2007-08-15: DF: A Moment To Savor


DFLogan_icon.gif DFJack_icon.gif DFNathanReal_icon.gif

Summary: Never, ever let your guard down around the President.

Dark Future Date: August 15th, 2009

Log Title A Moment To Savor

Location Weichsel Carcass House - Packing Room

So here we are. Logan doesn't even know what the hell time it is, and whatever circadian rhythm he had is just not doing it's job. He sits on the floor, back against the wall, just beside the walk in freezer - exactly where he was left. Iron weights sit beside him, connected through the foot length of chain from his ankles - promising him no chance of fleeing, or any kind of effective flying. This was far too thought out for comfort.

He closes his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of Jack talking to Trina and Elena, somewhere towards the exit of this area, but he doesn't try to really pick up sounds. Just foot steps. When they do occur, he opens his eyes - and startles.

Nathan comes to crouch in front of him, fully clothed, intact. A subconscious image, but so— so strong, not even a fleeting moment in mirrors anymore, not even a mere reflection. "Negotiations not going well?" the mirage asks, lacing his fingers - ten fingers - together, an infuriatingly smug look on his face.

"Leave me alone," Logan says, coldly, speaking out loud, but quietly, not wishing to draw attention.

"How about we strike a deal? You can tell me where Heidi is, exactly where she is, and I'll take the pain. All of it."

Logan closes his eyes again, sneers. "You take the pain, you get control. It happened once and it's not going to happen again." When he opens his eyes, Nathan is gone, to his immense relief, but… who knows when he'll be back? Logan huffs out an irritated sigh, before he starts to pick and fidget with the ankle manacles with his left hand, trying to see if there's a weak spot. Maybe escape isn't out of the question. He just needs to test his limits, but in favour of this, his attention slips, and he doesn't at first notice if anyone approaches him.

Today has been less than ideal for Jack. After coming under intense scrutiny from both his lover and his second in command he was more than happy to see them to the door. After he locks up, he leans against the bay doors and lets out a long, weary sigh. Definitely not ideal.

Once he's had a chance to collect himself, he shoves away from the door and heads back toward his little party's guest of honor. He arrives in time to hear the one-sided conversation, but he can't quite make out the words with one shattered eardrum and poor building acoustics. "Eh?" he queries. "Jesus. You already delirious?"

Logan shuts his eyes almost in a show of impatience, before lifting his hand away from the ankle restraints. He glances up at Jack, and in the next few painstaking moments, he gets to his feet, using the wall behind him as leverage. "If I was," he says, once he's somewhat steady, "it would be well earned delirium. No, just thinking out loud." Sneer goes here.

"Don't get smart with me. I might play nice-nice when other people are thinkin' o' killin' you, but don't be mislead." Slowly, painfully on his bad leg, he crouches down until he's eye to eye with his prisoner. He reaches out wraps one hand around Nathan's forehead. His long, wiry fingers press into the soft, sensitive areas around the President's temples.

He squeezes.

"I hate you as much or more than they do," he explains. "Anyway, when your brain presses against your skull, it feels like this."

He squeezes harder.

Jack draws reaction - a grunt of pain, a spasm for trying to get away - but also an action. Helps not to be stretched out between a meet hook and irons. Helps to see that limp in Jack's walk, that awkwardness - gives one a sense of hope. A flash of adrenaline, and Logan clumsily retaliates, hands in awkward fists moving past Jack's head, hoping to catch him with the chain linking between his wrists - a knock to the teeth, a throat blow, anything. Either way, he lashes out this time.

This is an unexpected development.

The chain catches Jack just under the chain and snaps his head back violently. He groans, gags, and clutches at his windpipe. Even a well-trained soldier is vulnerable to a solid suckerpunch. Jack's finely honed combat training dissolves into basic, fundamental instinct. HURT. CAN'T BREATHE. GET AWAY.

He falls backward onto his ass and scoots away, putting distance between himself and Nathan as he retches and tries to remember how to properly suck air.

Logan is torn between two instincts. Run away. Attack. Nathan would have fled. Logan… has a habit of driving his point home. God, what if he could kill this man? He surges forward in the attempt to grab Jack before he can get too far, before the weights have to start kicking in and he gets out of reach. There's not a trace of skill in it, just the actions of a desperate and injured man, giving almost a growl as he tries to grab a handful of Jack's clothing, to drag him down while he's weak.

Jack is not in the best of positions as far as defending oneself goes. He grasps and claws at his throat in a futile attempt to clear his airway, tearing cloth and popping shirt buttons in the process. Suddenly exposed, a heavy, iron key threaded on a chain swings free from under his clothing and bounces against his chest. He can't counterattack, he can't even properly ward of Nathan's grasping hands. For the first time since the bombing at the Den, Jack feels truly helpless.

There's no forgiveness in Logan's actions. Those who have witnessed his particular brand of violence would probably recall the callousness, the disregard of human boundary, as if the thing he were attacking were a machine, a moving object that needed to stop moving. Gripping his injured right hand in his left, he doubles up his hands to swing, catching Jack across the face brutally. Logan lets out a brief, agonised cry— then simply does it again. And again. He pauses, catching his breath for a moment, before snatching up that key with fumbling, bloodied fingers, digging a knee into Jack's stomach as he tries his wrists cuffs, shaking in desperation.

The first hit sends Jack sprawling on the deck. He's only able to get as far as his knees when the second one catches him, flipping him onto his back. He barely picks his head up before the third lands. The back of his skull smacks into the concrete floor with a flat, fleshy thud. When he lands, one eye is closed and the other is half-open, bloodshot, and tracks spastically from side to side.

Logan doesn't check back on Jack's condition, just keeps him pinned down with that one leg as he fumbles with the lock. It's quickly obvious that it's too small for the key he's found, but in a flash, he twists around to try the locks at his ankles. When the first one slides inside, he could almost laugh in pleasure, snapping the manacle loose and doing the same to the other ankle. He could run now. He doesn't. He instead moves to place his hands on either side of Jack's neck, bringing that chain hard against his throat, with the intent to choke. "Savor this moment together, you and I," he murmurs, savagely.

Jack is down but he's not completely unconscious. He groans raggedly. Disjointed, unlinked, his eyelids flicker open just in time to see the chain coming. Not good. His already damaged throat compresses painfully. More dangerous than the lack of air is the fact that his circulation has been restricted. Precariously close to losing consciousness completely, he doesn't waste time trying to pull the chain free. The tiny slice of his brain that's still in fighting trim knows it won't work. Nathan is too strong, too heavy, and Jack's already injured. Instead he reaches between Nathan's legs, latches onto his balls, and squeezes for all he's worth.


That's unbelievably painful.

Instantly, the chain slackens on Jack's throat, and with an angry cry, those fists come back to slam into Jack's face before he wrenches himself away, rolling onto his back, uncaring of how much that does to his shoulder because GODDAMN THAT HURT. Gritting his teeth, Logan forces himself to scramble to his feet, stumbling, but all the same, he's running for the garage doors. He'd fly, but the roof makes him wary, and with his concentration shot to hell, he might end up as a smear on the roof.

Jack's vision swims when he's pounded in the face one last time. It would be so easy to lay down and go to sleep. He feels warm. He stopped hurting somewhere around the second time he got choked. The impacts and agonies are a distant thing. Yes, sleep seems very good.

Nathan is getting away.

A feral scream builds deep in Jack's battered, abraded throat. He flops over onto his stomach and then rises to his hands and knees. With a snap of his fingers, he relocates the first, most basic weapon he can think of. A rock. The scream intensifies as Jack hurls his improvised missile as hard as he's able. As soon as it leaves his hand he makes a firm, distinct pushing gesture in Nathan's direction. The rock pops out of existence again. It reappears about a foot behind Nathan's head, still traveling at baseball-pitch speeds.

It's tricky to kill two birds with one stone, but not so hard to take down one flying man with the same means. The rock glances off his skull and Logan crumbles down like a sack of bricks, momentum of his sprint sending him tumbling, trapped hands doing him no favours. When he finally does still, he lies on his stomach, head turned towards the door he's been aiming for and vision swimming.

No. No.

It's like a part of him, still fully consciousness and functioning, is raging at this useless, broken down body he has to work with, this now sluggish mind, and that slice of consciousness is definitely not named Nathan. It's just pure desperation. With a soft whine, he gets to his knees, dizziness slamming him like waves against a ship, and he staggers to his feet. Stumbles to his knees. Repeat process.

Spit out a mouthful of blood. Try not to vomit. Don't pass out. Jack massages his throat with gloved fingertips. Slowly, very slowly, he's learning how to breathe again. Another rumbling roar, this one to focus himself. He climbs from his knees to his feet. Unlike Nathan, he doesn't fall.

Despite the pain, Jack can't help but smile as he moves from the packing room to the garage entryway. Oh, he'd love to taunt. He'd love to tease. Maybe when the swelling has gone down. For now he contents himself with grabbing Nathan by the hair, yanking his head back, and smashing a fist into his throat. Payback is a bitch.

As soon as he feels those fingers in his hair, that strong grip pulling his head back to expose his throat, the option of escape is gone, and it makes Logan feel cold. He can't even cry a pleading "No" before that fist comes down, leaving him breathless and choking, hands coming up to his crumpled wind pipe as if that would do any good. Retching, his body bows forward, almost until his forehead touches the cold, dirty cement on which he's kneeling. In between desperate gasps for air, there is a definite sob.

Jack is still using the hair at the back of Nathan's head as a handle. He pushes. Hard.

Face: Hello, Floor. Long time no see.

When he's finished, Jack drags Nathan back into the packing room by his improvised handhold, tearing out more than a few strands of Nathan's dark hair. This is a mistake he won't make twice.

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