Log ➢ Dorian + Daisy ᴡʜᴏ: Dorian Pavus + Daisy Johnson. ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ: an abandoned warehouse on mesiac. ᴡʜᴇɴ: 25 January, late afternoon, maybe later. ᴡʜᴀᴛ: waking up. ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: abduction, side effects of being drugged, panic. sᴛᴀᴛᴜs:ongoing.
Think slowly, try to remember I'm alive
My body is here and I am inside.
Disoriented, Dorian blinked once, twice. There was a tinny, distant ringing echoing inside of his head and a dull ache that only perpetuated the sense of confusion rolling over him in constant waves. It was difficult for his eyes to focus, too, the world spinning around him and there wasn’t quite enough light to illuminate where he was. Shifting slightly, Dorian tried to suck in a deep breath to attempt to clear his head but the smell of where he was turned his stomach and he pitched forward, squeezing his eyes shut. This felt too much like those days when he had been young and stupid, drinking himself into blackouts and waking up in unfamiliar places with a fierce migraine, clothes dishevelled, and the complete and utter disappointment he had been striving to be to insult his father one more time.
Suddenly, a deep, grunting voice cut through the near silence, accompanied by a swift kick to the sole of his shoe. Dorian didn’t respond in time apparently as he earned another not-so-gentle nudge that almost sent him tipping back in the chair he was sitting on. Tied to, actually, though not for long as rough hands pulled at the bindings around his wrists as a metal sounding object clattered to the floor in front of him. Barely discerning the words water and eat, Dorian ignored them in favor of attempting to get a better look at who was speaking.
Through tall, high windows a dark sky loomed, cut by bright flashes of color that seemed to dance. It did little in the way of giving Dorian any clues as to where he was, nor did the fact that the vast, almost entirely empty room fell back into oppressive quiet after a creaking, heavy door slammed shut.
Leaning back, Dorian dragged his hands over his face. Exhaustion battled with anxiety and confusion, all of them wrapping around his insides, twisting them and wringing. Deep red marks cut across his wrists that were throbbing now that they were freed but the pain was vague, like his brain couldn’t process it which was fine with him. More pressing matters deserved his attention than the stinging, nagging sensation, predominate of them all being this sense of dread filling him up.
Against his better judgement, Dorian sipped carefully at the water that had been given to him. If it tasted funny, he barely noticed. He couldn’t spare a look at the food.
When the bottle almost fell out of his hands, Dorian capped it and put it down and that was when he noticed that his hands were shaking. Closing his eyes, Dorian remembered the sound of something cracking and hands on him, dragging him as the world closed in around him like a veil of darkness. No faces flashed in his mind, no voices. Nothing had been said to him before now, at least, that he could recall.
Dorian jumped at a warbling, rattling sound and it served only to set the world tumbling around him again, swirling violently until he managed to put his head between his knees. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Vertigo was an old friend, one he knew needed to be drowned in water but he couldn't stomach the thought of it at the moment.
It was hard to think, as if the spinning shook lose and tore apart his thoughts and it was all he could do to focus on breathing. Inspiration struck him suddenly only to crumble into disappointment; he had not had the chance to grab anything and if he had, it would likely have been taken away. The device he had been using to communicate was likely still resting on the nightstand, too far from him to be of any use.
A sense of helplessness poured into him then and as he blinked, the cold, drafty building turned into the elegant day rooms of his parents’ home, trapped and awaiting execution. That was what it felt like to him. Blood magic. The death of who he was.
Surging dread took over and he tried to stand, to follow that flight instinct, only to collapse limp and heavy to the ground. With arms too weak to drag himself, Dorian reeled back, returned to breathing. In and out.
Minutes or hours passed. Time sprinted and stuttered and the heavy, thick darkness and the fog in his head did nothing to help. His only solace was that he felt… better. The spinning was gone, though a pervasive weakness still clung to him. Still on the floor — with a quiet, nagging thought about the state of his clothes on this filthy, grimy tiling only further emphasizing the better — and curled up, Dorian pushed himself up on shaky arms and he glanced around again. Even without the entire place whirling on an awful axis, Dorian had no real idea of where he was. No sound drifted in to give him any information, only the flashing neon through the high windows. If they were signs, there was no reading them from this angle.
Frustrated and overwhelmed, but determined not to panic anymore, Dorian balled his hands into tight fists. Tight enough that his carefully manicured nails dug sharply into his palms, growing warmer, warmer, hot until he slowly took a deep breath in again and released it, feeling that heat simmer and eventually recede. His body felt jittery, disconnected, and magic in this state would do him no good. It would be more likely of him to incinerate the entire area and with no knowledge of where he was or the collateral, he wasn’t willing to risk any lives just to stumble out of here, clothes half-torn (and at that point, half-singed) like some kind of abomination only to collapse.
No, he would have to bide his time for now.
And in deciding that, Dorian finally realized that he was not alone. Three others were in the room with him, a gentleman and two young women. The pair furthest from him were huddled close and he recognized the man as Trevor, a colleague of Caroline’s. If there was any recognition on the man’s part, Dorian didn’t catch it in his unfocused eyes. The young woman with him clung to him fiercely and didn’t lift her head at all and even from here, Dorian could tell she was trembling violently but whether that was from fear, cold, or something else, he was uncertain.
Dorian’s pale eyes, then, moved to the other young woman. “Are you awake?” The words didn’t feel as if he had spoken them, his voice sounding strained and strange in his own ears.