Private Voids

I'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take.

It's almost comical how he was caught. It's not comical coming to consciousness in a pitch black room, with his hands cuffed in front of him to some kind of table and his ankles securely fastened around the chair he's sitting on. It's actually kind of terrifying, not that he'll ever admit that to anyone later. If there is a later, his traitorous mind supplies. He counters his own thoughts. There's always a later. He's not going to break that streak now. Everything will be fine.

The lights turn on right after he's gotten accustomed to being in the dark. They flash, too bright, catching him by surprise. He tries to bring his hands up to shield his eyes, but they catch a few inches into their rising by the cuffs. He scrunches his eyes shut and huddles down on the table to ease the assault to his vision. A door opens and shuts behind him.

"What is your name?"

Stiles squints his eyes to see past the brightness of the room.

"How did you get here?"

"How did I get here?" Stiles questions, not catching his mind before the words escape.

He's answered with a slap that sends his entire body reeling to the side.

"Your name!" The guy demands. From Stiles's place, draped halfway over the side of the chair, hands still secured uncomfortably close to the table, he grunts.

"Esteban." Stiles says. "Esteban Julio Ricardo Montoya De la -"

His smirk is cut off with a second backhand that reels him right over the side of the chair again, leaning painfully, all of his weight on his wrists. He can tell the restraints are going to rub him raw eventually if he keeps getting slapped around.

The guy sits across from him, just on the other side of the metal table. The room is bare, from what Stiles has seen. And, of course, there's an observation window directly across from him. One-way glass, with god knows who on the other side. Well, actually, Stiles does know who: Hydra. He just doesn't know who.

He takes a minute righting himself back in his chair to look at the guy. He's armed, wearing a tactical vest, like the one Bucky put on just before they left their floor. He's in all black, which Stiles has to admit cuts a pretty impressive figure. It's all foreboding and frightening, and oh, yeah, he's stuck right where he is with tall, dark, and foreboding, unless somebody decides to barrel in and get him out. Brilliant.

The guy's gaze is piercing and Stiles summons the nerve to sit still and not fidget under the scrutiny, meeting the pair of eyes across from him and not faltering for a second. Whatever the guy sees causes him to reach a decision.

"I'll level with you. Tit-for-tat." He says, folding his hands in front of him on the shining steel table. "You can call me Hank."

Stiles quickly weighs the pros and cons of giving Hank, or Hydra, his name, but doesn't see any consequence too terrible that would result from it. It's just a name. It's not even his real name. And he doesn't exist here, anyway.

"Stiles." Stiles introduces with a small nod of acquiescence.

Hank nods back and gives a friendly smile.

"Alright, Stiles." Hank talks at a sedate pace, calm in his movements. Stiles makes a note in his head to do the same. "Two days ago, you arrived here, is that right?"

"Have I really been passed out that long?" Stiles fumbles. Hank doesn't rise to the bait.

"Two days ago." Hank reiterates. "And you've been with the Avengers since then. They picked you up, brought you home, and now you're here."

Stiles seals his mouth shut and just stares at Hank.

"But what do you really know about them, Stiles? What do you know about us?" Hank leads. "The Avengers, they're not the heroes they claim to be."

Stiles doesn't want to play mind games, but Hank keeps pushing.

"So you what? Fall through a portal? Create a link between here and somewhere else, drop through, and land across the country from them. They find you and imprison you without wasting any time at all."

Stiles looks dubiously between Hank and the shackles around his wrists.

"Precautions." Hank explains away with a wave of his hand. "You understand. We don't intend to keep you in this room for the rest of your life."

"You've heard of Hydra?" Hank hedges, leaning back into his chair.

"Yeah." Stiles says. "I have."

"And what do you know of us?" Hank inquires.

"The Winter Soldier. What happened at the Tower." Stiles lists.

"And what of the Avengers?"

"I've read their Wiki pages. Most of them."

"That's it?" Hank tsks.

"Give me a break!" Stiles says. "I don't know anything else! I just met the guys. It's not like we're best friends."

"Yes. We are aware of that." Hank gives. "So how did you get here?"

"How the hell am I supposed to know?" Stiles seethes. "I'm not an expert in this kind of thing! I have no idea what the hell happened. I have no idea what is going on between you guys and The Avengers. And I don't care. I just want to get back."

"We can help you, Stiles. Despite what you may have come across, Hydra is not what it's portrayed to be. We've been given a massive disservice by those who write the history books." Hank leans in as he talks, looking every bit a man possessed by his words, hypnotic in his determination to impart his truths.

Stiles's mind flashes back to the men killing indeterminately in the tower, while he watched in abject horror through the vents. His mind reels. Does Hank really believe this? Or is it just to get Stiles in a pliable state of mind?

"You came for me." Stiles supposes. "That's why you stormed the Tower. For me."

"In part." Hank says. Stiles waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't continue.

"Okay then." Stiles says, leaning away from Hank in his bonds, resting his back against the chair.

"Tell me about your world." Hank presses, looking every bit interested and contemplative. "What's different?"

"There are no Avengers. No Hydra. No aliens. No SHIELD."

"Are you sure of that?" Hank asks.

Stiles hums. "Well, secret government agencies don't exactly announce themselves. But yeah, pretty sure SHIELD and Hydra aren't a thing there."

"We did have 2 World Wars, and the Cold War, and Vietnam, and 9/11 was a thing there, too." Stiles thinks back to his conversation with Bruce and Tony for ideas. "Snowden, Assange, Manning. They all happened, too. Not sure about anything else."

"No, that's quite alright." Hank smiles at Stiles again, sending a bolt of nervousness running down his spine. His leg starts tapping of it's own accord to dispel some of the tension in his body.

"You've been very forthcoming." Hank praises. "Thank you. I believe it's my turn now, right? Tit for tat."

Stiles doesn't know what to expect from him, but sits back and lets Hank gather his thoughts together for whatever he's going to say next.

"Hydra's origins are thousands of years past." Hank monologues. "Thousands of years, maintaining secrecy, keeping the balance, shaping the centuries for the betterment of mankind. Avoiding wars, toppling oppressive regimes, delivering power back into the hands of the people whom it was stolen from.

"All noble causes, a legacy to be proud of, even if the methods can be a bit crude and bloody, you understand?" Hank continues. "The Winter Soldier, you no doubt know, was one of these methods. A particularly talented American soldier who cut down hundreds of our great men in the name of an empire controlled by motives they did not understand. A man left for dead by that same empire. A man dying, alone in the cold, until we took him in and made him a true example of the fight for good in the world."

Stiles's mind is repeating the word brainwashing like a police siren, as Hank continues talking - continues trying to illustrate Hydra's merit to Stiles.

"There are real people in the world, pulling the strings behind curtains, playing with the lives of the innocent through propaganda and social engineering, through wars and through silencing and manipulating those who that believe, so strongly, in what they are told is 'good' and 'valuable', all protecting the institutions they think are 'worth protection'. Like the Avengers, Stiles. Captain America. Tony Stark. Barnes. The Widow. The Archer. The alien God. They're the puppets of the hidden hands, hands hidden so deeply, so embedded, they don't even realize they're merely acting out the parts they've been designated.

"They're as capable as you or I, of fighting the right battles, if they ever opened their eyes. They just don't yet see they've been deceived on such a visceral, basic level. It's the greatest tragedy of our time, to have so many good people so firmly entrenched in their delusions. Hydra is dedicated, and has always been, to maintaining the order - defeating the liars, opening up the truth for the good of humanity."

"If that's all true..." Stiles begins, trying to balance between disbelief and understanding. "If what you're saying is true, then that explains Hydra's reputation."

It's a silent game. Either Stiles plays convincingly and walks out of here alive, or Stiles fails and possibly never sees his pack again. He feels a little nauseous with the knowledge of how much it would make sense, if Hank was telling the truth. He's no stranger to a conspiracy theory, anyway. He's no stranger to certain truths being obscured, no stranger to the manipulation of the American public.

"But who are the 'hidden hands' though? Who is behind it? Is it more than one group? Like multiple secret societies all trying to come out on top?" Stiles asks, stressing his confusion about the motives.

"You'll have plenty of time to think on it." Hank says, leveling his gaze. "For now, I'd say it's time you rest."

The guards haul him to standing after unfastening his legs from the chair and his hands from the table. Stiles shuffles alongside Hank and the two guards, making his way sedately through a mass of halls without seeing anything noteworthy. They pass lots of people. Some stare, but Stiles keeps his gaze firmly ahead and passes over all of them. He just - he doesn't really know. It's been a long day.

He'd like to say he was thrown into a bunk and got a solid 6 hours of sleep. He'd like to say they sat him down in a communal cafeteria and let him meander through the line. That the food wasn't great, per se, but it filled him up enough to make him drowsy. That the shower was a little uncomfortable, what with the guards stationed outside the room. That the water's temperature was tepid, but bearable. That they didn't have him take a shower in freezing cold water. That he wasn't thrown into a cell with just a hole in a floor, a single cot, and a threadbare sheet. That they didn't pass a tray through the bars with just a protein bar and a bottle of water. That he wasn't lying alone, cold, and prostrate in the dark and the silence of an otherwise unoccupied wing of the building.

But this is what it is. The thought sends a shiver down his body, reminding him of the temperature in the cell. He burrows deeper into the sheet and tries to measure the negatives against the positives. At least they gave him clean clothes to wear. At least he isn't dead yet

They wake him sometime later by turning on bright florescent lights. He sits up on the cot and leans his back against the wall, not daring to take off the meager sheet and the bare amount of warmth it provides. It's a solid hour, at least, before anyone shows up with breakfast. He's given another protein bar and bottle of water, this time without a tray. When he's finished, too quickly, they take back the bar's wrapper and the emptied water bottle and leave him alone.

"Hey!" Stiles yells out of the cell at their retreating figures. "What's on the schedule for today?"

It's not his best line and he grimaces after their footsteps are long gone. He'll have to make a list of things to say next time, if only for posterity's sake.

He doesn't see anyone for a long time. They don't turn off the lights. They don't turn off the lights, and the bright fluorescents are starting to give him a headache. He thinks, there's no possible way he's going to be able to fall asleep, but he manages after awhile. Maybe it's only been 5 hours, maybe it's been 30. He can't tell.

When he wakes he doesn't feel rested. Which, he thinks wryly, is the point, huh? Nobody comes back. He's stuck in his thoughts. But, it's not just that. He's stuck in these walls. He has nothing to read and nothing to look at to keep his mind busy. The walls are all a dirty white. The floor is hard concrete. The ceiling is one solid white mass, much the same as the walls. He sleeps at least three times, trying to ignore his growing hunger and his desperate thirst.

When someone finally comes with another protein bar and bottle of water he takes both greedily and stops just short of thanking them. That's what they want him to do, he thinks. Which is why he definitely should have done so. But it's also why he's sticking by his silence. He's proven right when they don't come back again. He lasts for some time, surrounded entirely by the cold and the lights and the restless sleep and the deprivation, before he breaks down in tears. He's grateful he hasn't seen a camera anywhere, because he'd hate for anyone he knows to watch him when he's in the middle of emotional wreck.

Hands fisted into his hair, face bracketed by his knees, wrenching sobs out of his tired body, he thinks, this isn't it. There will be more after this. It's relieving, because it means he's eventually going to get out of the cell. But it's also terrifying because he's still here right now. He still has to deal with this.

He doesn't know how long he's been in the cell. It can't be longer than a week, but it's probably not shorter than 3 days. Either way, that's when they come to get him. Mid-sob, he looks up at the footsteps he can hear echoing down the corridor. Two guards come into the cell and lift him firmly by each arm and usher him through the opened gate.

As soon as he's righted his vision fades from him, black spots dancing until he can't see anything else. His feet keep propelling him past this sightlessness. The guards stop him from slumping over or falling in his dizzy state but he's not going to offer praises for that unintentional kindness. They throw him on the floor in a new room and he watches them from his knees as they make their way a few steps back to stand by the door.

Stiles takes some time to examine his surroundings, the first things he's seen since leaving his cell. He expected to feel relieved but he only feels anxious, almost like he wants nothing more than to escape back to it. Which, all in all, might be the most fucked up thing about this situation so far.

The floor is covered in pristine white tiles, the room empty save for one long table where Hank sits. There are multiple cameras on the ceiling, covering the whole room, he'd guess.

Hank's sitting on the far side of the table, alternating taking bites from a full plate and sipping languidly from a tall glass of water. He's got a glass of milk off to his left side he's not touching. He's also not touching the plate directly across from him, equally filled with food. He can see toast, eggs, and sausage from where he's kneeling. He feels his hands start shaking and clenches them into fists at his sides. Hank doesn't even acknowledge him.

He knows, he just knows, this is another test. He doesn't know what's riding on it. Will they feed him if he messes up? Will they turn off the lights at night if he manages to play his cards right? He feels more tears of frustration threatening to spill over and blinks them all back. He wants to fold over, to get his weight off his knees, but he's too afraid of what might happen if he does. More specifically, he's afraid of what will happen if he doesn't stay exactly where he was put.

The food on the table is assaulting his senses. He can smell the grease in the sausage. He can smell the toast. When he takes a breath in through his mouth he can pretend he's tasting it. He lets his head fall down, closing his eyes, imagining what it might feel like the bite into the meal. It shouldn't be as hard as it is, since he's eaten the same breakfast before, but his mind's imaginings are nowhere close to what he wants to taste. His stomach gurgles in agitation, sending a painful pang through his body.

"Stiles."

Stiles raises his head and looks at Hank.

"Yeah?" Stiles croaks back, throat rough from disuse.

Hank turns his head away and goes back to his meal. Stiles has a fond image of strangling Hank flash before his mind. The man continues to eat at a sedate pace, not at all concerned with Stiles or his growing desperation for food. Stiles swallows a dry mouthful of spit and lets his body drop it's tension.

Think, Stiles. A voice like Lydia's moves through his head. It's not a bad suggestion. A long few minutes pass, which Stiles counts out in his head by the seconds.

"Stiles." Hank says again. Stiles feels his heartbeat pick up.

"Yes, sir?" He hedges.

Hank gives him a big grin and gestures to the table opposite him. "Come join me."

Stiles stands gingerly, legs half-numbed from reduced blood flow, vision starting to dance behind his eyes again, and sits across from Hank. From the table, he can see his plate is filled with not just toast, sausage, and eggs, but a generous portion of sauteed mushrooms as well. He can actually feel himself salivating, unable to take his eyes off the plate.

He has to force his gaze away, and looks instead to Hank, who's just watching him with an unreadable expression.

"You look hungry." Hank says.

He wants to say, 'What was your first clue, asshole?' And follow it up with a treatise on how he knows exactly what Hank's doing. Instead, he grits his teeth.

"I am, sir."

"Hm." Hank tuts, taking another drink from his glass of water.

He sets the cup down and then slides it over to Stiles's side of the table.

"You have my permission to eat and drink." He says, folding his hands into his lap. "Go ahead."

It takes Stiles about 10 seconds to process that before his brain comes back online and he grabs the glass of water with both of his unsteady hands. It's almost at his lips before he realizes he might have made a mistake, images flashing to the guards who brought him food earlier in the week.

"Thank you, sir." The words feel foreign coming out of his mouth and he knows they're probably coming across just as stilted, but somehow it's enough for Hank to present him with a smile and a friendly urge to continue.

He downs the water in one long gulp, and starts into the food just as quickly. He's warring with himself. One half says savor it, and the other says get it inside of him as fast as possible. The sweetness of the sausage makes him a little nauseous, but he fights the feeling to get it all inside of him. He's probably lost enough calories that he'll take all he can get.

With his belly full, but his mind still screaming 'not enough', he pushes the plate back from himself and thanks Hank again, just as formally as the previous time.

It goes like that, for awhile. They starve him under the unending light, and sometime long after he's given up hope, they retrieve him, carry him back to that room, and he and Hank play the same game. The only thing that's different is the semi-regular bottles of water he's given in his cell. Or, you know, it could be a regular thing. He just has no reference from which to guess.

He comes to the conclusion that the constant simulated daylight is wreaking havoc on his mental faculties, judging by the frequency with which he breaks down, crying or screaming into the empty unit, like some sort of madman. Whenever he comes out of an episode, he can logically judge how little sense he was using at the time. So he vows to not fall prey to his swirling emotions again, only to find he loses all of his sense eventually, and the cycle repeats.

Stiles almost wishes they were beating him, that he had fists and feet pounding at his body. He could deal with that. He has dealt with that. It would make everything easier, even if the pain would be tremendous. He'd at least have an excuse for his tumultuous thoughts, for his erratic actions.

The next time he's brought to Hank's feet, he isn't fed, instead Hank stands and tells Stiles to follow him out the door. Stiles doesn't look mournfully towards the plate that should be his, he really doesn't. He just has to be confident that they will eventually feed him. And they will, or else all of this has been for nothing. He refuses to think that. Everything so far has been checks and balances. He behaves, they feed him. He does what they expect him to do, they give him water.

The room they end up in is dimly lit. There is a single table, decked out in straps, and a variety of machinery around at various placements. He tenses mid-step.

"Get on the table." Hank commands.

"Yes, sir." Stiles makes his way forward through halting steps, each foot forward feeling like a step he'll never be able to take back. He eyes the men with guns stationed at intervals throughout the room. There, again, is really no choice here. He shakes as they fasten the straps over him.

He's been pretending it's moves and counter-moves, but he doesn't have any counter-moves. He's a pawn on Hydra's side of the board. He goes where he's told, and that's it. That's everything. That's all there is to this.

Breathe, Stiles, you have to breathe. Lydia's voice breaks through his mounting panic. He takes a deep breath in and tries to hold it, only to lose it with the awareness of a heavy buzzing sound, pulsing intermittently.

"Your name is Stiles." Hank says, eyes glinting in the light from the pulsing stick he's holding. "What is your name?"

"Stiles?" Stiles questions, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion.

Hank brings the baton down and touches Stiles's thigh with it. Stiles screams out, painful spasms echoing through his entire body. Hank keeps the taser, because it's a fucking taser, in place through Stiles's bound thrashing. When he finally removes it, Stiles pants painfully, feeling his muscles twitching in response to the onslaught.

"What is your name?" Hank asks again, taunting Stiles with the taser.

"Stiles! Stiles. Stiles." Stiles yells back at him, fear coursing through his body.

Hank electrocutes him again and another pained howl makes it way out of Stiles's mouth, one that quickly turns to heaving sobs as he tries to maneuver away from the baton.

"Please, please, stop. Stop." Stiles begs. Hank doesn't relent. Stiles thinks he might break his teeth with how hard he's clenching them.

When the electricity finally shuts off, he breathes in a huge sigh of relief but can't stop his tears from falling or the slight hitches in his breath.

"What is your name?" Hank asks again, still as calm as he was the first time.

"Stiles, sir." Stiles whines. It's terribly undignified, and feels much like handing over his entire self to the man. It leaves him feeling emptied.

Hank moves the wand down, presses it to the bottom of his foot. Stiles flinches, only to find Hank hasn't turned it on yet.

"What is your name?" He flips the taser on.

Stiles reacts with a louder scream, the tender underside of his bare foot more sensitive than his thigh. He tries to pull the foot away automatically, only to find it's as stuck as the rest of his body.

"Stiles, sir!"

Hank turns the taser off and moves it to the other foot. Stiles can't suppress this flinch, either.

"Your name." Hank turns the taser on again. Stiles can't speak at all through the white hot, blinding pain.

When Hanks removes the wand, Stiles repeats through gasping breaths. "Stiles, sir."

Hank puts the wand back to Stiles's left foot and turns it on. Stiles begins to sob uncontrollably. Everything narrows down to the focal point between the electrocution and his body. No matter how much he moves to get away from the wand, it's never far enough to ease the prolonged sizzling cut of it.

When Hank removes the wand again, Stiles begs through his sobbing and twitching state. "Please, sir. Please, stop, sir. No more, sir. No more, please, sir, please."

Hank cuts through Stiles's t-shirt and bares his stomach, pressing the instrument into the flesh he finds. Stiles shakes his head silently, mouthing no's, and please's. Hank turns it on again.

Stiles can't make the muscles in his mouth work so he ends up wrenching a whine all the way from his throat, past his clenched jaw. It's beyond anything he's ever felt before. Hank removes the wand for long enough that Stiles can take gasping breaths in through his nose, before putting it in the same place and continuing the assault.

It's never-ending. Hank moves around his body, always asking him the same question. Stiles answers it the same way each time. At some point, his tears dry up. Sometime after that, his body gives up. His mind gives up. The only reaction he has to the electrocution are his pained cries and what seems to be near-permanent shaking.

"What is your name?" Hank asks him. The prompt comes to him through a thick fog, one that's penetrated everything that he is.

"Stiles, sir." Stiles says with a flattened voice and dead eyes.

When Hank presses the baton into Stiles's side, he doesn't flinch. He just waits for what's inevitable, now. And sure enough, it comes, leaving Stiles wasted and lost once the steady, painful buzz of the taser is removed.

Hank wastes no time reveling in the surrender, instead pressing the taser to other parts of Stiles's flesh and sending electricity coursing through his body.

Sometime later, he feels the straps over his body come off. He doesn't move from his position, stiff and still as a board. He feels a small pinch in his left arm, where they hook up an IV to his body. He wonders what they're giving him. Even though the IV bags are out of his line of sight, he doubts it really matters he check to see what they are. He lays there, moving in and out of himself as the time passes.

"You've performed functionally today." Hank complements, jotting down something onto a clipboard.

"Thank you, sir." Stiles intones.

When they take the needle out of his arm, he doesn't see or feel it. He's dragged from the room by the same guards who took him from his cell. Dragged, because he can't walk on his ruined feet. He's halfway to his cell before he becomes aware of his still-shaking muscles, of the pain that's still radiating throughout his body. He hates this. He hates Hydra. He hates everything. He wants to die.