The few armed men lounging by Sam's cell started slightly, looking back at him. It took everything Natalya had not to flinch. One of the SAS rubbed the pad of his thumb along the corner of his jaw, the first movement he'd made since joining the group. The Australian acted as though he hadn't noticed Sam's outburst, and dropped to an easy crouch in front of Natalya as someone bent behind her to loop the plastic around her wrists.
She met the Australian's gaze evenly, and after some long moments of silence between the two, he gave a tight, small smile.
"See, this, this is Spetsnaz training," he explained to Yorick and Sam, standing. He reached out and grabbed Natalya's chin and forced her head to the side, to face Sam, as if to present an example.
"See those eyes? Cold as ice. They go through things in training most civilized countries have long since abandoned for being barbarous." He turned her head forward again.
"But you're young, sweetheart, and this isn't going to go well for you." He stepped back and gestured a little. The ex-SAS she had kneed in the face, who still looked sore about it, flicked a knife from his wrist and walked over, pulling her shirt up at one shoulder and starting to saw the sleeve off. He ripped it in half lengthwise and discarded it on the floor, then went to her other side to repeat the process. Once both sleeves were gone, he leaned over her from behind and cut the front of her thermal along the sternum, straight down, about six inches. At the sudden cold, goosebumps spread along her arms.
"Involuntary reactions are a bitch," the Australian said, and she remembered that, he'd said that the first time. A dull and disturbingly nostalgic sort of panic began beating around the inside of her ribcage. She felt sick with dread.
The Second put his knife away and went to stand behind the Chechnan with soldering iron, who took a few steps to kneel by the arm of her chair.
"Who put your operation together?" Every instinct in her body kept her mouth shut.
What does it matter? It doesn't. Tell him. Lie, truth, it doesn't matter. Talking will keep them alive.
"I hate asking the same thing three times," the Australian was murmuring, and then she felt herself turn grey, even as she smelled that distinctive odor that came when human flesh was vaporized. Her arm felt like ice, because the nerve endings in what had previously been the unmarred stretch of skin over her bicep were dead, but the ones around the place where the soldering iron had been drawn in a precise, gently sloping line were still very much intact, and couldn't cope with the amount of pain they were being subjected to.
She made an extremely small, guttural noise, because her throat had constricted, half from her gag reflex kicking in and half from training.
It occurred to her from a distant place of reasoning, that it had been far too long since she was put under this kind of physical duress. Her defenses were in shambles. She wasn't prepared. She needed to regroup to find her voice.
"What is the eta for your backup?" She swallowed down the lump of pain, and looked at him, and then went through it over again because the soldering iron was tracing along the inside of her other arm.
So he wasn't going to let her answer. Well, that was fucking perfect.
"Did whoever assembled your team know about the nuclear element?" the Australian asked, casually indifferent to the rapidity with which her chest was rising and falling, the tension in her throat and stomach. There was not way to manage the pain of a 3rd degree burn. It wasn't something you could train a person to do. She could feel the extremely sensitive skin between her breasts reacting to heat that wasn't touching yet but was getting close enough to blister.
no subject
She met the Australian's gaze evenly, and after some long moments of silence between the two, he gave a tight, small smile.
"See, this, this is Spetsnaz training," he explained to Yorick and Sam, standing. He reached out and grabbed Natalya's chin and forced her head to the side, to face Sam, as if to present an example.
"See those eyes? Cold as ice. They go through things in training most civilized countries have long since abandoned for being barbarous." He turned her head forward again.
"But you're young, sweetheart, and this isn't going to go well for you." He stepped back and gestured a little. The ex-SAS she had kneed in the face, who still looked sore about it, flicked a knife from his wrist and walked over, pulling her shirt up at one shoulder and starting to saw the sleeve off. He ripped it in half lengthwise and discarded it on the floor, then went to her other side to repeat the process. Once both sleeves were gone, he leaned over her from behind and cut the front of her thermal along the sternum, straight down, about six inches. At the sudden cold, goosebumps spread along her arms.
"Involuntary reactions are a bitch," the Australian said, and she remembered that, he'd said that the first time. A dull and disturbingly nostalgic sort of panic began beating around the inside of her ribcage. She felt sick with dread.
The Second put his knife away and went to stand behind the Chechnan with soldering iron, who took a few steps to kneel by the arm of her chair.
"Who put your operation together?" Every instinct in her body kept her mouth shut.
What does it matter? It doesn't. Tell him. Lie, truth, it doesn't matter. Talking will keep them alive.
"I hate asking the same thing three times," the Australian was murmuring, and then she felt herself turn grey, even as she smelled that distinctive odor that came when human flesh was vaporized. Her arm felt like ice, because the nerve endings in what had previously been the unmarred stretch of skin over her bicep were dead, but the ones around the place where the soldering iron had been drawn in a precise, gently sloping line were still very much intact, and couldn't cope with the amount of pain they were being subjected to.
She made an extremely small, guttural noise, because her throat had constricted, half from her gag reflex kicking in and half from training.
It occurred to her from a distant place of reasoning, that it had been far too long since she was put under this kind of physical duress. Her defenses were in shambles. She wasn't prepared. She needed to regroup to find her voice.
"What is the eta for your backup?" She swallowed down the lump of pain, and looked at him, and then went through it over again because the soldering iron was tracing along the inside of her other arm.
So he wasn't going to let her answer. Well, that was fucking perfect.
"Did whoever assembled your team know about the nuclear element?" the Australian asked, casually indifferent to the rapidity with which her chest was rising and falling, the tension in her throat and stomach. There was not way to manage the pain of a 3rd degree burn. It wasn't something you could train a person to do. She could feel the extremely sensitive skin between her breasts reacting to heat that wasn't touching yet but was getting close enough to blister.
Maybe it was vanity, but something snapped.