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He woke up in darkness.
Every inch of his body ached, the same way it did after a traumatic death. His head was throbbing, his limbs felt as though they’d been run over, ears ringing and eyes still unable to focus. He didn’t know if he was in true darkness or if his eyes hadn’t healed enough yet.
Minutes passed. Slowly, everything pinprick of pain faded. He felt normal again. Still unable to see, so he was being held somewhere without light. As he sat quietly, he started to stretch a bit, testing his limbs. Only now did he register that he was bound.
There were loose cords tying him to a wooden chair, around his torso, wrists behind him, and feet to each leg. Tight and sturdy enough to keep him from escaping, but with enough slack to allow him some semblance of movement. He gave his wrist an experimental tug. As the rope went taunt, there was a flash.
He woke in darkness.
This time his senses came back faster, knowing the game that was afoot. The ropes were not loose to tight, intent on keeping him in one place. They were loose enough to entice him into repeatedly killing himself. Pull a rope enough and-
He woke in darkness.
This time was a little different. While he’d been slumped back in the chair, he’d carefully grabbed one of the small razor blades he’d hidden in the cuffs of his jacket. Once he was upright, he gently began to saw through the rope, holding a small section tight while allowing the rest to hang.
Time passed. Minutes? Hours? There was no meaning to it in the darkness. He couldn’t hear anything outside the very faint sounds of fibers splitting and his own measured breathing. Whatever room he was being held in had been professionally soundproofed. That probably cost his captor a large amount of money. The thought made him smirk. Once again another rich man was wasting money on his capture.
The rope finally split. He carefully let the two ends drop, forcing his body to duck as low as possible in the off chance that the hanging rope would trigger another shot.
Nothing.
He moved on to his chest, now able to use both of his hands in front of him. He could see anything, but it was absolutely easier. Less strain on him.
The final rope slipped free. He was out of the chair before it had time to land on the ground. One step left, two forward, three left again - wall. He leaned against the cool metal and breathed. No explosion of pain, no death.
He scouted the walls, finding all four corners. Rivets covered the seams in the metal sheets. He was in some sort of container. Now that he was standing, he could feel a slight vibration coming from below. The room was moving.
Carefully, he moved back to where he had been tied up and felt around for the weapons. Pistols, three of them, all still loaded, though missing rounds. He slid two into his pockets, one left in his hand.
His timing was perfect. The slight shaking slowed to a stop. Metal grinded loud enough that it would have woken him if he was still unconscious. A door slammed open, filling the container with light, blinding him.
“Oh Booker, you were supposed to stay still. It's almost showtime.”
Gunshot. He woke up in darkness. He was alone again.