Captive

[Morgan LaLuna]

Morgan awoke in increments; first he felt pain. In his head, throbbing and dull, in his shoulders, sore and strained, in his belly, sharp and screaming. His head rolled from its resting spot on his chest, and he groaned, muffled behind something preventing his lips from moving at all. Bleary eyes peered from behind a curtain of straight black hair, damp with sweat and hanging heavily over his face. His face lifted, and he tried to move… only to find out why his shoulders hurt. His hands were tied tightly behind the back of a particularly uncomfortable and unwieldy chair, fingers zip-tied together to prevent spells from being cast. He tested his bonds carefully… all quite secure. Another groan, and he looked around. Dark, and dank, he wasn't sure where, exactly, he was. All he knew was it must be pretty late, with the depth of the blackness he was in. Slowly, the events leading to this moment replayed in his head, and he strained to see… anything at all. He could not conjure light. He could not speak. Slowly, he tested with the tip of his tongue whatever was covering his mouth, finding it to be… duct tape, maybe? Thank goodness. His mouth started to work slowly at the sticky strip, the young man in the dark wincing as it pulled at skin. Maybe if he wet it enough, he could free his mouth. He could call for help. Anything. In his movements, the sharp pain in his abdomen made him cry out softly, and he nearly fell back into unconsciousness, sweat beading on his brow.


"Hmmmmmm" was all he could say, and it was hoarse, and his throat scratchy, mouth so very dry. "Hmmmm mmmm" he called, plaintive and pained. But nobody came. Nobody heard. He could not call for Mallory, nor could he call for Cane… but even if he could, the fire in his belly needed far more attention. Harder, his mouth worked, tongue pressed, lips curled, breathing grew heavier as he concentrated… it was hard to loosen up tape with spit, when your mouth refused to make it. So be it. He gave a whimper, and closed his eyes… before biting down on his lip. An explosion of copper swelled in his senses, and he gave a breathy half-sob, a tear running down his cheek from the sheer sharp pain of it. But it did exactly what he meant for it to do. Blood worked just as well. It took him some time to loosen the tape just enough for his lips to move freely, and he tipped his head toward his shoulder, rubbing his mouth roughly against it to further remove the barrier. Once it was hanging halfway off, he opened his jaw wide, as if to set it, then spat blood out, wincing. It was easily healed… but another wound required more. In his head he could only think of one currently prepared spell that did not require his hands, and, croaking and voice cracking, he spoke, softly. "You're gonna be okay." A soft shimmer seemed to ripple across his abdomen, just under white fabric. So the agent had patched him up. How fucking thoughtful.


"You're gonna be okay…" he said again, grimacing when another gentle healing ripple passed through the flesh torn asunder by metal. "You're gonna be okay…" was whispered, head drooping forward and rolling. A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his temple, down his cheekbone, and settled, finally, at the tip of his nose. Darkness was setting in, and he was fading. So quickly. Thoughts were starting to swim. Vision, what little there was, was leaving, doubling, blurring…


"C…" he tried, but only a breath followed the consonant.


"Ma…" but his head nodded to the side, and his stomach rebelled, tightening and racking every muscle as he heaved. Nothing came out. No blessed release of anything substantial for the effort, but for a well of bile that stuck in the back of his throat thickly. The pain of it… was too much. He saw stars. Not the beautiful pinpricks in the dark veil of the heavens one might look upon in peace, laid on a grassy spot alone or with someone beloved. Rather, they were the lights of explosion that accompanied a headache so grand as to make a grown man buckle at the knees.


Pleasant thoughts. Pleasant thoughts. Real stars. A hidden glade. A babbling creek. The shine of a fish in a pond, metallic and bejeweled. Copper fittings. The click of claws on hardwood. The warmth of a hearth and company. Company? Companionship. White fabric, frosty locks. His head dipped forward again, and he felt himself falling away from the waking world. He couldn't die yet. This wasn't supposed to be. This wasn't the end. He already knew how he was going to leave this world. He could see it. Had seen it. Strange, how thinking of death in that moment… was what left a small smile on his bloody lips when he slipped back into that numb darkness.