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Whumptober #4 (Biggles)
Temptation was too much. I blame peer pressure.
Full Whumptober prompt list
No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”
Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”
4. Cattle Prod
"Are you alone?" The voice was rough, harsh, brutal, repeating questions already asked dozens of times under the too-bright lights in the concrete-walled room.
"I always work alone," Erich said.
He flinched away from the cramping burn of the electric prod in the interrogator's grasp. But Erich's hands were bound, and the man knew his business, thrusting it into the most delicate places, in this case the sensitive junction of neck and shoulder. The contact sent fluttering, twisting cramps all down his arm. It had been merely unpleasant at first; now it was desperately painful in muscles sensitized by abuse and dehydration.
"Why are you here?" the pitiless voice went on.
"To steal papers," Erich said for the fifth or tenth or fiftieth time. The questions had been repeated, over and over for hours, while he grew desperately thirsty and his entire body cramped and burned. He still ached from the early beatings, but those had given over to electrical torture when his interrogators found that he had fewer defenses against it.
"What papers? Why?"
Time slipped, growing hazy, and for a terrible moment he didn't know who was asking the question or what the answer was. Purpose firmed up then, renewed by a faint and distant, but distinct sound. He got the right answer at last. "The Englanders are blackmailing me into working for them. If I return the papers by the deadline, they will give me some freedom before the next job."
"And where are these papers?"
Erich raised his gaze to meet his interrogator's cold eyes. "I didn't have a chance to retrieve them, so your guess is as good as mine." He smiled a little. "Your associates are stupid and clumsy. Before I could—"
His interrogator rammed the business end of the prod into Erich's stomach. His muscles writhed and cramped, and he doubled over, retching, though he had nothing in his stomach to lose. Compounding the misery, his arms were wrenched violently at the shoulders as he jerked involuntarily against his restraints; then a hard blow to his kidneys stilled him and left him dangling from his bonds, breathing hard.
While he was still recovering from that, there were shouts outside in the hallway, the slam of a distant door.
"What is that?" his interrogator demanded. Erich didn't answer, merely gazed at the floor and felt the cuts at corner of his mouth tug in a genuine smile. He'd heard the aeroplane; they hadn't. They didn't have a lifetime's practice at listening for it, he supposed.
So he wasn't surprised when the door rebounded off the wall with a terrific crash. Erich decided to stay where he was. There was more shouting, a few gunshots, and then strong yet gentle hands were cutting him free, supporting him, touching him in a brisk and businesslike way that was nevertheless meticulously careful with his hurt places.
"We were delayed," Bigglesworth said. His voice was matter of fact, even as his hand ran lightly down Erich's flank and jerked away swiftly, dancing over the hipbone at Erich's sharp intake of breath. "Bit of rough business, we'll talk about it later—no one's seriously hurt, Algy's keeping the engines warm for us out there, and we've medical supplies on board."
"The papers," Erich gasped.
"Don't talk." Bigglesworth looped Erich's arm over his shoulders, and Erich leaned on him, recharging his own depleted reserves from the wiry strength in Bigglesworth's body. "It doesn't matter. I know you would have—"
"Inside pocket," Erich got out. He leaned into Bigglesworth's shoulder, shivering now—foolish, he knew that it was all over, but he couldn't stop, his teeth chattering. "Hidden—they didn't find it. Too busy shouting at me to search me properly. Sloppy."
Bigglesworth's hand moved lightly past the bruises to touch him with care, feeling the light crinkle of the papers hidden in his jacket. "Oh, you're good," he breathed, and Erich leaned a little more weight on him, stumbling with each step as his muscles fluttered but, at this point, his discomfort mattered little. The entire time he had been in that room, he had known that Bigglesworth would come for him. The cramping and pain was nothing beside that.
Full Whumptober prompt list
No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”
Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”
4. Cattle Prod
"Are you alone?" The voice was rough, harsh, brutal, repeating questions already asked dozens of times under the too-bright lights in the concrete-walled room.
"I always work alone," Erich said.
He flinched away from the cramping burn of the electric prod in the interrogator's grasp. But Erich's hands were bound, and the man knew his business, thrusting it into the most delicate places, in this case the sensitive junction of neck and shoulder. The contact sent fluttering, twisting cramps all down his arm. It had been merely unpleasant at first; now it was desperately painful in muscles sensitized by abuse and dehydration.
"Why are you here?" the pitiless voice went on.
"To steal papers," Erich said for the fifth or tenth or fiftieth time. The questions had been repeated, over and over for hours, while he grew desperately thirsty and his entire body cramped and burned. He still ached from the early beatings, but those had given over to electrical torture when his interrogators found that he had fewer defenses against it.
"What papers? Why?"
Time slipped, growing hazy, and for a terrible moment he didn't know who was asking the question or what the answer was. Purpose firmed up then, renewed by a faint and distant, but distinct sound. He got the right answer at last. "The Englanders are blackmailing me into working for them. If I return the papers by the deadline, they will give me some freedom before the next job."
"And where are these papers?"
Erich raised his gaze to meet his interrogator's cold eyes. "I didn't have a chance to retrieve them, so your guess is as good as mine." He smiled a little. "Your associates are stupid and clumsy. Before I could—"
His interrogator rammed the business end of the prod into Erich's stomach. His muscles writhed and cramped, and he doubled over, retching, though he had nothing in his stomach to lose. Compounding the misery, his arms were wrenched violently at the shoulders as he jerked involuntarily against his restraints; then a hard blow to his kidneys stilled him and left him dangling from his bonds, breathing hard.
While he was still recovering from that, there were shouts outside in the hallway, the slam of a distant door.
"What is that?" his interrogator demanded. Erich didn't answer, merely gazed at the floor and felt the cuts at corner of his mouth tug in a genuine smile. He'd heard the aeroplane; they hadn't. They didn't have a lifetime's practice at listening for it, he supposed.
So he wasn't surprised when the door rebounded off the wall with a terrific crash. Erich decided to stay where he was. There was more shouting, a few gunshots, and then strong yet gentle hands were cutting him free, supporting him, touching him in a brisk and businesslike way that was nevertheless meticulously careful with his hurt places.
"We were delayed," Bigglesworth said. His voice was matter of fact, even as his hand ran lightly down Erich's flank and jerked away swiftly, dancing over the hipbone at Erich's sharp intake of breath. "Bit of rough business, we'll talk about it later—no one's seriously hurt, Algy's keeping the engines warm for us out there, and we've medical supplies on board."
"The papers," Erich gasped.
"Don't talk." Bigglesworth looped Erich's arm over his shoulders, and Erich leaned on him, recharging his own depleted reserves from the wiry strength in Bigglesworth's body. "It doesn't matter. I know you would have—"
"Inside pocket," Erich got out. He leaned into Bigglesworth's shoulder, shivering now—foolish, he knew that it was all over, but he couldn't stop, his teeth chattering. "Hidden—they didn't find it. Too busy shouting at me to search me properly. Sloppy."
Bigglesworth's hand moved lightly past the bruises to touch him with care, feeling the light crinkle of the papers hidden in his jacket. "Oh, you're good," he breathed, and Erich leaned a little more weight on him, stumbling with each step as his muscles fluttered but, at this point, his discomfort mattered little. The entire time he had been in that room, he had known that Bigglesworth would come for him. The cramping and pain was nothing beside that.
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And this bit: Bigglesworth's hand moved lightly past the bruises to touch him with care, feeling the light crinkle of the papers hidden in his jacket. "Oh, you're good," he breathed, and you can just feel Erich relaxing into him after that, because Biggles' admiration makes it all worth it.
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