#tcgcapitol

Kol hadn't been the same since they'd dragged Finnick out of their shared jail cell. Whilst the possibilities of what they'd do to his own self lingered in the back of his mind, he didn't pay much attention to them. Because he could heal. Whether it be emotional or physical, the effects wouldn't last long. Even if they did, he had an eternity to recover from them. But attacking his family was a different matter, because they were mortal. They could be broken. When it came to pain, the Odairs had carried more than their weight in it, and if there were a way for Kol to burden the remainder of it for them, on his own, he would. 

But he'd quickly been reminded that bargains couldn't be met by the likes of Coin's followers. He woke alone the morning of Finnick's birthday, and that unfamiliar but prominent feeling of worry was quick to settle over him. Typical of them, to choose such a day to start their twisted games. Kol used to love games, playing with weak minded individuals, but being on the receiving end along with the very few people he cared for had changed his perceptions. 

For the hours he spent on his own, Kol had remained silent. Unusual of him to avoid kicking up a fuss, but he knew that whatever pain Finnick was currently enduring would only worsen the minute he opened his mouth. Time passed slowly in confinement as it was, but being without his brother made a second feel like a year, and he ended up counting cracks in the wall at a feeble attempt to pass time. Perhaps this was his own torture, because it was surely painful enough on it's own. And when Finnick returned the next day, sicker than he'd looked in years, Kol realised nothing could possibly hurt him more than seeing his brother hurt. He also realised that Coin had known this long before he’d known it himself, and was now using it to her advantage. 

For potentially the first time in his immortal life, he felt powerless. He was in a position where he couldn't save them, not this time. He could only stitch them back together after it had all ended, exactly the way he'd been doing since Finnick's parents died all those years ago. Instead, he was relying on the likes of Scott to rescue them -- possibly the only other person he could trust with such a task outside of himself. 

Days passed without much talking, every captive anticipating who's turn it would be next. They knew it was coming. Even those who'd never been in this situation before, such as Tate, knew it was coming. But for some unknown reason, Kol hadn't expected it to be himself. Maybe it was due to the fact Finnick had been first, and they'd done them both enough harm already in choosing so. Maybe he just hadn't been thinking clearly. But when the guards stopped outside their cell, armed and ready, all he could think about was that it was a relief they'd chosen him this time. 

Kol remained quiet as they pushed him along like a disobedient dog, but his fangs were bared, veins showing under his eyes. That was just supernatural instinct, he couldn't help the way his body reacted. Especially due to the hunger, his bloodlust had left him over-reactive, unpredictable. If he had the strength, he might have taken a guard down behind him there and then simply to get his next hit, uncaring of the consequences. 

There was nothing special about the room they dragged him into, or the chair they seated him in. It was typical Capitol tradition, bright colours and furniture that wasn't shaped the way it should be. But there was a device next to him, and he could practically smell the poison that it held. At least, poisonous for those who had the none exchangeable gift of immortality. Werewolf venom. He didn't need to ask what was coming -- he already knew. Vervain could harm him, certainly, but wolf venom was an entirely different story. His body would begin to react the way it would if he were bitten, an instant rejection to what a vampire's genetics perceived as a virus. Not only was it incredibly painful, it was also incredibly dangerous.

Luckily, the fact he was an Original meant the results wouldn't end in death, but it would not be pretty or painless. Still, if it were a venom attack or watching Finnick die because of his own actions, Kol knew which he'd prefer. He had to remind himself constantly of that, just to control his temper. Because Rebekah had been right when she'd said a vampire's greatest weakness was love. Their emotions were heightened, so what choice did he have? He didn't even blame the Odairs for ending up here, because he'd sworn it upon himself to protect them a long time ago. The only people to blame were the ones standing around him, and the bitch they followed.

One thing that did catch his eye about his surroundings was the camera, aimed directly at him. So this would be broadcast, as tortures had been in the past. Annie would see, if she chose to watch. His biological siblings would see, and at the risk of their own life, would refuse to come to his aid. The witches, too. Everyone would see him as powerless, weak. Alone. A loss of his powerful reputation was just another fear he’d have to succumb to. He chose not to speak, in that moment, not wanting to make a greater fool of himself. Maybe if he remained silent, nobody would be certain it was him.

The guard, who Kol didn't recognise, seemed to get a sick satisfaction out of sticking the needle into his arm and watching the clear liquid seep into his system. Perhaps he had a history with Mikaelsons, and this was his revenge. But that was the last face Kol was able to see clearly, as his vision soon began to blur. The sickness was quick to follow, the area in which he'd been injected now bruised and swollen. The hunger in which he already felt began to increase, making his throat physically burn, knowing he'd need human blood to heal. Only Emily would be able to help him with that, but doing so right now would only lead to her exposure. He’d just have to endure it. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” he managed to make out through the haze, igniting a vengeful anger within him. Kol may be subdued now, but he always got his revenge in the end. He was already imagining the vile ways in which he could end this guard -- along with the rest. He was still a Mikaelson, after all.

He expected to remain in that same room for several days, but after around two hours, when the last of the venom had been distributed into him, they were dragging his limp limbs back to where they'd taken him from. Ah. Kol understood it now. The worst part was yet to come, because he'd have to control himself, hallucinations and all, in front of his peers. The thriving bloodlust, the blackouts - Finnick would have to go through them, too. He’d see the worst side of Kol, everyone would. 

Pietro hadn’t slept from the moment they’d dragged Rose away. It had been days since, and every inch of his trembling body screamed for rest, but he didn’t give in to it. He was on high alert, twitching at every sound, blinking at every movement. Even the sound of his own breath leaving his body made him jump sometimes. Minutes turned to hours, and his girlfriend was returned, only for his best friend to be taken away. Pietro couldn’t handle that, especially when he knew he had leave them soon. Waiting had always been excruciating. He believed he’d both physically and mentally shut down if both of them were ever taken together. It was only their presence that kept him grounded there, breathing and blinking.

Wanda felt so far from him now, the soul they shared floating high above him, leaving nothing but an aching pain in his gut whenever he thought of her. Whenever he let himself fall asleep, he heard her voice whispering in his ear, telling him he was going to be okay. Telling him she loved him. As if on cue, Pietro would jump awake, desperately reaching for her – only to find nothing in his arms but chilled air. That was when he’d find Tate’s hand instead, or Rose’s if he could reach it. There was never any right way to express how he felt, or explain what he was thinking, but he knew with them he didn’t have to. He knew Tate would never think any less of him, no matter what he did; and he knew Rose understood more than she could say herself. Pietro could see it in her eyes sometimes, when he watched her. But she wasn’t looking at him now.

She was freezing, that much he was certain of, the colour drained from her lips, her arms clamped around herself. Pietro had already peeled off his sweatshirt and offered it to her, but to his extreme frustration, there didn’t seem to be anything else he could do. Nothing he could say to make her feel okay again, no way of reaching her and holding her close. She hadn’t said a word of what had happened, and Pietro never asked, his upset and helplessness outweighing his anger right then. It sparked when Tate got taken though, Pietro rising from his cot and narrowing his eyes at the guards. He promised he’d kill them, just like he told them every other day, but still one was yet to actually give him a proper response, outside of the occasional scoff. Pietro wondered if they thought he was lying. Wryly, he thought he’d never been anything but honest in his life. 

The speedster did his best to focus on being there for Tate when he’d been returned to him, rather than breaking something. Or a few someone’s. If he wasn’t so weak, there was no doubt in Pietro’s mind that he’d be able to punch his way through the cell’s metal bars and rip a few guard’s head’s off. But none of that was going to immediately help his best friend. Pietro almost laughed in their faces when the same two guards returned at dawn a few days later, standing right in front of their cell. Over his dead body would he allow them to take Tate from him again. But it wasn’t the blonde they wanted.

As hard as he tried, Pietro couldn’t eradicate the fear that was coursing through his veins as he was marched from the block to some private room. It was white, starkly so, and Pietro blinked hard at the abrupt change in light as they pushed him inside. Both the walls and the floor seemed to be made of tile, the single silver drain on the floor’s centre an obvious stand out. Pete’s mind had only just begun to race, imagining the sort of things they’d need to wash away, when they clamped cuffs back on him and chained him to a wall. It wasn’t a short line though; in fact, Pietro still had some room to run, if he wished to. He just wouldn’t get very far. It was then that he noticed the remaining guard was setting up what looked like a camera. Having not seen any broadcasts, the camera’s presence confused him entirely, but Pietro thought that to be the least of his worries now, his thoughts quickly consumed by ones more fearful. Closing his eyes seemed to work, so Pietro leant against the wall and did exactly that, sifting through his thoughts and directing them toward Rose and Tate. Thinking of his twin whilst chained to a tiled wall wasn’t going to do him any favours, but almost every thought panned to Wanda anyway. It seemed like hours before anybody actually entered the room again, which was when Pietro realised he’d been alone for a while.

There was no hesitation in the woman’s arrival, her purpose made very clear once she’d raised her wand at him. It only took Pietro a moment to recognise her, his body almost revolting at the memory. This was the same woman who’d floored him at the Nut; who’d ordered his capture and got his near unconscious body tossed onto a hovercraft. Already he was pulling on his chains, desperate to reach her and break the arm that held the wand so steadily, so pointedly at his chest. The metal bent at the wall, his cuffs straining at his wrists, leaving deep red marks behind, his glowering gaze burning into hers. They never looked apart, and Pietro could feel himself just slipping free when everything went black.

Or perhaps, it had gone white. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

“Crucio.” Once again, all sense of time and place escaped his consciousness, and Pietro dropped hard against the tiles, screaming his lungs out. He thought after having received such a treatment a few times before, the pain would be familiar to him now. Perhaps something he could learn to tolerate. But this wasn’t simply pain. It was something so much worse, so much more than any sensation he’d ever felt in his life. It was entirely brand new, and Pietro could make no sense of it at all. Just like that, it stopped.

The room fell silent, only his cries echoing off the walls. Pietro wasn’t sure why he’d even been begun crying, the pain he’d just endured far too extensive to recall. All he understood was relief, and that was enough to stabilise himself and rediscover his surroundings. Slowly but surely, he climbed back to his feet, feeling considerably weaker this time around. Meeting her eyes over the cameras, he stared in silence, tears still slipping down his cheeks. His fists told a different story, clenching though they shook, once again tugging on his chains. With a shake of her head, the Capitol witch lifted her wand again, muttering the one word he cursed more than any other he’d heard.

Every nerve ending was on fire as he writhed on the floor, choking on his own cries. It was unbelievable how one moment of pain seemed to last longer than any human understanding of a second could. The feeling was so strong and so bright, he could feel it burning him, dragging him toward a light. He couldn’t quite touch it yet, the glow just out of his reach – but he could see in. He saw a smiling couple, hand in hand, seated by a fire pit dug into the earth. The dark haired woman was singing a tune so familiar, Pietro felt himself shiver at the sound, longing gripping his heart tight amidst his pain. Suddenly, they disappeared into the white, the song along with it. By the time the witch had released her hold and he’d slammed back into his body, Pietro had almost forgotten his name, coughing up the bare contents of his stomach.“Vă rog,” he pleaded with her when he could speak again, unable to remember English at that moment. All he understood was that he wanted his sister, the vision of their parents still hovering in his mind. “Wanda.” Sobs wracked his chest as he tried to maintain his breath, his sight slowly returning.