Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He shifts and the chains clink, jarring in the enduring silence. They’d long since adjusted his restraints from a kneeling Y-position to something that kept him seated with his hands pinned at chest height slightly away from his body after it became obvious that he wouldn’t talk and no one would be coming for him any time soon. “Best not let him suffocate and escape us that way.” The gruff voice lingers in his ears even though it’s been weeks.

Maybe three days after that he’d choked one of his captors to death with the chain connecting his feet. Another minute and he’d have had the key in the lock and been on his way to freedom.They’d beaten him and next time he woke his ankle restraints were attached to the wall with a couple feet of slack. Hardly ideal, but the foolish woman’s face as he choked the life out of her and the shock of the others still warmed him.

Two days later he'd used his tongue - made even more prehensile thanks to a couple discreet body modifications - to snap one of the men's necks; such a beautiful scream and the crack echoed. That memory was bitter-cool because the next time he awoke he was gagged from nose to chin with a steel parody of an ANBU mask. It didn't even need to be removed so he could eat thanks to the small gap just wide enough for a funnel to enter.

His broken arm, fingers and leg and bruised ribs burn like dying embers; the healing cuts itch and his blood-matted hair is constantly in his face. The gag is too heavy to ignore with dull edges dragging on his skin and he worries every time the liquid pools and sticks to his cheeks and chin unable to drain away. He refuses to think on the sluggish churning in his gut that builds every time he's force fed and they mock him.

Above all, he is bored.

Solitary isolation in a permanently half-lit room combined with such restraints might be enough to drive a person insane when physical torture alone won’t, but he is a Sannin and is more than used to time warping and stretching in the labs where he works for days at a time without rest or care for himself.

At this point he’s already worked his way through three tricky theories he’d been struggling with given his all-too-heavy workload in yet another war and is starting to get a little irritated.

They had good timing to capture him mere hours after he’d accepted a two-month long mission on the borders of Kumo. Such good timing that he hadn’t even left his house. As if that weren't a clue in itself.

Of course, if his team were still around, they’d have noticed within the day, but they’re gallivanting around the countryside somewhere. And while his sense of time is very good, he only knows now that it’s been over a month and perhaps closer to six weeks.

His chakra simmers just under his skin, little tongues flicking and twisting around his finger. He’d lost most other feeling in his arms over a week ago despite his best efforts, but he rolls his shoulders and stretches as best he can in his bound position. His eyes catch on absence. His cuffs are plain. Oh yes, the inches long chains and the points to which they fasten are encrusted with chakra suppressants; all the usual seals and more considering his status, but there’s nothing on his cuffs. He twists them around as best he can, scrutinising them so close his nose skims tepid metal.

Of course, they could be engraved on the inside, but what could it hurt? He forces stiff fingers through the simplest jutsu he knows. He fumbles again and again against nerves long since fallen into hibernation. A faint breeze caresses him and he leans into a phantom touch.

He sighs. Now he’s as much a moron as his teammate, though nowhere near as much a one as his captors.

Or was there a breeze? He could be hallucinating from any number of things so performs it again and again until his hair flutters for a second. Now to see if he can perform without gesture. His chakra dances, twines into a twirling gust and - entirely fails to pass through his skin.

Wind eddying under his skin twitches his nerves and pulls a muffled chuckle from him. Well then, reduced to performing seals like a genin and with less access to his chakra than he’d had even when he was in the Academy, but he’s an elite jounin for more than one reason.

He goes over the smooth surfaces that make up his cell again: barriers against scent and chakra, seals to strengthen against and resist all the chakra types, seals to muffle and absorb chakra. His mind stops. All known chakra affinities and the major types, he corrects himself. Perhaps the starvation is worth the inspiration of hallucination. Nothing for pure yin or yang and if those don’t work, he’s certainly capable of creating a new jutsu type.

Not like there’s anything else to do after all. He’d grin if he could, but he can't. They’ll learn what happens when you underestimate him.

Chapter Text

Tinny footsteps echoing down the hall snap him out of his light sleep. He shifts out of his slumped position and settles himself into a neat sitting position. He shrugs his shoulders and presses his shoulder blades together to get a bit of a stretch.

It doesn’t help at all, really, and it just makes his broken humerus hurt more, but even the faintest relief from sleeping upright is welcome. He stretches his legs out to the side and pushes as far as he can. The renewed pain, especially in his left leg, shakes what little sleep still clings to him. More than that, he refuses to let his captors see him looking everything more than composed with a straight back.

He dreads the possible nerve damage in his hands; he needs them to work in the labs, but it’s the only way to assess anything. He clenches his fingers and hisses, but he can barely hear a sound through the gag, even the youngest snake is louder. When was the last time he made a noise but a grunt or hiss? When did they last hear him make a noise when half the time he can’t hear himself during the beatings?

He tosses his head to at least get some of his hair out of his face, tilts his chin up and waits. The echoes outside suggest the corridor is quite long, underground and with no other doors. If the seals continue outside then there’s nowhere no hide and less chance to escape. A few more seconds until the morning session begins then. Or at least they were daily morning sessions in the beginning when his time sense was most accurate, it could be any time of day now, but they’re almost certainly daily or every day and a half.

The ritual demands it at least that often.

The door opens and the shinobi enter, all of them in plain white masks and unrelenting black clothing. He blinks at them lazily, but his heart still skips a few beats before it calms under his iron will. Only years of practice that keeps his eyes on them and not what they carry. Besides, those implements haven’t changed since he was gagged all those weeks ago.

Two of the shinobi hand their weapons to their accomplices before coming closer. Well ahead of them he rises onto his knees and spreads his legs. The slightly taller one yanks him higher and pins him to the chill wall with one hand and pulls up his knee length yukata with the other. The shorter positions himself to the side, puts the bucket between his legs and forces his thighs close around it, holding them in a grip that belies their slight form.

Would that he were free to sever those hands and shove them down his captor’s throat.

Another shove from the taller one and he’s pinned on the bucket like an unruly child being toilet trained. “Piss.” He stares idly at the wall and relieves himself as if he were at home in his bathroom. The acrid tang, quiet drumming and their watchful eyes still twist his stomach with some white and feral even after all these weeks.

Better this than the first ten or eleven days. They’d withheld this basic necessity until he hurt and couldn’t hold it in any more; until his comments were needy to his own ears and appealing to the fact they’d have to clean up the mess. The longest they'd withheld the privilege was almost two full days. Sometimes he wakes with the comment “We’ve finally trained the Sannin to piss and shit on command,” dancing through his mind like acid. He’d always complied when it came to this. He’d even changed into this ragged pitiful excuse for a yukata at blade point to earn the privilege the first day he’d woken chained to this wall.

Nonetheless, he is bizarrely grateful that the liquid solution they force him to drink doesn't lead to even more indignities than he already has to face every morning.

He finishes and the bucket is taken away, but the shinobi don’t move. The taller one seizes a handful of his snarled fringe and yanks back so hard his head bounces off the wall and stars dance down his neck. The small man shoves his hips to the wall, and forces his spine into an unnatural arch that bares his neck to the enemy and constricts his throat.

Two more shinobi walk over and despite himself his shallow breathing quickens enough for these jounin-level captors to see. He despises his weakness and the way their smirks radiate through the blank wooden masks.

One jams the funnel spout through the hole and jams his finger and thumb into the soft spots just behind his jaw bone, it jams his chin against the unforgiving steel lip with a too-familiar sensation. He closes his eyes and pulls shallow breaths through his nose.

The tepid drink floods his mouth and he gulps desperately, fighting the atavistic struggle against drowning and the dark panic clawing into his rational mind. As always it spills over, gushing across his face, blocking his nose, stinging his eyes, soaking his hair and blocking his ears. He breaks, coughing, choking and struggling against the five hands on him through the feeding until tears come to his eyes.

It stops and he coughs his way to something approaching his dispassionate mask, dripping wet and shivering fitfully. What a fantastic breakfast.

He blinks the nutritive solution away and waits. Per usual, more shinobi approach but he hasn’t been released for the beating, what’s going on? A thickly calloused hand pinches his nose shut; bukijutsu specialist he catalogues, naginata or spear mostly likely. The funnel spout is barely as wide as a straw and as the minutes pass he becomes light-headed.

A new technique, but not one he hasn’t been trained for. He consciously switches to long, slow breaths in and forcing the air out swiftly. Just as the dizziness clears there’s a dirty, hawking, phlegm filled noise, a spit and something hitting plastic.

No. He twists, and jerks, wrenching his arms until blood trickles down his wrists, but he gets enough leverage to drive his elbow as forcefully as possible into the groin of the person twisting his head so far back.

The shinobi lets go with a startled oath and Orochimaru snaps his head down, gravity taking care of the funnel. There’s a shocked stillness. Did they think him tamed? He glares, promising death.

His moment of triumph fractures along with a rib and he doubles over. Two hands twists into his hair and pull him up and back again. The world doubles, melds and doubles again. Four palms slam his arms and shoulders back again with yet more hands holding him perfectly immobile.

He forces a snarl out between his wheezing gasps, awaiting a beating. The bukijutsu woman pinches his nose shut again and he bucks again and again, wrenching his head from side to side as each of the eight shinobi spits into his feeding funnel.

They pour the liquid into his mouth, barely even half a mouthful. Bile scorches his throat and he tries to spit it out, but there’s no air. He holds and holds until something desperate and harsh rips from his throat.

“This is taking too long.” a woman mutters before she massages his throat and presses against his pressure points until he swallows against his will. Dazed from lack of air and what just happened he barely recognises the beating at all, as the last few minutes loop through his mind again and again.

The door locks behind them when they finally leave and he hangs in his restraints, shaking. Blood trickles down his scalp, into his face and down his neck. The studded rod has raised more bloody welts over him. He is certain the claw marks on his forehead will scar. The new pain doesn’t distract him at all and when the footsteps have been gone for long minutes the trembling increases until furious tears drip into his lap.

Sick to his stomach, wanting to vomit it all up and knowing it would only suffocate him to death, he realises this will be part of his existence until he saves himself. He quails and hates himself for the fear he showed.

Chapter Text

Now more than ever he sits perfectly upright, shallow and steady breathing a false counterpoint to his racing thoughts. His tears might be invisible amongst the nutritive liquid saturating his hair, dripping down his face and body, but the tracks are etched into his memory. He hollows his cheeks and the sticky suction merely proves his suspicions: more is trapped under his gag with little chance of escape. Nothing burns yet, so there shouldn’t be any open wounds, but the stratum corneum can only absorb so much water before it begins to rupture and open the way for bacterial infections.

A medic should be along before the end of what he’s come to call day or before the morning beating. He’d be of no use to them dead or with his fingers, leg and arm too poorly healed to serve. Even though the bones are knit, the pain is enough to to render his movements ineffectual for fear of rebreaking them and causing irreparable nerve damage.

Sometimes he wonders if part of the medic’s job is to undo any healing they’ve done on their own to keep him disabled enough to be less of a threat. Regardless, until the medic returns, he has to care for his own broken rib. He flexes the fingers on his right hand and sucks in a sharp breath. Two more broken fingers. At least the medic always takes special care with his fingers, but they break his fingers on rotation. If the medic had even a quarter Tsunade’s skill he’d rest easier, but they don’t and she hasn’t been a part of his life for over a decade.

His lips twist, if even one of his dear teammates cared he’d have been found within a week.

The lights go out. He jerks in his restraints and the room is too-large-too-small and threatens. His rib screams and draws him back to the moment. Calm, calm, his mind whispers. It only takes a few seconds for his night vision to kick in and prove he’s alone in the dark.

It seems his earlier mistake has returned to punish him. How fortunate that he’d only ever told two about this particular secret. It might be harder to keep track of time now, but he’ll be able to see what lies beyond his cell.

He rests against his wall, turning his considerable intelligence to pure chakra theory. It really is a waste that most shinobi did little more than scratch the surface of the true intricacies and marvels of the very essence of the earth.

At least the first step is easy: refine his chakra until he holds pure yin or pure yang without either tainting the other or letting his natural affinities bleed through. Once again, he thanks whatever good fortune lead him to a team taught by a God of Shinobi who himself had been taught by Tobirama-sama. To think he’d been mocked by more than just Jiraiya for being so studious.

His chakra is simultaneously slippery and barbed, like some vicious beast dragged up in a net from the fishing grounds of Uzushio, yin and yang gripping to each other as tightly as a drunk Tsunade clings to her sake bowl. Well, the first step is theoretically easiest.

His screaming instincts jolt him from his meditation. He freezes, scanning the room from top to bottom, breath held and searching for the tiniest shimmer of a genjutsu or an off taste that only the best can hide.

There is nothing. Nothing. He shakes his good arm and slams a bare foot into the wall, they resound like thunder in the silence. Only the building pressure in the back of his skull alerts him of his cowardly shrinking into the vague comfort of solidity.

Without the light, the dimmest hum of electricity is gone. The room is truly silent and dark. He is tightly restrained, shivering in damp clothes, gagged so efficiently he can barely make a sound, aching all over, hunger-sense dead, but constantly thirsty. And now at the mercy of people who found a crack in his armour.

They won’t kill him. He can’t kill himself. He is alone and the emptiness digs into his mind, prying at the weariness he ignores and slipping along the edges of his resistance.