The First Age

Hood Wrote:The door to the old school's equally old boiler room was  swung open, rusting hinges letting out a brief screech of protest. it opened smoothly; it was used regularly, it just hadn't seen a drop of oil in too long not to complain. The door briefly revealed an open room beyond, evenly spaced concrete pillars holding up the weight of the old building. Scattered furniture; old plastic lawn chairs, old student seats and desks, set up with some semblance of intent. A spot for the enforcers and goons that regularly used the place, whether guarding goods or people.

In through the door came three men. None were particularly tall, none looked particularly important. Common thugs, with the sort of dress their sort wore on the streets to mark their allegiance, their outlooks. Two were carrying old TV trays, on which sat an old, stained and hole-filled tool bag and a dirty plastic milk crate holding jugs of fluids and bundles of crudely rolled wire and cordage.

The third's hands were empty, the muscle meant to ensure their newest guest wasn't ready to start any trouble. None missed that he had managed to move himself a few feet, and as two sought to set their mismatching TV trays down near the center of the room, the third unceremoniously grabbed the chair back and dragged it over to the spot they had apparently chosen.

Moments later, as the chair was still scraping across the floor, a fourth man entered. Button-down blue dress shirt, salt-stains in the armpits from sweat, wrinkled and poorly tucked into his slacks. He was in the process of unbuttoning the sleeves, rolling them up above his elbows to reveal toned, lean arms with myriad unthemed tattoos. They ran a wide gambit of styles and meanings; anchors and names and gang or cartel markings, even American, Mexican, Colombian military or police insignias. Some were ruined by scars, likely from past knife fights; a man that wasn't afraid to shield with his arm when the need arose. And skilled enough to have still come out alive and intact.

A five-o'clock shadow of black stubble, a deep tan that made his almost too-blue eyes pop against otherwise dark features. Close kept hair; not a proper buzz cut, but not far off. He met Jay's eyes as he strolled in, flashing a smile that might have been charming if he wasn't missing two teeth on the left side of his upper row, or if his too-blue eyes weren't also too cold.

A towel was pulled off his shoulder when he was done with his sleeves, and he walked up to stare down at Jay from a few feet off; far enough to avoid the brunt of any spit attempts or similar futile attacks.

Tables set, two of the men walked out of the room to return moments later with 45lbs plates, their centers crudely chisseled a bit wider. They were set on the floor in a square pattern, then they hoisted up Jay and his seat and set the chair legs down into the plates, jostling him about and scraping the plates on the floor for a moment to get the chair legs to line up and slide into the holes. They weren't fastened into place; the chair could still be tipped if one had the leverage to do so, but it would prevent Jay from any easy movement when not under supervision.

None of the four men spoke. The blue-eyed man because he had no interest to. The three enforcers because they seemed uneasy around blue-eyes. And once they had him settled into the weights, had checked his bindings again, the three enforcers walked out, closing the door behind them. And blue-eyes still just stood there, staring at Jay without speaking.

Hood Wrote:The man dug around in the basket on one of the two beaten up old trays, before pulling out a pair of braces, which he attached to the back legs of the chair Jay was strapped into; it was also a chance to double check the bindings himself. Once done, he somewhat awkwardly lifted and tilted back the chair, leaving Jay seated at an angle, balanced on the rear legs of the chair, anchored in place by the heavy weights on the floor and the braces mounted to the back legs.

Confident that they would hold, Jay was lowered back to the floor, all four legs once more resting in the restraining weights. He ignored Jay's question, for the moment at least; he wasn't there to learn anything. Just to hurt the man, as creatively as he could without killing the cocky idiot.

Minutes passed, and the group of thugs returned with buckets of water, and a large basin, which was placed behind Jay's chair, the buckets to one side. The water was murky, fetid stuff, likely pulled from the old building's water tanks. Below that smell of rust and decay was a tinge of bleach; a few drops into each bucket to shock it. Just enough to shock the water, sterilize it a bit. Not drinkable by far, but less likely to cause illness from water-born diseases.

"I am paid a very nice sum of money to do things to people." He nodded then, and Jay was again leaned back in the chair, now with two of the thugs bracing it so he wouldn't be able to tip it over easily if he struggled. The blue-eyed man then pulled the towel from his shoulder, and pressed it into one of the water buckets, making sure it was good and soaked before it was thrown over Jay's face and the third thug grabbed Jay's head, holding the towel in place.

The sound of a bucket lifting from the floor, that brief scrape of metal against concrete floor. The creak of the handle in its hinges, the subtle slosh of water, the pitter-patter of drops falling to the floor, soaking into Jay's pants. And then began the slow, tempered pouring of water onto that towel, robbing Jay of air, the sense of drowning conflicting with the sense of being able to breath. Blind and bound. The water coming fast or slow, stopping occasionally to let Jay try and take gasps of breath through the soaked towel through which no air could be drawn. Only foul tasting water fighting its way in his nostrils, his mouth, weighing heavily against his eyes, his throat. Muffling what little he might have been able to hear, closing him in to hear only his laboured, useless breathes.

Hood Wrote:"...eep them guessing." The towel was pulled from Jay's face after...well, Jay would have no real way of knowing that. But the towel was pulled free, and the chair was lowered to sit upright again, which would give the man a chance to try and cough the water clear of his lungs. The fetid, soiled water was tossed to a slight depression in the floor where a drain let most of it run out of the room, and then two of the thugs grabbed the chair, hoisted it free of the plates, and dragged it over to a dry patch.

The plates were brought along a moment later, the chair was anchored to the floor again.

When Jay might clear his head enough to get his bearings, the blue-eyed man was seated in front of him, leaning forwards with elbows on his knees, and he grinned and held Jay's eyes for a moment, before raising his hands to show what he was holding. In one, a pair of jagged-toothed alligator clamps attached to cables that ran out of Jay's line of sight. No live current yet, it seemed, as they were touching without sparking.

In the other hand, a simple, cheap Exacto knife. He pressed his thumb to the slide, and an inch of blade slide forth; it was at least shiny and clean looking. Sharp.

"Choose your own adventure time. Which one do you want?" The man still grinned, amused. Excited, perhaps. Jay's shirt had been cut free at some point during the water-play; the weight of the shirt pressing against his wet body would have helped convince his mind that they were under water, would have helped sway him away from involuntarily gasping, trying to draw air through the wet towel. Remove the shirt, remove the weight on the chest, remove that primal instinct to not breath.

The blue-eyed man had removed his own shirt, leaving only a plain grey beater. It revealed more unit and gang tattoos up his arms and across his chest. Mismatched, disorganized. The Exacto knife blade was retracted and extended again, and the man's gaze finally let Jay's go to glance at Jay's arm. At his bicep, at a tattoo there.

Hood Wrote:The cutting was slower then it really needed to be. Slow drags of knife against flesh. Two men held him down, while the blue-eyed man diligently sliced and separated and eventually removed the patch of skin that held the tattoo. The piece of skin was slipped into simple Tupperware filled with ice. Bandages were applied; clean, surprisingly. They didn't want him to die of an infection after all.

He was left alone for a time then. They checked his bindings, made sure the chair was secure, then left for...well, who knew? Hours? Minutes? Left him to the pain of the lost skin, the burn of air against ravaged throat and lungs, wracking, throbbing pain of over-taxed, stressed muscles. The cold would settle in after not too long though; as the shock began to wear off, as his over-taxed body began to calm down. Left in relative silence; the subtle drip-drip-drip of the water still pooled on the floor across the room falling into the floor drain. The smell of it still thick in the room. The sight of the alligator-clamp cables laying on the floor not far from the chair, the cable snaking away behind him; a promise of what was to come. The crates still sitting on the distant old TV trays, filled with tools and who-knew-what, another promise of things to come.

There could be no doubt left in his mind that they were not after information. He knew nothing they seemed to care about. The blue-eyed man had a very simple, entertaining task set to him; break a man that thought himself hard, strong. Thought himself untouchable.

And then they returned, the blue-eyed man with his many tattoos, a clean shirt and pants, the hint of a shiny patch seen under the collar near his neck. He seemed happy, smiling, a bit more energy to his step. Not that it touched his too-blue eyes of course, and the man soon came to a stop to stand in front of him again, smiling down in a display of too many teeth. A predatory smile, well matched to the cold blue eyes. He tugged the shirt down a bit, to show a hint of his newest tattoo. Jay's old tattoo. To join the myriad that already adorned his body.

No questions. No conversation. The cables came next. When he picked them up, when the heads touched, sparks danced briefly. There was no play of it either; no threatening gestures, no move to build up Jay's unease. The man just went to work with the cables. No soft touches to skin either; the alligator clamps were opened and allowed to snap shut on Jay's skin, pinching and biting against his skin. Pulled free roughly, skin tearing and burning.