_{Moscow, Russia
03:24}

Cases involving human trafficking were always dangerous. It was a business run by the most detestable scum of humanity, those who care not about the lives they're ruining by their actions. Cases involving Russia were also always dangerous. Ties with the gigantic country were strained, every interaction having to be carefully planned and worded, everything planned to avoid another cold war. With the threat of nuclear weapons, another war could mean irreversible damage to the already fragile planet they live on. A human trafficking case in Russia was a delicate, and deadly mission, one that Delilah rather wished she'd refused.

It wasn't difficult to find a trail; human trafficking ran rampant in Moscow. All she needed to do was pretend to be an easy mark. Some tight fitting clothing, night at a club, pretending to be drunk, that was usually all it took to lure them out. She spotted him at that club, and guessed they must be working the same case again. This time, though, it seemed he was going to use her as bait.

'Typical,' she had thought.

When the men approached Delilah and took her to their car, he was following them. What neither of them had anticipated, however, was that they'd been compromised. The last thing Delilah saw was the butt of a pistol coming down on her head, and then everything went black.

He heard it before he saw them. He's been preparing to round the corner up ahead when there was the screech of tires, the stench of burnt rubber filling his nostrils. Then driver's side of his vehicle was suddenly caving in on him.

Icarus had known something bad was going to happen the moment they turned off the public streets and into the shadows of dimly lit neighborhood roads. The hairs along the back of his neck stood up. He knew -he knew!- he should have stopped right then and there. Turned the car around and gone with another plan. But it had taken him goddamned months to be able to get this close to Asimov's men, and he feared he'd lose all traces and be back to square one if he lost sight of them now. So he curled his fingers tighter onto the steering wheel and stubbornly pressed on. Look where that got him.

Hacking up a wet cough, Icarus assessed the situation. He was still in his seat, a good sign, but the pressure building in the front of his face and the acrid taste of blood in his mouth suggested he may have broken his nose. Seemed the airbags had failed him... He groaned and tried moving his head to look around. Crazy what sort of things an automobile accident can cause the human body. All that metal, all that leather. Tempered glass, reinforced seat belts. And for what? One would think that in this day and age, vehicles would be sturdy enough to protect their passengers but alas, it seemed mankind was evolving much too slowly to keep up with the advancement of their technology. Still moved around like beads in a tin can if jarred too much. More specifically he'd been t-boned and Icarus only knew this because the impact hadn't knocked him out. Yet. He felt he was on the verge of losing consciousness but stubbornly refused to go lax. Still slouched forward over the steering wheel, Icarus grunted and sat up. The obnoxious blaring finally stopped when he lifted his chest off the horn but there was still that aggravating bright light to his side. Squinting, he put his hand up to shield his eyes from the high-beams. The Hummer that had charged him backed up a few feet before it stopped once more. Doors on both sides opened up and out stepped three dark-clad figures. Icarus undid the seat belt and dove to floor space beneath the passenger seat, ducking just in time to avoid the rain of bullets piercing the thin metal barrier between him and them.

Icarus opened his door and fell out with a thud, clawing at the frost-hardened ground to put the car between himself and his assailants. Usually he enjoyed the cold but now the snow falling from the darkened sky above made it hard for him to see what he was doing. It make his breath form white puffs and his fingers tremble just a little too much. 'Shit.' He pulled out the Glock from his belt and peeked under the vehicle; one to his right and the other two on his left. Okay, this was doable. He decided to file out the single first and crawled closer, practically getting under his car. Icarus pointed the gun. 'One. Two. Three...' He squeezed the trigger and the second his quarry dropped, aimed the finishing shot at the man's head. The other two backed away from the car and attempted to split up. Icarus rolled out from beneath his car and got up into a crouch before moving closer to the front end. He popped up and quickly fired two more rounds, downing a second man. The third fired back but in that moment exposed himself, allowing Icarus to take his last shot.

He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he was forced to cough. Icarus rose and sheathed his gun.

A forth figure approached from behind and pulled him into a headlock.

He threw his head back and was granted a satisfying crack as bone met bone but that did little to loosen the grip around his neck. Icarus tucked his chin in, leaned back, braced his hands, and dropped his weight to throw the other off-balance. His opponent countered with a kick to the bend of his leg and a tightened choke. Icarus gave a cry and was forced to kneel. His vision began to go black. Becoming more desperate with each passing second he risked grabbing for the knife sheathed at his ankle and slashed backwards. That momentarily won him his freedom before his head was promptly smashed into the car's headlight. Stunned, he slumped to the ground. Icarus could feel himself being hauled up and tossed over a shoulder but could do nothing about it. A few steps later and he was unceremoniously dropped into the boot of the Hummer before being tied up and locked in there.

Humiliating.

The rest of the hour -at least that's how long it felt- passed in a blur. Icarus floated between in and out of consciousness. The black pit swallowing him whole made it difficult to discern between the two but the occasional bump in the road (his driver seemed to specifically be swerving for those, the bastard) helped him differentiate. Finally it seemed they'd come to a stop. The trunk was popped open and a sack pulled over his head before he was yanked out and dragged along. He was moved indoors, somewhere below ground level past a labyrinth of doors and corridors. He knew they'd reached their destination when they eventually arrived at a room that stank of moldy air and death. Literally. Whether their were decomposing bodies or a waste bucket in here somewhere he was unsure but the stench was enough to make him gag. It was revolting. Icarus was pushed ahead and forced into a chair before being tied down. The sack was removed. He looked around and counted five angry strangers. Oh shit, when did she get here? Icarus quickly looked away, not wanting his captors to start jumping to conclusions. If they decided to try using her against him then things would get really ugly really fast.

Icarus cleared his throat before speaking in the mother tongue. "Thank you. Now I can look you in the eye before I spit." He did just that, blood and phlegm staining the front of his attire. He missed terribly and was rewarded with a strike to the gut but that was worth it, in his opinion. Another hit, this time from a figure to his side, before the one who'd brought him here spoke up.

"What is your name?"
"Some say I look like a 'Dorian'. I don't see it."
Another hit. He stifled a pained groan.
"Who sent you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." That earned him a meaty hand covering his nose and mouth. He struggled feebly but they didn't let up until tears started streaming down his cheeks.

Oh this was going to be fun.

There was a groan, and slowly the currently blonde woman's eyes opened, her vision blurry at first. The back of her head ached, and the light above their heads made it feel like a vise was cracking into her skull. Oh, and there were Russians talking. Great. Quickly assessing the situation, Delilah recognized her rival, glancing at him for only a moment before moving on to the next person. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

"The other one is awake," One of the men said.

"Good, you go take care of her."

"Hello, darling," The man greeted as he approached Delilah. She recognized him as her target at the club.

"Ah, Pavlov. Somehow this doesn't look like a hotel room to me," Delilah said, watching him come over.

"How observant you are! Yes, this is the room where I ask questions and you give me answers."

"And if I don't give you answers?" She asked.

"Then I put a bullet in you."

"Come now, Pav, that's hardly very polite."

The man sighed and rolled his eyes. "Enough. Who do you work for?"

"McDonald's at the moment. Currently looking for a career change. I thought airplane hostess looked like a nice job, and I've got the body for it."

There was the sound of a gun being loaded, and then a scream as a bullet pierced through the flesh of the woman's leg. A string of curses was muttered, and then a yelp as the barrel of the pistol was pressed against the wound. "The next one goes in your head. Who do you work for?"

"Go to hell."

She closed her eyes, expecting to feel another gun shot as the pistol clicked, and she flinched when the bang rang out through the room. Instead of shooting her, however, the bullet was aimed at the wall, as it had been intended to scare her this time, not harm her. This sort of psychological and physical torture continued with many variations, every now and then returning to the gun as they made her believe they were through, that they were convinced she wasn't going to tell them anything. Several times Delilah had come to grips with death, accepting it, and then the bullet flew past her and into the wall.

The goddamn smell of it nearly made him throw up and ruined any hope he had of passing out.

Perfluorocarbon. A chemical compound that was somehow both a godsend in the medical field and simultaneously an abomination mankind should have never been allowed to touch. Blood substitutes for transfusions. Optical operations. Tattoo removals. Enhanced gas exchange. Lung injury treatments due to aforementioned ability. It had many benefits for modern medicine, some currently in practice and some only in theory until they could be approved for human use, but its notorious nickname as 'liquid oxygen' is what made chills run up Icarus' spine. Chemical warfare. Amplified torture. Having a substance viscous enough to mimic drowning but oxygenated enough to keep it's victim alive made waterboarding ten times worse than it already was.

Icarus did not fear death. Nor did he mind pain. In his line of work, one quickly became used to it after forcibly building up a tolerance via both occupational hazards and condemnation to such discomfort in training.

But he would rather death than to become the next Kiki Camarena.

Platt, as Icarus decided to call the man before him due to his semblance to the actor Oliver Platt, pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The bearded man took his time smoking a few puffs, and then addressed Icarus. "Good, you're still awake. I was not sure where I left my salts."

At some point during Icarus' "interrogation" he'd been moved from the room his captors originally dragged him into, and onto a bathroom farther down a dark corridor. They'd also taken the chair from him but wisely bound his wrists behind his back. He'd been left alone for the past god-knows-how-long, all the while fidgeting with his hands; his new visitor had a bucket down by his feet. Icarus immediately recognized it as the source of the perfluorocarbon stench.

"I am going to make this very simple for you. I will kill you. My boss knows who you are. My boss also understands your stubbornness and does not wish to waste anymore resources on you so now I am allowed to do as I please. I am taking the liberty of giving you a chance to pick when you die, however. If you give me something useful I will grant you an immediate death. Your friend does not have this privilege so do not attempt to negotiate on her behalf."

Icarus said nothing and for a long moment, Platt stared straight at him while taking another drag from the cigarette in his fingers. "Very well." Icarus had anticipated the bucket being brought closer but his attention was so focused on it that he'd completely missed the cigarette, brushing it off as Platt simply reaching to grab him, until he felt the burn of it smolder into his already-injured cheekbone. Icarus jerked his head back, screaming, and Platt kept pushing until the paper thing was a crumpled up completely. Icarus didn't have a chance to recover before his head was abruptly shoved into the bucket. He knew struggling was pointless but he couldn't help it, instincts kicking in and forcing him to fight back despite the futility. Eventually he had to take a breath. The second the perfluorocarbon ran down his throat, he choked on a coughing fit. It rapidly filled his lungs and Icarus had to heave to get anything going in or out. The change in density made respiration difficult and his head go light. For a few seconds there was peace when his body finally adjusted. Then his head was yanked back up again.

"Do you know what lingchi is?" His perfect accent and enunciation of the Mandarin term caught Icarus totally off guard. Who the hell was he? The sudden realization that Platt was lying hit Icarus like train. Platt wasn't going to kill him anytime soon regardless of what Icarus did. He was going to let Icarus believe that was the plan and drag this out for as long as he could. Now he understood; death would not be welcomed until Platt permitted it. Platt would go on and on until Icarus either succumbed to his injuries or his mind finally snapped.

Fine then. Bring it on.

Platt was in his face again. "Of course you do, who am I kidding." He laughed then, and released his hold on his victim's hair. Icarus fell on his side then subsequently hacked up everything filling his lungs in an ugly cacophony of wheezing and vomiting. Tears streamed down his face as residual goo stung his eyes, blurring his vision. Platt began to roll up his sleeves. "I'll tell you something. The longest survivor of a live flaying lasted six whole fucking days. You know how long the salted one did?" He roughly smacked Icarus' face as if to grab his attention. "Four. You probably knew that, too."

Icarus squinted in the dim lighting, trying to get a better look at his captor. Then it clicked.
"Danylo Dog Butcher." Shit, one of Asimov's right-hand men.
"Good morning, Icarus the Fallen. You live well up to your reputation, not ten minutes and you already identify me. You have given Mister Asimov quite a headache. I am honored to be able to see you in the flesh. Unfortunately you are also quite dirty so I will refrain from shaking your hand."

Platt -well, Danylo- didn't seem surprised. A hint of amusement but otherwise no indication of how he felt about being recognized. Icarus knew Danylo wasn't the man's real name but that was what he went by. He had a feeling he also suspected where the rest of the pseudonym came from... As if reading his mind, Danylo said, "Would you like to see my dogs? Beautiful creatures. All of them minimum thirteen generations of the finest champion lines. Not that garbage show-line bullshit, I mean actual champion line. Well rounded working breeds. Do you know how magnificent it is to be able to see a dog do what it was made for?"

Icarus continued worrying at his left thumb.

"Not one of them has ever eaten kibble. I feed them only the finest meats God has to offer. They probably eat better than you." He chuckled and stepped forward to haul Icarus upright by his shirt. "Let's go meet them. They love people."

His thumb snapped.

Fortunately the sound of his basal joint and metacarpal fracturing was muted due to the small size of the broken bones involved but Icarus couldn't help hissing from the pain. He struggled in Danylo's grasp. Danylo moved pick up Icarus off the floor but by then Icarus had already managed to free his left hand from his binds. Icarus grabbed Danylo's leg and pulled, taking advantage of the natural bend in his knee. Danylo instantly fell down to kneel and Icarus moved to pull his captor into a headlock. Danylo was a large man but was by no means out of shape. With a quick whip forward, Icarus found himself flipped forward straight over Danylo and flat onto his back. The concrete floor knocked the wind out of him. Danylo used the opportunity to scramble to his feet and out of reach. He pulled a knife from one of his pockets as Icarus staggered upright. The men began to circle each other. Danylo feigned a a jab forward and laughed when Icarus jerked back clumsily. His vision was hazy, footwork off and form incorrect- hell, he could barely stand upright. A car wreck and the several subsequent beatings severely impeded his ability to fight so if he was careful and lucky then maybe, just maybe...

Fumbling with his belt, Icarus pulled it out from the loops in his pants and held both ends on each fist. Danylo chose to change their rotation direction from counter-clockwise to clockwise and for a few more cycles they continued that way. Finally, Icarus stepped forward to force Danylo in the opposite direction, and lashed out. The metal end of the belt whooshed past Danylo's head, as anticipated, but in turn Danylo had stepped right into the bucket of perfluorocarbon that had been sitting there forgotten for the past several minutes. The Dog Butcher staggered and that's when Icarus moved in. He kicked out, the base of his shoe hitting Danylo straight in the abdomen. Danylo hunched forward and groaned but did not fall. Icarus quickly wrapped both end of the belt around his hands and lurched forward to wrap them around Danylo's neck. He twisted, pulled, and put out a leg to push against Danylo. Naturally, Danylo grasped at the leather around his throat in an attempt to pull it off all the while screaming angrily. His shouts were cut off into gasping. Icarus pulled harder and Danylo retaliated by lashing out with the knife still in his hand. The blade hit it's mark, a large gash tearing up the side of Icarus' thigh. Before Danylo could strike again Icarus leaned to the side and shoved Danylo away, releasing him. Still stunned from the lack of adequate oxygen, Danylo was too slow to move out of the way when Icarus kicked at his head. His head swung straight into the wall but that apparently only made him angrier.

Icarus took a wobbly step back as Danylo got up again. And then Danylo laughed. Icarus braced himself, expecting the other to charge, but was met with another stab of pain- this time in his shoulder as Danylo's knife came flying at him. Icarus screamed, losing his grip on the belt, and that's when Danylo decided to charge. He swung out with an uppercut. Icarus stepped back to dodge, just barely missing. Again, and again, and again. Finally Danylo had him nearly backed against the wall. Icarus pulled the knife from his shoulder and held it up, both arms shaking. He was beginning to grow dizzy.

Danylo laughed again. "That's it? You disappoint me. Think fast." He jabbed at Icarus and smiled when the man flinched. "Come on. Do something. Move, move." Danylo did this several more times, each hitting only air. Malicious play. He was toying with him. Icarus made the mistake of trying to go at him with the knife but was consequently knocked over with a harsh hit directly at his ear. He went down hard, knife skittering away somewhere out of sight. Danylo seized the opportunity to get on top and pin him by the throat. He pulled his arm back, and punched hard. Icarus was nearly knocked unconscious, blackness beginning to seep in the edges of his vision. Danylo prepared himself for another blow.

He failed.

In a last ditch effort to save himself, Icarus miraculously managed to grab the handle of the empty pail laying nearby and knocked it against Danylo's temple. The thin metal receptacle pathetically caved in upon impact but had done it's job long enough for Icarus to swing once more. Danylo fell to the side, a trickle of red staining the side of his head. Icarus sat up, held the bucket with both hands, and screamed as he brought it down on Danylo's neck. There was a crunch, and then no more. Danylo didn't move.

Icarus left.

At first Delilah had held herself together well. At first she'd just internally repeated the pledge of allegiance while getting the shit beaten out of her, occasionally throwing a few quips at her captors. Then her sarcastic remarks stopped, and she just didn't talk at all. Then she started begging them to stop, screaming until her voice was so hoarse she could no longer make a sound. They had continued the torture of shooting her, pretending they were going to, and alternated a bit by beating her senseless. She flinched at every bullet fired, resisting the desire to whimper and squirm away like a beaten dog, but still kept her integrity. There was no way in hell she was giving these assholes what they wanted.

They extracted some of the bullets from her (which was completely unnecessary given that they were nowhere near any of her vital organs) in a rather brutal method and patched her up, letting her sit for a while in complete silence. One might think that was nice, but under the circumstances, she would have given an arm to have something to distract her from her wounds, even a leaky faucet. But there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of her heartbeat and breathing, and the screaming of her own mind. At some point she started singing to herself. Nothing terribly complicated, just a few lullabies she knew; something she hoped would calm her heart and distract her from her wounds. Her voice was not beautiful. It cracked every few seconds, hoarse from the hours of torture she'd endured, and the soft tune was almost painful to sing, but it was a distraction. It was something to get her mind off the aching in her legs, or the taste of blood in her mouth. It was something.

It could have been an hour, it could have been fifteen minutes, but before long her captors had returned, and this time they had a few new people with them. This was going to be lovely. They started by stripping her of any clothing she had been wearing, no doubt another form of psychological torture, and then they forced her onto the ground and bent her over backwards, binding her wrists and ankles to each other in an unnatural position. For the first couple of minutes it wasn't too bad, but then her muscles and joints started to ache with the tension of being forced into turning directions they had not been created to. Her back especially was loudly protesting. After it was clear that this position was beginning to bother her, they began questioning her again. "Who do you work for?" "What country are you from?" "What were you looking for?" "Tell us what the CIA is planning." "We know you work for them." All of them took turns questioning her, yanking her hair and continuing the earlier process of punching the shit out of her. Well, they were nothing if not predictable.

This continued for another several hours. At some point they had blindfolded her, perhaps thinking depriving her of sight would make the torture worse. It did. With sight she had at least been able to prepare herself for their never-ending blows, but now she had no idea who was dealing what, what direction they were coming from, when they would strike, or anything of the sort. It was a small, but agonizing detail, just like everything else.

After a certain amount of time, Delilah stopped registering what was going on around her. She was still awake, but she'd stopped screaming, or fighting, or really doing anything. She just lay there and took it. In her mind she had gone somewhere else, somewhere far away from anything that was going on. She went back to the coffee shop where she'd first met the man who was probably somewhere in this building, and thought over how much she'd liked that little coffee shop in Paris. It was small, but it had smelled so heavenly of coffee and baked goods, and it had been so very warm. The people were friendly, save for the occasional mean-spirited person who came through, but even those people were short lived. It had been one of the nicest ops she'd ever been on. She remembered thinking she could spend her life as a barista in Paris, and looking back now she wondered why she'd ever joined the agency. She could have been serving old people their coffees for the rest of her life. Ah, what a quieter, simpler life that would have been.

They unbound her at some point, and somehow it hurt worse than being bound. It was enough to bring her out of her mental safe place, anyway. Her back refused to bend forward, and it felt like the breath was being knocked out of her any time she tried. And her legs... Oh her legs felt like they'd been broken in five different places. Her knees especially ached and screamed for some sort of respite, but it would not come.

After they had untied her, they picked her up and shoved her into a box of some kind. It was narrow and tall, perhaps two feet wide. She felt them close the door, hearing it shut mere inches from her face and she leaned forward a little- and her head touched something smooth. She couldn't tell if it was glass, steel, aluminum, or whatever other substance, but it was very cold, and it was just enough for her to fit in. Not enough for her to sit, lay down, or do anything else, so she was forced to just stand there on her aching legs. She wanted to lay down and curl into a ball, but that was physically impossible. She couldn't sleep, and though she was trying desperately to get back to her mental safe haven, it was not coming, and she started sobbing. Delilah hated crying, but it was the only form of relief her body could produce at the moment, and it was better to do it now than in front of her captors. Although for all she knew this was a glass box and they were watching her. The very thought made her squirm, and her arms bumped into the walls of the box she was in. It was so, so very small. A little voice started to whisper she was never going to get out. She was going to be stuck in this box forever and it was going to crush her. The hood on her head didn't help, as she could feel the warm air when she exhaled, and it just made the space feel that much smaller. Shestarted to feel like the air itself was suffocating her.

"God dammit get a hold of yourself," She whispered, fidgeting and fighting back the feeling of panic that was building in her stomach, threatening to take away her ability to breathe.

There was a noise from outside the box that distracted her. It sounded like... Crashing. Screaming. Fighting. Someone was fighting. It could have been her counterpart, or it could have been another prisoner that was kept in the wretched dungeon. Or maybe it was just someone getting the mess beaten out of them. The more she listened, the more she thought the latter wasn't true. It was definitely two people fighting, but there was no way to tell who was the prisoner and who was the captor. All she heard was grunts and yells of pain, then one more scream, and silence.