He shouldn’t have been surprised to be there. He should have known it was only a matter of time before one of the mercenaries who weren’t too pleased about Gray giving him control of the Gamble turned on him. He’d been asleep on the when they grabbed him, woken by rough hands grasping his arms, his groggy intoxicated state keeping him from being able to fight back. His throat closed in on itself with their hands on him, something shoved into his mouth to keep him silent and a bag thrown over his head. Sparks flew off him, but he was too disoriented and high to control anything. At some point they’d hit him over the head, knocking him out to keep him from struggling.
Panic wasn’t the right word for what Isaac felt when his eyes blinked open and he felt a sickening familiar texture of cement floor under his cheek and the sight of bars on a cell. He sits up hastily, head suddenly swimming and throbbing from where he’d been hit. A cold sweat breaks over his skin, and he realizes he doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but clearly it had been long enough for the withdrawal to settle into his bones. Eyes darted around the cold cell, his stomach so nauseous that he thought he was going to throw up. It all felt too familiar, and he couldn’t help but feel a shake in his fingers. He looks up, eyes connecting with a woman he didn’t know. His voice came out quiet from his parched throat. “Where the fuck am I? What’s going on?”
@liz-bateman
