This short piece was prompted by a line I wrote in A Breath-defying Situation. It got stuck in my head, and before I knew it the muse stole it and ran away with it. I'm not sure what to do with it yet, because this in itself seems pretty final, but maybe I can work it into something larger.

It is a 'depressing' piece according to one guest reviewer, so please don't read if that's not your thing. And, of course, it contains violence.

Update - As requested yet again, I will try and develop this further. Actually, it was praemonitus praemunitus saying "please". I'm a sucker for well mannered people. Oh, and this is not a death-fic. Just couldn't do it.

DANNY BOY

PREFACE

The old, battered pickup truck pulls up near a deserted part of the beach. Three men get out, unnoticed in the darkness of the early morning. One of them pulls back a piece of tarpaulin, then they drag out a body. After pulling it halfway towards the water's edge, the men unceremoniously dump their cargo in the sand.

Removing a piece of paper from his pocket, the oldest of the three opens it, then places it on the body's chest. With one swift move he rams a knife through the paper into the chest. Slowly, very slowly, blood begins to seep into the paper, but the words written with a thick, black marker remain legible.

FOR YOU, DANNY BOY !

You, Steven McGarrett, you are so incredibly stubborn, you even refuse to lie down and die. Which, if I may remind you, you found necessary to prove on so many occasions, I don't even want to try and count them.

The memory had caused a little smile to play around his lips. Danny, always on his case about his character flaws, always harassing him about how inhuman he is; harassing him about his so-called super ninja SEAL strength.

He had frowned then, knew how sorely disappointed Danny would be, how mad Danny would be when he found out that this time his strength hadn't been enough to save him.

If he ever found out. If they ever found him.

It was embarrassing to realize that eventually they'd probably discover he'd been taken in his sleep, in his own bed, in his own house. That all he had been able to do was knock over the glass of water on the night stand.

Maybe they'd find evidence of the needle incapacitating him; they might even find traces of the injected substance that had raced through his system with such speed that he could barely lift himself up from his bed before darkness swallowed him whole.

But they'd most likely never know how he woke up, where he woke up. Dressed in just the loose cotton pajama pants he'd slept in, shivering on a cold, hard concrete floor, the aftereffects of the drug causing wave after wave of nausea.

There had been no respite, no chance to wrap his mind around the situation, no possibility to get his bearings or puzzle out some strategy. The moment they found out he was awake, they had come for him, dragged him along despite the fact he started vomiting the minute he was pulled to his feet.

He was strung up like a punching bag, hands and feet stretched and chained to ceiling and floor, so he couldn't move out of the way, couldn't evade a single punch. The beatings had been brutal, methodical, and above all, silent. His hoarse screams of Why? and What the fuck do you want from me?! unanswered, ignored.

And every time he tried lunging at one of his abusers, whenever they came for him, another one of them would halt his effort by using something resembling a cattle prod, delivering a jolt of electricity so powerful that it turned his muscles to jelly, stopped his breath.

On one occasion it even stopped his heart, after he had stubbornly refused to back down and they had kept delivering the current to his body time and time again. He came back to reality with one of his abusers sitting on top of him, fanatically compressing his chest, causing at least one more rib to fracture.

After that, they had left him alone for a while, but had come for him again soon afterwards. He had realized then that they hadn't wanted to prevent his death, just merely wanted to draw out the process of dying for as long as possible, making him suffer as much as they could.

They had used leather gloves for his upper body, his face, both now slicked with blood. For his arms and legs they had reverted to baseball bats, expertly aiming at his joints, his bones. His muscles had offered some protection from the abuse, shielded the bones from impact, but on too many occasions he had felt something give way.

Danny was right, in as far as this not being the first time he was in this position; he'd been there more times than he actually cared to remember. However, never had it been this methodical, this anonymous, or this constant.

Time was difficult to keep track of, but the intervals between the beatings never lasted more than a few hours, if that; a short time in which to try and collect himself, make an inventory of which new injuries to add to the list. And through it all, there had been no answers, no food, and no water.

So he had finally ended up at that last stage of the process.

He'd known when he had gone into shock, not only due to the beatings but also the result of blood loss and lack of fluid intake. His body no longer produced any sweat, any urine; his breathing was rapid and shallow, and he continued to slip in and out of consciousness until he was barely aware of things. One of his last coherent thoughts was an apology to Danny, for letting him down, for not being able to meet his expectations.

The next two beatings hardly drew a response, except for the breath huffing out of him whenever a punch landed on his stomach, or a soft moan when a fist landed in his side, the bat struck another limb.

When they came for him that final time, he hardly registered being dragged along, being hoisted up with the chains. The beatings no longer elicited any response from him, except a barely noticeable shiver running down his body every time a fist impacted, every time a baseball bat struck.

After much less time then usual, his abusers stopped. The voices of the three men conferring with each other just barely reached his subconsciousness as a vague, monotonous murmur. He didn't hear the phone conversation, didn't register the man speaking a few short words.

Slipping further down beyond oblivion, suspended unmoving from the ceiling, he wasn't aware of one of the men going towards the table along the wall, picking up a heavy baseball bat.

He never sensed the man walking up to stand behind him; the powerful blow delivered to the back of his head caused a soft sigh to escape his mouth as his body suddenly went rigid for a moment, a prolonged shudder running through his bloodied frame.

When he relaxed and remained completely still, the men released the chains, causing his body to slump to the ground. He hadn't felt being dragged out of the room, out of the house and then being dumped into the back of a truck. He hadn't felt anything anymore.

He had proven Detective Daniel Williams, formerly of New Jersey, wrong.

This time, all he could do was lie down and die.