Chapter Text
They came for him in the night.
All he had wanted was to mourn, to be alone, but they came for him like he was something that had to be hunted and trapped.
Skittering through his house like the rats he detested, there were so many. Too many. He fought, tooth and nail, but the pinch of a syringe kissed his arm, and he fell into darkness.
They took his mask. They took his doll. They took his home.
He did not know where they were taking him.
...
There were moments, one after the other.
He had fought and he had wailed; he had made more noise than he had in years, so they sedated him. He didn't know what was worse, the time lost to unconsciousness and haze or the bits where he was awake, but trapped.
They wouldn't let him move. His hands and feet were cuffed together and his jaw was locked with a mask that wasn't his .
People stared at him like he was an animal in a zoo. White coats with faces hidden behind masks. Brown coats with shiny badges.
Brahms suddenly knew how his parents and Greta and all of the other nannies must have felt having his eyes on them. It’s a distinctive feeling, being watched. Being picked apart and flayed open without even being touched.
...
"Pull over here."
"What? It's the middle of nowhere. I swear if you're losing it, too, I will dope you up and shove you back with the loon in the trunk."
"Don't be an asshole. I gotta take a leak and this is the middle of nowhere, right? Not a single place to stop for miles so let me piss unless you wanna watch me aim in a bottle."
"Oh, sick. Fuck no. Get out of here."
The vehicle suddenly jerking to the shoulder pulls Brahms back into reality. His whole body shifts to the side, but with his hands bound he has no way of catching himself. He simply tips over, laying there and listening.
The door opens, but he never hears it shut. Instead, he hears his captors shouting back and forth.
"Just make it quick, the doll guy creeps me out, and we've got to dope him up again soon."
"Why don't you just do it now while I'm taking care of business? Unless you're planning on watching of course. Could have told me earlier, though."
"You fucking wish. The way you talk about your house, though, it'd be better for you anyway."
"Yeah. Yeah. Go put Pinocchio to sleep, and maybe I'll let you have a peek."
The sound of the other door opening and the crunch of dry dirt along the side of the van has Brahms going tense and struggling to sit up once again. He won't face these men with indignity, even if he's slightly red-faced with exertion as the door swings open to reveal the blinding sun.
When he turns to look at him, the guard standing there stumbles back a bit.
"Shit! You're up? Damn. You're just gonna tear through our stock of tranqs, ain't ya? You were eating your Wheaties all this time, huh, kid?"
Utter nonsense. Nothing his captors said made any sense. Half of it was words that made Brahms' head spin and he was sure they were just making sounds to entertain themselves. He saw a syringe pulled from the bag slung across this man's chest, though, and he knew that meant more hazy sleep that he was sick of.
He flinches away, almost cowering from the pinch of the needle.
"Nice and easy, big guy, there we go."
Just as the needle is pulled from his arm, another vehicle comes whirring past kicking up a cloud of dust with its horn blasting and the man with the syringe stumbles back coughing and slams the door shut.
"I don't like that shit at all. Hurry your ass up and let's get out of here. I don't want to meet any of the locals."
...
"You're serious about sleeping here? Are you insane?"
"We've been on the road for hours. I'm beat, okay, and you're not looking any better than me. Just a quick catnap, alright? Then we'll be out of terror town and on our way back to civilization."
"Fuck. I hope so. Can't believe that fucking shortcut was blocked off. Could have saved us so much time, now we're hours behind. Fuck."
"Like I said, a quick nap. No worries."
...
Even drugged and exhausted, Brahms finds it hard to nap, though his captors seem to have no trouble at all.
The back of the van is too sterile and metallic to offer any comfort, so he is left to lay across the metal bench and wait for the vehicle to roll again.
He hears the crunch and stop of approaching tires. Hears a door open and softly shut. With his face pressed to the metal, he can feel the movement of something under the van being yanked . Then all of the previous sounds in reverse.
Then nothing but perhaps the faint scent of gasoline.
...
“We’re out of gas.”
“Out? How? We just fueled up in Baton Rouge! There’s no way we’ve used an entire tank by now.”
“Well, then you look at the gauge and tell me what it means when the little lever is on E, smart guy.”
“Fuck you. It just doesn’t make sense.”
As the transport van rolls to a sputtering stop, Brahms can hear one of the men up front slamming his door as he gets out. The crunch of gravel beneath his shoes echoes as he walks along the side of the van that Brahms is chained to. He breathes deeply, mind foggy from whatever they keep injecting him with, and almost dozes off when the door slams again.
“The fuel line has been ripped out!”
“What? How?”
“I don’t fucking know! We must have run over a stick or something and it caught.”
"Really? A stick?”
“You got any better ideas?”
“...”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Well, what the fuck do we do now?”
...
He can hear his captors moving around, bickering and swearing to themselves, but most importantly more focused on the vehicle and not on him. The haze of sedatives has lifted from him and he can finally feel his strength returning. A childish giggle bubbles up from his throat and echoes off the metal walls.
"Won't you play with me?" He throws his voice, so used to having his doll to catch it, but instead it echoes along with his laugh.
There is a piece of him missing and now it's time to get it back.
...
Hands rendered useless for so many days ache with the pressure needed to snap a neck, but he does it. Chest heaving, Brahms stands over the bodies of his captors.
He steps over them. They're nothing to him now. There is only one thing on his mind now that he is free and that is getting the other piece of him back.
Brahms climbs into the front of the van, digging through bags until he finds his doll and the mask that has served as his face for so long. Once he has his mask settled over his face, Brahms drags in a calming breath, his nerves settling now that his scars are covered.
He climbs back out of the van, his doll cradled in his arms, but as soon as his feet hit the ground all of the calm leaves him. He actually has a chance to look around and… he has no idea where he is. This looks nothing like his home and the overwhelming sense of being lost washes over him.
Brahms feels like he's drowning where he stands. There's nothing around him, nothing to give him any clues. He just wants to be home again. To have the things he knows and to be safe. The ache of tears wells up in his chest, but he stamps them down.
No. No time for that.
All he can do is hold his doll closer, put one foot in front of the other, and start walking.