8.6
Austin’s vision is blurry when he comes to, and he has a blink a few times to shift his eyes back to normalcy. He’s in a position that feels oddly familiar, seated on a cheap, wooden chair, his hands behind his back. One side of his head is throbbing hard, like a nail being methodically hammered down into his temple. He tries to lift a hand to check the damage, but finds himself bound tight to the chair. Instead of rope, this time, it’s a pair of handcuffs locked around his wrists.
Great. We got caught. Austin cranes his neck to look around the room. It’s relatively unfurnished, and oddly reminds him of Cillian’s office, though about half as large. Probably part of the former DPR labs, salvaged after the cave-in. Dallas and Rainer are nowhere to be seen. And they split us up. Smart.
Austin rocks forwards on the chair to test how much mobility the handcuffs afford him. It isn’t much. Their chain is wrapped around a horizontal bar running from one of the chair’s posts to the other, near the small of Austin’s back, meaning that there’s no easy way to get his hands out of the position they’re in. He bends his hands, feeling where the chain attached to each cuff. On his left, the chain comes out on the underside of the bar, on his right, the top. If he pushes one of his hands towards him and can get it between his back and the back of the chair, there’s a chance he can start untangling the chain, but he might also dislocate something in the process.
At least if none of us spill the beans on being sent from the DPR, they’ll have to let us go. Austin grits his teeth, trying to comfort himself with the thought. But they split us up so we couldn’t think of a cover story. The best bet is probably to give them absolutely nothing - it’s suspicious if we don’t talk, but they also can’t prove shit, unless they think to check for our badges. Hopefully Rainer and Dallas can figure that out for themselves. If they’re alive.
It’s a stipulation he doesn’t mean to add, a grim one, but true at its core. There really is no way of knowing if Rainer or Dallas are being held somewhere, alive. Rainer might be safe if they don’t give up any information, but Dallas…well, Austin gets the feeling that the Underground might not take very well to deserters coming back, leading strangers in through a secret entrance.
There’s a door set into the wall off to Austin’s left, and its handle rattles, startling Austin out of his thoughts. He looks up, trying with a renewed sense of urgency to squeeze one of his hands in between his back and the bar in the chair, to start unwrapping the chain.
The door handle turns, the door opening wide, and a man steps inside the room. He’s tall and broad, the build of a former athlete, with a mop of unruly red hair. He’s dressed simply in a dark t-shirt and a pair of jeans, and looks somewhere around Channery’s age - late 30s, early 40s - though it’s hard to tell for sure. Most jarringly, the man’s right arm is completely mechanical. It looks like the same technology as Rainer’s prosthetic, though the material is shiny and silver instead of matte black, and Austin is pretty sure he can hear mechanisms inside of it whirring slightly as the man reaches behind him to shut the door.
“Hey, there,” the man says, grinning. His voice is low, Irish-accented, and Austin recognizes it immediately as the voice he heard just before being knocked out. “Hope I didn’t hit you too hard, back there. It’s tough to know my own strength with this thing.”
He laughs, flexing the fingers of his mechanical hand demonstratively. Austin fights with himself to stay calm, breathing heavily through his teeth.
“Who are you?” he asks the man. “What did you do with the others?”
“Oh, they’re safe.” The man chuckles. “They’re being held in separate rooms, until we figure out what to do with you lot. And as for me, well.” He bends down to look Austin in the eye. “I’m Finn O’Toole.”
Austin blinks. “Who?”
Finn’s eyebrows furrow, and he studies Austin’s face for a moment, as if trying to gauge if he’s joking or not. “Finn O’Toole? Notorious rogue? Most wanted man in Havenwood? None of this rings a bell?”
“No,” Austin says.
“Well,” Finn says, clearly trying to disguise the fact that he’s a little put out, “I run the Underground.”
Oh, crap. Austin feels his muscles tense up at the realization that he’s face-to-face with the head of the Underground, an organization chiefly made up of murderers and other superpowered criminals. They must know something’s up. Why send him to do an interrogation job that a couple of underlings could do just as easily?
“Now that I’ve introduced myself,” Finn says, circling Austin’s chair, “you mind telling me who you are?”
“M-Malcolm,” Austin says, spitting out the first civilian name that comes to mind. He swallows. “I’m from out of town. Colorado.”
“And what were you and your friends are doing down here, Malcolm?” Finn asks.
“Just exploring,” Austin says shortly. The less information he volunteers, the better. It’ll be harder to get caught in a lie if he hands out vague answers that can match anything Dallas or Rainer might say.
“Just exploring. Is that so.” Finn sounds amused, though Austin can’t see him as he passes back behind the chair. “Then what were you doing, coming through the only entrance to the Underground that’s on DPR property?”
Austin’s blood runs cold, and he says nothing.
Finn stops pacing, directly in front of Austin’s chair, his lips curling up in another grin. “Who are you really, Malcolm?”
“Fuck you,” Austin spits.
“Well!” Finn says, laughing. “If that’s how you want to play it.”
He leaves the room before Austin can say anything else. Austin can feel his heart hammering in panic as soon as he’s alone, and he starts to work once more at untangling the handcuff chain, scooting forward on the chair and slowly, painfully pushing one of his hands towards his back, behind the bar.
If he knows for sure that we’re from the DPR, we’re probably about to get killed. If he doesn’t know for sure, then we’re probably about to get tortured until one of us cracks. Austin clenches his teeth so tightly that his jaw hurts, fighting to slip his hand underneath the bar in the chair. The joint of his wrist feels like it’s on fire, the handcuff rubbing his skin raw.
The door pops open again, and Finn re-enters, this time dragging someone behind him by the collar. It’s Dallas. He lifts his head to smile weakly at Austin, and Austin’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him. Dallas’s lip is split, his nose steadily dribbling blood over the bottom half of his face. Bruises are just starting to form on one cheekbone, and around one of his eyes.
“Dallas?” Austin asks. His fear is steadily climbing towards genuine horror, his pulse loud in his ears.
“Don’t tell him anything,” Dallas says. His eyes are hard, his voice nasal and thick with blood.
“Ah-ah,” Finn says, pressing the index finger of his mechanical hand to Dallas’s temple. Dallas quiets instantly, looking away from Austin, down towards the floor.
“Now,” Finn continues, cocking his head to one side and smiling at Austin. “Tell me who you and your friends are, and what you’re doing here. Or I will shoot him.”
“With your hand?” Austin asks, though it doesn’t initially register that it’s his voice speaking the question, at first. He’s starting to settle into the numb state of panic, his mind drifting up towards one corner of the room, looking down at his body.
“This arm can do a lot of things,” Finn says. He flexes his thumb backwards in a way that would almost certainly be painful for a real, flesh-and-blood hand to do, and Austin hears the unmistakable sound of a safety clicking off.
“Don’t tell him anything,” Dallas says, still looking at the floor. “I’m an acceptable loss, you know that. I’d rather die than -”
“You have until the count of three.” Finn pushes his finger harder against Dallas’s temple. Dallas winces - Austin can see the metal starting to impress a divot into his skin. “One.”
“Don’t do it,” Dallas says again, through his teeth. “Please, just - don’t tell him -”
“Two,” Finn says. He digs his finger in a little harder, and Dallas lets out a noise somewhere between a scream and a groan.
“Stop,” Austin says, his voice shaking.
Dallas lets out another little groan. “Don’t -”
“Three,” Finn says, and moves his other hand, to adjust something on his arm.
“Stop it!” The scream tears out of Austin, burning its way through his throat. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, his hands clenched so tightly behind him that his nails are biting into the flesh of his palms. “Okay? Just stop it. I’ll tell you what you need to know.”
“Yeah?” Finn bends his thumb forwards, and there’s another click, presumably the safety going back on. His smile is a little milder now, more casually amused than evil. “Do tell.”