Souvenir [Complete]

Forty-two. Collateral Damage

Luke opened his eyes at the sound of a repetitive knocking sound. But there was no light when his eyes opened. There was nothing except pitch black night.

Holy shit. This was how he was gonna die...

He knew to immediately be afraid even though the memories of what happened only bubbled to the surface as he breathed. And it was hard to breathe. It was hard to do anything. He felt like he had a bag on his head. And rough fabric would scratch on his lips when he breathed in and—.

"Michael!" He strangled out, but the fibers of whatever fabric this bag was made of felt like they were lodged in his throat from his hyperventilating. And he couldn't move his wrists. Or his legs.

He was gonna die. This was how he died. He should have listened to Michael. Or his gut, or anything that told him this was a bad fucking plan.

"Michael..." he whimpered.

"Save it, blondie," Luke whimpered at the sound of the gruff accent. It was closer than he'd anticipated. "your buddy's alive, still sleeping though, seems Victor knocked him out extra hard."

"It was not my fault, you—." And then the conversation continued in Russian till a third voice broke them up. It was a voice Luke recognized. From New York City. He pictured that voice in the alleyway, all centered around the dull ache in his cheekbone from a punch he should never have received. He shouldn't have been there anyway. Ashton had told him as much.

Ashton. Where was Ashton? And Calum why weren't they saving them? Were they far away from that farm in the middle of nowhere? Surely not...but then again he didn't know anything cause he couldn't breathe or think properly. He was probably having a panic attack...but in this context it just seemed like the next rational thing to happen.

He was drowning without enough air under that bag, and he tried to struggle free, but whatever was restraining him had a tight grip on his extremities.

"Don't panic," one of the voices said. They were all jumbled in Luke's brain now, so he couldn't tell the difference. "It works better if you don't struggle."

"Let me out! Let me out! I don't wanna die here! Please!" He panted, struggling against the restraints. "I've been good my whole life! Please please, god please..."

"Shut him up already."

"Ooh do I get to use the taser?"

"No we're not supposed to take risks with the hostages, Uri..."

"Oh fuck off, Nicoli. You suck the fun out of everything..."

The conversation again continued on in Russian. As if Luke could process anything other than crippling fear.

Only he realized that this was the perfect opportunity. If he could just calm the fuck down...if he could just breathe deep...if he could just wiggle his hand free...

"Pretty boy!" One of them called. "Stop trying to escape, alright?"

Like that was supposed to stop him. He kept trying to wiggle his arm free at that, cause at the very least he could feel some give...

A gunshot made him squeal in horror, and he ducked in on himself. As far as he could, he was just hunched over in shock, waiting for the pain to surface so he knew how badly he was hurt. He still couldn't breathe in this bag, and he felt like he was gonna pass out. But he wasn't shot at all, and only after an ungodly amount of time bunched over did that thought occur to him.

He sobbed loudly. He felt like he'd been in this god forsaken chair his whole life. And Michael still wasn't awake and this moment felt endless. So Luke sobbed at the thought that his his life had ended. He'd gone on this fucking trip when he knew he shouldn't have and now he was gonna die with a bag over his head and a bullet in his liver.