Entry tags:

becker

WHO: Becker and OTA Jack Harkness!
WHAT: Becker’s been cursed, hello trauma!
WHEN: Today
WHERE: Outside the complex (or in Afghanistan if you’re him)
RATING: Rated for images of war and unpleasantness of that sort. Becker believes he’s back in Afghanistan when he was captured behind enemy lines. If anyone approaches him, it should be done with caution, he is a highly skilled soldier who will see everyone as an enemy at the moment.
STATUS: complete as a narrative, open if anyone is brave enough to tag him!

The heat of the desert scratched at his skin, the sand stinging at his eyes and throat. Captain Becker, of Her Majesty’s Special Forces, and now he was crawling on his knees. He needed shelter, he needed water, he needed to get out of this hellhole of a country. During his first tour he had been so cocky, so confident. Now on his second, he was just tired. Body and soul kind of tired. And covered in bruises and burns, open cuts that were in danger of being infected. He had been in that holding cell for days, or what had felt like days. Hard to tell when there were no windows, no light, no way of telling any sense of time passing. They had beaten him, tortured him, taunted him with the bodies of his men who had been captured with him. Laughing as he defiantly spat blood back in their faces.

At least the majority of his squad had gotten away. That was his duty, wasn’t it? To stay behind, to be the last out, to ensure their safety even at the cost of his own. Four had been captured in the end. He was the last alive. But none of them had broken, their country could be proud of them for that at least.

He had escaped though. Maybe. Becker couldn’t even tell any more. Twice he had attempted to break free before, making it to the edge of the building, even a few feet away the second time, before he had been dragged back in, kicking and shouting, making the kinds of threats that would have made his mother flinch while his father looked a little proud. He wondered if his father would be proud now, of his son who would probably soon be dead at the hands of the Taliban, body unlikely to ever be recovered. How long was it before soldiers missing in action were officially declared dead? For some reason that question stuck in his head as a very very important one, one that he was determined to remember the answer to, so much that he laughed until it turned into a hacking cough. Water. It had been a while since he’d had water, hadn’t it?

It was probably the dehydration that stopped him even being sure what was real any more. Was he dreaming that he was outside? When he closed his eyes he thought he was back in that pit of darkness, or perhaps that was when his eyes were open and the harsh sunlight burning at his face was actually the dream? He tried to crawl on a bit further before he collapsed against the ground, arms trembling slightly as he tried to keep his weight up and failed. Just a moment then. Just a moment on the ground and then....

Then he opened his eyes again and it was black. Dark. It had been a dream, he hadn’t escaped, he was in that cell and soon they would be back with their sticks and blades and matches, trying to drag any hint of useful information from him. Becker began to actually laugh, a pained hysterical sound. He would not break, could not break, he would keep his mouth shut until his body finally gave out on him. It was the last thing he could do for his country and his friends and he would not fail them. He glared into the darkness defiantly, a faint snarl appearing on his face as he taunted the captors who would no doubt be lurking in there.

“Bring it on, you ugly sons of bitches.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Captain Becker, who had really escaped Afghanistan years before, who had never actually broken, collapsed against the wall of the Complex, slightly hidden in the shadows of the side of the building, his eyes darkened with fury and yet utterly unseeing of the world truly around him, just another victim of the witch’s curse.