The rotten thing doesn't scream as she falls. She chokes: on pitched static, on crackling water, on the death that was pushed back at her. He doesn't see it happening, pressed flat to his crumbling island as he is, but — beyond the roaring in his ears and the heartbeats that seem to jolt his entire body — he can make out every single one of her struggling breaths.
It goes on for too long— no, it doesn't go on for long enough. There's one last wretched croak, a splash, and suddenly, it's over. A short click turns the hum of electricity into dark silence. The faint slosh of disturbed waters recedes into nothing.
Everything is still, yet the splash echoes in his head. All the past minutes— hours— whatever span of time of being chased, stalked, hunted: gone. All the fear, anxiety, pain: spent. All of it: no more. All of it: finished.
Punctuated by a dull splash.
He turns himself onto his back with numb arms. He's breathing, big gulps of air to match the big pounding in his chest, but it feels like nothing's coming through. He can't feel the wood beneath his fingers. He can't see where the ceiling starts and the walls end.
He killed something. Maybe even someone. She was a monster, but human enough. ( A grownup, but human enough. )
He's killed things before. Just rare, little things — swatting away flies that stray too close, too often, or stepping on bugs that some of the others are too noisy about. He's killed things before, but nothing like this. Nothing like—
( He's sinking. Is she coming? Bubbling water. He doesn't want to go in. He jumps. The water is cold. Always cold. Cold enough that the heart in his throat sinks down to his stomach, where it becomes a stone.
He's so cold. He's so heavy. He's too slow! Faster, come on, faster, something against his foot, faster—!
A switch— a lever— a TV is on— the water is higher—
He can reach safety, but she can tear it down. What does he do? There's a cord running along the wall. It goes up; he might be out of grasp if he goes up, but what then? The snap of wrenched floorboards. What does he do?! The hum of electricity. He's running out of time!
The TV. He doesn't know why it's down here in a place like this. But it's here, like it was meant to be. Like he was meant to see it.
The crackling of wood — the crackling of water.
He knows what to do. )
—This.
Something bubbles up from the depths of his ribcage. He sags in the face of it, fists and eyes clenching, and it leaks out from parched lips: some awful sound with no meaning or direction. He strains against the way his chest reflexively tightens, the way his body tries to strangle everything back inside him. Shut up! it tells him. Who knows what could come?
Who cares? The thought flits into existence — a biting, bitter thing — then flutters out just as quick, because he does.
Fear seizes him once more, rips the daze away from his mind as he scrambles to stand. It takes too long, he's too slow, but—
( He killed someone, but— )
Nothing changes. Nothing happens. It is still so dark. The silence is still so loud.
He is not quiet when he crumples to his hands and knees. He is not quiet when he strikes his palms against the wood: once, twice, thrice. He is not quiet when he takes a piece of the everything-is-too-much lining his bones and forces it out of his throat: thin and raspy and ANSWER ME.
Nothing answers.
He's the only one here.
He thinks he should be glad.
He thinks he might be crying.
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[ID: Sketch of Redemption-era Eliot Spencer lying on the floor on his back with his back arched and neck muscles tensed, grimacing as a collar around his neck lights up, giving him an electric shock. End ID]
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Day 8: alt. Electrocution
Eliot being tortured with a shock collar as a cheeky little bonus for Day 8
Ficlet below the cut
“Move and we shoot.”
The voice was nearly as cold as the barrel of the gun pressed against Harry’s head.
Eliot froze.
He was several metres away, where he had guided the fight to keep Harry out of it.
And now he was too far away to get to him, to do his thing and make this guy with a gun go away.
“Frank,” Eliot didn’t growl, but his voice was hard and even more threatening than this Frank guy with a gun’s was, “Let ‘im go.”
“You don’t get to make demands here, Spencer,” Frank replied, “Now stay still. You know I won’t hesitate.”
Eliot glared, but he obeyed, staying perfectly motionless with his eyes on Harry.
Of the four other goons who had attacked them, two were unconscious, and one had blood pouring liberally from his nose. The remaining one, apparently following some signal from this Frank guy, moved closer to Eliot, smirking when his adversary did nothing but glare.
"Right ear," Frank said, "Comm unit. Take it out and smash it."
The gun shoved against Harry's head.
"You too, Wilson."
Harry slowly raised his hand, extracted the earbud and held it out. Frank took it, dropped it, and stamped, presumably crushing the comm as thoroughly as the other hitter had crushed Eliot's a short distance away.
"Phone," Frank demanded, and as he accepted Harry's phone, instructed his colleague, "Check him for phone and weapons. Spencer usually has a knife or two stashed somewhere."
And Eliot did.
As Harry watched, still held in place by the gun to his head, the other hitter retrieved a pocket knife, a multitool and too throwing knives from Eliot, as well as his phone. He tossed all this away, shot the phone with a loud crack that made Harry jump and Frank laugh.
By now, one of the others had woken up and the nosebleed of the other guy had been stemmed enough for him to get involved, which he did with evident relish.
"Get the collar on him," Frank ordered, the hand not holding the gun coming to grip Harry's arm, twisting it up behind him, "Watch closely, Wilson. This is the fun bit."
As if Harry had a choice but to watch.
Eliot remained fixed in place, his attention on Frank and Harry, as two of the other men roughly fixed a rigid collar around his neck, yanking his hair out the way and making a point of briefly choking him as they pulled the contraption on. And, it was a contraption. Not just a collar. There was a box on one side of it with a little red light.
Smacking Eliot unnecessarily on the back of the head as they finished, the other hitters stepped back, one pulled out his phone, and then, suddenly, Eliot tensed, teeth gritting, and dropped to his knees, as the collar light turned blue.
Harry instinctively made a move like he might run forward, try to help, but the grip on his arm grew tighter and more painful and the gun knocked against his head.
"Shock collar," Frank said with a smile as the light turned red and Eliot was left breathing heavily on the floor, "Made special just for Spencer."
The light went on again, longer, bringing Eliot all the way to the floor.
"Do exactly as your told, or we'll see how long it takes for that thing to kill him."
With those words, the gun was removed, but almost immediately, there was darkness. A rough, imperfect, darkness. A bag thrown over his head, and two strong forms on either side were half-dragging Harry away.
Out of the building, into a vehicle, the same guys who had been dragging him pressed close on either side.
They didn't drive for very long - not more than an hour, but long enough and with enough turns that it wouldn't be easy for the others to track them from their last location. And they had to be on the way by now. Hardison and Breanna would have used the earbud GPS before they were destroyed, or maybe be tracking their phones.
There would be a Brick and Basil truck en route to where they had just been, and hopefully soon after to wherever they were going now.
When they finally stopped, Harry was manhandled once more, bringing him across a hard floor, into another building, an elevator, and then, at last, into a wooden chair.
The bag was whipped off, and across from him, behind a large, fake mahogany desk, was a man he knew perfectly well.
"Austin," Harry greeted, adopting the false pleasantry he always did with clients, "I'd love to say it was a pleasure, but..."
He nodded to the goons stood either side, taking that motion as a chance to look for Eliot.
Not in this room. A small office with two doors, the desk, some chairs, a mini fridge, and a large conference TV screen.
A bit of a downgrade from this former client's upmarket business address with its tropical fish tank and wet bar.
"Harry Wilson," the man smiled coldly, "You're a hard man to find."
Harry shrugged noncommittally, "What do you want, Austin?"
"I need you to do a job for me. I have a certain legal matter that needs taking care of, and the lawyer I had hired is, quite frankly, not worth the air he breaths. I need you to make an airtight case for me and present it in court," he pushed a pile of documents across the desk, "Everything you need is here. You have three days. This office..."
"No," Harry cut him off. He had worked for this guy before. He had helped him cover his tracks after he destroyed the lives of several of his workers and interns, leading to the suicide of one. This man was one of the long list of regrets burdening Harry's mind. He was two bullet points on the redemption list.
Harry would not work for him again.
"I expected you may say that," Austin stood, walked around the desk towards the screen. The goons rotated Harry's chair, forcing him to turn to watch.
"That's why I have invested in this incentive."
He used a small remote to turn the screen on, and after a second of blackness, a video feed was displayed, showing Eliot with his hands handcuffed to a metal loop fixed to the floor. It looked like a basement, but it was difficult to tell.
Austin pulled out his phone, and a few seconds later, that collar glowed blue again, electrocuting Eliot as he knelt chained to the floor.
And not just a short warning. It didn't stop. Austin wasn't going to stop unless-
"Okay!" Harry yelled, and the collar turned red, leaving Eliot unmoving on the floor, "Okay. I'll do it."
Austin smiled, "Good man. Now, as I was saying, those are the files. There's paper, pens and so on in the desk drawers. Water and food in the fridge. Bathroom through that door. You have three days."
He moved towards the door, the goons following.
"Oh, and if you fail to deliver..."
On the screen, Eliot was subjected to another shock, his body tensing, but nothing more. Harry wasn't even sure he was conscious.
"These gentlemen," Austin nodded to the goons, "Will wait outside. Their colleagues will be with Spencer."
He left, the door was locked, and the screen was left turned on, Eliot still not moving.
Harry spent about an hour searching the office and bathroom for anything that could be useful to escape. Weapons, air vent...anything.
But, predictably, there was nothing. And, even if there had been something, if Harry made an attempt, there were still those other hitters with Eliot, and no way Harry could get there in time to save him.
Harry was just going to have to play along for now. Get to work, start building a case...as a last resort, he would do what Austin asked. He would pull out all the past evil lawyer tricks, hopefully then get Eliot and himself back to safety, and Leverage could deal with the aftermath.
But that was a worst case.
Hardison, Breanna, Parker and Sophie would definitely find them before that. They had three days, and a collective set of skills beyond anything Harry had known or imagined before meeting them.
Three days was more than enough time for Leverage to track people down.
Harry kept this in mind as he spent the first day, working at the case, trying to ignore the itching of his conscience.
There was one moment, towards the end of that day, that robbed Harry of all his forced focus.
He hadn’t expected to see Eliot being treated well, but without cause - Harry had been doing as he had been told - two of the hitters from before had entered the room to amuse themselves.
Harry had no way to contact anyone. He couldn’t get to Austin to convince him to make them stop, refusing to work unless they did. But he didn’t really have the leverage. They were hurting Eliot, but not killing him, and it was within Austin’s power to let them do so.
Harry watched until the hitters disappeared from view and Eliot was left unconscious on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head from the repeated blows they’d delivered to his face.
And, facing the screen so he could see when Eliot woke up, Harry turned on the desk lamp and resumed the arduous task of figuring out how to help the rich and powerful crush those they had wronged.
He had no awareness of falling asleep. At some point, near midnight, he lay his head on his arms, just to try and let his eyes rest…just a bit.
He woke to a hand on his shoulder, a whispered voice in his ear.
“Harry.”
It was Eliot, crouched beside his chair, watching him with evident concern.
The collar was still on, and in places it was shining with blood that seemed to come from Eliot's lip and cheek. The handcuffs were on, but the chain between them broken, links draping on Harry’s shoulder.
"Harry," he repeated as Harry was still registering the situation and deciding whether or not it was a dream, "You alright?"
The hand on his arm was very real. Strong and familiar. And Harry probably couldn't accurately dream the fine details of the collar that he could see now up close.
Harry broke into a smile, "Better now. You're a good person to be kidnapped with."
That drew a small laugh from the hitter, his teeth showing bloody, "Ain't my first rodeo. You good to go?”
Harry nodded and quickly began gathering up all the documents on the case - it could come in handy later.
“What’s that?” Eliot nodded to the folder.
“The reason we’re here,” Harry replied, “And better off in our hands than his.”
“Former client?”
Harry wasn’t sure how Eliot knew, but they didn’t really have time to get into that, so he just nodded and followed Eliot towards the door.
"We have an exit?"
"We're gonna make one."
"What about..."
The collar.
Eliot had stood and moved to the door already, was looking out into the corridor.
"Looks like only some of the guards can set it off," Eliot replied quietly, "Took out the four who grabbed us. Hopefully we don' run into any others, but if we do..."
He paused, looking back at Harry.
"If we do an' I'm incapacitated, you gotta run."
"I can't just leave..."
"Yeah you can," Eliot tapped his arm and moved towards the door, not allowing any further arguments.
Harry followed closely, trusting Eliot to know when to freeze and when to move, and they managed to get into a stairwell without meeting any guards. Their luck ended there, but only for a moment or two. Only for as long as it took for Eliot to disarm and knock out the three guards they met as they moved down ten flights of stairs, and out into a carport.
No one there. Cameras, but no people, and no cars.
"What now?" Harry whispered, "You know where we are?"
"No. We gotta get somewhere crowded. Somewhere with people," Eliot replied, "We can lift a phone an' call the others."
"I don't think we need to," Harry smiled as he saw a familiar set of headlights approaching from the other direction. Eliot turned and broke into his own smile, bloody toothed, but just as relieved as Harry's.
As if summoned by willpower alone, a Brick and Basil truck stopped just outside the building. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if there had been some sort of planned dramatic entrance that culminated in such a welcome and timely appearance.
But they didn’t exit immediately in a dramatic, heroic manner. They were still inside the truck, probably planning their entrance, hadn't seen Harry and Eliot, based on the various screams, gasps, and almost punch that were thrown their way when Eliot opened the back doors.
"And here we busted our asses trying to get here quick as hell," Hardison complained teasingly, grabbing Eliot into a hug as they entered, "Coulda stayed in bed."
"Everyone okay?" Sophie asked, looking them both over, "Breanna? Can we get whatever that is off Eliot?"
"On it..." she immediately began inspecting the collar, while Parker picked the handcuffs, muttering something about more lock picking practice, and keeping hold of Eliot's hand for longer than necessary.
Harry was grateful for the cup of coffee Sophie produced and shoved into his hands, ushering him into the front with her so Hardison could set off driving, getting them the hell out of there.
"Who took you?" she asked.
"Former client," Harry said, drinking the coffee down more quickly than he should, "Wanted me to do a case for him, and used Eliot as leverage."
"Someone we need to take out?" Hardison asked.
Harry considered.
The court case would probably lead to twenty five years in jail if Austin lost...the man was practically already taken out as it was. Provided he lost the case. Harry knew who the prosecution team were, he knew the case, he had more than enough information in the folder alone…
Harry smiled, "I think I will take him out myself."
And he would make sure the team, especially Eliot, were at the trial. After all, they needed The Gloat.
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