He doesn’t like the taste of blood in his mouth. It doesn’t usually herald good things. There is a time that comes when he finds himself in a windowless room, arms tied, and with little idea of his location – that he thinks that he should have chosen another career. Choices – all people have them, and yet we are influenced by circumstance far more than we care to admit. Despite claims to the contrary, that old chestnut of the American Dream, it is much easier for a legacy of Harvard to become president than it is for a kid in Harlem. The deck is never distributed evenly, and Matteo has done the best he could.
He’s alive, which is a feat in itself. Homeless children on Night City’s streets never did have a breathtakingly high survival rate – gang members could recruit them for running drugs, but gang members also were known to have notoriously short tempers. Such children could fall into worse occupations, or simply die by the wayside, a losing battle in the midst of an unforgiving situation with no one to protect them. Matteo should – strictly speaking – have been a statistic, and some of that was luck, some of that was timing, and some of that was down to intrinsic traits, such as the ability to read terrain and keep his head in a crisis. Like now.
The room is small, and judging by the lingering scent of mothballs, he considers that it may well be a closet. That in itself brings a shred of irony – he had just learned this new phraseology, and no, he hasn’t been closeted for some time. There’s a faint light under the door, none in the room, but that filtering of light is enough for him to see some details. Time to remain calm as much as possible and access what was working and what wasn’t. To try to remember what had happened.
Roll call –
Head. Head was ringing; mouth was wet, tasting metal. Struck in the mouth with something – perhaps a split lip. There’s an ache at his temple that seems almost to pulse with his heartbeat, and his hairline and the right side of his face feels wet. Blow to the temple. Well, at least that explained why he was dizzy – and why he was unconscious.
Chest ached too – upper chest and abdomen, ribs, his breath was wheezing unpleasantly. That was inconvenient. Torso was stiff, but he expected some of the blood covering him wasn’t entirely his own. That was also unpleasant. And unsanitary. He’d have a lengthy discussion with the head of the Torturing Committee on Best Practices.
All of a sudden, it makes a little more sense. Matteo’s killed someone. It wasn’t something he usually forgets, but he is under duress at the present moment. Two someones to be precise. Sudden attacks make him jumpy and irritable, but he had lost consciousness too soon to deal with the other two. They owed him a new knife, by the way. And a pistol.
Arms – were tied behind his back fully, knotted creatively, but luckily he’s had a bit of practice at this, although usually in less unfortunate circumstances. He’s reflectively working at the rope as he continues his meticulous cataloguing.
Legs – uninjured, but they feel weak, and he isn’t entirely optimistic about their ability to keep him upright. He’s lost a lot of blood from elsewhere.
Final catalogue – injured, but nowhere fatally, and all injuries done with fists or blunt objects rather than guns or knives.
Meaning – someone wanted him alive. He doubts it is someone from his own side, Marcello and himself rarely see completely eye to eye, but the Mafia Lord also wasn’t stupid enough to want him out of commision (and he hasn’t done anything to his knowledge deserving of punishment). He has, quite frankly, very little idea of why he is shoved in a closet, but that is to be expected, perhaps, he did just suffer a sizable head injury. Tongue runs slowly over aching lips, and he spits red to the side. Ugh.
When the footsteps come – he counts them. Three people now. Not too many to take down if he was armed like a private militia, but impossible trussed up and without a penknife to his name. He only catches a glimpse of them, bloodied face tilted up and eyes blinking in the harsh, sudden flood of light, a fleeting impression of stranger’s faces, before fabric goes over his eyes, blinding him.
He is afraid, as he feels himself dragged to destinations unknown, but he has to keep his head. This was his best chance of survival. Keep his head, endure what he can, and manipulate the situation as much as possible. This was, broadly speaking, what he was good at, but it wasn’t much consolation when he felt the ropes loosen only to tie against a hard surface – as he’s forced into a chair. Feels contacts of something else placed on him – equidistant things placed, cool against his skin. The snake of wires.
It isn’t much consolation.
There were better things he could be doing, he thinks, in the spaces between the pain that follows.  In those spaces, he simply focuses on breathing. He doesn’t talk to them – doesn’t pull out any information. What he does do is in each of those small spaces, is take the few seconds afforded to work away subtly at the rope. It’s rough fibers, cheap. He thinks he can weaken it over time. If he has time.
Eventually, he is incapable of motion. There are still thoughts in his head, but they are fractured, as the shocks get worse. His body continues to shudder even after the current is cut off, and his head slumps forward, chin to chest.Â
Re-record, I need a better shot ---
He needs to stay calm. He needs to think of a better plan, but his hands are shaking too hard to try to free himself. Â His thoughts are fractured. It is inconvenient. The intervals between shocks are shorter, and the voltage is higher, but the transition into unconsciousness again is sudden and surprising. There is a moment of black fear.
Fuck, guys, he’s not moving. He’s not breathing – what the fuck, guys -
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
