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adrinktostopyourthirst · 3 years

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The Winter Soldier | Series | The Program

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | ...

Pairing: Winter Soldier x Reader

Plot: Forced to work for Hydra, you have no idea what they're hiding from you. But you find out about the Winter Soldier and your job to supervise him, all at the same time.

Warnings: Violende, angst, mentions of smut.

Words: 3,700

The clanging of metal when the cage door opens ripples through your head, your ears ringing painfully as the sound echoes through the concrete halls. The clanging sound merges with the rowdy shouts bubbling up from the other prisoners and you raise your head to see a new guard walk into your cell.

You know the drill and stick out your wrists, the guard giving you a filthy smirk before cuffing you and dragging you behind him, out of the confinement of your ancient cell. The loud shouts and cheers raise even more in volume as you make way past the other cells, goosebumps rising over your skin at the sounds combined with the chill that hangs between the dark stone around you.

When the doors to the ‘dungeons’ close behind you, the silence is deafening and eerie. Finally, you get to focus on your surroundings and you recognise the industrial designs. The countless rusty stairs running up and down the massive hall and the thin streaks of light that reach down from a hundred feet in the air. One of the many spaces you never get to explore. Safe to say you don’t feel the need to.

A soft ding redirects your eyes to the familiar elevator and the doors glide open to reveal the metal box that is nearly as old as everything else in the building. Stepping inside with the two guards that are with you, you prepare yourself for what’s to come. It’s always a surprise when you step up to your next assignment. Luckily, all you have to do is give your professional evaluation. Most people captured by Hydra had to do worse things. Way worse things.

The people you evaluate for example. The people trained and drilled for Hydra’s ongoing project.

The Winter Soldier Program.

Hydra started it long before they captured you and apparently had gone through quite a few of professional evaluators. Months ago, Hydra ripped you from your normal life and started holding you captive. Why they didn’t get rid of you isn’t quite clear to this day, but they found you a job to do. Close to the job you studied for, you get to psychologically assess the soldiers Hydra drafted.

At first, you thought you’d be better off dead, but as it turns out they will not allow you to die. For someone they apparently value quite a lot, you’re surprised by how terribly they treat you. After all your evaluations and even after attending a few of their official gatherings and representing them properly, you are still being treated like a prisoner. But you can’t leave.

So you take it.

Every day, you take it and serve one of, if not the biggest criminal organizations in the world. You see your cell most days and sometimes see the trip to the lab to evaluate the soldiers before going back to your cell once again.

Their agenda isn’t quite clear to you either, all you know is that only the highest commanders know what the goal of Hydra is. What you do know is that, whatever it is they do, they’re good at it. Never have any of their soldiers come back without successfully eliminating their targets and finishing up their missions.

It’s been a while since the commanders have summoned you for an examination, so you’re curious to what it is they need you for. If you’re correct, the new draft of soldiers has been picked. Supposedly, they need you to examine these as well.

A gravitational force presses lowly into your stomach before the elevator dings again and you obediently follow the guards through the doors and into the lab. It looks similar to when you last saw it, but it’s busier. People in uniforms and lab coats are roaming around and chattering loudly in Russian. Only a few words you can pick up on, but it’s not nearly enough for you to comprehend what they’re saying.

Sergeant Petrov steps up to you with a disgusting smile, flashing you yellow teeth before ordering the guards to uncuff you. Remaining quiet, you follow Petrov further into the lab, grabbing a white coat from the racks as you pass. Partly because you need people to know you’re an asset once the cuffs are off, but also to shield you from the horrid chill wafting through the gloomy space.

Petrov and you approach a door and he punches in a code you have remembered into the small keyboard next to the tightly sealed entrance. The metal doors slide open with a loud whir and you follow the sergeant into a space you haven’t seen before.

Letting your eyes roam the new discovered part of the building, you see massive incubators, glowing brightly as an icy gleam prevents you from looking through the glass. However, you don’t have to see what’s inside. Seeing the size of the incubators and knowing Hydra well enough, you know there’s people in the metal boxes.

“Cryo.” The thick Russian accent answers your silent question. You nod slowly, still observing the incubators lining the perimeter of the room. Actual people frozen to preserve to fight for a criminal organisation. The room you’re in is impossibly large, the ceiling seemingly leading up miles into the air where bright, natural light beams into the cold space. Small screens are lined up next to the metal coffins that show all the victims’ vitals and their names, which you can’t quite read.

As you squint to read the name tags, a toe-curling, piercing, electric jitter rumbles through your body and makes your eyes snap wide open. You let your eyes dart around the room to discovered where the noise comes from. Your eyes fall onto the podium in the back.

Slowly walking over and climbing up the steps as you follow Petrov, you watch a dozen scientists land their focus on their subject in the centre of the stage filled with machinery.

In a metal chair, in the middle of the round plane, a man is strapped to his seat. Muscular with slick, brown hair that reaches his shoulders and a glistening metal arm that is attached to him by a messy, painful-looking scar. The sight sends a pang through your chest. His breathing is heavy and ragged, his smooth chest rising and falling with every deep breath as the man bites down onto a mouthguard with determination in his dark eyes.

You can’t help but notice how the life has been completely drained from his eyes and it’s like you can read his mind when you can see a tiny bit a fear sparkle through the determination he undoubtedly forces to make it through his next few moments. Barely noticing how you hold your breath, his chair dips backwards as a metal plate lowers just above his face.

The electrical jitter starts up again and it makes all the hairs on your body stand up straight. Your brain warns you to look away, but you can’t. You can not let this man get hurt unsupervised, you won’t let him be alone. Your mind won’t allow it. The loud zoom of the electricity builds up to an unbearable sound and you hear the frequency strike the man, his piercing screams following shortly after.

It feels like hours upon hours that Hydra electrocutes the screaming man, his sounds now reduced to painful croaks as his body weakens under the restraints keeping him down. Eerie silence falls when the electricity stops and the metal plate ascends away from his face. You have to actively ground yourself from running over to the poor soldier, but thankfully Sergeant Petrov walks over to the subject and you follow closely behind him.

It's starting to feel more and more real as you approach the man in the chair. Sweat is dripping down his skin and his eyes are squeezed shut when the chair tips forward again, making him sit up straight. Eyes squeezing shut even further, strain evident on his face, dread creases his features when one of the guards circles the podium with a red book in his hands.

Your heart starts pounding as you hear the Russian words spat from his lips. You barely know what he is saying, but you can tell the words are random, only recognising three different numbers and the word ‘car’. The way the soldier in the chair shudders as if a dark memory makes its way to the consciousness of his brain, you think the words must be a trigger for something.

His entire posture changes, his muscles tensing and bones rigid as he hears the words. The man’s eyes snap open and he looks forward with a cold glare. Only now do you see the grey in his eyes, emptiness dulling them as his lids hang over the colour.

Petrov leans forward with a condescending scowl on his face and rips out the mouth guard, ordering the scientists with a flick of his hand to unlock the restraints on the chair. Petrov stands up straight and a big wall of muscle and metal lifts up to a stand from the metal chair, your eyes raising up to follow his face.

You step back from the intimidating man in what you have to admit is blood-curdling fear as you clutch your lab coat around your chest for warmth.

“Dobroye utro, soldat.” Petrov roars towards the soldier in front of him and you swallow hard as you wait for a response from him. The grey eyes lower darkly towards your commander and his fists tighten next to his muscular thighs.

“Ya gotov otvechat.” His voice is low and gravelly and makes your body rumble, the rasp in his tone from his earlier screaming making chills run down your spine.

“Soldat.This will be your new supervisor.” Petrov ushers his arm towards you and your eyes widen, not at all comfortable with finding out your new promotion the same time your new subject does.

The grey eyes lock onto you and you freeze, your body going completely cold when you can detect nothing behind his eyes, the words somehow stripping away the tiny bit of humanity you saw when you walked into the space.

“When you come back from your next mission. She will take over your evaluation.” He explains and spins on his heel before walking back to the lab, assuming you will follow him.

You do, knowing obedience will get you furthest in this institution, but you can’t help but throw one more look over your shoulder towards your newest subject only to see his eyes never left you. But one more look before the metal doors close and you see him stare down at the floor, the soldier with the red book barking new orders at him.

…

“You’re finally treating me like an employee.” You scoff as you look around the poorly furnished apartment Hydra has assigned you.

It’s small, but it has a kitchen, bathroom and proper bed. But most of all, it has privacy. No more rowdy cellmates or metal bars instead of walls around you. There’s even a small window that looks out over the snow covered mountains, the view quite captivating if it didn’t just turn your bones to ice when you realise you might not ever escape.

“Only for as long as you act like one.” Petrov warns, not amused by your sarcasm “When the soldier comes back, you evaluate him. On your table there is a file with all the information on the Soldat. Read it and come prepared. He should be done in three days. Until then, you stay here.”

You swallow hard and nod curtly at his orders. Before you can spin around to look at him, the metal door closes and you hear a loud lock twist shut, sealing the material together with the wall and reminding you that you’re completely alone with no way of ever leaving.

After all, you’re still a prisoner.

…

James Buchanan Barnes.

An American soldier, born March 10th 1917. Found injured and severed from his left arm, which they replaced with the strongest prosthetic they could make. Pumped full of the super soldier serum, he is one of the most skilled, strongest, smartest assassins Hydra has. Undetected throughout the globe and a hundred percent success rate. Conditioned with electroshock therapy to do Hydra’s bidding and put to cryosleep to preserve as Hydra endures.

He is nothing more but a trained puppet for Hydra. Stripped from his humanity and identity, he lives to serve the enemy.

Three full days, you have bent yourself over all of the information, trying to take in as much as possible and trying to figure out why you are the one who gets full responsibility and authorisation over the Winter Soldier. You see yourself as a tough woman and you only made it this far because that is close to factual, but you’re not sure you are tough enough to handle him.

Not many men had you feeling intimidated. Most men working under Hydra weren’t necessarily intimidating, but you’re smart enough to know not to test them. But the Winter Soldier made your entire body lock up tightly. His instability radiated off of him and you could immediately tell that he is completely unpredictable. You would even go as far as to say Hydra might overestimate the hold they have on the Soldat and underestimate the man behind the brainwashing.

Almost three full days have passed when your door finally unlocks and two familiar guards step inside, one of them makes you actually smile.

“Look who finally upgraded.” Antonov grins at you and you walk over, already holding out your wrists for him to cuff you as his partner waits outside in the hall. The handsome man smirks down at you with brightly blue eyes and gives you a wink “As much as I’d love to cuff you up, you’re good to walk freely now.”

Eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he shrugs, just as clueless as you are. Antonov had visited you in your cell plenty of times and tried to bond with you in your interrogation cell when you first got taken. Hydra wanted to be sure you had no information that they should know about, so they interrogated you for weeks, not refraining from light torture to get information you didn’t have. It completely wrecked you. Antonov was the only familiar face during that phase of your captivity as he took pity on you.

After a few sessions, he started bringing you some extra food, empathizing with your clearly innocent soul as the other soldiers berated you for information and treated you with less respect than a garbage bag.

Finally taking trust in the man, things escalated quickly and before you knew it, the handsome soldier had you bent over the interrogation table, having you screaming out his name as he pounded into you. That ended up repeating itself a few times. It was the only highlight of your stay and probably the only reason you didn’t go completely insane.

“I’m some sort of a supervisor now.” You explain to him, letting the two guards lead you out to the elevator once again “Apparently I have to check on the Winter Soldier.”

Antonov nods, looking slightly uneasy “I heard about him.”

You look up at him as the elevator takes you up to the lab. Antonov also wasn’t a man easily intimidated, but the look on his face speaks volumes and you know for a fact you are going to have your hands full with the Soldat.

“What will they have you do?”

“I have to probe in his mind, apparently. I get to ‘bond’ with him before taking over his entire case. I’m not sure why they put me on it, but I know for a fact Petrov has something to do with it.” You tell him, your voice puzzled as you still try to figure out why you’re doing this.

Your entire body is screaming at you that the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet and that you have to be cautious. But what are you going to do? Deny the job and run? Go back to your awful cell? Maybe, just maybe, Hydra actually has the dangerous man under control and you have nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps you can even turn the soldier to your own hand and become the most powerful woman within Hydra.

Probably not, but you’re fighting to stay optimistic – a fight you’ve been battling ever since Hydra dragged you from your normal, civilian life.

Antonov sends you a playful salute from his spot in the elevator after you step out of the metal box. You give him a weak smile in return and turn towards the lab before walking over to one of the racks to snatch a lab coat for yourself.

“Miss.” Another thick Russian voice sounds from behind you and you turn around to see who it is. Not understanding the language is making it awfully difficult to distinguish different voices from each other “You have your own coat.”

You frown at the man in confusion, before he drapes a fresh lab coat over your arm, your name embroidered onto the fabric and staring back at you. Giving the man an unsure smile in return, you allow him to get back to his job as you slip into the coat, especially tailored to fit you. Breath getting stuck in your throat, you catch yourself getting awfully comfortable in your position as an active member of Hydra. You’re not quite sure that you’re supposed to get used to this, reminding yourself you are still a replaceable asset to the institution.

Dragging your feet forward, you move to approach the metal doors leading to the round room as you call it. 5614875. You punch in the code and the doors slide open, the thick metal making you feel fragile as you wait for the entrance to open up entirely.

Revealing the big space filled with even more scientists and soldiers than before, you’re shocked to find Petrov not amongst them. Your eyes fall on the soldier, who is once again strapped to the chair. When you step into the room, at first, you go unnoticed. But once the head scientist noticed you, he shouts something in Russian and everyone stops dead in their tracks.

You refrain from frowning at the situation, trying to take the power as it comes and deciding to assert yourself with it. Confidently stepping up to the stage, you approach the soldier. Curious, grey eyes follow you as you walk closer, the man’s features not revealing any sign of emotion.

Just before reaching him, you divert to the desk next to him, grabbing a notebook and a pen before dragging a chair from the desk to the spot in front of the soldier. Wooden legs of the chair scraping over the concrete and making people in the room wince at the sound, you drop the chair down in front of the soldier and take a seat, crossing your legs and resting the notebook on your lap.

“Miss…”

“-Leave.” You order and everyone scurries out of the room quickly, leaving you alone with him.

It’s a strange feeling to be alone with your subject in a room this large, knowing damn well the soldier could snap and then proceed to kill you every which way he wishes. Turns out, he is the only person you live for now anyway. He can kill you if he wants.

“Soldat…” You start, but his hard stare doesn’t change at the name. He doesn’t acknowledge you aside from the fact that he watches you.

“Mr. Barnes…” You correct yourself and shift in your chair. He watched the small shift before returning his piercing eyes to your own. You clear your throat and straighten your back “How was your mission?”

Silence.

“Did you succeed?”

Silence.

“Do you understand me?”

Again, silence.

You heave a deep sigh and slump your head down, uncrossing your legs and flinging your notebook and pen to the ground. Since you have been captured for almost a year now, you know perfectly well how to play the silent game.

Lifting your head and crossing your arms over your chest, you lock your eyes with his and narrow them at him, staying quiet as you continue staring at him intently. It’s intense and intriguing, the longer you stare at him, the more human he seems to become. But you’re completely sure you imagine the delusion of his humanity and decide not to get your hopes up.

That’s when you remember why you’re so good at your job.

“It’s fine, you know. I was assigned to you to -I don’t really know- get you to open up I guess. They’re completely crazy for thinking that someone as far gone as you is going to give anything away. You’re not even a real person anymore. I don’t care though. I don’t have anything better to do than sit here.'' You cross your legs again "You are awful company, you know that? But I suppose it’s still better than my empty room. Actually, maybe not. My room makes more noise than you. But without the weird staring thing you’ve got going on.” You ramble on but almost jump up from your seat when you see a flash of something in his eyes.

“James, listen to me." You start once more, your tone a lot more serious towards him "You don’t have to open up to me, but I’m going to be here either way. Every single day from now on.” You explain to him and get up from your chair, staring down at the massive man sitting down in front of you “You can open up and maybe ease some weight off your shoulders, or stare at me if that’s what you want. But I’ll be here either way.”

You give him two more minutes before heaving a deep sigh and walking towards the doors and letting the scientists and soldiers back inside. What you don’t know is that the Winter Soldier hears you tell the scientists to cut it with the electrocution until further notice or you will cut their balls off. It does make him curious towards your motive.

But you’ll never know.

Because the Winter Soldier much prefers staring at you.

______________________________

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#winter soldier x reader #winter soldier x you #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes oneshot #oneshot #series #writing #the program

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once-hyperion · 3 years

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A Death Note From Hell on Earth (Response to Desponia)

I saw a man die face down in his blood on the floor earlier this week. He was a man here in the ward who had just moved in a little over a month ago. He sat crisscrossed in the middle of the rec room talking about how he had travelled all around the Middle East mentioning places such as Syria, Palestine, Israel, Iran and more. He told us how he flew out of Ciro during the war and went on bombing missions in North Africa. He was captured as a POW in Morocco in 1943 and remained a prisoner until the conclusion of the war. This man is a war hero, and by God he has been in institutions since 1957 when he had a nervous breakdown following a car crash that triggered an emotional wreckage in his psyche. This man needs to be treated with some respect I say. But instead they keep him on the 31st floor here, locked in his cage, allowed to mingle with the whole lot for a few hours a day and then “back to your room Mr. Maligianti”. Like I said before, he’s been here a little over a month and he has been nothing but a pleasure to talk to and be around. He goes on about his deranged war stories about the B-52 bomber squad he flew with named the “Purple Ingrids”. Their logo was a purple bird flying with a bomb tucked in its feet’s, ready to drop. The emotions this man puts into the stories of his life are breathtaking and shouldn’t be glossed over. This man is marvelous.

Today Mr. Maligianti drank his coffee, read the times and proceeded to the rec room. After he got to the rec room he turned to the doctors and pulled a piece of metal siding they put around the corners of the medicine cabinet doors in the infirmary. He thrusted the piece of sharpened medal in his throat and collapsed into a pool of his blood. He laid on the floor squirming and choking on the crimson pool that filled his mouth. The doctors and nurses rushed in to assist him to get the bleeding under control while the background was filled with laughing, crying, yelping and banging from the other patients on the 31st floor. He convulsed and convulsed until he smiled and stopped moving. Immediately I sank into my chair, seeing the terror that filled his eyes, but then, at the last moment, his pupils dilated and there was a glimmer of hope, for a split second that latched onto him. Finally, he was free. Free at last.

Mr. Maligianti had been a prisoner for over three decades, whether it had been inside a hospital, jail, war camp or even his own head, Mr. Maligianti was never free for his adult life. He knew that his life consisted of 3 square meals a day, directions, where to be on a daily basis. He knew he wasn’t able to leave. Whether it was voices inside his head or voices from outside that directed him, he was tormented by the fact that he was not free. And Unfortunately he couldn’t never be free.

The Army trains you to be killers, and a damn good job at it too. They train you to fight for your king, your family, your countrymen, your wife and your freedom. They tear your individuality out of you, replace it with a new sense of identity that does not revolve around selfhood, this identity revolves around “brotherhood” and “loyalty”. The military ads that run on television show a man who has no self worth in society due to lack of identity, moping around, proceeding to daily tasks but then joins the Marine Corps and fights alongside his fellow marine to defend his country against the enemy. The commercial displays honor, brotherhood, courage etc. A very Homeric sense of returning to a way of fighting with your hands and getting the job done with pure braun. This image of the strong trained fighters is very reminiscent of Platonic guardians that are in charge of protecting the citizens of the city in Plato’s Republic. These are the soldiers of the Army and Marine Corps. The ideological doctrine of these organizations and their way of promoting honor, courage and strength is very similar to the McDonald’s commercial I mentioned earlier. The commercials promote something that is skewed by the ideology that ensues it. The ideology of the McDonald’s burger is that if you choose McDonald’s, you are choosing the meal of winners, champions, athletes and so on. Not to mention it tastes delicious and will make you feel good. The Marine ad promotes the idea that if you choose us you are choosing the side of the guardians who will protect the city with our bare hands, one by one we will protect as brothers in arms, we will be heroic and stand tall. Not to mention you will also be highly respected by your community and be fulfilled with the idea that you chose the best. What comes next for both these examples are the side effects. The side effects of the McDonald’s ad is the obesity and unhealthy physical limitations of your body to which you will not be able to perform like the athletes you see on tv and the side effects of the military ad is post traumatic stress disorder, physical bodily dismemberment, lack of selfhood etc. like our poor friend Mr. Maligianti, he wound up expired, in a pool of his own blood because he couldn’t bare to remain a prisoner any longer. Like the drug addict at 5th and San Julian who overdoses on a speed ball of heroin and meth to the movie star on Bellagio drive who put the gun in their mouths, they were sick and tired of being prisoners.

As I saw Mr Maligianti sprawled on the floor, dripping with his own blood, moving his arms in an erratic fashion, my mind had paused and focused on the sweat that came from his brow that fell to the floor. When I noticed this I began to laugh, laugh in the face of Mr Maligianti, not because I thought of this painful death as amusing, but because I saw the absurdity in his life, my life and all our lives. That trickle of sweat (as they say) took the cake for me. It showed how a simple bead of sweat can turn a horrible situation into a laughing stock of painfully ripe emotion. As the nurses ran back and forth I stared into his black empty eyes that once was a lively provocative older man, now an empty husk of a human. The shouting and banging rang through the ward like a siren that kept blaring. The mental states of some of these individuals here were not even comprehensible to the fact that Mr. Maligianti won’t be enjoying his coffee tomorrow morning, instead, tomorrow Mr. Maligianti will be burning in the crematorium for the next three hours, roasting like a pig over a campfire, with all the fat and oil, dripping down to the hot coals below.

After my laughter had ceased, I tended to the rec room for my daily afternoon card game that usually consists of me leaving with more cigarettes that what I came with, I’m pretty good at this game. I noticed the crowd was unusually rowdy today, after the stir up with the whole Mr Malgianti thing, so I used this opportunity to take advantage of the others by making outrageous bets, acting as if I was bluffing my way through. I only play pocket pairs, they thought otherwise. But other than that, the day wasn’t too unusual. Oh, the coffee was a bit stronger today maybe.

But as I lay here in my bed, on the 31st floor, I run through my head the reasons why we all came to be here. Not just here in the hospital but here in this cruel world. Reasons that I can’t quite imagine, but can blurt out with no thought at all. Nothing sounds logical to me, nothing seems to be of great reason, but the fact is that we are here. I didn’t ask to be brought here? I didn’t ask to be born? The right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness has been robbed from me, taken from me years ago by the very people who swore to protect it. I never hurt anyone? I never threatened any persons life? So why have my rights been swept under the rug? Better yet, swept into these four stone walls that emit insanity inside and out. Wether you are physically restrained by men in white who keep you within the walls of a psych ward, a drill sargent who makes you feel like you are worth more for being here than out there, or the recipient of test results that confirm the cancer you are dying from, we are all prisoners, and the sooner you realize this, the sooner you can live.

~Hyperion~

#existentialism #short story #nietzsche #soren kierkegaard #philosophy #psychology

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takadasaiko · 6 years

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Howl Until it Hurts: Chapter Twenty-Four (a Rowdy 3 fic)

FFN II AO3

Summary: Martin is finally released from solitary, but not before receiving a visitor.

Chapter Twenty-Four: Release

He'd lost track of time. It was always dark and always silent. Even the sound of his own voice as he screamed and pounded in the door seemed to be lost to the void he had been left in. No one came. No one did anything.

It had been a long time since he had felt the kind of all-consuming hunger that took hold of him while he was left to rot in the abyss. He was starving. He could feel it. Sometimes the pain was sharp, while other times it was an ache that worked its way into his entire being. There were no regular feedings. They came once and they'd gassed him to stop him from feeding as he drained the poor person. He couldn't help himself. They didn't come back though, and eventually the gnawing hunger returned.

Some days he screamed. Pained howls echoed off the walls until his voice gave and he was left curled in the corner with only the sound of his own breathing for company. It didn't do a damned thing though. No one seemed to hear him, and if they did they didn't care. They'd left him to die in that hole. That was the only explanation. They had left him to die away from his brothers and smothered in darkness.

When the lights flooded the room he gave a sharp cry, trying to pull away from them. It was too bright, the buzzing of the bulbs too loud. The door hadn't opened though and for just a moment he thought they were just looking for new ways to torture him.

Then the vents hissed and gas flooded in and he was sure of it.

Martin gave a soft, struggling whimper as the locks slid out of place and the door opened. He was curled with his knees to his chest in the corner. They hadn't needed to gas him. He was too weak to move anyway.

"Well aren't you a sight?" a voice drawled and he knew it. It was burned into his brain and a low, dangerous growl escaped him, the name escaping on it.

"Priest."

So he had survived. Damn. There went the few dreams Martin had tried to cling to for hope.

"You kids look hellish when they don't feed you, don't ya?" Priest chirped, a terrifying smile on his face. "You seen yourself? No? Guess they wouldn't leave you with anything you could break, so no mirror. You'll have to take my word for it, you look positively hellish."

"Ain't you proud?" Martin managed to rasp.

"Now, Martin," Priest tutted, "You managed to bring this all crashing down on yourself. You wanted to stand between me and them, and I guess you got that much. How's it feel?"

Martin grunted, the threat falling flat.

"Say what?" Priest asked, leaning forward theatrically. "Can't hear ya down there." Then he moved, grabbing hold of Martin's jumpsuit and hauling him to his feet. He held him up against the wall, one hand wrapping around his throat and then the other, but Martin couldn't fight him with the gas working through his system. He couldn't even lift a hand to try. All he could do was choke and Priest knew it. "They're letting you out of your little prison," Priest hissed him his ear. "But before they do I want to make sure you and I are crystal clear. You are never getting outta here and it's only gonna get worse. They won't let you die. You're too valuable for that, but these last six months will look like a dream next to what I will do to you and your boys should you ever decide to pull a stunt like that again. You understand me, boy?"

Martin struggled to bring a hand up to fight, but it fell limply at his side every time. All he could do was watch the dark spots dance across his vision and feel his lungs burn as Priest choked the very breath out of him. His body gave an involuntary jolt against it and the psychopath smiled, almost giddy and the younger man's suffering.

"Can't hear you," he said again and Martin caught his eyes for the briefest moment. Hate filled him up, but even that wasn't enough as everything went dark.

Martin came around slowly and the first thing he realized was that he was still starving. Still in pain. Nothing had changed.

Except he was staring at the underside of a bunk bed.

"Martin?"

Blue eyes blinked hard and he started to sit up, but felt a hand against his shoulder. It was surprisingly gentle for everything that he'd been through recently.

"Easy," Gripps urged. "You're okay." But his expression was tight and worry rolled off of him in waves.

"Gonna be okay," Cross said from above and leaned over the edge of the middle bed.

"Yeah," Martin rasped, and he reached up to his raw throat, fingers touching it lightly. If the tenderness was any indication, bruises were already forming. "What… what happened? What'd they say?"

"They didn't say nothin'," Gripps growled. "Just tossed you in."

A low curse fell from the blond's lips and he shifted, trying to sit, but he found he couldn't get quite that far. He looked to Gripps, the silent request exchanged, and his brother helped ease him to sitting, supporting him until he was able to shift enough weight forward so he wouldn't end up flat on his back again. Cross flipped off of the middle bunk and disappeared for half a moment only to return with a water bottle. Martin took it with a small nod of thanks. Water was all he'd had since the feeding… ages ago. He wasn't sure when that was. It felt good on his sore throat though.

Martin looked up as he finished the bottle, finding a chuckle escaping him despite everything. "Damn, Cross. You grew. How long was I in there?"

"Fifteen million, eight hundred twenty, and four hundred seconds," Gripps answered and the blond stared at him for a long moment, his brain rebelling fully against the answer.

"'Bout six months," Cross clarified.

Martin nodded his thanks and squeezed his eyes shut. He'd been in that hellhole half a year. He looked around. "I stole your bed," he muttered at last and Gripps finally cracked a smile. That looked more like him.

"We were gonna make a pallet tonight anyway."

The blond nodded. "Any chance it's tonight?" he asked. He needed sleep. Hopefully they'd all be fed the next day, but for now he just needed to curl up with his brothers and try to sleep away at least some of the pain.

"Close enough," Gripps answered and started climbing the bunk bed. He tossed Martin's mattress down and Cross took his to the middle as well.

A few minutes later they were all tucked under a comforter on the floor, huddled together with Martin in the middle. He breathed in the familiar scents and focused on that. At least if there were nightmares, he wouldn't be alone when he woke up.

Notes: So, I was chatting with a friend that I bounce a lot of ideas off of for this story and we were discussing how much of an age difference there would be between Priest and Martin. I imagine there's little more than about 5 years difference. I have Martin set at 42 for when he's talking with Amanda and telling the story. Michael's actual age seems to be a very well kept secret, but Alan Tudyk is 46. So if we go off of Alan's age for Priest, that puts them four years apart. Priest gets such a power trip every time he calls Martin 'boy' because there's just not much of an age difference there.

#Dirk Gently #DGHDA #Rowdy 3 #Martin #Osmund Priest #Gripps #Cross #Howl Until it Hurts

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newstfionline · 7 years

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Egypt Roared as Mubarak Fell. It’s Mute as He’s Freed.

By Declan Walsh, NY Times, March 24, 2017

CAIRO--Six years after roaring crowds ousted him at the peak of the Arab Spring, former President Hosni Mubarak of Egypt was freed early Friday from the Cairo hospital where he had been detained, capping a long and largely fruitless effort to hold him accountable for human rights abuses and endemic corruption during his three decades of rule.

Mr. Mubarak, 88, was taken under armed escort from the Maadi Military Hospital in southern Cairo, where he had been living under guard in a room with a view of the Nile, to his mansion in the upmarket suburb of Heliopolis.

“He went home at 8:30 this morning,” his longtime lawyer, Farid el-Deeb, who has stewarded Mr. Mubarak through a tangled cluster of prosecutions since 2011, said by telephone. Mr. Mubarak celebrated his release by having breakfast with his wife, Suzanne, and sons, Alaa and Gamal.

The release begins a third act for Mr. Mubarak, a once unassailable Arab ruler and American ally who came to power in 1981 after the assassination of President Anwar Sadat during a military parade. Thirty years later, Mr. Mubarak’s own rule ended abruptly as multitudes thronged Tahrir Square for 18 days in the heady, hopeful early months of the Arab Spring.

At the time, Mr. Mubarak’s fall seemed to signal a sea change across the Arab world, shattering the established political order and suggesting that even its most powerful leaders were no longer immune from prosecution.

His release on Friday crowned the crushing of those hopes for change, and the enduring disappointment of the Egyptians who had risked their lives to topple him--even if many now say the challenge is far bigger than a single man.

“At this point, I really don’t care,” said Ahmed Harara, an activist who lost his sight when he was shot by the police, first in the right eye and then in the left, during demonstrations in Cairo in 2011. “I realized years ago that this is not just about Mubarak and his regime, it’s an entire system that has now resurrected itself.” Mr. Mubarak’s release nonetheless was a politically delicate moment for the current president and former top general, Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, who was taking a calculated risk that it would not incite a backlash.

In a telling reflection of government concern, Mr. Mubarak was released under conditions of secrecy on the quietest day of the week in Egypt. The state media said little about it.

Even the loyalists who frequently cheered Mr. Mubarak from the hospital gates through the years were not told beforehand of his pending release, although they were no less jubilant afterward.

“The lion is back in his den!” said Rehab Abdel Halim, a paratrooper who befriended Mr. Mubarak after he gave her a service award in 2009. “We feel so vindicated. Now nobody can call him ruthless or corrupt any more. If he had done something wrong, the courts would not have cleared him.”

Many other Egyptians, though, kept silent as they absorbed the news that Mr. Mubarak, a strongman once seen as the root of their woes, was once again free.

Weary, apathetic or fearful of openly speaking their minds, Egyptians have grown shy of confronting power. Although Mr. Mubarak faced a wide range of charges, he was ultimately convicted on a single relatively minor corruption charge. Few expected that his release--an unthinkable prospect just a few years ago--would result in any significant protests.

After becoming the first Arab leader to face trial in a regular court in his own country, Mr. Mubarak was initially imprisoned at the notorious Tora complex, then held at the Maadi Military Hospital. Some of the criminal counts against him carried the death penalty.

He was accused of having conspired with the police to kill 239 protesters in Tahrir Square; of having siphoned tens of millions of dollars from state coffers; and of having cut off the country’s internet access during the 2011 uprising, among other crimes. But what astonished Egyptians most was the sight of a man many had long feared, scowling in a courtroom cage.

Despite the prosecution, Mr. Mubarak remained defiant, insisting that he, not the Egyptian people, had been wronged. His sons joined him in the dock, accused of having embezzled millions of dollars and having overseen a vast system of cronyism and graft.

But by then, it was becoming clear to many Egyptians that while Mr. Mubarak had gone, the system he controlled--with the military, security agencies and courts in the background--remained firmly in place and would not cede power easily to restless young protesters.

The first democratic election, in 2012, brought to power a leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, Mohamed Morsi. But he lasted only a year, making a series of political blunders that cost him the support of the military, crucial parts of the security apparatus and millions of Egyptians, who gathered in the streets in June 2013 to call for his removal.

The military obliged on July 3 and installed General Sisi, its top commander, who cleared Brotherhood protesters from central Cairo with a massacre of at least 800 people by the security forces in August 2013. It signaled that no further uprisings would be tolerated, and Mr. Mubarak’s interminable trials seemed to reflect that change.

For his court appearances, Mr. Mubarak was flown by helicopter from the Maadi hospital, often wearing sunglasses as he was carried off the aircraft on a stretcher. Public anger toward him faded to weariness as Egyptians turned to more pressing matters: Mr. Sisi’s harsh crackdown on his opponents, the emerging war against Islamic State militants in the Sinai Peninsula and a growing economic crisis.

After a 2012 conviction for the deaths of protesters, Mr. Mubarak was sentenced to life in prison. But an appeals court overturned that verdict and ordered a retrial, and he was exonerated. He also skirted several corruption accusations.

As the political will to pursue Mr. Mubarak dissipated, his supporters re-emerged in public, cheering him from the hospital gates on his birthdays and blowing kisses during courtroom hearings. Rowdy public protests against Mr. Mubarak fizzled under anti-protest laws introduced by Mr. Sisi.

But one charge stuck: that Mr. Mubarak and his sons had embezzled millions of dollars in state money to refurbish the family’s main Cairo residence and other homes and offices.

In May 2015, a court sentenced Mr. Mubarak and his sons to three years in prison each and ordered them to pay $20 million in restitution and fines. But they were allowed to count time served.

The fines were small compared with the $433 million in Swiss bank accounts, several belonging to Mr. Mubarak and his family, that have been frozen by the Swiss authorities on suspicion of criminal activity. After years of faltering investigations, none of that money has been returned to Egypt.

Mr. Mubarak’s legal woes are not entirely over. On Thursday, a Cairo court created the basis for prosecutors to reopen a corruption investigation into gifts that Mr. Mubarak received from a state-owned newspaper while in power. But the inquiry will not require his continued detention.

Mr. Deeb, the lawyer, has said that his client intends to spend the coming months at his mansion in Cairo. He will join his wife, who in 2015 said the family had been vindicated. Some supporters have suggested that the couple will move to his villa at the Red Sea resort of Sharm el Sheikh.

Mr. Mubarak will enjoy the privileges of a retired head of state, including a security detail, although he is barred from leaving the country under the terms of a long-running graft investigation.

For Mr. Sisi, an increasingly stern autocrat who has miscalculated before, Mr. Mubarak’s new lease on life could still pose a delicate balancing act. Last year, for example, he set off unexpected street protests when Egypt transferred sovereignty of two small Red Sea islands to Saudi Arabia.

In speeches, Mr. Sisi pays lip service to the 2011 uprising. But in practice, he has crushed dissent, imprisoned tens of thousands of opponents and sought to consolidate his grip in Parliament, business and the security services--including many Mubarak-era officials and supporters. He has also allowed Mr. Mubarak’s closest allies, many fabulously wealthy through nepotism and corruption, to return to civilian life.

The release of Mr. Mubarak, the last person of his government still in detention, ends that process. But even Mr. Mubarak’s fiercest opponents say Mr. Sisi is unlikely to face major problems this time.

“Everything is upside down,” said Montasser al-Zayat, an Islamist lawyer who was imprisoned four times under Mr. Mubarak, and whose clients include the supreme leader of the Muslim Brotherhood, Mohamed Badie. “The road to democracy is blocked. Egyptians do not feel safe expressing themselves. They cannot come into the streets without risking death or imprisonment.”

So, he said, “it has become acceptable to let Mubarak out.”

#Egypt #Hosni Mubarak #Abdel Fattah el-Sisi

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