Being locked in a room with no windows had a way of messing with Jack's ability to keep track of time. Farragut popping in at random to grab a bite and wipe the offending memory clean wasn't helping, either.

Jack had been able to use the chair in the corner to reach the light's pull string, but, after being plagued by several vivid nightmares of being sucked dry and awakening disoriented and terrified, he opted to keep the light on.

A soft shuffling drifted through the door, and Jack breathed in deeply. Just how much blood could a person lose? Even if Farragut was treating him more like a lollipop than a soda, there had to be a limit.

The door unlocked and Farragut entered the small room. He looked at where the chair sat under the light and smirked at Jack. "Scared of the dark, huh?"

"Sure."

"Whatever. Shirt off," he said, holding out his hand.

Jack clutched at his sleeves and hunched further into himself. "What's wrong with my shirt?"

"C'mon, Sparky. Ain't you hot? You don't need to be shy around me," Farragut said as he dragged the chair over and sat backwards. "I've seen your scars. Helped patch you up a few times. Remember?"

Jack bit back a retort that Farragut had caused them. He slowly nodded as memories of Farragut lovingly kissing his back and arms over fresh bandages came forward. Soft whispers, begging him to behave and stop cutting into himself.

He closed his eyes and pulled off his shirt. Reluctantly, he handed it over. He did his best not to shake as he wrapped his arms around himself, put off by how solid the false memories were. Lurking just behind the images of Farragut's sweet and concerned smiles were hungry and malicious grins, firmly replacing the old memories.

He didn't want to remember.

Farragut reached over and lightly stroked Jack's hair. "There. That's better. I'm doing my best to keep you safe. See, my boss wants me to just kill you. But I said you'd be good this time around. You're gonna behave, right?" he asked, his voice quiet and pleading.

Jack nodded. He was beginning to doubt that Farragut ever worked for anyone else, relying on his acting skills and mind-fucking everyone around him to push the story that there was some mysterious ring leader in the background. But Jack didn't believe the sob stories anymore, and Farragut's mental hold wasn't ironclad.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Even in the past, the brainwashing wasn't enough. Bits of Jack and his need to escape still slipped through and managed to write a relatively harmless yet persistent virus to attach to his phishing emails and websites. He could do it again.

"Unfortunately," Farragut said as he stood, pulling Jack away from his plans, "your old job doesn't exist anymore. But, hey! Now, you get to lounge around all day. A nice little vacation without the worries of technology."

Jack's chest tightened as reality hit him. If he didn't have access to a computer… Maybe his phone? As if Farragut would let him. Thankfully, that would work in his favor. He was prepared this time.

By now, Tara should have sent him at least one stamina pack. If he didn't respond with a flower crown, then she would immediately be on guard. He found that out the hard way when she'd shown up at his apartment during a morning drinking spree. He never made that mistake again.

Now, he waited until sunset to really get blitzed.

"Can I get a deck of cards?" Jack asked.

He flinched as the door slammed shut. He figured his phone had been tossed out, or Farragut had it somewhere off site. Either way, Tara would notice he didn't log in and respond appropriately within their game. He hoped it would be enough to get more than just Sam looking for him.

And that he'd look into tracking down a dead guy.

Jack sighed heavily and crossed his arms over his knees. He was going to have to rely on someone finding him.

He ran his eyes over his arms. They weren't looking good. New cuts lined his skin where Farragut had gotten his fix. It brought a whole new meaning to "doing lines," and Jack wanted to laugh.

He rested his head on his arms, grimacing at the feel of raised scars and scabs hitting his cheek. He hated being reminded of them. He hated people knowing about them and judging him for something out of his control. Even more out of his control than he'd originally thought.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead against a long and ragged scab.

Kieran knew about them. He knew about them and hadn't said a word. Hadn't behaved any differently.

Except when Jack came out about being ace. No wonder Kieran had looked so confused. It wasn't the confession he'd been expecting.

Jack laughed bitterly as he raised his head to stare up at the ceiling. The damned bastard knew, but was waiting for Jack to come clean on his own. Stupid, thoughtful asshole.

But that only brought up the thought that Kieran was patient and accepting because he wanted Jack's blood. Did that count as one of Sam's compromises? Or was Kieran just weaseling his way into Jack's neck?

Did it even matter anymore?

image [https://i.imgur.com/eZY0YUq.png]