#febuwhumpalt5

Hunter laid a hand on Echo’s shoulder as he knelt down beside him. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve got a history of surviving last stands. Go!” He gently pushed Hunter and Omega towards the shuttle. “I’ll be right behind you.” He stood as they fled, firing at what appeared to be the endless expanse of approaching stormtroopers.

Only when he heard the whine of the shuttle’s engines as it lifted from the landing pad did he cease fire, preparing to duck and run towards the sound. Hunter would be sure to meet him halfway. Wrecker would provide covering fire. Tech would probably be there to hoist him on-board, where Omega would be waiting with wide eyes. They’d laugh at this later.

But when Echo turned a hot line of pain flashed through his chest. He stumbled backwards to fall against the cargo container as the stormtrooper registered in his sights.

“He’s down, he’s down!” The stormtrooper called, waving more in to surround him.

Echo brought his hand to the two charred holes burning through his torso.

“Echo, come in, Echo!” Hunter’s voice rang through his comm.

Echo raised his head to see the shuttle hovering indecisively over the platform. He could just barely make out the shapes of his team through the transparisteel windows. He shook his head as he let it fall back against the container, far too heavy to keep lifting. Hunter would keep them safe.

Unconsciousness was closing in on him as he fought to stay awake, to watch his team escape. But as the shuttle moved, its engines reaching a new pitch as it turned towards the stratosphere, a light flew up beneath it.

The last thing Echo saw before he gave in was an explosion as the missile made contact.

-

He didn’t expect to wake.

The memories that flashed before him, they were supposed to be the last things he saw. His teammates, General Skywalker, Rex, Fives. All the battles they’d fought in before, all the tactics that he and Rex had planned and orchestrated. Every single night they had stayed up pouring over maps and strategies.

It was supposed to end.

But for Echo, it never did.

-

He opened his eyes to find himself in a small room. It was bare, save for the medical bed he lay on and a single chair, occupied by a man in black stormtrooper armor pouring over a datapad. The man’s helmet rose when he saw that Echo was awake. “State your number and rank.”

“CT-1409. Corporal.” Echo tried to sit up but found himself being held down by a gentle hand on his shoulder as the man rose to stand beside him.

“Relax. You’re too weak.”

“Don’t pretend to know me.”

“Echo.” The man said softly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “How much do you remember?”

Echo sat and stared at the man. “This is a trick.”

“Echo-”

“I won’t give you anything.”

The man paused, removing his hand from Echo’s shoulder and raising it to remove his helmet.

Echo felt a chill of fear go down his back at the sight of a familiar scar running across the man’s brow. The man before him was older, going grey, but that scar was unmistakable.

Cody shook his head. “You’ve already given more than you know.”

Echo raised his hand to the side of his head, finding even that small motion was painful for his atrophied muscles, and touched his fingers to the raw skin around the neural ports.

“I thought it would be better to let you wake more gently this time.”

Echo let his hand fall back to his side. “How long?”

“Twelve years.”

The words cut into his chest like blasterfire. “And the rest of the Bad Batch?”

Cody paused, his eyes filling with pain. “Dead.”

A rage was building up inside him. “Then plug me back in for twelve more. Hell, just keep running your simulations in my head until I die! Do you really think that I would willingly serve the Empire after what they’ve done to my brothers? That armor is a disgrace to everything you once fought for.”

Cody’s lips pursed into a thin line. “In the league we run in, you don’t get a choice.”

“We?” Echo demanded. How he wished he was strong enough to get off the bed and strangle Cody where he stood.

“You, me, Zero.” Cody stood and walked over to the door, opening it and gesturing the waiting trooper inside. “I thought you might find her to be more persuasive than myself.”

Zero stopped as she entered the room. Slowly she removed her helmet, revealing close-cropped blonde hair. “Echo?”

“Omega.”

She closed the small distance between the door and the bed quickly, dropping her helmet and throwing her arms around Echo’s neck.

It hurt to wrap his arms around her, to raise them and to keep them in place, but Echo fought the exhaustion as she shook in his arms.

“I thought you were dead.” She said with a trembling voice.

“It will hurt.” Cody’s voice came from across the room. “You’ll have to rebuild your strength before the initiation, then you’ll have to rebuild it again afterwards. But you will work alongside us, for a new dogma. Twenty-Two, Zero, and Forty.”

Echo was barely listening to Cody as he relaxed his grip on Omega, letting her pull back so that he could look into her eyes. She was grown up, heavily muscled underneath the armor, but she was his sister. “I told you that wasn’t my day to die.”

“Physical therapy will begin tomorrow.” Cody continued. “Make sure to follow orders so that you regain your full strength.”

Echo motioned for Omega to move so that he could look Cody in the eye. “Follow orders?”

And as the warm mask of benevolence fell, Echo realized that it had never been Cody he had spoken to in the first place.

“So, for the record, this wasn’t part of the deal,” Angus MacGyver informed his captors testily as he carefully steered the stolen Chevrolet down the narrow, debris strewn backroad toward San Juan Marina and Boat Rentals.  Even though his eyes were on the road, he kept the gun pointed at him in his peripheral vision.  He felt the eyes of the four bank robbers on him, so he continued, very aware that no appeal to logic or conscience that he made at this point would have any effect, largely because these men had depleted stores of both.  Plus, they were desperate.  “I said I’d get you out with the money if you left all the hostages behind,” he continued, then added pointedly, “All including me.”  

One of the three robbers in the backseat, Pike, leaned forward to give their hostage a hearty slap on the back, which sent waves of agony shooting through his battered body.  Mac’s sides, stomach, and back felt every kick and weighted punch, and his mouth tasted like blood.  “Guess you shoulda been more specific,” he taunted, and Mac glanced back long enough to see the amusement on the man’s face.

“Honestly,” said the leader – his followers had called him Booth – “After giving us a glimpse of what you’re capable of, you really think we’d just let you go?”  His tone made it clear that it wouldn’t have mattered if Mac had drawn out and made them sign an extensive contract expressly stating that he was to be left behind with the other hostages, nothing about his predicament would have changed.  He’d gotten them out of a seemingly impossible situation, he’d made himself a valuable asset, and if there was one thing Mac understood about desperate people, it was that once they had something they saw as an advantage, they would never let it go.

The realization left a distinctly sour feeling in Mac’s stomach. He’d been seen and used as a tool before – in the army, he was a bomb defuser; for Phoenix, he was a kind of real-life troubleshooter.  But even in the army, he’d still been a person whose life mattered.  And now, he knew he was valued for so much more than just his skill set by his friends.  

Here, though, with these four men who looked at him with a kind of contemptuous greed in their eyes, he was nothing but a tool, something to be used to their advantage, over and over, until his usefulness had run out, and then he would be discarded like a broken drill bit.  To Booth, Pike, and the others, Mac was less than human, and it made him feel dirty and used and caused his chest to tighten anxiously despite his cool demeanor.  He knew he had to find a way to get away, and soon.  Otherwise, one of two equally unfortunate things was going to happen to him: Either he would be used to bargain their way off the island and then, as soon as they were safely away, he’d be shot and tossed overboard, or they would decide to keep and use him, and his life would become a living hell.  Neither option was a possibility that Mac was willing to entertain, so he would keep his eyes out for the first chance of escape.  

Noting once again the scattering of wreckage in and lining the road, Mac found himself hoping for a large piece of debris – perhaps a fallen tree or power line – would end up in their path.  If they ended up having to get out of the car for any reason, that might give him the chance to plan an escape.  Until then, with the five of them in such close quarters, with all but Mac armed, it was too risky to try anything.  He’d wait for his opportunity, and then make his move.

***

Mac’s opportunity for escape never came, and as he reluctantly directed the vehicle into the marina, the knot it his stomach had imploded into a cavernous pit.  Real tendrils of fear radiated through him, and a furious sense of injustice made his knuckles white and his fingers cramp from the grip he maintained on the steering wheel.  Normally when he was out in the field and in a risky situation, he’d end up finding what he needed to make an escape or at the very least to put a significant hitch in the bad guy’s plan.  It was something he’d come to take for granted, he realized, this bit of luck, that he always had something to work with.  This time, he hadn’t been asking for much – just a piece of debris, a block in the road, on an island ravaged by a natural disaster!  Something should have stood in their way.  The statistical probability of the road being blocked at some point in the twenty-minute drive – especially considering the situation in Puerto Rico – was incredibly high.  He’d counted on that blockage.

And while there had been a couple of branches scattered in their path, none were large enough to hold them up for long at all, and at no point had Mac been allowed out of the car.  In the back of his mind, he remembered what Matty had said to him when she had first taken over.  She didn’t want to be there when Mac’s luck ran out.  He’d been quick to assure her that it wasn’t luck, that he was good at what he did, but now he had his doubts.  If he wasn’t given anything to work with at all, how was he supposed to do what he was so good at?

Still, Angus MacGyver had never been one to give up, and he continued to keep his eyes peeled for anything at all he might be able to use to his advantage.  Even if he couldn’t escape here and now, he would find a way to survive and get back to his friends.  He always did.  

“Stop here.”

Mac did as he was told, putting the car in park and waiting for further instructions.  The gun was still trained on him, and he knew that none of his other captors would hesitate to put a bullet in him from behind if he made one move they didn’t like.  “Dean, grab the kid,” Booth snapped, and the youngest of the robbers, the one who had been gearing up to kill all of the hostages and who couldn’t be any older than Mac himself, got out of the car, went around to Mac’s door, pulled the hostage out of the seat and shoved him forward.  Mac forced himself not to fight back, because Dean’s gun was now pressed into the small of his back, and his voice was deadly as he ordered, “Move.”

The marina was fairly deserted, which would have been odd any other time, but it was midday and most people were either already out on the water or further inland, helping with cleanup and rebuilding.  The only person in sight was the young woman working boat rentals.  She had an open, kind face with eyes that had seen their fair share of suffering – it was a look Mac had seen in Carlos’s more vulnerable moments, and in the eyes of everyone he’d met while on the island.

“Hola,” she greeted, a bit flustered at the new arrivals.  “¿Te puedo ayudar?”  Mac thought that she probably didn’t see a lot of business nowadays.  Tourists were the ones who rented boats more often than not – the locals usually had their own – and tourism had plummeted since the hurricane.  Mac noticed that the bank robbers had hidden their weapons, other than the one at Mac’s back, and to the girl it must have looked like Mac and Dean were just walking close together, side by side.  Maybe she thought they were a couple.  Mac made sure his face was neutral, not wanting to give anything away and put this poor girl in danger.  If only the marina had been deserted, with no one else in the crosshairs!  

“Do I look like I speak Spanish?” Booth snapped impatiently.  

The girl blinked, eyes wide, taken aback by the rudeness.  “I – I’m sorry,” she stammered in heavily accented English.  Mac’s heart went out to her even as he felt his revulsion for his captors grow.  It literally would have expended the same amount of energy to treat the girl with an ounce of respect.  These men were assholes just because they could be. 

“We need a boat,” Booth ordered briskly.  “Now.”

“Bien – ah, okay.”  She looked scared that her accidental slip was going to get her yelled at again.  “Our skippers are not on site at the moment, and most of our boats are being repaired.  We do have one –”

“We’ll take it,” Booth growled, and the girl flinched back at the harshness of his tone.  Tears forming in her eyes, she glanced around briefly at the other men in the party, her eyes landing on Mac last.  He offered her a sympathetic half-smile, knowing that the girl – Mia, her name tag said – was probably having her worst day on the job yet.  At least she didn’t know the true colors of the difficult customers she was dealing with.  

As if worried Mac was trying to tip Mia off, Dean tightened his grip on Mac’s arm and rammed the barrel of the gun painfully into his back.  Mac didn’t react other than to break eye contact with their hostess, who abruptly got back to her task.  “Do you have a boating license that I can see?”  Her dark eyes plainly showed she was afraid of the answer – afraid of what would happen if they did not have the proper documentation and she had to tell them no.

“I don’t have a damn license,” Booth answered, impatience rising with his voice.  

“Lo siento – I’m sorry, you can’t rent a boat without a skipper if you don’t have a license.”  At the fury on her tormentors’ faces, her eyes darted desperately to Mac, as if she had sensed he wasn’t like the others and would step out and ask his friends to give it a rest.  Not wanting to risk her life, Mac felt guilt rise in him as he pointedly avoided her gaze.  Her voice thick with emotion, she regrouped and offered, “But I can call and have someone here within the hour to take you out.”

Booth lost his temper completely.  Slamming his fist down on the counter, he leaned over the cowering girl and hissed in a deadly tone that brooked no argument, “You will get us a boat now.”  Mia stood frozen in shock, and Booth glanced back over his shoulder at his three men and their hostage.  Collectively, they came to a silent agreement – obviously, the subtle approach wasn’t working, and they were running out of time.  With deft movement, so seamless it could have been rehearsed, Dean let go of Mac’s arm and shoved him into Booth, who twisted his greedy, filthy hand in Mac’s hair for the second time that day.  Mac grunted in pain as his head was yanked back and stilled his instinctive struggling as the sun-warmed barrel of Booth’s gun found the left carotid artery in Mac’s neck.  “If you don’t,” Booth added grimly, “I’m going to kill him right before your eyes.”  

Mia’s eyes darted to Mac’s once more and he saw the barely controlled terror just beneath the surface.  She hesitated, and the gun jabbed deeper into Mac’s neck as the safety clicked off, and Mac fought the urge to squeeze his eyes shut as his heart jumped into overdrive.  “You’ll be scrubbing his blood off this dock for the next year,” Booth promised, “and you’ll never get it off your pretty little hands.”

Mac thought for a terrifying moment that Mia was going to pass out or break down, as she swayed slightly on the spot, but then she steeled herself, an inner strength that Mac was proud to see flowing into her.  She straightened her spine, offered a small, scared smile that was probably meant to be reassuring at Mac, and nodded curtly.  “Okay,” she said in a thin voice, and it barely shook, though her hand did as she reached for a set of keys hanging on the wall behind her.  “Just… don’t hurt him, please.”

As she slowly moved away from the wooden counter and motioned for the men to follow her along the dock to their new vessel, Booth yanked Mac’s head back fiercely and whispered, “I knew you would come in handy in some way,” and then shoved Mac forward, finally releasing his hair – Mac’s scalp ached and his neck had already developed a painful stiffness from being twisted back in such an uncomfortable position. The gun moved to the back of Mac’s head.  The safety remained off.

Everything moved far too quickly after that.  It seemed that no time had passed until Mac was being forced onto the deck of a small craft barely big enough for the five of them.  Mac graciously offered to stay behind, and received a crack to the back of the head with the pistol butt in response.  At some point, one of the robbers – Ash, Mac thought his name was – had stepped in and tied Mac’s hands behind his back with sturdy nautical rope.  Mac hadn’t had a single opportunity to attempt escape throughout the whole process, as not only was Booth’s gun still at the base of his neck, but Pike’s own weapon was on the helpless Mia who stood on the dock, tears streaming down her face as she watched the men prepare to leave with their hostage.  Mac knew that if he even thought about doing something stupid, she would be killed without a second thought.

And then many things happened at once – a battered orange car swerved into the parking lot, the sound of screaming sirens not far behind.  Mac couldn’t help but grin when he saw who jumped out: his team, Riley, Bozer, and Jack – who had death in his eyes.  Mac had seen that look many times before.  Someone had threatened his partner.  Mac didn’t envy Booth and his goons once Jack Wyatt Dalton got his hands on them.

Jack already had his own gun drawn as he raced onto the dock.  His boots thunked hollowly against the boards as he sprinted for the boat, keen sights already on the bastard who had his paws on his kid.

But Booth had all the power here, with Mac in his clutches, and he knew it. And with the innocent civilian being held at gunpoint, he’d doubly covered his ass.  Mac’s hope at seeing his team faltered when he realized that Jack’s being here really didn’t change a thing.  It would just make this so much worse, because Jack would be forced to watch as Mac was taken, and when he could finally chase after them, it would probably be too late.  As if to solidify this knowledge, Mac felt Booth’s hand twine in his hair, again – what was it with this guy and Mac’s hair, anyway? – and the gun was back beneath his jaw, Mac could feel the artery rapidly pulsing against the unyielding metal.

“You make one more step, and Boy Wonder here dies,” Booth shouted right in Mac’s ear.  Mac locked eyes with Jack, who stuttered obediently to a stop, Riley and Bozer following suit.  Even now, Mac knew that his partner was desperately searching for any opening, any shot he could take to save his friend.

“I’d put that gun down, if I were you,” Ash called out.

Jack glared at him, unrelenting.  “Who invited Papa Smurf to the party?” he joked, but Mac clearly saw the anxiety in every line on his face.  

A shot rang out.  Mia screamed.  A smoking hole had appeared inches from her feet: The bullet had buried itself into the planks.  “He said,” Booth repeated, “put down your gun.”  He punctuated his words with a brutal yank of Mac’s hair.  “Next time, I put a bullet in your friend. No more warnings.”

Loathing poured off of Jack in waves, but he did as he was told and lowered the weapon, though he didn’t put it down.  The sirens drew nearer, and Mac knew his captors were going to have to make their move before the police arrived, or things would get even messier.  “Ash, start the damn boat,” Booth ordered.  

The man did as he was told, inserting the key, and the engine spluttered, coughed, and fell silent.  He tried again.  Nothing.

“What the hell, man?” Dean barked, an edge of panic creeping into his voice.  

“I’m trying!” Ash shot back, making another attempt to start the motor.  

For a split second, Mac felt Booth twist behind him, trying to get a look at what was going on, and in that moment, Pike was distracted as well.  Just one look away from their hostages was all that Mac and Jack needed – maybe the universe was looking out for them, after all.  While Booth was distracted, both his grip on Mac and on the gun momentarily slackened, and Mac inched over and made himself as small as possible to give Jack a better shot at the man behind him.  The gun was far too close to his face for Mac to lash out himself; now was a time to stand aside and let Jack do what he did best.

In the span of five seconds, Jack brought his gun back up and shot both Pike and Booth in quick succession.  He hit Pike first in the gun hand, and the man toppled over the side of the boat, howling in agony.  Booth’s bullet too had been perfectly timed and aimed – it hit him in the side of the head as he turned back around to deal with his hostage.  He dropped, the gun clattering from his hand, dead before he hit the ground.  It had been a tight shot, and quite the gamble considering the gun that had still been at Mac’s throat, but Jack had timed it perfectly, and Mac never doubted him once. 

***

The next half hour was a blur of police sirens – “‘Bout time you got here,” Jack griped testily – painful but welcome hugs from his friends, and a collective promise of painkillers, a four-way lecture, a hasty debrief, and much-needed rest, in that exact order, on their flight to their next op.  

Jack had been livid, insisting that Mac needed more than on-the-go treatment, but Matty was firm – this op couldn’t wait.  Her fierce eyes did soften when she got a good look at the state that her agent was in, though, and assured him that he was getting a thorough check by medical the second they got home.  Until then, she ordered, with no room for argument, he was to rest and recuperate, and so help her God, if he purposefully threw himself into this kind of mess again.... She didn’t actually finish her threat, which made it all the scarier, and Mac had promised to be good on the next mission.  (Nobody really believed him, though.)

Secretly, though, he was glad that he would get a chance to rest on the flight, because every single bruise, cut, ache, and pain called out, vying for his attention.  A cursory check by Jack and a frazzled EMT revealed that though no ribs were broken, he had severe bruising along his back, sides, and torso.  Booth had chipped a tooth when he’d kicked Mac in the mouth, and Mac did not look forward to spending some quality time with the dentist when he got home.  And there was a nasty, bloody welt on the back of his head from where he’d been pistol-whipped.  

Added to that, his entire body, from his scalp to the tips of his toes ached with a bone-deep weariness that came from the physical abuse and stress of his time as a hostage.  As Jack had reminded him on more than one occasion when Mac had tried to brush similar experiences off, just because it wasn’t his first rodeo, it didn’t make it any less traumatic for his mind or his body – he was still human, after all.  Now, Mac found himself reluctantly agreeing – emotionally, mentally, and physically, he felt in that moment every single thing that had been done to him from the second he’d snuck into that bank.

As usual, though, Mac filed away everything he was feeling to deal with – or even more appealingly, to not deal with – later.  

While Matty finalized the details of their flight, Mac tied up a few loose ends of his own.  First, he called Carlos and spoke to him for a few moments, reassuring his friend that he was really okay and getting the same reassurances in return.  Mac wanted to see Carlos and his family one more time before they took off, but Carlos was just now being released from the hospital, and the Phoenix team was on a very tight schedule.  He did promise to come back and visit soon, and was able to reveal the exciting news that Matty was sending another team in their place, to continue to help with rebuilding.

Next, Mac made his way over to Mia, who was sitting on the edge of an ambulance, her sandaled feet dangling off the side and a bottle of water cradled in her hands.  “Hola,” Mac greeted, and she offered him a small smile.  Mac realized that she was even younger than he’d thought – she couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen years old.  “I’m, uh, really sorry about everything,” he stammered, feeling that his words were thoroughly inadequate.

“You have nothing to apologize for!” she exclaimed, dark eyebrows furrowing over kind hazel eyes.  

Mac didn’t agree – as always, that incessant feeling that he could have done more reared its ugly head – but he changed the subject anyway, because Riley and Bozer were approaching, and he knew his time was running short.  “Quiero darte las gracias.” It was important to him that he thanked her in her own language, after the way Booth had treated it.  She deserved better.

She tilted her head, dark brown ponytail swinging with the motion, but a soft smile touched her lips at his fluent but accented Spanish.  “¿Para qué?”

Unable to call the exact words to mind in Spanish, courtesy, he knew, of the light concussion he almost certainly had, he switched back to English apologetically, but Mia didn’t seem to mind at all.  “That was a risky play,” he admitted, “giving them the keys to a boat that didn’t work.  But it was brilliant – and it bought my friend enough time to take control of the situation.  Great job thinking ahead.  You saved my life.”

A brilliant blush colored her cheeks at Mac’s praise.

***

Twenty minutes and a couple of painkillers later, Mac found himself curled up in his seat on the Phoenix jet waiting for the inevitable lecture to start.  He know it had been a stupid and dangerous risk, sneaking into the bank and making himself a hostage.  But he knew that his actions had saved lives, and he would make the same choice if anything like it happened again. 

Jack dropped down into the seat beside him.  “You look like hell, brother,” he observed.  Jack Dalton didn’t sugar coat anything.

“Yeah, well,” Mac admitted, too tired to put up his normal unaffected front.  “Feel like it too.”

The lines around Jack’s eyes deepened.  “The kids are already settling in for the flight,” he said.  “Get some sleep?”

“I thought you guys had a lecture all primed and ready,” Mac muttered, already feeling his eyelids dragging themselves down.  He was exhausted, from everything he’d been through, the pain, and the drugs.  

“Aaah,” Jack waved his hand dismissively.  “What’s the point of lecturin’ you if you’re too strung out to actually hear what we’re trying to drill into that big brain of yours?”

Mac quirked a half-smile.  “Or you could just skip the lecture all together.  You know that you would’ve done the exact same thing in my shoes.”

Jack shrugged.  “Maybe, but tryin’ to get you to look after yourself has become a kind of bonding thing for the rest of us.  And it’s fun seeing you squirm.”

Mac groaned.  “You know I never listen.”

A long-suffering sigh.  “And that’s why my hair’s going gray, hoss.”

Letting his eyes fall shut, Mac couldn’t help but squeeze in one last, murmured jab.  “No, it’s definitely an age thing.”

Mac didn’t hear Jack’s indigent retort, or the quiet cackling of Riley and Bozer from the seats behind.  

"Eat shit!" Narancia snapped. "You don't know anything about our team!"

"Give me the phone," the ringleader snapped, holding out his hand as one of his men handed him a mobile phone. He dialed a number and after a few seconds snapped, "Bucciarati? Yeah, it's me again. I'm done waiting. I'll give you one hour before I start cutting bits off Giovanna and the mop-haired kid. If you want there to be anything left of them, you'll follow my instructions." He ended the call before giving Bruno a chance to speak and handed the phone back to his man before he reached into his coat, pulling out a small case.

"Just to make sure you two don't make any trouble while I'm gone I'm going to let you sample a little of the goods."

He opened the case and revealed several small bottles and syringes. He handed one of each to one of his men who went over to a table to fill it. Giorno swallowed hard.

"What is it?" he demanded.

The ringleader grinned. "Something real nice. Our own special recipe. Good and strong. Knock you right off your feet. You might just decide you like it."

"How much, boss?"

"Not enough to kill them," the ringleader said dismissively.

"Hey, get away from me, you asshole!" Narancia snarled, tugging at his ropes again. Giorno craned his head to watch helplessly over his shoulder as the goon grabbed Narancia by the chin and wrenched his head to one side, jabbing the needle into his neck.

"Narancia!" Giorno shouted as the other young man cried out, jerking in the chair.

It was then he realized the ringleader also had a syringe ready, and the man's hand gripped Giorno's hair, wrenching his head back to bare his throat. Giorno struggled as he heard Narancia groan and slump heavily against the back of the chair, head resting against Giorno.

"You'll regret this," Giorno told the ringleader firmly.

"You're the one who's going to regret this, Giovanna. You and that insufferable do-gooder, Bucciarati." He stuck the syringe into Giorno's neck and Giorno was unable to help a gasp as he felt the drug ejected into his veins, cold and unwelcome. He shuddered, trying to fight the sudden nausea and drowsiness that overcame him. He blinked heavily, trying to curl his lip at the sneering man hovering over him, but then everything just got too blurry and he was forced to close his eyes and drift into the unwanted darkness.

~~~~~~~

Bucciarati slammed the phone down with a curse. He glanced over at Abbacchio and Mista who were standing guard over their captive, Mista's gun under his throat so he wouldn't try to say anything.

"We need to go," Bucciarati said firmly. "We're running out of time."

Abbacchio cursed as well, grabbing a cloth to clean off bloody hands.

"And what are we doing with this bastard?" Mista asked, jabbing his gun harder into the man's chin.

"We'll deal with him later," Bucciarati said darkly.

"W-wait! You're not exchanging me for the brats?" the man started. "You know what my boss is gonna do right? He's gonna kill them!"

Abbacchio slammed a fist into his nose and the man's head snapped back as he cried out, blood streaming down his lip to join what was already there.

"Shut your damn mouth," Abbacchio snarled. "I'll tell Fugo to go get the car."

Bucciarati nodded to Mista and they made sure their prisoner was secure before they left and locked the room.

"Hey Bruno, what about that guy's Stand? Doesn't it knock out other Stand abilities?" Mista asked.

Bucciarati gave him a look that was actually genuinely scary. "I think all of us were perfectly capable even before we got Stands, don't you, Mista?"

Mista gave him a lopsided grin. "Hell yeah. Let's go save Giorno and Narancia."

They made quick work of the details. Mista and Fugo went to cause a distraction and Bucciarati and Abbacchio rushed in the back using Sticky Fingers. They must still be out of range, but Bucciarati didn't think that would last long.

As they started to hear Mista firing off shots, Abbacchio glanced over at him, checking his own gun hidden under the tail of his coat. "Ready?"

Bruno nodded, taking his from the holster inside his coat under his arm. "Let's go."

They hurried on until they found one wayward goon, who Abbacchio nabbed instantly, slamming into the wall.

"Where are they?" he demanded, gun jabbed under his chin.

The man whimpered and pointed shakily down the hall, not even bothering to ask. "L-last door."

Bucciarati nodded and used Sticky Fingers to punch the man, unzipping him into pieces.

They hurried down the hall, listening to the chaos ensuing outside and when they got to the last door, Bucciarati stepped aside to let Abbacchio kick it in.

They came to a stop when they saw the ringleader standing inside the room beside a bound Giorno, holding his head up and pressing a gun to the boy's temple. Another man was likewise threatening Narancia. Both boys looked unconscious or nearly so, eyes rolled up in their heads, bodies limp.

Bucciarati swallowed down his fury, knowing that keeping his head here was the only thing that was going to save them all.

"Ah, Bucciarati," the ringleader said. "I see you failed to do as I asked. I don't see my man."

"No, you don't," Bucciarati said firmly. "But you might see him soon. In hell."

The ringleader smirked. "What are you going to do? Try me, your Stands won't work here. But feel free to wrestle me for the gun if you want to see your precious golden boy with his brains splattered on the floor."

Bucciarati and Abbacchio didn't waste time with banter. They both whipped out their guns, taking everyone in the room by surprise. Bucciarati's bullet found the ringleader's skull and Abbacchio's took out the goon holding Narancia, they then both ducked the other goon's bullet before taking him out simultaneously.

"Smug bastard," Abbacchio snarled, kicking the ringleader's body before kicking his gun away from the dead hand.

Bruno was already putting his gun away and heading to Giorno whose chair had toppled during the chaos.

"Giorno," he called worriedly, pulling out his knife to start cutting through the ropes tying the boy to the chair.

"They gave them something," Abbacchio grunted, untying Narancia as well and pulling him up. The boy moaned, blinking woozily, head lolling.

"A-Abba," he murmured.

"Hey, kid," Abbacchio said kindly with a small smile as he pulled Narancia into his arms and simply picked him up. Narancia wearily wrapped his arms around Abbacchio's neck, burying his face in his shoulder.

Bucciarati finally got Giorno untied and reached down to cup the boy's cheek as his eyes twitched.

"Giorno?"

"Mm, Buccia-rati?" Giorno murmured, blinking once before he winced and squeezed his eyes shut again.

"Shh, you're safe now."

"Naran—"

"He's fine, Abbacchio has him. It's all over."

"Got him?" Abbacchio asked as Bucciarati wrapped one of Giorno's arms over his shoulders and got an arm under his knees.

"Yes," Bucciarati replied, standing up with his precious burden. "Let's go."

They hurried out, meeting Mista half way. He came to a stop, holding his gun up, eyes widening as he saw Giorno and Narancia.

"They all right?"

"Drugged," Bruno said darkly. "Go get the car."

"Fugo's already on it."

They hurried out and Bucciarati and Abbacchio carefully settled Giorno and Narancia into the back before they got out of there.

Bruno glanced back at the boys, again trying to quell his fury. They were all right. But the idea of what had happened to them, or nearly so still made him mad. One day, one day their city would be free of people like this.

~~~~~~~

Giorno peeled his eyes open; everything felt so uncomfortable. He was hot and cold at the same time and his head really hurt. Everything seemed really bright too, stabbing his eyes. He tried to roll over with a groan, but his stomach twisted and he suddenly felt an overwhelming bout of nausea wash over him.

He whimpered sickly, wrapping his arms around his middle.

"Easy, just stay still," a firm but soft voice commanded, taking hold of his shoulder and pressing him back. Something cool wiped across his forehead and Giorno sighed and leaned into it. Fingers slid his hair away from his eyes.

"Bucciarati?" Giorno mumbled.

"I'm here," the voice said again.

Giorno relaxed slightly. "Wha' happened?"

"You and Narancia were drugged by the dealers. You'll probably feel bad for a little while, but you should be able to sleep it off. Do you think you can manage something to drink before you go back to sleep? You need to stay hydrated."

Giorno groaned, not making any motion to move. "Stomach." He didn't think he could even put water in there right now.

Bruno hummed in understanding. "Well, maybe we'll hold off for a couple more hours until your stomach settles."

Giorno murmured in agreement and buried his face in the pillow again. "It's over?" he asked.

"Yes. Another drug ring taken off the streets. I'm just sorry this happened to you and Narancia in the process."

"Still got them," Giorno said blearily with a small smile.

Bucciarati chuckled. "Yes, we did." He pulled the blankets up further around Giorno's shoulders, using them to shield his eyes a bit as well. "Rest now."