Unfamiliar
The soft light of dusk woke you, casting the unfamiliar room in orange tones. Delicate satin sheets wrapped around your body, your head laying on a soft pillow.
At first you were too afraid to open your eyes, suspecting that this was a dream, or perhaps finally the sweet release of death but as you squinted them open and made a sensory check you noticed you may really have ended up alive in a luxurious bedroom. The first small movements made you aware that your body was still aching, yet the pounding in your head subsided to only a dull sensation.
You shut your eyes again, trying to remember the last thing that happened before waking up. The image of Helmut Zemo, staring down at you, came to the forefront of your mind. Worried eyes and a hint of a frown gracing his face, although in your memory you could also make out a slight fury hidden underneath his features.
The words “you’re safe now” rang through your brain, laced with a distinct accent.
Your conclusion was that he must have rescued you, that you ended up here because of him. It didn’t make sense – in fact it couldn’t make sense. He was a criminal, a terrorist, a murderer. Why was he in the warehouse, why are you suddenly in a bed with fucking satin sheets?
You took in more of the room surrounding you. It was of decent size, the bed taking up most of the space. Dark wooden furniture was surrounding it, a small vanity, a medium sized closet and a single dark green cushioned chair by the large window. It looked unused, too sterile to be anything other than a guestroom. There were two doors, one of them being slightly ajar hinting at an en-suite bathroom.
You decided to try and get up. When you pulled back the sheets you noticed you were still wearing your pajamas, drenched in dried blood and probably staining the bed. Your aching bones made it more of a struggle than it should be but you managed to silently sneak your way to the door, most likely leading outside of the room.
You didn’t know what exactly your plan was, but if the door wasn’t locked, it was your chance to try and escape. Your brain was foggy, not really able to even comprehend what could await you on the other side or be rational about the fact that you had no idea where you were and how to get home and what you would even do if you made it home.
A soft creak announced the door to be unlocked and your mind caught up with the fact that you hadn’t thought of any further steps for your “escape”. You were met with a low-lit hallway, leading to descending stairs. It was decorated in a more personal manner than the room you just emerged from. Expensive looking expressionistic artwork was gracing the walls while slim shelves were hosting busts and miscellaneous décor. You took notice of three more doors, all of them closed but the rooms they led to were of no interest to you.
With your eyes fixated on the stairs, careful steps led you over a Persian carpet which you were thankful for, wanting to make as little noise as possible.
You were halfway down the hallway when suddenly you heard one of the doors behind you opening. Stuck to the spot you couldn’t get your feet to move anymore, even though you told them to run. Whoever was behind you would keep you from getting away, away from all this mess.
“Ah, Miss Y/N! You’re finally awake. How good to see you up on your feet.”
It was an unfamiliar voice, certainly male and sounding… old. You slowly turned around, afraid what sort of gangster you would come face to face now.
It surprised you to see an old gentleman in a black suit, which slightly hung off his thin bones, standing there, a soft smile on his face.
Your confusion and disbelieve must have shown on your face as he apologized for surprising you.
“We were wondering when you would wake up. We made sure to give you strong painkillers so that you’d be able to rest properly.”
That would explain the dizziness you felt still coursing through your body, easing the pain of the previous torture.
“Oh, please forgive my manners. I am not quite used to unexpected houseguests, you see.”
He carefully takes a slow step towards you, hunched back giving away his old age.
“My name is Oeznik.” He said while extending his bony hand.
You only stare at it, too afraid to shake it, still feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car.
“The Baron is downstairs, waiting for you. He will be able to explain this current situation but I suppose it would be best to get you freshened up before. There’s a set of clothes for you in the bathroom and I’ve made sure to hang the towels on the heater. Please, do take your time and then just come downstairs whenever you’re finished.”
The old man, Oeznik, guides you back to the room you’ve come from, a gentle hand on your back.
“There’s also more painkillers on the nightstand, should you need them. And of course, I will provide you with clean sheets as soon as possible. I’m at your disposal if you need anything else.”
He sees you off with a polite nod of his head, leaving you to once again stand in the middle of your room, shaking uncontrollably.
After the door closes you try to take a few deep breaths, hurting your bruised rip in the process.
The Baron is waiting downstairs. You suppose he means Zemo, the FBI called him by this title and you’re pretty sure you’ve read he was royalty back in Sokovia in one of the news articles on his crimes. It also makes sense that a man that looks like a butler would greet you in a Baron’s luxurious mansion.
It might just be best to do as you’re told. Some painkillers, a hot shower and a clean set of clothes don’t sound too bad after all.
After taking off your bloody pajamas and throwing them into the small bin of the bathroom you startle once more when you catch your reflection in the large mirror above the marble sink.
The wound above your left eye where your (previous) kidnapper punched you has been stitched up. A nasty bruise was forming around it. You looked absolutely crushed. Your hair greasy, spotting dried blood, the bags under your eyes massive and dark and your whole body was covered in marks. An especially nasty one running across the right side of your chest, where a foot print was slightly visible under close examination. Your wrist sore and red from the ties, just like your ankles.
You stand there, unmoving, looking at your reflection and you’re devasted. Silent tears slip down your face once more as you feel absolutely helpless.
It takes you a few more minutes to actually move into the shower, where you try to softly scrub at your body, afraid of hurting yourself in the process and wincing whenever you press a little too hard on a sore spot.
You feel slightly better afterwards, putting on the provided set of grey loungewear sitting on the counter. At least now everything smells like lavender and the clothes on your body are smooth against your hurt skin.
You still look like a mess but you suppose there’s nothing to fix just now.
Now it was time to contemplate whether you actually wanted to meet the man who brought you into this shitshow. What would he explain? That he saved you by kidnapping you once more. That it is all an evil plan for another crime which somehow involves bumping into you and getting you tortured because of it?
Regaining some of your composure and willpower, simply by feeling a little bit cleaner and less in pain you become angry. Angry at this Zemo guy, angry at yourself for getting into this mess, angry at those fuckers who tortured you and angry about the fact that you didn’t know what to do, how to escape and whether you would ever recover from this.
Your new-found anger leads you to hastily descend the stairs.
You didn’t care anymore, you were walking out of this place. You didn’t need to have the mighty Baron explain anything to you. You were going to walk straight out of the front door, wherever it may be even if it meant getting shot in the back while you’re at it.
Except your little spontaneous master-plan was swiftly interrupted by said front door which you found after turning a corner on the bottom on the stairs, being locked. You fumbled around with the doorknob for a while, not really caring how loud you were. You became more and more frustrated by the second and started punching it, abusing your hand even more in the process.
“I’m afraid I cannot let you leave just yet, dragâ.”
You find the Baron standing casually behind you, leaning against an opulent archway. He abandoned his fur-lined coat, a dark purple turtleneck shirt framing his broad chest. He looked imposing even while seeming so relaxed about your escape, one hand in the pocket of his trouser while the other one holds onto a glass filled with some kind of amber liquor.
This time your anger did not subside into fear but rather it led you to try fighting. Storming up to him, trying to make yourself as tall as possible. He straightened up during your march and if one paid close attention it was evident that he was slightly taken aback by your fury.
You don’t even know, nor care what comes out of your mouth. You simply scream at him, raging about your innocence and how you wanted to leave and were going to leave and how you never did anything to deserve this.
“… I want nothing to do with you. It’s your fucking fault I am in this mess and if you need to kill me just please, for fucks sake, do it already!”
Your voice turns high pitched at the end, your outburst sounding more desperate than resentful.
You only receive a head tilt in response and the suggestion to talk about this all. The condescending tone makes you even more angry. Fuming and out of breath from your outburst you continue anyways.
“I don’t want to fucking talk. I want to go home.” You add a much quieter please at the end, perhaps hoping good manners might convince him.
It continues in a back and forth for a while. The Baron always calm and collected, politely refusing to let you go while you were raging and shouting, desperately trying to argue why you needed to go home. In the process of your “interaction” you come quite close to him, trying to overshadow his form but too afraid of actually getting physical - you knew jack-shit about close-combat and you were pretty sure he’d just make one small move and you’d be quietly weeping on the floor, yet again.
“Why don’t we go into the dining room, have something to eat, I explain this situation and then you can decide if you still want to leave?”
You decide to follow him, swallowing down your anger for now but not yet ready to completely give up.
He leads you through a spacious living area, dark brown leather couches making a sort of U shape and a lit-up fireplace crackling away on one wall, lined with bookshelves, filled to the brim with a collection of old-worn books and new, shiny novels.
You follow him through an adjoining doorway into the fancy dining room, a chandelier hanging right above a big wooden table – bringing in a sort of Scandinavian style but still perfectly in balance with the ostentatious lights.
You sit down at the already made table, a full plate already sitting in front of you.
“Hope you like Goulash.” Is the Baron’s only comment.
While you hesitate to even pick up your spoon, still shaking slightly from all the violent emotions running through you, your opposite already starts to eat. At last forcing yourself to take a small spoonful of the still steaming stew and realizing just how hungry you actually were. The rich, delicious flavors of the dish managing to somewhat calm you down and instantly warming you up from inside. Quickly glancing at the Baron, yet otherwise avoiding making any direct eye contact, you find him almost curiously examine your reaction to the food, the smallest content smirk gracing his features as he notices your approval.
After a few minutes of silently eating he starts his explanation, talking about the circumstances you were in and what that meant for the foreseeable future.
It was never his intent to bump into you, apologizing for how his distraction at the bank has inevitably brought such pain on you. Getting caught on camera wasn’t necessarily a mistake on his part, it was actually a means to confuse the police and lead them in the wrong direction. He did obviously get wind of the FBI interviewing you, keeping a close eye on which information they would gather from your point of view on the whole encounter, however he did not expect that enemies of him, people he had wronged in the past, that wanted revenge, would also be so interested in your person.
He couldn’t say too much about the men who kidnapped you but they for sure wanted him dead and would not hesitate to take whatever gruesome steps necessary to achieve that.
“So why help me out of their captivity when you already knew I couldn’t give them any information? Why not just let me get killed?”
You mumble around a mouthful of Goulash – the last part of your question a quiet afterthought.
“I’ve killed enough innocent lives already.”
Is his short but pointed answers, sounding almost too nonchalant to be genuine. You nod, still suspicious and questioning his intentions. His statement held a hint of remorse at least, yet you were still technically under his captivity now, of course with improved standards, but still.
He continues on with his explanation. Saying these people were still on the hunt, now most likely aware he was involved and that you were of some importance to him, meaning in conclusion that if he were to let you go, you’d be kidnapped by them in a matter of hours and most likely dead in a matter of days, and before that tortured in an even more brutal manner.
A silence comes over the two of you again, by now you’ve lost your appetite and were contemplating everything that had just been said. You were somewhat surprised by your lack of emotion, your body and mind feeling numb once more, probably too stunned to proceed, even though you knew that the best way to stay alive was staying with a criminal.
He assures you again that you were safe with him. That he is working on a strategy to get these people off your back, let you continue your life as you knew it. He wouldn’t force you to stay, yet his tone suggested that it was your best chance at sorting out this mess. The house, or rather mansion he took you to was unknown to anybody, a safe space carefully selected for staying undercover while mapping out a tactical plan. You don’t dare ask where exactly you were currently located but it seemed any irrational escape or decision on your part would be useless and, in a way, you were at his mercy. At least for the time being, as he reminds you multiple times.
Your head filled with more questions. How long would it take? How could you be sure he was sincere? Could he promise you your safety? Could he promise you a normal life after this? Could you just disappear for a while, without people noticing? You didn’t have too many friends but the ones you did have would surely notice your disappearance and worry?
“What about my job? I can’t just suddenly not show up anymore?”
It is the first of the many questions that swirled around your head that came up, making you feel a little bit embarrassed that in the essence of what was actually happening to you, you thought about your shitty-ass, underpaid office job, that you despised anyways.
A slight huff erupts from the Baron, most likely also finding your worry ridiculous, considering the circumstances.
“Don’t worry, I’ll deal with that as well. You won’t have to face any unnecessary consequences once this is over. And nobody will file you as missing.”
Once again you nod. Not sure what to do now. You were too exhausted to form coherent thoughts, too exhausted to challenge the man, too exhausted to work out your own plan or try to escape again.
The weariness must have been evident to the Baron as he worriedly looks at your slumped form and suggest you take another night to think this all through, to sort your thoughts and accept or decline his offer to keep you safe come tomorrow morning.
Another nod on your side and you slowly get up, turning towards the direction of the stairs. Before you proceed you stop for a second, not facing the Baron but still whispering a faint “thank you”, already hinting at your defeat.
“Good night, dragâ.”