Broken
by wordsthatfail
Rating: R for
violence
Spoilers: Through 6.17
Summary: She can’t break. She can’t.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine; the
words are. Please don’t take legal action —
lowly college students aren’t worth suing, anyway.
A/N: A glimpse at what may have transpired before
that fateful phone call. There’s deliberately little
exposition and little explanation in regard to the
passage of time here. And, as usual, feedback is love,
but be brutal. I welcome comments and criticism of all
kinds.
She’s strong.
Indignant.
It doesn’t matter what Cheng and his nameless thugs
do to her, she tells herself, staunching the fear that
threatens to clamp her throat shut. She won’t comply.
Cheng leers at her and gestures to his men.
Her jaw tightens.
She won’t break. She won’t.
* * * * *
She’s defiant. Stubborn.
Cheng’s rapid questions and his threats begin to
blur into one another, but her lips remain a thin, firm
line.
She won’t break. She won’t.
The United States government doesn’t negotiate with
terrorists, she reminds herself. She will not
negotiate with terrorists.
She swallows her encroaching panic. She won’t be
intimidated.
* * * * *
She’s silent. Resolute.
She waits for the next blow to land, eyes squeezed shut,
straining against the shackles circling her wrists
overhead. Her bare toes scarcely brush the dirty concrete
floor.
She won’t break. She won’t.
The cattle prod sizzles when it hits the tender skin of
her lower back. She jerks in her restraints, gagging at
the smell of her own burnt flesh.
She can’t stop shaking.
* * * * *
She’s whimpering. Terrified.
She doesn’t have words to describe this kind of pain.
“Look at me, Ms. Raines.”
She stares dumbly at the stained concrete, cold sweat
stinging her bloodshot eyes. She’s nearly forgotten
her own name.
“Ms. Raines, look at me.”
It’s no longer a request. It’s an order. But
her gaze doesn’t leave the floor.
She won’t break. She won’t.
A shadow shifts just behind her left shoulder, and it
begins again.
This time, she allows herself to scream.
* * * * *
She’s still lucid. Determined.
Time is measured not in seconds and minutes, but by her
heart’s trip-hammer cadence and every erratic breath
she expels.
She squints in the cold half-light, waiting.
She won’t break.
Clang. The metallic sound reverberates through the
warehouse.
They’re back.
She swallows hard, tasting blood.
* * * * *
She’s hurt. Exhausted.
Her shoulder blades are locked, wrenched in place; her
arms are numb. Her wrists are sticky, streaked with dried
blood.
The staggered breaths she takes in through her puffy,
split lips taste like dust and metal and salt.
She coughs and hopes they kill her soon.
She can’t break. She can’t.
* * * * *
She’s barely conscious. Disoriented.
She squints, but her vision blurs even more; the stranger’s
features are fuzzy, indistinct.
But he needs her help — that much, she knows. She
struggles to focus on his lips, his words, ignoring the
white noise fogging her brain.
“ ... talk ... Jack Bauer.”
He wants her to talk to Jack?
She sucks in a quick, startled breath, pain searing her
fractured ribs.
Jack — this means he’s still alive. Free.
She licks her cracked, bleeding lips with her swollen
tongue, unable to temper her sudden hope with trepidation.
Jack can help this man, and he can help her. It’s
what he does best.
She sags against her restraints, wincing as the
unforgiving metal bites into her raw wounds.
Yes — Jack will know what to do. And it’s been
so long since she’s seen him ...
“Here.” The man brings a cell phone to her ear.
She clears her throat and gathers her splintered thoughts,
willing her sluggish mind to respond.
Jack can help — she’s certain. He’ll know
what to do.
“Jack,” she manages hoarsely, “are you
there? Can you hear me?”
End
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