif, his hand clenching into a fist before whamming straight into Grif’s abdomen. A sharp breathless gasp escaped him as his body coiled forward as if to protect himself, but it did nothing against the next two punches that had him wheezing.
“Goddamn it, Donut!” he gasped. “Stop saying stupid things; he’s just gonna take it the wrong way.”
Simmons exhaled, glad they were on the same page. There was still hope that they could salvage this by playing dumb. (Not that it required much playing, if he was being honest.)
They couldn’t let these guys go after the Blues. It was an unspoken agreement among them; these people couldn’t get their hands on Epsilon, or Caboose, or Kaikaina, or any of the other assholes on their team.
‘It’s f*cking stupid that we always take the sh*t for the Blue team,’ Grif thought to himself. ‘Next time they get in an intergalactic war, they’re leaving us out of it.’
“Now, let’s have some fun,” their captor chuckled darkly, juggling the knife in his hands as he approached his victim. Grif had a feeling this wasn’t going to be fun at all.