Chapter Text
It was the popping that woke him up. Unusual this close, the echoing POP POP POP of rapid gunfire that itched at the back of his mind. There were a lot of noises here, a lot of sounds that he had long associated with danger. He pushed himself up, hand braced against the dirty floor underneath him. Every muscle ached as he shifted from a lying position to a sitting one. The room they locked him in this time did not have enough room to stretch out his legs, the ceiling too short to stand up straight. The best position was to stay seated, knees up to his chest with his forehead down, arm over the back of his head.
If they came in and started beating him, everything important would be protected. Sometimes they didn’t. He hoped they didn’t.
The next POP was closer. It echoed louder, stabbing his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut. The sound wouldn't stop. It became continuous, more and more. His hand rubbed the back of his head, humming at the pain, and squeezed his eyes shut tighter. His fingers caught in the tangles of his hair. He took a deep breath in, counting to three, before letting it out again. He was good at that. In and out. He got a lot of practice in here. In and out.
The gunfire stopped. Silence rushed him and nearly stole his breath right out of his chest. His head throbbed, pulsing loudly in his ears. The stutter in his breathing sent him into a coughing fit. His hand shot out to brace against the wall to hold steady. It was dry and ended with him heaving. Oddly enough, the pain seemed to have moved from his head to his chest. His lungs ached with each breath. In and out.
He sat up again, ready to resume position. He heard a few more pops, a couple here and there, but not as blinding. Voices. Words. Too dull to try and make out. He kept his arm over his head to wait. The voices were far away, they might not come to him. They might pass him by. They left him in there for long stretches of time. He didn’t know, he didn’t count. It had been a while since they last came. He could wait, they would come eventually. Eventually with food. Eventually water. They would never just let him die here, slowly wasting away. He breathed. In and out.
POP . It was so close now, the sound continued to ring in his ears. They didn’t usually shoot this much, this close. Someone was shouting. POP. The next one pulled a whimper out of his throat.
Over the ringing, there was the unmistakable scrape of the metal hinges. The door opened before him, the light beamed down on him. He could feel it, even with his face in his knees and eyes shut. He didn’t move a muscle, arm protective over his neck. They didn’t start hitting him yet.
“Found him.”
That was in English. He lifted his head a little in surprise. It was risky, he was exposing himself to them out of curiosity. It never worked out well. He was punished by a bright, piercing light stabbing into his eyes. White and blue spots danced in his vision even as his eyes squeezed shut again.
“Wha-“ the sound was dry as it left his mouth, like scraping gravel tumbling in his throat.
He blinked quickly as the light cut off, the beam no longer shining down on him from above. It was the normal light now, a dull glow behind the figure in front of him. They weren’t hitting him yet.
“Hey,” the man said. He lowered down in the doorway, hands raised in the air. “Sergeant Barnes? My name is Riley. I’m with the United States Air Force. I’m here to take you home, but you gotta come with me.”
This was a dream then. Another cruel thing to kill him with when he woke up. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. That name felt so foreign… so worn from disuse he hardly recognized it anymore. Not his. Not anymore. They weren’t real.
“Can you walk?” The dream asked. A hand reached out, slowly, palm open. “We have to hurry.”
He didn’t fight it. He was dreaming. He would wake up and still be in there. This isn’t the first time he did this. Sixty three paces left. He had counted it a million times. This isn’t the first rescue he had dreamed of. Last time there hadn’t been an ache where the man touched him. The press of a military uniform was rough now. This felt too real, the chatter of radio, the many boots as soldiers huddled around him and walked. They moved together, in step, and he stumbled with them. Gentle hands steadied him and his bones ached under the touch.
A gun raised. POP. His eyes filled the motion. A pointed weapon angled towards a man that dropped. The sound clattered around his head, banging against his temples. This was a nightmare. He wanted to wake up now. He jerked in the man’s hold, elbow pulled back and then flung towards the man. If this was an American, he knew where a weapon might be. He knew where to grab. He dreamed of guns often, this time when he grabbed it the weight was so much heavier. More than he remembered.
“Stop, Barnes!” A man said in a loud, quiet voice.
Hands grabbed him, pulling on his arm. He tried to raise the gun, finger in the trigger guard. He wanted to wake up. He was tired, exhausted. This wasn’t real. POP. He was ready to wake up and face reality. He was never getting out. POP.
His arm was shoved down. A sharp pain bloomed in his foot, a burning pain. The ground slid under him, the soldiers around him spun. He landed hard, a crack snapped through his frame. More pain. Louder shouting. He couldn’t breathe now. A weight pressed down onto his back and compressed his ribs. He sucked in, the air felt sharp.
“Grab him!”
They were speaking English. Why was he still dreaming? Someone was holding him down. People were shouting, loud and angry. Why didn’t he wake up?
“Shoulda woke up?” The words were soft. English. It felt so strange to use it. Wrong.
“He’s bleeding!” Someone said loudly.
“Pick him up, we gotta move.”
“I can walk, I can-“
His face pressed painfully into the ground, his arm pinned down. The heavy, heavy weight of the gun was gone. It had vanished in the dream. Why didn’t he wake up? Why don’t they just kill him already?
So many voices, all shouting and talking and demanding all at once. In English. His mind reeled at the language, his understanding of English was delayed, the words and meanings stalled in his head. He hadn’t heard English in… a long time. They were yanking on him, one firm hand on his arm the other tugged on his shirt to pull him off of the ground. They were not as gentle as they were a moment before. His bare feet dragged the ground and his eyes wouldn’t adjust to the rapid movement around him.
Another POP followed by more shouting. Another language, this one more recent in his memory. They were screaming familiar words. Someone was screaming to stop. Someone was shouting to get down. He let his body drop, ready to follow the commands as they were given, but his body didn’t fall. He was pulled against the rough canvas of a military uniform. This wasn’t a dream, just another cruel torture thought up to keep breaking him. Hadn’t it been enough. Why wouldn’t they just kill him yet? Why not just let him die?
The light was blinding. Not as piercing and sharp as the light they beamed on him when he was found. This light was warm, it heated his skin and glowed on every surface in sight. His eyes watered and he attempted to blink the tears away. He couldn’t see clearly. He wanted to know where he was, where they had dragged him to. This wasn’t a place they had brought him before, they never let him have this much light.
There was something loud overhead. Something that screamed louder than his thoughts. If he looked up, a dark shape blocked the light.
“Get him on, quickly!”
The men were shouting to one another, voices loud. He had stopped struggling against their hands and opted to just let it happen. He hoped this time they killed him.