TWO

...::~TWO~::...

McLeod felt like he'd been hit by a truck and then tenderized like a slab of meat in a butcher's shop. Every single inch of his body hurt, and he knew it wasn't from that three-minute long fight against that little slip of a girl in that rusty cage. Every muscle in his body ached, simply moving his head caused pain to sizzle up his spine and throb in a motherfucker of a headache.

Shit, he thought, letting out a low moan as he tried in vain to look around. His memory was a great big void. He remembered the fight pretty clearly and as he tried to think about what happened afterwards, his skin broke out in goosebumps because all he remembered was the tickle in his nose, the smell some expensive cat-piss and flower perfume – he could recall that quite well. He knew who that belonged to and it certainly wasn't the ditzy blonde bombshell named Shirlea who was supposed to be waiting for him back at the hotel.

Lying on his back, feeling the cold leeching into his bones, he opened an eye and tried to see in the gloom. It was probably a hotel room, but it certainly wasn't the one he'd been staying in. The room was bigger and smelled almost new. The sheets under him were soft enough, but stiff as though they'd been purchased and immediately placed on the bed. He could smell paint. Where in the hell was he?

Though the light was a bit too faint to see clearly in, he recognized nothing. He'd never been here before, of that he was certain. His first instinct was to call out, but he kept his lips clamped shut. Lord only knew what was lying in wait beyond the door that he could barely make out across the room.

Groaning, he attempted rolling over. His head thundered in pain, his brain almost pulsating against his skull. His ribs ached and his shoulder screamed in protest at the motion. It had obviously been dislocated at some time and roughly been popped back into place. He remembered nothing that could account for these injuries.

Despair settled over him in waves. His Circuit fight was supposed to have been his last. He'd left the bag of money for Yaponchik to collect while he'd been inside the cage fighting. Clearly something had gone wrong.

He shivered again, feeling every hair on his body stand up. Had they done something to Shirlea as well, or had that dumb bitch double-crossed him? A low moan escaped his lips at the thought – he'd loved that damned whore unconditionally for years, even tolerating her thousands of dalliances with Jackson because he knew she'd always end up coming back to his bed. He'd always been her fallback option, promoted to first choice now that Jackson was working on another doomed relationship.

"Feckin' hell," he mumbled, attempting to reach up and rub his gummy eyes only to find that the arm attached to his aching shoulder was cuffed to the bedpost. His brain was still a foggy soup, memories lost behind the wall of pain. Instinctively, he pulled his leg up and reached for the knife he always kept on his ankle, only to realize that he was completely naked. That realization prompted that free hand to cup his own balls, giving them a hearty scratch, if only to make sure they were still attached. Thankfully the equipment was still there, although he wasn't quite sure it was going to be functional any time soon.

His teeth were chattering now so he grabbed the edge of the blanket that had worked its way down his body, pulling it up to his chest. Someone had brought him here and taken the care to make sure that he was at least comfortable, even if he hadn't been afforded mobility. The light was gradually improving in the room, making him think that it was morning, although he had no clue that he'd been in this room for two full days already.

Someone could be behind that door, glued to a camera, watching him laying here with his hand on his cock, quite literally. "Hey," he called out, his voice barely above a feeble croak, "gotta piss."

Dead silence answered him as he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the ache in his guts and his bladder now overshadowing his other aches. "Serious-like," he called, "am gonna sully up the place." He fell silent again, trying once again to remember how he'd ended up in this room without a stitch of clothing on, cuffed and worked over. The memory was there, teasing and then fleeing as he heard something – a soft scrape from the other side of the door like a bolt being thrown back.

He froze, panic making his mouth dry out so that his tongue stuck to the roof of it. He could barely breathe. Someone was coming and he hoped against hope that it wasn't going to be her. He felt momentary relief before that washed away, replaced with dread. His luck had always been poor. It was definitely going to be her and she was going to be angry.

He heard footsteps, heavy ones.

He braced himself, waiting.

The sound receded. He let out the breath he'd been holding, knowing he'd just been granted a momentary reprieve, knowing it wouldn't last. They were toying with him, and his bladder was seriously going to explode if he didn't relieve himself. Rolling over on his side, he looked down at the floor, not really surprised to find a bedpan there. Picking it up, he set it on the bed and worked his way gingerly to his knees, using his free hand to grasp his shriveled cock and carefully aim the scalding hot stream of piss. Tears of shame prickled his eyes, making him snort back the snot that accompanied them. Last thing he needed was to go all weepy-puss just because he had to throw a leak like an invalid. Gingerly he lowered the piss pot back to the floor, trying not to spill any. Didn't really matter. The room reeked regardless, the stench of morning urine obliterating that lingering paint smell.

He knew he wasn't getting out. Something had obviously gone wrong and The Circuit clearly still owned him.

He hadn't prayed since he'd been a boy back in Belfast, carted off to mass with his Irish cousins. It was like riding a bike, he began rusty at first, but as the words formed in his head, making his lips move slightly, he remembered how. Oh boy, did he ever. Squeezing his eyes shut, he was almost relieved when the heavy hands of sleep dragged him under yet again.


He flinched, eyes opening only to find the room completely dark.

"I asked you a question," the woman snapped, still running her fingers through his hair. The irritation was clear in her voice. He knew who it was even without seeing those dead eyes of hers – the one and only Yaponchik. He hated the way she touched him, that familiarity that made his skin crawl. He was no stranger to skin-on-skin contact – the fights were almost the same as the pornography that he'd been making for years. Something in that possessive, spider-like crawl of her fingers was more like worms seeking entry to violate a corpse than anything resembling tender human contact and it made him want to cower, to vomit until everything inside was spilled all over the floor. Perhaps that was why they always sent her to keep the men in line. She had a way with the broken ones, after all. She'd managed to almost completely shatter the one he'd called Sparky, after all.

He grunted, "right as rain," he muttered, knowing better than to tell her the truth.

"I suspect you're not feeling your best," she crooned, her lips so close to his ear that he could feel her breath. "And for that I am sorry. You must understand that we do not like being deceived, Highlander. I do not like being made a fool of."

"Ah..." McLeod's voice faltered with an audible click, "nae. Didnae-"

Her hand pressed down over his mouth. "Shush," she whispered, "I don't have the patience to listen to your desperate little lies. You gambled and you lost. Did you think you could betray us and disappear? Did you think you could steal back-"

Steal? What had that meddling bitch done?

"Please," he made the effort to shape the words, trying to keep his brain clicking along instead of giving into the pain and whatever drugs they'd pumped into him. "Yeh don't unnerstand. Left the money a'the drop. Cherry's waitin' for me back in-"

The lie died when she clicked her tongue, shaking her head slowly. She knew he had nobody. "There was no package. You reneged on our arrangement." Her eyes were like chips of ice, locked on him. "We have the money now. The girl, well, she's been dealt with-"

"Girl?" He was struggling to keep up with this information as Yaponchik's ice-cold fingers stroked his scarred cheeks. Did she mean Shirlea? Had they gone after Charity or Siobahn? The thought that they'd been targeted kept him from fighting her, from inviting her wrath. He couldn't protect them if he was dead. 

"You are mine now. I have not decided if you will live or die. Does that frighten you?"

He could only moan behind the press of her hand as it returned, cutting off any reply. Neither prospect held much appeal. His daughter was lost to him. Charity was gone and he was a prisoner to this hellhole.

"Goodnight," her lips pressed against his temple, as cold and dry as winter and then the needle plunged into his shoulder, pumping some unknown drug into his system.

"Please..." the words died in his throat as the drug hit him like a ton of bricks, making him feel woozy.

"Yes?" He could feel the air being displaced by her quiet laughter, "please what?"

Please don't torture me, he thought, already starting to drift away, if you're going to kill me do it quickly...