tampered | Log; complete

Log; complete

When; Wednesday, October 10th - midnight
Rating; R for gore and language
Characters; Christopher Styles [

under_secretary], Nicholas Brocklehurst [

razrsharp] and Gregory House [

vicodincrutch]
Summary; Style wakes up in the infamous reverse bear-trap, but the key isn't in his own eye...
Log;

He turned in bed, and it was in that moment that he heard the clang of metal, and the pain.

If nothing, Christopher Styles could wake up quickly, and quickly he woke up, his hands flying to the strange metal contraption around his neck and head. What...the...

He looked around for a moment, his panic and fear pausing out of sheer necessity. He turned his head and looked down to see Brocklehurst stirring. What was wrong, why wasn't he awake? Did he think it was just another nightmare?

He opened his mouth to call for him when a recording started. Good morning, Christopher. I want to play a little game...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sharp blue eyes opened to the sound of metal and harsh breathing; Christopher's breathing. Nicholas turned in bed, hardly feigning sleep as his stirring became more an awakening now that he saw what had disturbed the other man. What in bloody hell was that? He sat up and waved a hand at Styles: don't fucking move.

He had a gun in the nightstand. Brocklehurst reached for it when the recording started.

A game

The Englishman managed to remove the firearm quietly from under the top most layer where a small SIG held ten bullets. They meant nothing to the horrible contraption buckled to Christopher's head.

You're quite the devil, but your machinations fail to deceive those who wouldn't heel to your will. Will mine fail to deceive you? I'm joking. The device around your head is real.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Styles turned his panicked gaze to Brocklehurst for a moment, just a moment, long enough to see the other man's blue eyes looking at him in horror. He didn't pry at the device around his neck - not yet - but instead focused all his attention on the recording. Who the hell was this? How the hell did they get in the house, how did they know, when he had been so careful, so fucking careful.

You'll put lives at stake, won't you? Hundreds, thousands, millions of innocent lives, all at your fingertips, willing to let them suffer. But now, Christopher Styles, will you put his life at stake? What's worth more? His life, or yours?

Styles felt the bile rising, and he managed to suppress it - how he couldn't fathom - as he turned to look at Brocklehurst. The tape was still rolling. Listen closely - and you too, Nicholas.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nicholas hadn't told anyone, only Elle, and she would never tell a soul, not one sophisticated enough to set such an elaborate.... an elaborate trap. He liked to think so anyway, and the Englishman would get to the bottom of it once Christopher was out of harm's way. The gun sounded a hard click of its slide as he cocked it.

He climbed out of bed, dressed only in his skivvies, to search the immediate area. The entrance to the terrace was locked, the bathroom empty. Closet?

"Fucking wanker," Nicholas hissed softly to the voice on the tape, and when it addressed him, "piss off."

Everything in their bedroom was clear. The hallway outside empty.

The key to unlock the contraption has been surgically inserted behind his right eye. Don't worry it didn't hurt, you were both fast asleep. Use whatever you have at your disposal to remove it. Any tampering of the device will trigger a one minute countdown, that's sixty seconds, till the device shuts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Christopher was frozen to the spot, unable to move, barely able to breathe. What kind of sick game was this? His own bed, his own bed was supposed to be safe, goddamnit.

Brocklehurst was supposed to be safe. He examined the device with his fingers, careful not to tamper, careful not to put his hands anywhere that might even be considered tampering. His hands found purchase around the sharp pointed steel teeth, like some kind of old fashioned torture device. They weren't sharp enough to cut his hands, but sharp enough to gore something.

He shivered in horror. "Brocklehurst," he whispered, staring up at the blonde who was inspecting the closet like a father looking for the boogeyman, "The key is behind your eye? That's...that's not possible." It was obvious, but the statement suddenly made the situation ten times more real.

Not possible that they would have slept through that. Not possible that someone could have gone past their wards - Rosiel's wards, Neville's wards, Ron's wards - and gotten in and done this.

He could feel the slight pressure at the back of his neck, like a rope was tied there, and he sat perfectly still. "Nicholas...what's behind me? Behind my neck?"

No tampering was a rule he would take seriously.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No bogeyman here, not even one with teeth for eyes which was far preferable to the sobering reality of this situation. Brocklehurst couldn't feel the key there, but why should he if such a person was that deft with machines? He brushed the back of his palm along his right eye, just to be sure. It was sensitive and swollen in a curve from his temple to his cheek. Shit.

"It has to be some kind of curse, some kind of sick curse," the blonde snarled as he returned to the brunette's side.

This isn't a curse, far from it. This is retribution. Click. The recording ended.

"Christ," he hissed again in frustration then set his gun down to inspect the trap. At the base of its collar was a thick peg attachment threading a metal rope through the headboard suspiciously. Nicholas followed the trail to a metal box under their bed. Taped to its lid was the recorder. He gave the box a pull to get a closer look, which inadvertently tugged at the peg on Styles' neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Corinthian would have been a welcome vision, even as a nightmare. At least Styles knew the Corinthian. At least the horrors the Corinthian imposed were in his head. At least he could wake up.

Styles didn't care what the man in the recording said. It had to be a curse. He knew too much, had too many tricks, and it was far too elaborate. They had fallen asleep at eleven twenty. Styles took a careful look at the clock. Twelve o'seven. Neither of them could sleep with a mosquito in the room, let alone a serial killer doing a complex surgery to Nicholas' eye.

The sudden tug made him almost fly backwards to relieve the tension. "No, no, no tampering," he said in a hushed panic. "Please."

He wasn't used to such blatant fear. Even his nightmares, the ones with Lynne and Gordon and fucking Macintyre weren't this bad, and he couldn't sleep through those.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Jesus Christopher," Brocklehurst snapped in surprise when the other jerked backward.

He didn't blame the man for startling him, but Nicholas was rarely startled. Like Styles he rarely ever feared. Nevertheless he left the box and its cable alone, but he knew there was something in it. Whatever its contents were, the damn thing was practically chaining the brunette to the bed. That made it more difficult to inspect and harder to work.

"Sit tight, don't jump." His warning to his companion was stern. Nicholas grabbed his gun again then took firm hold of the cable where it threaded through the headboard. He also took aim at it, towards the wall.

The gun fired a single bullet, severing the metal link and embedding lead into their newly renovated home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Normally firing a shot into the wall was reason for Christopher to get at least somewhat irritated, but in this case he didn't do much but clutch at the device, waiting for the thing to snap shut.

Nothing happened. He took a deep breath and looked up at Nicholas. "Now what?" he asked, trying not to let the fear turn into irritation in his voice. Why the hell was this happening? He reached out to Nicholas, grasping for the other man's arm, hand, something, some kind of contact, anything at all.

He hated fear. It was weak and pathetic and he wouldn't have any of it. "Should we call a doctor?" he asked quietly, hoping that he wasn't looking as helpless as he felt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Now you guard this with your bloody life," he handed the remainder bit of cable still attached to the peg to Styles.

His fingers brushed across the American's briefly, to reassure him Nicholas was going to do everything he could to finish this. The box had to have something beneficial. What was a game without giving its victims some kind of sporting chance? He reached for it again, safely removing the box from under the bed without the risk of triggering the time device.

It had a small padlock, one he easily broke through with the gun. But its contents weren't what the Englishman expected.

"............" Blue eyes widened at the polaroids that spilled across their mattress; pictures of an unconscious Christopher being fitted for the head contraption, pictures of an unconscious Nicholas under a knife before his wound was cauterized shut. Under the photos was a bloody scalpel, no doubt the same ones in the pictures.

He felt like he was watching Gardner's tapes again, that this sick gamemaster had seen them with his own eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Styles stared at the polaroids.

He held onto the cable, lightly, with no tension, and stared at the polaroids.

Supernatural or not, curse or not, someone was going to pay for this. Someone was going to pay for violating his privacy, for touching Nicholas, for even considering this was a game, for even thinking this was funny.

"Get me out of this," he growled. "Get me out, Nicholas." He looked up, and the fear was gone, at least on the surface. "Is there anything else in that goddamned box?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nicholas could hear the fury in Christopher's voice.

"The knife," he held it up to Styles before bringing the blade to his nose, "it's real blood."

Whether it was his blood was up for debate, but Brocklehurst didn't think those photographs were lying. That was them for certain, he had the wound on his cheek to prove it. For chrissake he felt like taking his gun to the tape recorder, but that alone could be used for evidence... if they ever found whoever orchestrated this game.

"Shit," the Englishman spat, nearly throwing the blade down at the cassette. He slid the gun across the end bench, out of impulsive reach. "I have to cut it out," Nicholas concluded.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Styles didn't really have any room to give Brocklehurst his best disbelieving face, considering he was rigged up in a deathtrap, but he tried anyway. "No self surgery," he said. "And I sure as hell can't do it," he indicated to his face. "I like your eyes. We're not fucking that up. Not with a mysterious knife that is bloody with what might or might not be your blood."

He reached for his razr, never far from him and opened it. He was practiced enough that he didn't have to see where the buttons were to pick out the ones he needed. Address book, listing H, one, two, three, four down and a click to start ringing. Then another one to turn on the speaker phone.

It was really a pity that they were going to have to get a new bed, because Styles liked the one that they were on, but he wasn't going to ever be able to sleep on it again. The phone clicked with an answer. "House," he said. "Emergency. Bring some scalpels, and don't you fucking dare ask questions."

[ooc: Quick note. Why yes. That is Styles in the trap in the icon. How, you ask? Oh, Noam Jenkins, I love you so. *cough* My nerddom is great >_>]

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"At the risk of disobeying," Greg could feel an extra sharp edge of urgency to the words, "where do I need to be?" He was on his feet, not bothering with a cane for the first few moments as he staggered to retrieve materials. Scalpels were kept in the drawer each sealed and sanitary. That'd mean he need gloves, gauze, stitches, needles. He couldn't simply just bring scalpels.

Christ, he needed to move faster. "Where do I need to be?"

He could hear House's voice clearly through Christopher's phone.

"Our apartment," Brocklehurst added, giving the doctor their address, "I'll let you in. We have a med kit but bring whatever you can."

His own tone was subtly distressed which said a lot about what Nicholas thought regarding their... delicate situation.

God. They were going to be saved by House, who had to hobble over from Brocklehurst's old apartment. Styles did the calculations in his head. It took two good legs ten minutes to walk.

The idea of Nicholas leaving his side, even to open the door, was not appealing, but he didn't say anything. Instead he muttered, "Time is a bit of an issue."

They really needed to get House a mode of transportation.

"I'll get him a razor scooter," said Nicholas who didn't think Christopher had much room to complain at the moment. The alternative was taking him over to House. He didn't think he American really wanted to make that trip.

"I'm going to secure the living room," he nodded to the other before offering Styles his gun. He'd have to leave his side briefly, but not without leaving him a sidearm. The last time they did this... Brocklehurst stood up to check the windows once more; the terrace was empty, every lock in its place. Their bedroom was secure, it should have been. He reached out to cup the side of the brunette's face carefully. "Get out through the roof if anything happens."

Then he pulled away from Styles and left to go downstairs, but not without a stop at Vauxhall Cross for another weapon.

Did I say that out loud? Styles was losing it. He wasn't used to this level of rage or panic.

He took the gun from Brocklehurst's hand and resisted the urge to shoot angrily, instead crossing his legs to be at least a touch more comfortable. The headpiece had massive blind spots, but he could still hear, he could still see.

He nodded at Nicholas explained and said, "Come back up, after." He was not moving, not when moving meant he might die at any moment.

The materials Dr. House gathered were placed into a messenger bag, not exactly in the neat orderly fashion he would have normally. This had to have been an emergency. He sure as hell wasn't an EMT but he'd respond best he could. With the rumpled address in hand, messenger bag across his shoulder and cane in the other hand, Greg made his way out.

This better be good.

He missed the ability to run. Badly.

Brocklehurst removed his much larger Walther P99 from the Cspan Suite then proceeded down the stairs. It was dark, the interior seemingly untouched. The only light the illuminated the lower floor came from the Residence. The fish appeared unharmed and otherwise unaware of what was happening upstairs. It looked as if whoever had done this to them hadn't even broken into the apartment to do it. Every lock was in its place, not even a splinter in the doorway or a flow of breeze from the window left ajar. The loft hadn't been touched.

"Christ House, take your bloody time," Nicholas muttered to himself and he pressed the security panel in the entranceway. The small screen showed an empty hall on the other side. No one had been here. Fucking City magic, it had to be.

Styles listened - for anything besides Brocklehurst's movements downstairs, for any indication that there was something in the house besides the two of them.

The harness was getting heavy, and the adrenaline from the terror was wearing off. All that was left was the weariness and the anger, the same kind of anger he felt when Lynne kicked him out of the car, the same kind of anger as when Macintyre let the tapes slip through his fingers.

"Hurry up, House."

Greg was amazed that he could will his gait into some kind of speed walk. He imagined he looked like one of those National Geographic zebras close to the watering hole with some narrative about Darwin and the Circle of Life. He could see the door.

Finally, time reaching the fifteen minute mark by his watch, House was on the footstep hardly standing. Moving so much so quickly was not the best idea. There were four white oval solutions to this problem that stabbed. His cane wrapped on the door. "Open up."

The special agent checked the security panel first, to make sure it was House, and as an extra measure when he opened the door he kept his firearm close to his side. Nicholas hadn't even found it in him to put a shirt on.

"Thank Christ, Christopher's upstairs," he ushered the grizzled doctor into the apartment and glanced down both sides of the hallway to make sure no one had tailed House. "Last door down the hall," said the blonde as he waited for the other man to make his slow ascent to the second floor. He'd carry House himself if it weren't for the fact that arguing to make House permit him to do so would take an equal amount of time.

Styles heard the door, heard Nicholas speak softly. Part of the appeal of the apartment, and the design, was that Christopher had arranged for the air vents to allow for easy passage of noise from the first floor to the second.

It was supposed to be for added safety. This was just...ridiculous.

He waited for the doctor to come through the door.

House spared a glance to Brocklehurst sweeping the hallway. There wasn't anyone following, not that Greg had the skills of detection the other man had. But at the pace he would have noticed.

Upstairs? Stairs too? He took two at the bottom of the stairs heading upward and rewarded himself with the other two. He got up to the top and right to the correct door. "Styles?" If Nicholas' curt and frank request was any indication that what was going on wasn't normal, what he laid eyes on solidified this notion. "What the hell?"

Nicholas said nothing about the pills Gregory tossed down his gullet dry.

"It's some fuck's idea of a game," he said to House, "don't pull his cable." Brocklehurst gestured to the metal bit hanging from the peg at the back of Styles' collar. "The tape said there was a key, here," he tapped the swollen side of his cheek, "whoever it was left us pictures."

He set his gun on the foot bench again before checking the windows once more, to be sure.

Styles looked up at House. "You need to get the key out of his face."

There was silence.

"Fuck." I can't believe I just said that.

"Game? What the hell happened to good old Mortal Kombat?" House set down his bag at the closest table. This was grizzly to say the least. A surgery without an operation table, a sterile environment. There was a sick mind at work.

"I need to see those pictures." There had to be a way to do this with the minimal amount of damage even with the limited tools. Already his mind was working to solve this puzzle.

"He's right," Nicholas confirmed for House then handed the photographs to him. They showed the operation process, the sizing for the contraption locked around Christopher, the bloody insertion somewhere in the Englishman's face. "The tape said it's behind my eye," he said with disbelief.

How could it even be there without severing a nerve or tendon? Shouldn't he be blind? His lower eyelid was feeling awfully puffy.

"Do whatever it takes, House," insisted Nicholas, "I've tried to work around this shit and I can't without setting it off."

He would not risk that.

"Do whatever it takes," Styles echoed, but then he added, "But save his eye."

The adrenaline was long gone, and now Styles was shaking - fits of quick, violent withdrawal from the intensity of the terror.

He took deep breaths, and tried not to let the tremors show.

"Well. Okay." Not much more could be done, if that is what it took to get the headgear off. House took out gloves from the messenger bag and began to lay out materials.

House stared at the photograph. The key couldn't be sitting very far in, Brocklehurst would be feeling more that puffiness. He'd be experiencing numbness and possible brain damage if it were resting deeper. "Nicholas, I need you to lay down. What are you feeling? Pressure? A tingle in any limbs?"

In the bag, the doctor had packed a few vials of anesthesia. There wasn't much, he'd have to use it well.

"I'm fine, it's sore around the eye, a bit numb but I can see," he explained to House while laying down on the bed to keep the floor clean. Why spill blood on yet another piece of their home when the bed was already soaked in Styles' trauma?

"Take the eye out if you have to," Nicholas said to Greg, completely countering Christopher's request. He gave the brunette a look, one that said not to argue. He was in the head trap. Anyone could live with only one eye, but no one could survive that device. The worst case scenario however was that upon post surgery the key might not even be the right one, for sheer sick savagery. Brocklehurst would kill someone in cold blood if that were the case, one eyed or not.

Styles didn't respond, he merely moved over to give House more space. He knew Doctor House was good, but as a surgeon? Well, he could only hope.

He idly ran his fingers over the machine's outside, shivered and pulled his hand away, crossing his arms over his bare chest.

First things first. House reached into his bag. "Christopher, I got something for you."

There wasn't a way that the man could stand to wait for a glass of water, House used the table and the bottom of the plastic bottle to crumble a vicodin into as many large pieces as he could before scooping up the pieces into his rubber gloved hand. "Open up." They'd go down smooth enough. It would do something for the obvious pain he was in. Greg could only imagine.

"Okay, Nicholas. Your turn." A syringe and needle were rather quickly positioned up the Englishman's noise. Half of the sedative was injected there. The other right at the beginning of the soft tissue below the eye. House tried to inject as close to the swelling area as he could without being on top of it.

He hoped the tissues and gauze would be enough. But one knows what hoping can do.

"Shit," he hissed from the sensation of the liquid filling his nasal passage. It wasn't pleasant at all but he endured it without protest. Nicholas even tipped his head back to keep the sedative flowing backward, to increase the speed of its effectiveness. Whatever he was experiencing it couldn't be half as worse as being locked in that fucking head trap.

"There's a kit in the bathroom," Brocklehurst added with a wave of his hand towards the doorway, "under the sink." It had more gauze, some antiseptics, forceps, thread, a small field arsenal from someone with a military background. The Englishman shut his eyes and swallowed, feeling the sedative already taking effect.

"Do your worst, mate."

Styles swallowed the crushed pills and took deep, long breaths, the shaking easing. This was ridiculous and horrible, but it was going to be over soon. He watched as House injected and worked, as Nicholas went through makeshift surgery.

"We have some basic stuff," Styles added. Along with all of Brocklehurst's kits were his supply of different sleeping pills, acquired through the hospital in his first week in the City.

He wished he could rest his weight back, but the fear of the pressure making the trap close kept him sitting upright, watching the surgery in progress.

Greg made the trip to the bathroom as fast as possible. More material for the bleeding. He could give Brocklehurst a blindfold if he so asked, but there was not much time or materials to waste. Closing the eyes would suffice.

House had done many things but facial exploritory surgery for a key wasn't any of them. With a deep breath he ghost the scalpel over the zygomatic "cheekbone" of Nicholas'. Yes, that would be the best way to dive in. With the anesthsia directly applied to his sinus and occular nerve system he could stay numb long enough. Could. Another syringe was waiting. "Incoming," his voice was deadpan as the scalpel lightly ripped over skin in a crescent.

He wouldn't need a blindfold, Brocklehurst had endured pain without one before and having one would only get in House's way. As suggested he closed his eyes instead and breathed through his mouth. Those pale blonde eyelashes flickered briefly when the doctor announced his motion. Nicholas sucked air in a hiss as the blade cut his flesh. His eyes remained shut, but he reached out to clutch the comforter.

Blood trickled down the side of his face. They definitely would have to replace the bed.

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