PROXIMITY

Chapter 2

Present day

Scott stirred.
A groan forced its way out through clenched teeth. His jaw felt welded shut, like it had locked in place during the fall and never released.
The last memories ran on repeat behind his eyelids. Maxine, upright one second, then folding as the butt of a rifle caught her from nowhere. Her body hitting hard. Scott shouting her name, already moving, boots slapping metal, sprinting toward the aircraft because his body decided before his brain did.
He remembered running. He remembered the aircraft growing larger. Then the tape tore.
A blank strip where time should have been.
Then a hit in the chest that stole his legs. Not pain at first, just shock, like he’d been punched by a wave. A half-second of weightlessness as his feet left the deck. His stomach lifting. His arms pinwheeling for balance that never came.
Then harsh reality as his ass found the ground.
Shouting. Threats. The sound of boots. Someone yelling orders in a language he could not hold on to. A gun close enough that he could smell oil and burned residue. The metallic tang of fear in his own mouth.
Then Xavier.
No, someone who looked exactly like Xavier.
Same face. Same hair. Same expression, down to the lines that cut beside the mouth. That was what made Scott’s brain snag, the same way it snagged when you saw your own reflection move a fraction late.
But different. Colder. Like a version built to do a job and feel nothing.
An alternate.
Then blackness.
His eyelids fluttered.
Water pressed over his face.
Cold, heavy, unyielding. It sealed every opening at once. His mouth, his nose, his eyes. His brain fired an instant command to breathe, then met the wall of wet cloth and liquid. He tried anyway. Instinct ignored logic.
He got water.
He lurched, but his body moved in a sick arc, bobbing up and down, like he was floating and being dragged at the same time. Hands kept yanking him under. He felt fingers on his shoulders, on his chest, gripping hard enough to bruise.
A boot came down on his head.
It pinned him.
He couldn’t see who wore it. He couldn’t see anything, only churning gray and white as light broke through the froth. He broke the surface for a fraction, lips just clearing the water, and snapped at air.
The boot forced him down again.
His lungs burned, then tightened into a hard fist. His chest tried to expand and could not. Panic swarmed in, hot and sharp, and carried him away from thought.
He lasted as long as he could.
Then his body demanded breath.
Human nature. The fight mechanism. The reflex you could not veto.
He inhaled and got water.
Scott snapped upright with a violent gasp.
He coughed until his throat tore. Water ran off his cheeks and chin and dripped somewhere below him, steady as a tap left on. His heartbeat crashed in his ears, a heavy thud that sounded too loud for a room.
His eyes opened, and the world hung wrong.
People stood around him, but they seemed upside down, shapes above his knees, legs where faces should be. It took a moment to realize he was tipped back, staring up at them from a steep angle. A wet towel lay across his chest, darkened and heavy. The smell of chlorine wafted through his nostrils.
“Enough!”
The voice cut through the roar in his head.
The water stopped.
The pressure lifted from his face. His head lolled forward. He coughed again, gagging, trying to clear his mouth and nose. Salt and water ran down the back of his throat. His lungs fired in short, desperate bursts that still felt insufficient.
His view shifted.
The entire frame under him tilted. Hinges squealed. The device he was strapped to rose, bringing him upright. The movement dragged his stomach and made the room spin.
Bright lights burned into his eyes.
Two of them. Close. Overhead. They punched straight through his vision and left a floating stain when he blinked. He squeezed his eyelids shut, but the glare pressed on anyway, hot and white.
“Welcome back.”
The voice sounded calm. Controlled. It did not match what had just happened.
Scott forced his eyes open to slits. The man in front of him stayed mostly a silhouette against the lights. He saw the outline of shoulders, a head angled slightly, as if the man studied him like a problem. Other figures shifted at the edges, shadows moving in and out of the halo.
Scott tried to move.
He could not.
Leather straps pinned his wrists. Another band held each ankle. A thick fastening crossed his forehead, holding his head still. The straps were old and stiff, like they had absorbed sweat for years. They bit into the skin. His hands were numb where the leather compressed nerves.
He was naked.
Cool air slid over his body. It raised gooseflesh and shame at once. The chair beneath him felt hard and slick. He could feel water pooling in the curve of his spine, running down and soaking whatever surface sat under him.
“What do you want?” he rasped.
The words came out broken. His lips felt swollen. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
The lights dipped, just enough to let him see without wincing. The afterimage still floated when he blinked, a bright coin stamped on his retinas.
“Where is the one you call Xavier?”
Scott tried to swallow. His throat clicked.
“I… I don’t know.”
He barely recognized his own voice.
“Again!”
The chair tipped back.
Scott’s stomach lifted as gravity shifted. He fought it, tried to brace, but the straps held him helpless. A wet towel slapped over his face, covering eyes, nose, mouth. It sealed against skin, warm for a fraction, then cold as water hit.
A flood poured over him.
Fast. Constant.
It forced itself into his nostrils, into his lips, into any gap it could find. The towel clung to his face like a hand.
He thrashed. Leather creaked. His shoulders burned. He tried to lift his head and could not. He tried to twist away and found only restraint.
He tried to shout.
He inhaled water instead.
His lungs seized. He coughed and sucked in more. His body convulsed, fighting for air that would not come. His heartbeat went wild, hammering against his ribs, then against his skull.
Next to the roar of water, he heard other sounds.
A chair leg scraping slightly on the floor. A quiet murmur between two people. A faint click, like someone checking a timer or turning a dial.
He tried to count seconds. One. Two. Three. His brain slipped. Panic consumed numbers.
The chair snapped upright again. The towel ripped away.
Scott gasped, sucking air so hard it hurt. He coughed, spraying water. It ran from his nose in a thin stream. His eyes flooded with tears. He blinked them away and stared at a blurred shape that must have been the interrogator’s face.
“Where is the one you call Xavier?”
“I’ll say anything,” Scott panted. “I’ll do anything.”
“Where is he?”
“They went to the shuttle.”
The words spilled out before he could stop them. A desperate offering.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
His voice rose at the end, like a plea.
“Again!”
Tilt. Towel. Water.
Scott’s mind screamed No.
His body didn’t care.
The water hit, and the world shrank to wet cloth and suffocation. He thrashed until his muscles cramped. His wrists flared with pain where the straps cut in. His ankles jerked until tendons screamed.
He could feel his chest straining. A deep crackle inside, as if something in him was about to fail, as if his lungs were tearing. His vision flashed, spots exploding behind his eyelids. He tasted metal. He wanted it to end. He did not care how.
Then the chair rose again before he crossed the line.
Air returned like a punch.
Scott hung forward, coughing hard enough to fold him. His stomach lurched. He gagged, and bile stung his throat.
“I’ll tell you anything,” he mumbled. “Anything you want.”
His head swam. He couldn’t focus on faces. He tried anyway. He caught fragments.
A wristwatch on someone’s arm. Dark strap. Reflective face.
A ring. A pale glint as a hand moved.
A faint smell of cigarettes on someone’s breath, stale and close.
“Where is the shuttle?” he asked.
“I… I’ll tell you anything.”
“Where is the shuttle?”
“Anything.”
“Cables!”
Hands gripped his chest. Cold metal pinched both nipples. Clamps. They bit into skin, sharp and humiliating. He sucked in a breath and felt his lungs protest.
Electricity snapped through him.
Scott arched so hard the straps groaned. A raw cry tore out of him. His teeth clenched until his jaw felt like it would crack. The jolt ended, leaving behind a pulsing, deep ache.
He tried to brace himself .
He couldn’t.
Another hit came without warning.
Then another.
Random gaps. Random length.
No rhythm to prepare for, no pattern to survive. His thoughts broke apart. Pain turned his brain to noise. He could not hold a sentence. He could not hold a name.
He waited for the next strike.
“Where is it?”
“It’s here,” he slurred. His tongue felt thick and useless. “It must be here. We were here. We got separated. I don’t know where he went. Please.”
His eyes drifted shut. He forced them open again, terrified they would leave him there in the dark and start again.
“Shears!”
Metal scraped close by.
Blades opened and closed. The sound landed low in his gut, heavy and final. It was the sound of a choice.
“Please,” Scott said. The word came out wet. “Anything. His name is Xavier. That’s all I know.”
A slap cracked across his face.
The impact snapped his head sideways. Pain bloomed across his cheek. For a second, the room sharpened. The lights. The silhouettes. The man in front of him, closer now.
Scott blinked and saw more.
The interrogator’s mouth. A thin line.
Eyes that did not blink often.
A faint sheen of sweat at the hairline, or maybe it was just the light.
Someone stood to the side, holding the shears. Their hands were steady, as if this was routine.
The blades opened again.
Scott felt cold steel touch him.
His breath stopped.
Every muscle in his body locked. His stomach clenched so hard it hurt. He tried to pull back and could not. The straps held him flat and exposed.
His mind cleared in a violent surge.
Fuck.
The threat jolted his neurons into a frantic, bright storm.
“I want you conscious when we do this,” the man said.
His tone stayed level. Almost bored. That was worse than rage.
“Now, I will count back from three. When I get to zero, if you haven’t told me, you will lose your cock. No second chances. We can only play this once. So if you value it, you’ll start talking. I don’t care about your beliefs. I want information.”
Scott’s throat worked. He tried to breathe without shaking.
“Yes,” he yelled. “Yes. I’ll fucking say whatever you want.”
The words ripped out of him, too loud, too desperate. His voice echoed off tiled walls. He heard it bounce back at him.
“My name is Scott. Xavier found me in an airport bathroom. Put an app on my phone. Then he…”
“Where does the shuttle go?”
Scott’s mind slipped again, the question landing where blank space lived. He reached for memory and found wet cloth and bright lights and Maxine falling and that face that looked like Xavier.
He grabbed at anything.
“Um,” he stammered. “He’s an entrepreneur. Or a lawyer. Or something.”
“Two.”
The man did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
“He’s assembling people,” Scott blurted. “He said something about a war. He’s got an army. Shit. I don’t know.”
“One.”
Scott’s eyes flicked to the shears.
They hovered.
Still open.
Still waiting.
“No,” he choked. “No. Fuck.”
He swallowed hard, fighting tears that burned hot behind his eyes.
“I’m an agent,” he said, forcing the words into shape. “A Sleeper agent. I think. Please. I don’t know anything else.”
“Zero.”
The blades scraped together.
The sound filled his head, huge and close, and for one sick second Scott believed he felt pressure, believed he felt steel closing.
His vision punched inward. The room narrowed to a tunnel. The lights turned into white streaks.
Then blackness.
Then nothing.