Devil's Backbone

Chapter 3

The torture seemed to go on forever. There was no end in sight. No one to help you. No one who even knew where you were. There was only you and the white-hot agony that was so much worse than simple pain. It threaded down into your thoughts, wrenched at your memories, conflagrated your hopes and dreams and left them as piles of ash.

You still didn't understand what they had done to you. Even as you were dragged back into your cell and dumped on the concrete floor like a garbage sack, you couldn't come to terms with what had happened. It felt like someone had taken your brain out of your skull, mashed it in their hands like dough, and shoved it back in.

You crawled to the toilet and managed to pull yourself over the rim before vomiting into the bowl. You continued this until your stomach was empty and your limbs were too weak to hold you up. Collapsing onto the hard ground, you remained there, looking up at the ceiling and the single bulb behind its protective cage.

If you found metal object thin enough to reach between the bars, you could end it all, right here. Break the bulb and make contact with the socket, hopefully electrocuting yourself and stopping your heart before the circuit breakers blew.

Imagining your own death was the only thing that brought you comfort. But only death by your own hand, not by theirs. Or his.

You had caught a glimpse of him as they had dragged you from that white room; he had been watching from the shadows, his face obscured by darkness rather than a mask. You could remember seeing his eyes, cold and colorless in the pale light. It was exactly how you imagined the face of Death would look like.

And yet, when you had passed him in the corridor, you remembered doing... something. What was it? You had said something to him. Pled with him. Begged.

"Please..."

You closed your eyes as the memory came back to you, your stomach churning again at the fact that your mind was so disjointed and rattled that you had forgotten the moment to begin with. You had quietly pled with the assassin, not for clemency, but for a swift end.

His cold eyes had watched you but he had neither moved nor spoke. Your reprieve had been denied.

Something was horribly wrong. It wasn't the torture, or the isolation, or even the capture that had you questioning everything. They had tortured you but they hadn't asked any questions. Not a single one.

Nothing about Mrs. Kartal and her son. Nothing about S.H.I.E.L.D. operations and intelligence. You were Level 6 and had access to most operational intelligence, especially within STRIKE. But whoever had taken you had no desire to pry any of that intelligence from your head.

There was only one reason for that: they didn't need the information because they already had it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mole.

It was the only explanation that made sense. No one outside of STRIKE knew about the escort route, the number of team members, or even who the mission priority was. No one had that information except the team itself, your SO, and the heads of the organization.

With great care so as not to jostle your stomach and start heaving again, you dragged yourself up the side of the toilet until you could grip the edges of the sink and turn it on. The water looked clean enough, thank Christ, so you drank your fill and splashed cool water on your face, trying to shake the fatigue from your mind. Whatever they had drugged you with was wearing off, and while it was nice to escape from the throbbing pain in your arm you needed to be sharp and alert. There would come another opportunity, a moment where they would slip up, and you would seize it with both fucking hands.

Once you had your fill of water, there was nothing left to do but sleep. So sleep you did, shoring up your strength and saving your energy for the next time the men in black fatigues came to your cell door.