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for thomas
Jun. 4th, 2015 10:08 pm[He's been like this, locked in this personal prison, inundated with sounds and sights and colours he can't turn off, for at least two days - some part of his mind is still aware enough to catalogue it. Two days since Aurora was shouting at him while they were surrounded, their cell breaking apart as Harry and the others tried to shoot him out. Two days since he fumbled his earplugs out so he could hear what she was saying, fumbled them onto the floor, and then all he'd consciously heard were the gunshots, obliterating everything else until his world was vivid ringing and loud bangs, flashes of colour obscuring his vision, hands clasping at him.
He'd tried to take the red pill, large and oval, because he'd heard them, heard them whispering - Alfred can't be taken alive. He knows too much. - but the pill had joined his earplugs, his hands failing to function. After that it had been nothing. Barked German and French and English and he hadn't understood any of it.
But his subconscious remained, cataloguing everything around him. He'd gone with the Germans, pushed and pulled, and he hadn't slept, but he'd blacked out, unconscious, on autopilot. They'd hurt him, over and over, inflicted pain to try to make him talk but he couldn't speak, couldn't make his mouth work even if he'd wanted to. And eventually it had gotten to be too much - the pain, the noises, overwhelmed, he'd gone away mentally. Flitted off into a prison of his own making, a sanctuary inside himself.
Awareness returns vague and still coloured with flashes of blue and red, blocking everything out, and he's aware of voices.
English. Lilting. Accents.
He isn't sure if he's still in France, but he's been captured by someone else. He stands still with eyes wide open, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe through the vise around his chest, the anxiety spiking, his heart pounding.
Allies. He's with allies. But he can't pull out of it, can't move, his hands are shaking, his body is shaking. His mouth opens and then closes, but he still can't speak, can't really see - all he knows is that blood is pumping from his mouth and down his forehead, that there are pricks of startling pain that drag his attention up and down his body, and someone is in front of him, but he can't see, just gulping for breath like a fish.]
He'd tried to take the red pill, large and oval, because he'd heard them, heard them whispering - Alfred can't be taken alive. He knows too much. - but the pill had joined his earplugs, his hands failing to function. After that it had been nothing. Barked German and French and English and he hadn't understood any of it.
But his subconscious remained, cataloguing everything around him. He'd gone with the Germans, pushed and pulled, and he hadn't slept, but he'd blacked out, unconscious, on autopilot. They'd hurt him, over and over, inflicted pain to try to make him talk but he couldn't speak, couldn't make his mouth work even if he'd wanted to. And eventually it had gotten to be too much - the pain, the noises, overwhelmed, he'd gone away mentally. Flitted off into a prison of his own making, a sanctuary inside himself.
Awareness returns vague and still coloured with flashes of blue and red, blocking everything out, and he's aware of voices.
English. Lilting. Accents.
He isn't sure if he's still in France, but he's been captured by someone else. He stands still with eyes wide open, nostrils flaring as he struggles to breathe through the vise around his chest, the anxiety spiking, his heart pounding.
Allies. He's with allies. But he can't pull out of it, can't move, his hands are shaking, his body is shaking. His mouth opens and then closes, but he still can't speak, can't really see - all he knows is that blood is pumping from his mouth and down his forehead, that there are pricks of startling pain that drag his attention up and down his body, and someone is in front of him, but he can't see, just gulping for breath like a fish.]
