Fic: Prologue, basaltgrrl, Gene Hunt, um...
Title: Prologue
Author: basaltgrrl
Word Count: short
Rating: Not sure
Summary: Prologue to a fic which will be posted in chapters, by myself and debl_ns.
Gene!whump galore, to go with my illustration Go on, cut his throat.
He'd been beaten before.
Oh yes, many times. In the school yard, before he'd had a chance to toughen up. He remembered walking home with the snot and dirt and tears making a mess on his face, Stu catching him outside the garden gate and giving him a brisk scrub with a rag. Telling him to be a man.
By his father. A hard man with a heavy hand. Those beatings, however hated they had been, had taught Gene a lot of things. How to take pain and turn it around, turn it from weakness into strength. How to keep hating, keep resisting, when a part of him wanted to crumble.
So this wasn't really any different.
They'd started with hoses. Short lengths of garden hose; they whistled through the air and impacted his ribs with a stunning thwack. He'd jerked and fought against the rope, hanging from a ceiling beam with his feet just touching the floor. After an eternity or thirty minutes of it they'd stopped, leaving him swaying on his toes, snorting for air and gagging on the rag jammed in his mouth, while they conferred.
"Oi!" A sharp voice brought him back into focus. "See, we're trying to figure out if you're worth keeping alive, mate." A grizzled face swam in his view, deepset grey eyes under a brown hat.
Gene raised an eyebrow, though his breath came faster. "Unnh," he snorted.
"No, think you've said enough. Geordie doesn't need to hear any more of your poison. You're bad news, Williams--if that's even your name."
"Why don't we shank 'im?" whined the younger one. Bloodthirsty, that one. Never killed before. Gene knew the type; the boy would probably throw up if he ever saw a cut throat.
"We figure out who he is, we might get a ransom. Might make some money on the bleedin' fool."
Gene worked his jaws, pushing the lump of cloth out of the way. So helpless, it was the only thing he could do. The only power he had, the strength of his words. They had already taken his fists from him--arms going numb, hands long ago lost to feeling, and his bulk, his speed.
His brains were his only weapon, at this point, but they'd done a remarkably good job of hamstringing that strength as well. In his helplessness he was starting to realize, starting to accept that the only power left to him was the strength of his team.
Tyler.
If he couldn't talk to the thugs, convince them--and that had worked so bloody well for him so far, hadn't it, then?--maybe his only real hope was that Sam would realize that the undercover op had failed. Because, to be honest, he wasn't worth keeping alive. Not to these blokes. And that scared him more than any number of hours hanging from a beam, taking punches.
Gene snorted blood or snot out of his nose, closed his eyes. Tried to take a little more weight on his toes.
Come get me, Sam.
Author: basaltgrrl
Word Count: short
Rating: Not sure
Summary: Prologue to a fic which will be posted in chapters, by myself and debl_ns.
Gene!whump galore, to go with my illustration Go on, cut his throat.
He'd been beaten before.
Oh yes, many times. In the school yard, before he'd had a chance to toughen up. He remembered walking home with the snot and dirt and tears making a mess on his face, Stu catching him outside the garden gate and giving him a brisk scrub with a rag. Telling him to be a man.
By his father. A hard man with a heavy hand. Those beatings, however hated they had been, had taught Gene a lot of things. How to take pain and turn it around, turn it from weakness into strength. How to keep hating, keep resisting, when a part of him wanted to crumble.
So this wasn't really any different.
They'd started with hoses. Short lengths of garden hose; they whistled through the air and impacted his ribs with a stunning thwack. He'd jerked and fought against the rope, hanging from a ceiling beam with his feet just touching the floor. After an eternity or thirty minutes of it they'd stopped, leaving him swaying on his toes, snorting for air and gagging on the rag jammed in his mouth, while they conferred.
"Oi!" A sharp voice brought him back into focus. "See, we're trying to figure out if you're worth keeping alive, mate." A grizzled face swam in his view, deepset grey eyes under a brown hat.
Gene raised an eyebrow, though his breath came faster. "Unnh," he snorted.
"No, think you've said enough. Geordie doesn't need to hear any more of your poison. You're bad news, Williams--if that's even your name."
"Why don't we shank 'im?" whined the younger one. Bloodthirsty, that one. Never killed before. Gene knew the type; the boy would probably throw up if he ever saw a cut throat.
"We figure out who he is, we might get a ransom. Might make some money on the bleedin' fool."
Gene worked his jaws, pushing the lump of cloth out of the way. So helpless, it was the only thing he could do. The only power he had, the strength of his words. They had already taken his fists from him--arms going numb, hands long ago lost to feeling, and his bulk, his speed.
His brains were his only weapon, at this point, but they'd done a remarkably good job of hamstringing that strength as well. In his helplessness he was starting to realize, starting to accept that the only power left to him was the strength of his team.
Tyler.
If he couldn't talk to the thugs, convince them--and that had worked so bloody well for him so far, hadn't it, then?--maybe his only real hope was that Sam would realize that the undercover op had failed. Because, to be honest, he wasn't worth keeping alive. Not to these blokes. And that scared him more than any number of hours hanging from a beam, taking punches.
Gene snorted blood or snot out of his nose, closed his eyes. Tried to take a little more weight on his toes.
Come get me, Sam.