2nd Cut -- [Visual - reflective surface] -- [around 7:00am]

[twopercent]

[Visual, much like Paul Ben's last night, of what is actually a fairly nice room with plush carpeting and wallpaper. And Jack, completely naked, who has managed to pull the desk he's cuffed to over close enough to the wall to awkwardly scrape his numbers into the wallpaper with the metal edge of the cuff. It's crazy, but there's nothing else he can do... and being crazy is pretty low on his list of concerns now.

It's clear Jack's been in a fight recently from the scrapes, bruises... and he's also completely missing an arm, although it's clear that's a much older injury from months and months ago. He also has a few incongruous burn marks and is half-soaked, as is the carpet around the desk. In short, he just does not look in good shape at all, painfully sore and and close to passing out from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

There's nobody else in the room, though, and no obvious immediate danger.]

Listen. I'm not sure how much time I have. Whatever's coming, though... they think we don't have a chance. Not even close. Just trying to make it easy for them to take over. I still don't know who... or what it is.

[bitter laugh, thinking back on his initial confrontation]

Crazy bastard.. caught the bullet.

The General's probably out there, trying to get more intel on the network now. Sounds like they don't have anything to do with it... and want to know more. Who's involved, how many. I can hold out... but make sure they don't uncover anything out there.

[God, what else. Jack racks his brain trying to think of anything else useful to pass along -- but there wasn't much, and his mind is muddled, wild memories jostling up against current reality.]

If you get this message, let me know you copy. Not keeping the channel open long... I'm scratching out the number before they come back.

Comments

MY HERO ~*SWOON*~ ohhhh the drama

[twopercent]

[It does open; the guards didn't check the lock after the General left. Inside, a couple VIP rooms and a storage area. Down the stairs, there's some raucous voices; sounds like someone just pulled in a particularly big pot that last hand and now the betting is fierce.

But the question of which room it could be is obvious; there's no signs of a struggle, but only one door is closed and barred from the outside. And inside...

Jack is on the carpet, leaning up against the desk, since he can't lay down with his hand cuffed the way it is. He's scratched out the marks of the numbers and communications from the wall until enough of the wallpaper is ripped into tiny shreds and laying scattered on the carpet -- wrist rubbed raw from the effort, having used the edge of the handcuffs as best he could.

It's probably been close to an hour since his interrogators left, long enough for Jack to mostly drip dry, even if his hair is still wet. He's cold, and now that things have quieted down, he's tired, and his eyes keep closing on him... only to snap open again. It's like every time he closes them, all he can see is that man's face, and the thick metal tendrils reaching out to his face, wrapping tight around his throat until he can't breathe...]

[secondcomingof]

[ For once, Casval's grateful for the noise. It helps mask the blunt sound of giving said door a solid shove with the brunt of his shoulder, and thankfully, there's no need to kick it in. The door yields, and there sits, or rather strains Jack, left to rot until the General's return.

Casval slides in like a cat on silent paws, assessing as quickly as the situation and the fraying threads of his sanity permit. Eventually his eyes come to rest on the handcuffs, and... well. That's going to pose a problem. No keys in sight, either. Guess they were doing this the hard way.

Bringing a finger to his lips—though he imagines Jack hardly needs to be told, mum's the word is something of importance here—Casval reaches backwards into a boot, pulls out a worn pocket knife, and starts working at picking the lock. In the lowest, faintest of mutters: ]

Where's the arm?

[twopercent]

['Grateful' isn't exactly the word anyone would use to describe Jack's expression when Casval barges in. He is relieved that it isn't the General's men back to have another go at him, sure. Well aware that arguing is pointless now, that too. But glad? Not... exactly....

Still, if Casval's going to break him out, Jack's not about to let his effort be wasted. He takes a sharp breath in... he's managed to hold it together so far, he can manage a little while longer.]

With my clothes and the rest of my gear. They didn't take it until they'd hauled me in here, so it has to be around somewhere.

[The lock gives way with a click, and Jack's more than ready to struggle to his feet once free. He grunts softly at the effort; the General is strong, and Jack wouldn't be surprised if something is fractured.

And even though it seems like a minor point in the grand scheme of things, Jack's grateful that now he can at least use his hand to cover himself for the scant modesty that provides.]

[secondcomingof]

[ Yes, yes, they could bitch at each other later for their mutual stupidity, but for the moment, indeed, there were more pressing matters in the grander scheme of things. So Jack's meager attempt at modesty just earn a thinly veiled look of exasperation, because really? Really now? We're going to do this? Maybe he should have left you to rot after all. ]

We don't have time to be muddling about for your trinkets. So if there's nothing else of value...

[ Translation: we are making a break for it, I can tell already you can barely stand, and I am not lugging all your shit with me. Prioritize. ]

[twopercent]

[Frankly, what Jack really wants more than anything is his gun. Well, and yeah, maybe a pair of pants would be nice, too. But under the circumstances... escape takes priority, if not for himself, but to ensure Casval doesn't get caught with him.]

Let's go.

[Jack just hopes he has a plan, because streaking across the base isn't his idea of a good time.]

[secondcomingof]

[ Good. That's more like it. Though apparently some small, withered part of Casval has taken pity on Jack, for he's shrugging off his coat and draping it across his shoulders. There. Modesty, accompanied by a murmured warning of you're paying me back for the dry cleaning. But more importantly, it was something to keep him warm once they were outside. April mornings were still chilly this time of year, and hypothermia was another complication they didn't need to contend with. He's already bruised, bleeding, broken and god knows what else.

He may also care a little but like hell is he letting that slip. He's not slipping anymore than he already has.

Casval pulls Jack towards the door for the first few shaky steps—in case he hadn't already guessed, there's a lot of muscle under that uniform of his—until he's sure he can manage on his own then makes his way out, hunting for the room the arm's been stashed in. Everything else could be easily replaced, but prosthetics didn't exactly grow on trees. Once they found it, that's when the escape truly began. ]

[twopercent]

[Jack grunts his acknowledgement when he pulls away after those first few stumbling steps. It's not really the pain that's getting to him, he can deal with a beating. It's everything else that's taking its toll: being awake for two days straight, jarring memories of a life that wasn't his pounding into his mind one after another, and hours of struggling for breath with interrogators shouting in his ears. But hopefully... it's not much longer he'll have to make it, now.

In the hallway, they can both hear the guards downstairs, still busy with their poker game. He switches to hand signals (so much for modesty, sigh... ), indicating to Casval that there's four of the General's men down there. Too many to handle with complete certainty. Definitely not without making noise. The search is easy enough at least; all of Jack's things (including the arm) had been thrown haphazardly in the room next door. Casval might have Jack's best interests at heart by looking for the arm, but to be honest, Jack isn't sure if it even works after the pounding he took -- for all he knows, it's strictly aesthetic now. No, he has the more practical items in mind: gun, knife, cellphone, wallet... he'd nearly forgotten about his conversation with Lyall already. With priority one, hiding all traces of the network, on his mind, Jack grabs the phone and gun awkwardly in one hand. Everything else is probably going to take too long, with imminent danger waiting just one floor below.

Well, what now, Captain?]

[secondcomingof]

[ Casval spares Jack a sympathetic look, at least, for that unspoken realization's dawned on him, too. The arm may not even function anymore, judging from the beating it's taken, and past the nauseating prospect of having to pop it back in, well... they really couldn't afford the extra effort. Not when those men could come up for air at any given time, and even the Captain's not quite confident enough in his abilities to take down four of them. Nor is lugging it around a feasible prospect.

Casval glances away, mouths a regretful I'll fix it, then stalks back to where he'd entered with Jack in tow, checking the corners before gesturing for him to pass on through.

There was only one way out of the bunker, unfortunately, and there'd be no mistaking either of them on the camera. The General would know just who decided to play Saving Private Ryan on base and it'd be an undoubtedly risky move returning, if at all, but what other choice did he have? Leave Jack to die in the face of I promise I have your back? Recent events had robbed him of much of his pride, but not that last bit of dignity. Of honor. There was still some honor among soldiers who just happened to be occasional thieves on the side.

His vehicle's close and the path to it is clear, for the most part. All that was left was to slip between the vacant spots in patrols, lazy at this hour, slow-moving. Like shooting fish in the barrel, minus the shooting part. He can handle this.

He can handle this and is totally not going to have a panic attack doing this. Hang on, just let him catch his breath and totally not have a panic attack here. ]

[twopercent]

[The Captain's fortunate that stealth is something Jack's very familiar with, even if he's not at the top of his game right now. And Jack is having the exact opposite reaction: he's still drop-dead tired, but the operational focus of Mission: Escape The Base is exactly what he needs to clear out all the unnecessary, confusing memories. Get the job done, and get out. Forget everything else, it's not important.

If he knew exactly where they were heading, he'd move up, encourage Casval on. But having no idea what the plan is, Jack stands nearby, waiting anxiously for the signal to move. What is he going to do, pat the man on the shoulder encouragingly? His hand is full, and with a gun, this seems like a bad, bad idea.]

I APOLOGIZE FOR HIM he's kind of freaking out right now........

[secondcomingof]

[ ...right. The mission. Just focus. Deep breaths. The General's not on their tail, the whole base isn't ready to sound the alarm, they're not going to put him in front of a firing squad, everything is perfectly fine. Keep calm and carry on. Thank you, Your Majesty, your words always know just how to move him.

Also fucking hell you had better not be ready to whip out that gun in his pocket you are aren't you my god you are the dumbest— ]

Would you kindly [ said ever so kindly said through grit teeth while he waits for the next group of soldiers to pass ] put your peashooter down, please.

[ Given that he, you know, works here and would rather not go around shooting up the place, thank you. Seriously, do you even think? Ever? You are going to wish you were back in there being interrogated, you are getting the longest lecture after this. ]

Would he prefer the modesty technique instead? :3

[twopercent]

[Jack is just too tired for this and doesn't utter more than a short low-pitched 'hnh' to indicate he heard Casval. Heard him quite well, but the look in his eyes says as clearly than words could, NO, I'm not putting it down. He's keeping it aimed safely at the ground, what more do you want from him?

Once the patrol passes, he nods in the direction it seems they're heading. Come on, let's keep moving. Jack sees a car ahead that, frankly, can only belong to Casval. And the sooner they're out, the sooner he can collapse. Figuring out what happens after that... is something that will have to wait.]

jack you are the worst. literally the worst.

[secondcomingof]

[ Look, just because it was flashy, and expensive, and red... alright, so that was pretty much a dead giveaway it was Casval's, but that's beside the point. Fast men lived fast lives and drove fast cars. That's just the way the world worked.

The last stretch is nerve-wracking for more than a few reasons, but they make it, seemingly undetected, to the car. Casval fumbles for his keys, nearly drops them several times before getting the trunk open and flourishing a hand at it dramatically. ]

We have to pass through a checkpoint. Get in.

[ There may be a bit of smugness to his tone as he says this. Want to get snarky about guns, do you, well. Hope you enjoy the trip locked in the back of his Porsche.

...if you faint in there, he is not dragging you out, for the record. No princess carries. Period. ]

Have you not read his icon keywords? ALL of them? I think they speak for themselves.

[twopercent]

[It's pretty easy to tell Jack's just about done in, considering how readily he crawls into the cramped trunk without a word - these fancy cars never have enough space - and slumps there. He's still conscious when Casval closes the hatch, at least.

Time to go vroom.]

[secondcomingof]

[ Vroom vroom, indeed. He's silently grateful that Jack won't see him hunched over at the wheel for several long, languishing seconds, willing the bile in his throat back down and shaking from top to bottom, head to toe. He's also silently envious he doesn't have the fortune of unconsciousness creeping up on him, that it's catching up to him all at once and he can't faint to block it out, even though he feels ready to. Though with enough booze, once they're in the clear, that wouldn't be an issue.

Their grand exit is hardly such; just a quick glance over from the dozing guard at the post, a grunt of you look like hell, Captain, and yes, thank you, he's aware, can he go now? The rest of the ride, twisting through secondary roads and barreling through traffic is bumpy at best and jostling at worst, but the faster the better, fast cars for fast lives and he needs to get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

Home probably isn't the smartest place to go, but there's nowhere else to go. He can't take him to a hospital and he certainly can't dump him in some back alley to fend for himself, so it's to the fancy, American-paid apartment they end up, parked somewhat haphazardly on the driveway. Good enough.

Casval just hopes he doesn't find a dead body waiting in the trunk when he gives it a preliminary knock, knock and opens it again. ]

These two are doin' REAL GOOD here

[twopercent]

[Unconsciousness does claim Jack, but only in intermittent flickers between each sharp turn or bump. The disorienting darkness of the trunk isn't doing him any favors either, especially when combined with the mechanical roar of the engine and the sharp smell of gas... all it's missing is the sea salt of the ocean and cold metal wrapping tighter and tighter around his throat... or this lifetime's recent recollection of the drowning sensation as water being poured through the cloth held tight over his face.

He finally feels the car jerk to a stop, and hears the door open and the knocks. When the Captain opens the trunk, his heart is racing faster than he ever thought possible. But thankfully, Casval cuts a distinctive enough figure that even as out of it as Jack is, there's no mistaking him for anyone else in either set of memories.

Pushing himself up to sitting is as far as Jack can get at first, taking in deep, shuddering breaths of fresh air. Just a little more to go, then.] Cap. [he croaks, grabbing Casval's shirt with his hand and hanging on for dear life. He needs a hand to get out, and a shoulder to lean on, but he's determined to make it up to the apartment, one way or another.]

SURE DID BREAK MY HEART JUST NOW goddammit jack ;_;

[secondcomingof]

[ ...oh, god.

Any lingering irritation instantly evaporates the moment that cracked voice comes out of Jack's mouth. What a disaster, why the hell did he stuff him back there? They wouldn't have seen him tucked beneath the back seat, likely, they weren't even paying attention. Regret slams into him and he almost chokes on it, but somehow he stabilizes himself enough to take Jack by the wrist, hoist him up and over his shoulder. He's got you, buddy. Hang in there.

Jack's weight is hard to bear but Casval's body—if not his mind, shattered as it is—is made of harder stuff. His muscles strain all the way to the front door and it's a miracle he manages to stumble inside and into the bedroom, keep it all together all things considered (thanking a god he doesn't believe in he lives on the first floor), but he does, depositing Jack on the bed and kicking any empty bottles and paraphernalia aside. He doubts the man will notice in his barely functioning state; it's just something else he doesn't want to explain right now when there's too much already he can't. ]

Rest. Don't move.

[ And don't bleed out, you moron. Don't die. There's bandages somewhere in the bathroom, he just has to find them and... ]

Re: SURE DID BREAK MY HEART JUST NOW goddammit jack ;_;

[twopercent]

[...and Jack doesn't notice a thing, because he's out almost as soon as he hits the bed, dropping into the deep (and thankfully dreamless) blackness.]