This cell was by no means made for comfort. In all likelihood, it was probably specifically designed for the opposite. First, it was small. Tiny even. When first thrown in here, Tony had spent days walking the perimeter, examining the situation. The cell seemed to be about twelve feet long and ten feet wide, much like the cells in the American prison system. The walls were made from some kind of rock. If he'd bothered paying attention in seventh grade geology class, he probably could have named the kind. Regardless, they were impenetrable. The lack of tools and his bloodied fingernails proved that in a heartbeat. The air was stale and decrepit. Dust particles were constantly visible as they glinted lazily in golden hue of the only source of sunlight that was given to them, a window with reinforced steel bars. These specks seemed to leach any remaining moisture that had gathered in the atmosphere, and due to poor ventilation, the dust had no way to exit. It ended up acting as a poor excuse for a cushion of the cement ground underneath. The heat fluctuated dramatically throughout the day, part due to poor ventilation, part due to the inconstant temperatures of their location. They were given nothing to accommodate or alleviate their discomfort. No blankets. No mattress. No change of clothes other than the ones they'd had on their backs when they were captured. And all though the remnants were practically in tatters now, Tony felt foolishly gracious for having them. They were, after all, one of the only things that kept on connecting him with the outside world.

Tony groaned as he pried his eyes open, blinkingly shaking away the dried, crusty dirt and grime and licked his chapped, bloody lips in some half assed effort to retain some moisture. His eyes burned from his swollen black eye and his left arm had fallen asleep after the most recent round of beatings left him unconscious on his side. Tony briefly considered shifting into an upright position, but that would only serve to aggravate the other injuries accumulated from his days in captivity. The 'shortage' of painkillers allowed each and every injury to remain as acute and tender as the day it was dispensed. It had become easier to count what didn't hurt than what did. The onset of a migraine had begun to make itself belligerently known as Tony tried to gather his nerves. Somewhere in the back of his head, he vaguely remembered the captors kicking him repeatedly in the face. No wonder he felt like shit. The dried blood that caked the left side of his face, audibly cracked as he stretched is jaw tentatively. Ouch. He weakly sucked in some air to clear his head but only ended up drawing in a torrent of dirt that had accumulated on the ground. The coughing fit that soon followed sent piercing pains across his chest. Probably a result of the bruised, if not broken ribs. At some point he'd given up on categorizing the level of pain. Once it all fused together, it just wasn't worth it anymore. Time for Plan B.

Tony's body lit on fire as he brought his right arm to the side and forced himself into a sitting position. Sweat trickled down his face as his migraine shot past level eleven. Tony ground his teeth together hard enough to draw blood, yet it was nothing compared to the agony rippling up and down his spine. If he still had the tears left in him to cry, he would have. All that kind of manly dignity had left him days, if not weeks ago. It took several moments for the pain to subside enough for him to pry his eyes open once more. Only to be left with a different type of pain. The kind that left no physical scars, but still left a dull ache in is heart. The kind that came from watching the ones you felt obligated to protect, but failed miserably. The kind that radiated from Tony as he faced his only other companion in this dusty, sorry excuse for a cell. Ellie Bishop.

The former NSA analyst turned probationary agent, no longer resembled the bright and bubbly young woman that had jumped for the opportunity in the NCIS world. During the first few days, Bishop had insisted that they could escape, after analyzing the situation with her NSA skills. Then she heavily relied on the fact that the rest of "Team Gibbs" would find and rescue them. Now Bishop seemed utterly defeated as she curled in a somewhat fetal position in the corner of the room. They'd beaten her badly. The exact details of how she'd gotten her injuries escaped him. Their captors had dragged her out of the room each time, while they generally ignored her when they took their turns on him. Bishop never talked about it. She never spoke much at all really. Not after the first few days. Her frail form was littered cuts and bruises. The wounds were never to deep; just enough to leave their mark, but Tony feared the dangerous men would escalate. They certainly had with him.

It was Bishop's eyes that gave Tony his unsettling feeling. That odd pain. The spark had left her eyes, now replaced with a hooded, glassy gaze. She generally ignored him now, instead folding into herself and staring fixated on the door. The only time her eyes would shift from the morose, glossy gaze was when these doors opened. Of course, they only exhibited fear. Tony knew she was counting down the seconds until the captors barged in again. Just waiting for the captors to come up with some new twisted form of making them talk. The captors were looking for information. They were aiming to gather Intel on the NCIS system, harness strategic mission data from the NSA, and cultivate agent and personnel data with extreme precision. All of this contributed to some mass terrorism act that they no doubted planned to execute in the future.

At first Tony thought they had gotten the wrong people. Although Team Gibbs was renown, if not infamous, within the organization and had some degree of a close relationship with its head, 'Special Agent' Anthony Dinozzo and 'Probationary Agent' Eleanor Bishop were not part of the vital information stream. Not to say he was clueless, Tony did have a certain awareness of how NCIS operated. Although Bishop never said anything, Tony eventually realized she had to have at least some degree of information concerning the NSA's actions, operations, and tactics. And captors as sophisticated as these had to know she held a position of importance within the agency. They had to know she had information and they were relentless in trying to get the information out of her. As far as he knew Bishop hadn't said anything yet. They were both obligated under the United States Constitution, judicial oath, and government law not to say a single word.

"It kind of reminds of that movie, the one where the pilot is shot down and taken prisoner by the enemy. And he must fight valiantly to protect himself and American freedom-" Tony mused. Anything to take his mind of the pain.

"Except we're not pilots. We're not in Laos. And we're not in the movie Rescue Dawn." Bishop interrupted dryly as she shifted her hollow gaze towards him. Her voice was hoarse. And it was obvious why, but Dinozzo knew she wouldn't talk about it so he deflected.

"How would you even know about that movie? Aren't you a little young?" Tony teased.

"It came out in 2006." She said with a tilt of annoyance. "Photographic memory remember?"

Tony felt a twinge of sympathy for Bishop. Her somewhat endearing, mostly annoying trait of being able to remember everything she'd ever done with a correlated food would undoubtedly come back to haunt her later. If they ever got out of this, she'd be associating bread and water with this forever. He chewed the inside of his bloodied mouth as they lapsed back into silence. Dinozzo rested his head against the wall as the migraine grew worse, but the pain steadily through worse. How was that even possible?

It had been fifteen days stuck in the hellhole. Fifteen days of food deprivation. Fifteen days of torture. Fifteen days of Gibbs and Mcgoo not coming for them. At this point the terrorists had to be getting antsy. It had been two weeks and they weren't getting information from them. They had already started upping the ante.

The temporary reprieve was interrupted by a fierce coughing attack. Bishop shivered violently in the corner from the sudden onslaught.

"Are you okay?" Tony asked. He got no response from the shivering probationary agent.

"Bishop. What did they do to you?" He repeated.

"I'm okay." She softly rasped, not even looking in his direction. Tony immediately saw through her attempt to deflect.

"What?" Tony asked incredulously.

"I'm okay." Bishop repeated louder.

"No you're not." Tony said.

"I'm okay." Bishop's voice turned steely and focused on him.

No you're not." Tony said.

"Yes. I am Tony." Bishop repeated louder.

"No you're not. You aren't allowed to say you're okay. And don't say you are again. Have you seen yourself Bishop! You look like Rocky after his fight with Apollo Creed!" Tony's voice rose with incredulousness.

"You're not any prize winner yourself." Bishop deadpanned.

"The difference is you've seen the shit get beaten out of me! They drag you out of this room every single time! I have no clue what they're doing to you! But you come in with these gashes and these bruises and these cuts. And then you don't give any explanation. And you don't talk to me for hours. For all I know you're- you're- they're" Tony exclaimed, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. All of a sudden, Tony deflated. Bishop's scandalized look gave him more than enough reason to shut up. His surge of adrenaline dissipated rapidly and thick, awkward silence replaced it. A few tense moments passed before anyone said anything again.

"I didn't say anything." Bishop muttered petulantly.

Silence.

"Y-you don't have to protect me. I can handle my self" She said.

"No. You can't. You technically aren't even an agent yet. You're a desk jockey. You can crunch all the numbers you want, but it's my job to protect you. It's called Senior Special Agent for a reason probie…" Tony told her. He made to move closer to her, but he stopped when she flinched away.

"What did they do to you Bishop?" he asked again softly as he could muster.

"I- They-" she began nervously, but instantly clammed up when the familiar sound of a keypad numbers being punched in. Tony cursed silently and steeled himself for what was to come.

The cell door flew open, revealing the face of the man Tony had come to dread in the last few weeks.

"Still not up to talking?" their captor asked cynically with a heavy Hispanic accent. "Let's see what we can do about that.