It was a much longer time, this time, before Sam opened his eyes to blink painfully into the bright artificial light. Not that he knew that; with no windows, and no clock, it was impossible to guess how long he’d been out for. All he knew was that he was cold, and thirsty, and thoroughly confused. And, not that he’d even admit it to himself, somewhat scared, this time.
He tried to sit up, but the heretoforth-forgotten manacles dug into his wrists, holding him fast and forcing him to lie back down with a faint groan. The sound seemed to trigger some kind of alert, as immediately he heard the sound of the door opening and someone hurrying in.
“And Sleeping Beauty awakes at last,” said Trixiebell’s voice, as the doctor moved into Sam’s line of vision. “I make that four days, seven hours, twenty-nine minutes and eighteen seconds.”
“Good to see you’re paying attention,” Sam rasped; he was even thirstier than the last time he'd woken up. “Don’t suppose I get a drink of the non-poisonous variety this time, do I? Possibly I should have specified, before.”
“Ah, yes, of course. You’ll have to forgive us. It’s an easy mistake to make.” Trixiebell’s vivid blue gaze peered at him interestedly, hands manipulating various electronic instruments. “Here. Only water, this time, I swear.”
Sam raised his head, sipping awkwardly from the plastic cup pressed to his bruised lips. It was water; cool and deliciously tasteless. His mouth ceased to be under the impression something had died in it six months ago.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” he remarked dryly. “Who’s ‘us’, anyway?”
“The… ah, organisation I represent. We’re terribly interested in you and your rather quarrelsome extended family. Specifically, your immortality, and your apparent ability to heal from poison that could have killed a small herd of bull elephants. Our financial backer is extremely interested in trying to copy it.”
Sam considered telling him it doesn’t work quite like that, but decided in favour of saving his breath and trying for for more information instead. “So you’ve been kidnapping various of us and experimenting? I have to admit, you’re looking less like a Trixiebell and more like a Frankiekins every moment.”
“As in Frankenstein, I assume?” The doctor neatly tucked a stray strand of dark brown hair back into line. “You do me too much honour, I assure you. But no, we haven’t. You’re the first we’ve managed to catch, you see.”
“So what, I should feel honoured? Special?” I seem to be making a habit of getting attacked every summer, Sam noted sourly. What am I, Harry fucking Potter?
“Something like that. We certainly got an exceptionally large bonus for catching you.”
“I’m ever so pleased for you, really I am, but I’m a very busy Lucifer. Souls to buy, saints to tempt, the usual, and the job doesn’t do itself, so reckon we could break the party up now?” Sam enquires, with no particular hope of obtaining a ‘yes’.
The newly-rechristened ‘Frankiekins’ laughs. It’s not a pleasant laugh, though it is extremely well-rehearsed. “I’m afraid not. You’ll leave when we’re done with you, I’m afraid, and not before. If you leave.”
“Oh, well.” Sam gave an inward shrug. “Hope your insurance is paid up…”
The effort to do it hurts like wildfire, but is absolutely worth it to see Frankiekins crash to the floor, skin blackened, previously-meticulous hair wildly on end and smoking gently, having just been hit by a lightning bolt. Sam wriggles furiously with the manacles, finally succeeding in getting one hand free. The door, that’s all he needs, if he can get to the door he can get to Milliways…
He’s almost free when the bullet hits him. Sam doesn’t even get time to curse before the regeneration trance takes over, plunging him back into darkness.
(Lucifer is falling down, falling down, falling down…)
This time, the singing voice is louder.
(Lucifer has fallen down, poor, poor baby.)
~
His days, or at least such of them as he was conscious for, settled into a routine after that. He’d wake up, try to escape, sometimes with a refreshing exchange of insults with Frankiekins or demi-Frankiekins, and find himself unceremoniously knocked unconscious once again. They seemed to prefer needles, these days, though for some reason whatever they used hurt like hell. Sometimes different kinds of pain, the full spectrum of torture from sudden shocks to a relentless ache, but always, always excruciating. Sam got very good at not screaming, and his lips got very, very deeply bitten, after a while. He realised, eventually, who the mocking little singing voice belonged to: himself. His voices, courtesy of the Light, were breaking through the mental barriers he usually kept them in check with. Kept himself from feeling like he was drowning in sound. But every time he sank into the regeneration the voice got louder, eventually multiplying as well so that there was a choir in his head that sang out as soon as he woke, and was the last thing he heard as the trance claimed him.
The organisation, whatever the hell it was, seemed to be succeeding in breaking down his regenerative abilities, somewhat; every time he came round, Frankie noted that it had been longer and longer since the last time he’d been conscious. It made a twisted kind of sense, Sam considered, that they’d managed to fuck with his mental abilities as well, if only by accident. He found, through trial and error, that if he lay still and kept silent and his breathing even, it usually took much longer for someone to come to inject him, giving him time to think of ways to get out of the hellhole he’d lately christened Disneyland.
Because escape he would, damn it. Even if it took using the Light to do it, though Sam had no intention of letting it come to that, yet. And what seemed very clear, even when the voices roared and Sam knew he was drowning, was that none of them had any idea of the powers they were playing with…
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
necessary_child) wrote2007-08-17 11:23 pm
