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There’s a routine to the Order’s proceedings. There’s form .
This is not routine. This - this doesn’t fit. This breaks the carefully planned pattern, the one Chris has grown used to, the one that allows him to survive the brutal treatment of this place. When the day’s proceedings are over, they’re left alone to lick their wounds and watch each other blankly through the window on the wall that joins their rooms. They have their respite, however brief it may be.
This is not alone. This is a man, huge and hulking, shoulders broad and face set with a careful sort of indifference. His hands are in fists by his side, and when Chris is pushed into the room, he does not move from his space in the corner. Even as Chris stares, even as Alex comes up to the window on the other side with fear in his eyes and fury in his angry, muffled words, he does not move.
It’s not until Chris makes a move of his own, stepping cautiously towards the cot towards the side of the room, that the man darts forward and grabs him by the hair. He’s unbelievably fast for his size - by the time Chris has registered his movement, he’s there to yank Chris closer.
A fist knocks the air out of Chris, leaving him gasping and cradling what he’d already suspected was a broken rib. He struggles to keep his feet under him as the man tugs him around, clearly trying to push him over. There’s a fighting chance until he’s on his knees - he just needs to get this giant’s grip out of his hair. That’s all.
Chris claws at the hand that grips him with nails made grotesquely long by months without care - as he grapples, they catch and puncture skin, and Chris feels blood bloom beneath his nails, dripping down his fingers. In response, an elbow slams into his gut, loosening his grip and forcing his legs to buckle. He chokes, trying desperately to force air back into his lungs, but it’s too late - he’s fallen, and there’s a knee smashing into his nose and sparks bursting behind his eyes.
His face is hot and there’s blood dripping into his mouth, but the grip on his hair is finally gone, so he staggers back and finds himself falling against the window. Alex’s shouting is clearer here, and Chris looks through the frosted glass to find him pounding on the walls. Chris can’t make out what he’s saying, so Alex shouts louder, flecks of spit flying from his mouth and hitting the glass.
The man in the corner approaches, heavy boots thumping threateningly on the ground. Chris tries to scramble out of the way, but there’s nowhere left to go - the glass is behind him, thick and unbreakable, and past that is only the solid stone of the wall. He finds himself pressed into the corner, hands scraping painfully over the rough material of the floor.
The heel comes first - straight into his throat, choking him and sending him into a bout of coughing - then the knee to his nose - and again, that scalding eruption of agony and the sound of something cracking - then the heel, down on his stomach, making Chris lurch straight up from his spot on the ground and gag violently. Bile crawls up his throat, acidic and painful, and he chokes down the remains of what little food he’s had recently.