Gravity Rises (S2)

OCE: Part Ten

If only Ford were still fit.

It'd been years — thirty years, to be exact — since he'd done anything more strenuous than chasing after some kid who'd stolen merchandise off the shelves. Now, he had much worse to deal with than some obnoxious little troublemaker. Now, he was being manhandled by cult members who worshipped a being Ford had entirely forgotten about until recently.

Oh, he fought against them — being mournfully out of shape didn't stop him from trying. As they paraded down the cramped corridors, Ford struggled against his captors, attempting to throw them off him. The two who held him were strong, but if strength was the only thing that mattered, he would be a failure at his profession.

After a while, he stopped struggling, as if he'd given up. He glanced over at Mabel, who was watching him with wide, terrified eyes. The poor girl. This was exactly what she had feared, and Ford had led her straight into this trap. He'd apologize in all sincerity when they got out of this.

Ford grit his teeth. He could be all emotional about this later. Right now, he needed to escape.

He waited a full twenty seconds before bursting into motion. He slammed his head against the jaw of one of his captors, kicked the other one in the groin, and wrenched his wrists from their hold. He was free, but he knew he wouldn't stay that way for long. Brass knuckles. Where were Stan's brass knuckles?

Oh, right. The knockout patches.

He reached for his pocket to get them, but that instance of a hesitation was too much. Three or four Order members tackled him all at once. Ford hit the unforgiving stone, the wind knocked out of his lungs. He was lucky he didn't break a rib! He struggled to get up, to get out from under the Order members, but their weight was too much. He could barely breathe, much less fight.

The Order members pressed him against the floor, and the escape attempt was over as soon as it had begun.

Stan would be laughing at you right now, Ford's brain noted.

Ford kept struggling against the hands that held him, but his efforts were weaker now. The pain in his back wasn't fading. He hadn't broken anything, he could tell, but he wouldn't be surprised if he'd gotten plenty of nasty bruises from that fall.

An Order member, a dark-skinned man laced with tattoos, loomed over him. "I wouldn't suggest trying anything," he said in a deep voice. "Maybe you don't care about hurting yourself. But we wouldn't want anything to happen to your precious niece in the confusion of an escape attempt." He leaned closer. "Now would we?"

Mabel whimpered.

Ford cursed himself. Why had he brought her down here? She hadn't wanted to come down here! If he'd had the idea to force an Order member to give him directions to the library earlier, he may not even have needed to bring her. But now she was here, a liability. And if she got hurt, it would be all Ford's fault.

"Would we?" the tattooed man repeated. Oh, they were playing this game, were they? Childish, but fine. Ford would play along. And then he'd ram Stan's brass knuckles into this man's skull.

"No," he said.

The man smirked. "Good."

Ford was hauled to his feet and held fast by two new captors, a man and a woman who were equally muscular. As they resumed their march, Ford looked to Mabel and gave her a reassuring smile. She stared back, her lips quivering, like she wanted to smile back but just couldn't.

As they walked down the halls of the Order headquarters, Ford found himself getting restless. If he wasn't going to fight, what with Mabel being used as leverage and all, what was there for him to do? Sit here freaking out about what was going to happen to them? He'd learned a long time that panicking was the worst thing you could do in a situation like this.