Nihil

A shudder shimmies its way down the frail form curled within the corner. A low hum emits from his cracked lips, the sound only broken by a pale tongue darting out to lick said lips hoping for a hint of moisture. The sound itself was as cracked as the lips, fritzing out on occasion as the strained and stretched vocal cords refused to sustain the sound.

The figure itself was huddled against the limestone wall, furthest away from the roughly hewn entrance. His head was curled into itself, almost trying to embed itself into the corner in an apparently protective gesture, or possibly trying to burrow itself away from existence. No matter. The ruinously scarred back was easy evidence of how successful that strategy was.

The figure remained motionless, other than the slight quiver which ran through the unnaturally taut muscles, exhausted from near constant tension whether caused by fear or a vain attempt to make its’ other senses useful. Occasionally, a burst of energy seemed to overwhelm it and it would rock back and forth a few times, seeming to try to ensconce itself further into the walls. No one quite knew why the figure did that – possibly some misguided attempt at comfort? After all, it could neither hear nor see, so the movement would provide reassurance that it was still partially protected.

The head, the only covered part of the figure, was swathed in a rubber or silicone like hood, one that entirely eclipsed its’ entire head leaving two small holes by the nostrils and a small slip where the mouth was located barely big enough to allow sustenance to pass through. The rest of wrapped tightly around the man’s skull, including over its eyes, only cut off at the neck where it was held in place by an iron collar clamping the hood securely to the man’s neck.

A smile curved over a pair of thin, cruel lips. Their owner knew precisely how claustrophobic-inducing that hood was – he had tried it on himself, after all.

The smile widened further as the Hydra soldier continued to observe the subject, one Tony Stark, shuddered once again before muttering something to himself, unimportant words that slurred and slid together with a variety of volumes of pitches and eventually morphed into a series of short, sharp shrieks and screams. They’d been steadily pushing the hero to this point for the past thirteen to fourteen months – a combination of sensory and sleep deprivation, starvation and random assaults had nearly caused the man to lose his mind. Surely it couldn’t take too much longer? The man spent his days either being beaten or rocking back and forth. He had next to no fat left on his body – indeed, the scientists had had to work overtime to plan out ‘meals’ for him to ensure that he got sufficient nutrients that his organs didn’t start eating themselves. As far as the gossip in the mess hall seemed to go, the latest plan was to wait until he had broken sufficiently to their satisfaction and only then inject him with some bastardised serum before putting him on ice for long enough to allow his organs and insides to heal.

That was what the gossip suggested, at any rate.

Those in command had apparently had to alter their plans several times – they’d initially tried to fry the man’s mind through a combination of electric shock and more alternate strategies to cause pain, but after several months that hadn’t succeeded. They’d then progressed onto drugs before one genius had suggested this. This was definitely the least popular amongst the ground troops as skin-to-skin contact was no longer aloud, and several of his fellow soldiers had been greatly enjoying some of that contact. But it was seeming the most successful. By the soldier’s count, they’d been using these strategies for three months now and he did barely seem to be clinging to sanity. The soldier didn’t quite know how those in command wanted Stark to be looking like when they considered him ready to progress onto Stage Two? But it surely couldn’t be that much longer…

In his heart of hearts, a part of him did regret his part in bringing the hero this low. He’d idolised Iron Man as a boy – watching reports of him on the news avidly. As a teen he’d watched the man push the missile up through a wormhole and thereby saving Manhattan…. But the thought of having that intellect and courage fighting on behalf of Hydra more than made up for any guilt. With Iron Man on their side, then Hydra would be able to overthrow the corrupt leaders of the modern day with ease. They would take command and make the world an infinitely better place. The Avengers would be easier to defeat as they’d be less willing to hurt their old comrade. Sometimes, for good things to happen? It was necessary to cut out all the corrupt, broken roots and burn them all to the ground only to replant anew with better, stronger things. That was what Hydra would do.

Still, his ability to be able to easily see each and every one of the man’s ribs (and the breaks within them) force their way in and out with each shallow breath did send a vague sense of nausea curdling through his stomach. People just shouldn’t be that gaunt. Not and still be moving, at any rate. The way his skin curved in and out of the ribs to create miniature crevices… it was sickening, really. And the way knobbly joints looking so much larger than limbs truly betrayed how little fat was on the man. It truly could only be the man’s world-renowned stubborn nature keeping him alive. In many ways the soldier was pleased that Stark’s limbs were chained to each other and a collar rested upon his neck. It meant that his collarbones were obscured from vision and the true size of his limbs were hard to ascertain. The scientists and doctors were certainly going to need to spend a large amount of time retraining him to regrow his muscles and ensure his heart was strong enough. Still, all this effort would be worth it.

With those thoughts bolstering him, the soldier and two of his comrades picked up the metal poles that were leaning casually by the metal door. His supervisor took the key and unlocked the heavy, metal door, cursing under his breath as he was forced to jiggle the key. Piece of junk; the key always jammed as the soldier well knew. After several moments the lock finally turned and three bars holding the door closed were removed. They’d definitely grown more lax with the security as the months went by – when Stark had first been moved into his new home they’d placed sheet metal covering the door as well as some of the large rocks which were strewn around their underground base. Orders had been to keep it as low tech as possible, and they’d definitely achieved that. But as the man had weakened further, or as his bones were broken making it impossible for him to move, then measures were deemed less necessary. It certainly made it easier for those who interacted with Stark frequently!

The four men entered the room without bothering to attempt quiet, with only wrinkled noses to betray the stench that worsened with the wide open door. What was the point? The man could neither hear nor see them after all. The prolonged deprivation had, it appeared, given him an increased sensitivity though. He definitely displayed awareness that they’d entered, his head twitched slightly before attempting to bury itself further into the corner it was embedded in, shudders had begun anew and he’d begun muttering, barely discernible through the hood, words further. “Wun du it. Wun. Wun h’pn. No. Nein. 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21…” the words and numbers bloomed in and out of easy hearing, sometimes being muttered and sometimes gasped loudly. “Black. Time. Time…emit. Bcwuds. Time bcwuds emit…”

One of the other soldiers shook his head in frustration shooting a glare at the man crouched on the floor. “Wish I could give him a good slap to shut him up…” he grumbled, earning a sharp glance from their supervisor. “What shit’s he muttering this time?”

“I’m pretty sure that was the Fibonacci sequence at one point…” answered one of the others as he began to move the pole towards the man in the corner. “I guess he’s still well enough to try and keep his brain ticking over. What’s the plan for today, sir?”

Their commander tracked his gaze thoughtfully over the once hero clearly running through his own orders mentally. “Stress position today gents, arms above his head and then stretched until he’s on the balls of his feet. Then pull his legs back a bit so that his weight is on his hands. You get me, lads? Add in a bit of rubber tubing – not too often, and make sure you don’t hit his kidneys. Grant, you can take that. No broken bones this time if you can manage it – bruises only. As little blood as possible too – he’s running a bit low. Try ta aim for the non-broken leg, the left one I think? That bone has had a bit of a break, break as in rest, of late and should have healed a bit. Hit the thigh, ass and upper right arm, them should do the trick. The swelling is going down there too so it can take some hits. Looks like that’s where the least cuts are – will make it hard to hold the position too. We’ll keep him like that for a few hours – and then sneak out on him. See how long he holds himself for before realising we’re gone. We haven’t pulled thet one on him for a bit.”

The three men nodded in sync, Grant passed his pole over to the remaining soldier, Brown, a short, stocky man who liked beer on his off days, before moving to the corner of the room furthest from Tony’s huddle and removed an inch wide of rubber tubing, about four metres long. He curled it in half before taking a practise swing or two. He knew this part well – Stark clearly knew they were present, and now it was just about building the anticipation for the man. What was going to happen to him today? “Sir, what about water? I haven’t seen Reaves bring any round today.”

The commander shook his head in one decisive movement. “The docs reckon he can go another day or so without. They took some tests off his last blood leaking and his kidneys have strengthened a bit again. Need to be careful of them still.” Grant nodded in acknowledgement, resisting the urge salute the order, as he continued to move the rubber tubing around wanting to ensure familiarity with its range and weight. “Sir,” some days it was hard to leave the lessons learnt in the army behind, even though he knew they weren’t cultivated within Hydra.

The other two men, Brown and Rodriguez who still bore the other pole, began to move into position. Both men ensured that they held one end of the pole allowing the other, which was fashioned into a claw like shape, to make contact with the hero’s wrists. Stark halted the stream of alternating words and numbers as he felt the cool of the metal grasp and began to shudder anew, only emitting a low, keening moan that his battered throat could not possibly sustain. “Begin,” snarled the commander, the first emotion his voice betrayed in the entire encounter his gaze fixed on the man before him as he looked for any tricks.

Brown and Rodriguez pressed buttons on their poles which immediately activated the electromagnets built within the claw grips causing the metal rings around the Stark’s wrists to immediately be attracted to them causing the low keen to raise in pitch and volume as Stark instinctively began trying to futilely tug his wrists towards his chest. Sympathy once again poked its’ nose into Grant’s chest – each time they grasped something different on the tortured man. The oscillating actions making it impossible for Stark to have any idea what he should aim to protect until it was too late. If he’d been more with it then he might have realised that there was a vague pattern to what was hurt depending on how things were healing, but he was far too far gone to spot that these days.

Still. Grant had his job, and he truly believed in his cause. He would keep his mind on the end goal and ignore the less than pleasant steps it took to reach it.

While he was ruminating, the other two had managed to unfurl Stark and lift him to his tottering feet – one leg was evidently broken – the bone was pushing, though not cutting through yet, his skin the opposite way in a vaguely grotesque fashion and attempting to buckle even from the meagre amount of weight that was being put on it. The other was vibrating with tension, its knee fluttering in place as Stark forced it to bare most of his weight. His keening noise had slackened off into gasping noises – probably would have been screams if he had enough oxygen, that were barely audible through the rubber mask sealing the majority of his mouth, to Grant’s secret relief. His stomach was fluttering through his attempts at sucking in air, attempts that were equally hindered by said mask, and Grant could see each and every tiny muscle flutter in a vague attempt to hold up the battered frame. It really was quite nauseating to watch.

He ran through his instructions whilst he waited for the other two to push Stark into the ordered position. The locations were clear and would definitely be a challenge to hit – the tubing wasn’t particularly accurate and it was easy to hit harder than he intended due to the length. Add on that that that he had to make sure he didn’t stand too close – it was important that Stark received as little sensory input as and he was sensitive enough by now to register an increase in heat if he went too close.

“Right, his hands are in about the right place by now.” Came through the voice of his commander, tone and words far too steady. “Keep him there for a bit, boys. Let him get his breath enough to stand then Rodriguez, you can move his feet out.” Grant watched his supervisor carefully, a thrill of distaste running down his spine. The man always seemed so jovial, but he evidently despised Stark and delighted in causing him pain. He hasn’t been allowed to give the orders during the initial attempts at breaking Stark, but had definitely partaken in the beatings, and Grant was fairly certain, judging from some of Stark’s reactions, he’d gone further than that.

As they waited, Stark muffled sounds slowly morphed into the muffled screams that Grant was familiar with causing a smirk to appear on the other three men’s faces. “Feet now, Rogers?” questioned Brown, restrained eagerness easily audible. “He’s swaying less and seeming pretty steady…” Rogers, the commander, nodded his eyes darkening in some emotion that Grant could not share. Brown released his electromagnet, and immediately drew his pole back before reattaching it to the man’s ankle rings and forcing the feet back one by one about half a meter. The movement drew a howl of agony from the beaten frame as his knee joints immediately collapsed as the man was held up by the other magnet attached to his wrist and blood spattered the floor where barely healed scabs were ripped off from the underside of his feet.

“Oops,” grinned Brown. “Sorry, not sorry?”

Rogers shot him a look, but the lack of actual chastisement clearly indicated that he wasn’t too bothered.

Grant carefully refused to allow his facial expression to shift, whether in admiration or in pity for the man before him. He wanted to verbally acknowledge how impressed he was that the man’s other, now released, hand hadn’t slipped more than an inch despite the buckling of the rest of his body. How, despite everything, the man was still able to physically stand and hold the position he’d been put into despite the agony he had to be in. How strong was this man? Where did he draw his reserves from? Why did he not just fully break and spare himself this suffering? “Come on, Stark…” he muttered to himself, “just give in alright already!” Rodriguez glanced at him, grinning.

“I hear ya, Grant. Patty were telling me that she heard the one of the docs say that when the brainwashing fully takes hold after he stops showing resistance here, then he can be open for business again. I missed my chance at him earlier and definitely regret it!” Grant resisted the urge to make a reply, allowing his silence to be taken whichever way his companions chose. Some days he despised the people he worked with… Still, at least he knew those on top were better.

Now they were back to waiting, the other three exchanging idle chatter as they observed the man before them. The magnets had both been released meaning that Stark was, somehow, standing under his own steam. He wasn’t in the full position this stress position would typically require – that asked for splayed fingers so that his finger pads would be holding up the majority of his body weight, but that kind of positioning would have required physical contact to ensure it happen, and that was a big no no. But it was still beyond an effort for the man who’s whole frame was vibrating as he tried his best to hold himself upright and spread eagled against the stone-roughened wall. Grant could see more blood curling its way down his broken fingers as they dug in, the fragile skin had already been torn so many times that it required next to no pressure to tear again.

The man managed less than three minutes before his knees buckled completely sending him falling to the floor with another screech of agony filled with babbling words and sounds that Grant did his absolute best to ignore. Knowing what was expected of him, he took half a step forward and raised the piping ready to hit the man as a punishment. But for some reason he seemed to be registering a sharp pain in his neck as his body disobeyed his commands; his arm fell down, the rubber tubing making a slight noise as it fell to the floor, the rest of his body following it.

How…odd….

It was the last thought he ever had.

The other three gaped in shock as Grant made a gasping noise of almost surprise and glided gracefully to the ground.

With an arrow sticking out of his neck.

The other three had barely a moment to react to this latest development before another two arrows were sailing their way into the room and hitting their targets with deadly grace. Rodriguez, eyes wide in both horror and shock, darted backwards further into the room, half tempted to get to Stark to use him as a shield, and half tempted to radio through to someone. Anyone to let them kno-

He didn’t get a chance to decide.

A red haired ball of fury darted her way into the room a dagger in one hand and …something in her other. Rodriguez barely had time to register the complete and utter fury blazing within her eyes before a sharp pain spread across his neck followed by a curiously wet feeling. “You deserve so much worse” were the last hissed words he heard as blackness swiftly tunneled his vision.