Incongruous trap-star scientist lizardmother pumped & juiced for info by the baddguize
A/N: WARNING: Some scenes in this work do involve non-consensual sexual encounters and light torture.
*****
She awakens slowly like dust clearing from rubble. Eyelids fluttering without any real power behind them, a cold that keeps her from needing to breathe. She's hanging, gently, irrespective of gravity, manacles clinking against the hard wall as she makes her wakening struggle. Almost a soft sound, like rising on a Sunday; but then she becomes aware for the first time of her pain, and then her terror—and her senses fire open all at once.
It's difficult to take inventory in the dark, there with all the breathing and dripping that comes with basements, with the lack of windows, but still she knows she is aloft, suspended at least feet from the ground by only her wrists. Experimentally, she shakes her bonds, but they only scrape her along the hard stone behind her. She is nude, she realizes, naked in that post-biblical shameful way that exacerbates the seriousness of her captivity by marked degrees. She is silent for a moment after this, feeling her blood move, the bones of her wrists straining, the pull of musculature in her arms that makes her feel weak, heavier.
The room is dizzy. "Hello," she says, tentatively, with a thirsty tongue. It comes out low, no echo, hoarse from screaming. She realizes her body is sluggish, now—whether from exhaustion, poor circulation, or substance is impossible to tell. She's too panicked to panic, and turns her neck to the side to chew apathetically on her hair, a disheveled dirty-blonde waterfall hanging over her shoulder. It tastes like butane, antiseptic, cigarettes.
Memories of the nights past elude her. Working in the laboratory. Cleaning her minivan. Working in the lab. Working late. Installing shingles. Driving to the Circle K. Nothing that logically relates to her situation and the black holes are staying black. "Hello," she tries again, louder this time, carrying a vague echo back to her. The drips continue in the darkness for several more moments before a hatch unseals, and warm, industry-scented light floods into the room, brushing against her nose, raising the fine hairs all over her body into goosebumps. Beyond that hatch, something smells of escape, and she closes her eyes hard and wonders if it will come to her.
"Beauty," says her visitor, a man, dressed in dark garb with heavy boots that he drags across the floor. In front of her vision, backlit, wearing a hat. "You're stronger than you look."
Her disorientation hasn't faded. "Why am I here?" she asks, because it seems to be the question most likely to elicit a helpful answer.
"Anita." Now it sounds like he's smiling, but he's not talking to her. He reaches into one of his pockets, removing a syringe. "You're so fucking beautiful, it's almost a shame to do this."
Adrenaline isn't pumping. She feels calm, an accepting sort of dread. "What are you going to do to me?"
