The grip around his arms is now starting to ache. He wriggles and thrashes a little against those iron-like arms, but the men are ignorant to any mercy. Connor growls, but the sound is subdued, and is only expressed to refresh the men’s memory of his displeasure of this arrangement. His ears flop back down to the sides.
As Connor feels the odd gravitational sensation of the elevator settling, the pit of his stomach quivers in fear. There is no telling who is on the other side of those metallic doors. And god only knows what business that person wants with him.
The doors slide back swiftly, and the men drag him out.
With a fleeting look around, Connor realises he’s in a hall, a very grand and sophisticated one. Hung on the walls are antique portraits and sketches of treasures and places from long ago. Vases and other fragile items rest on sleek oak tables, and a plush maroon carpet hugs the length of the floor. The carpet is so soft and welcoming to his sore bare feet, but the puzzlement of the situation does not allow for him to stop and relish this relief from his wounds. No, the frightened little lion darts his eyes, swallowing in his surroundings and stashing subconsciously the important details in his brain.
Not a few seconds later, the men are guiding him down the hall and through to another room. It looks like it’s been subjected to meetings regularly: a mahogany desk squats in the centre, and a small amount of chairs eagerly crowd it.
This whole place is very odd to Connor for two reasons: Firstly, a room like this is very foreign, and either belongs in a museum or out of the country. Mahogany wood, he thinks puzzlingly. Real wood is never used anymore, never. Not unless you want a fine for breaching the environmental laws act. And secondly, if this room is really required for a meeting of some sort, then would he be in one?
The men shove him carelessly onto the nearest seat, so that his tail is crushed against the back of the chair. He yelps in pain. The men laugh in unison.
Just as Connor prepares to spit an insult, the click of a lock stops him. The door on the other side of the room is heaved open. A suited man, face concealed with the shadows cast from dim lighting, enters.
The man crosses over slowly, limping. He places two arms, one encased in robotics, on the desk and is seated.
Connor’s mouth gasps open.
“I don’t doubt you are surprised to be in my presence,” the suit-man chuckles lightly.
“Mark Junior! Loren Mark! Why…I…you…what?”
Loren internally winces at the mention of “Junior”.
“So, he is remembering.”
Understanding the gravity of this situation, and under the presence he’s in, Connor is suddenly self-conscious.
“Oh god… Animal… I’m…”
Instinct makes him attempt to escape his seat and duck behind the desk, but the men either side of him simply reinforce their restraint by twisting his chest back into the chair.
When Connor is settled, his eyes humbly raise themselves to meet Loren’s own. To his surprise, they are calm.
“Do you not see me?” Connor says slowly.
“I see you clearly,” Loren mimics back in the same tone.
“Then…how…?”
Loren leans back in the chair, and makes a rolling gesture with his hand towards Connor. “Shall I leave you a few moments to figure it out?”
Subconsciously, the lion begins to chew on his tongue. He mulls over the words, and then the previous events leading up to this very moment.
“So… you sent for me?”
“Correct.”
“But… how did you know where I…”
Connor sits up straight. “You knew I was kidnapped, and where I was?"
“Precisely.”
“Then why wouldn’t you do something…”
Connor’s forehead wrinkles in thought.
Loren closes his eyes, and breathes out quickly in frustration, wishing that his victim’s intelligence would work just that fraction faster.
Connor’s eyes widen.
“You! You’re responsible!”
Loren claps his hands gleefully. “And the penny drops! Bravo!”
Snarling, Connor jerks his limbs and tries to free himself from the men’s hold.
“Bastard!” he screeches ferociously. With an enormous roar, he lunges at the men, paws slashing the air and into the guard’s biceps. The ropes binding him draw tight, and as each movement gathers blood on his claws, the binds on his stomach constrict further. The pain blinds him. All the emotions of all his past come up to engulf him in this single moment.
Loren edges his chair back a few inches with his functioning arm and leg, but nevertheless, he is still confident in his men and their strength. He slithers out of his suit jacket and rests it on the back of the chair. He waits, expression completely neutral, for Connor to lose his breath.
A minute later Connor is still thrashing, but the movements are laboured. His eyes are red, and his chest is heaving.
“Connor, please. Don’t waste your strength. I merely want to talk.”
Connor growls menacingly.
“I know you’re brighter than this, Connor. You need to listen to what I have to say.”
“Don’t. Want. To.” Every word is punctuated with a flick of his ears and an involuntary spasm.
Loren arches forward. “I’m not giving you a choice. I never did.”
The knuckles that clasp together the mastermind’s hands glow from strain. He takes a deep breath. “You will do something for me. And in return… you will be saved.”
“Do you think I have something to live for?” Connor sneers. “I have nothing,”
“Ah, but that isn’t true. I still have a bargaining chip,” Loren chirps smugly. “I have your life.”
Connor’s eyes widen a fraction.
“Yes, Connor, despite what you tell me, despite everything you’ve been through, you would rather sell your soul then die. You’re afraid of death.”
Connor’s mouths twitches.
“Your survival instinct streams through your veins, Connor. Is that not what you’ve done for the past three years? Survive?”
I’ve been in a cell for three years? The tiny voice in Connor’s head says, squeezing itself past the barrier of hatred and fury clouding Connor’s perception.
“I will never—”
“Quiet,” Loren orders, cutting off what would have been the start of a classic defiant speech. “Here’s my bargain. You will present yourself to the media as an animal hybrid. You will learn lines, and feint the feeling in them. You are an actor by trade: it shouldn’t be too difficult. And for your trouble, your life will be spared.”
“I will never carry out that bullshit for you.”
“You will comply, or I will slaughter that bear roommate of yours.”
Connor grunts, and spits out saliva at Loren. It falls short a few inches onto the desk.
Disgusted, Loren stands. His working arm is slightly bent and pushing against the top of the desk in a pose of aggression.
“Disobeying prisoners warrant punishment.”
He limps around the desk with an ugly scowl plastered across his face. Carefully, he removes a blade from the belt around one of the guards. With narrowed eyes, and an agonizing squeal from the lion, he plunges the blade down sharply so that it pierces Connor’s arm. Blood gushes from the wound in gluggly movements. The knife is left there, but Connor is afraid to remove it, despite the fact that the pain is so vivid black spots start to dance across his eyes.
“You’re not even worthy of a goodbye,” is all Loren says as he advances to the door. He’s made it there when he utters to his henchmen “Knock him out.”
The black spots morph into a full wash when the men thwack the side of his skull. One brief, fleeting thought sparks in his brain before his world slips away: I think I’m almost used to unconsciousness.
Gender:
Points: 5950
Reviews: 75