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It came as a surprise to Tintin that when he’d woken up from being kidnapped this time around, out of all the ways he’d be restrained, this was a completely new one to him. As far as he’d remembered. Being hit over the head multiple times would surely affect his memory, amongst other things, at the very least.
Mostly from the fact that when he was drowsily able to open his eyes, he was already, and most painfully, aware of how much he couldn’t breathe.
Taking a proper inhale of air was next to impossible, feeling a loop of rope tighten around his neck. How he was still alive, he had no idea. Though surely at this point he would be able to lift it up to an extent to lessen the pressure, but he realised how much his arms and hands were burning with a deep pain and it was clear from his usual casual observation that they hurt far more when he had to make an effort to lift his head. The rope that was around his neck was tied agonisingly tightly around his wrists to the chair was a weight for his neck, but in turn, lifting his head only added pressure in both directions, biting into his skin and cutting into his circulation and either way, making him feel like his arms would dislocate or he would suffocate.
Even worse, trying to feel his own feet was difficult enough. They were numb, his shoes barely sliding together, bent out of shape and yanked upwards by the rope around his ankles in turn tied to his wrists. Moving his body was limited capacity regardless, but the traumatic stress on his body in either direction meant no comfort or relaxation. These people had done their research, it seemed, leaving his body to be perpetually burning with discomfort at the very least, and internally panicking at always being on the verge of choking to death.
He was exhausted, head at an angle at the top of the chair, never sure if he was groaning from the pain or the vain effort of trying to take any weight off of himself. Any voice that he had came out in a rasp, and his chest was tightening to make up for the restriction around his throat. His muscles were killing him, but any attempt to move himself made his limbs and neck be dragged in either direction and so they were forced to bear the brunt of it all. I’d feel better if they just strung me up, or straight up hung me. Anything to not feel like my body’s being slowly torn apart in different directions, he thought, drily. At this point, why would he not take an amused, casual approach to the millionth time something like this happened to him, amongst the panic and claustrophobia of the situation he was in? He might as well be a comedian at this stage.
He couldn’t do much apart from cautiously shift in the chair and stare at the ceiling, since lifting or moving his head felt close to a death wish, a slow and painful one at that, and he wondered how long he’d been like this and how much longer he would be in it. Surely being in a stressful position such as this would kill him far quicker than any others, defeating the purpose?
Frankly, he darkly wished it already would. This agony is already driving me insane; I might as well be dead already.
Mainly he wished he couldn’t recognise the sound of those footsteps. Which didn’t sound difficult exactly – the crew members weren’t exactly ones for wearing something like Oxfords on a ship.
“You’d consider me impatient for answers,” he heard the conversationally dark voice of Sakharine not too far from him, of which he himself rolled his eyes at this response – didn’t take much to know that, you bastard, “but if I can find creative ways to see the boy intent on interfering with my business and breaking into my house suffer, it’ll be worth the wait. We’ve got the time.”
His voice became colder, and Tintin felt the annoyance under his skin spike up hearing those footsteps come closer until he was right next to him. He might as well breathe on him at this point, but instead he got a sudden, firm hand on his left shoulder, coming so close to mentally jumping out of his skin. Instead, his eyes went wide, and he naturally tried to avoid the predatory feel of the man just barely outside his gaze.
He unfortunately was able to catch a glimpse of a hollow, unfeeling grin, before catching those green eyes looking down over those glasses of his at him with an awful kind of pity. This was more unsettling than intimidating in all honesty, as Sakharine currently just allowed his presence to sink in for what felt like eternity.
“It’s a shame you can’t talk, but it’s better to have that survival instinct,” he spoke drily, raising his eyebrows, “but I’ve known you already long enough to have you speaking back at me. It’s worth the sacrifice with the long route to our next destination…”
He trailed off, acting sentimental, before stepping out of his view to the back of his chair. Tintin felt his heart sink as he felt him hover over him, both hands now gripping his shoulders, brow furrowed and with the same grin relishing the situation. This was naturally escalating into a disturbing atmosphere – he’d rather deal with his frustration and agitation and anger over this. This stuff was always too much for him, as much as he always had to try and handle it.
“Which is good, because who is looking for you, anyway? How would they start with a ship? Even if they did, what are you going to do? Scream? Make noise? Try and move? In your state? You’d break something or even die.”
His voice descended close to a growl, but remained joyfully sadistic. Tintin could feel his nails digging into his shoulders through his jumper as the man was straight up bragging this to his face.
“And you’re in a deep room on the ship, too. Even you could speak, I doubt anyone would hear you. No one’s coming to save this former boy scout reporter who can’t even do the thing he does best – fend for himself. Get used to it.”