Cause and Effect

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Chapter Two
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Spike came to suddenly, startlingly -- bound and gagged. He immediately tried to wrench his arms apart, and gasped against the gag as pain shot through his chest and was echoed along his arms. **What the hell did they tie me up with?** he thought in disgust as he willed the pain to recede. **Tape?** Whatever it was, it stuck uncomfortably to his skin, pulling the hairs on his arms when he tried to move. And while it was minor compared to the agony the rippled through his chest, it was annoying just the same.

Giving up on that for the moment, Spike blinked and tried to focus on his surroundings, but couldn't see anything at all. Where ever he was being held, it was too dark for even vampire sight -- which meant there was absolutely no light at all. He struggled again, hoping to free himself, only to stop instantly as pain once again shot through his chest. This time, prepared for it, he was surprised to feel an echo of it in his lower back as well.

**Bugger it!** he thought. They hadn't bothered to remove the blasted stake. **Or maybe,** he thought horrified, **maybe they'd left it in on purpose.** What better way to make sure he stayed incapacitated?

In a fit of growing rage, Spike tensed every muscle in his body, straining against all that held him in place. Agonizing pain lanced through him, and his chest and legs were left feeling like they were on fire -- as if he'd awoke to find himself suddenly exposed to the deadly rays of the sun.

It had hurt before, kind of a dull ache -- except when he moved. Now, it was all he could do not to cry out. His head felt like it was spinning, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy. He swallowed quickly, careful not to move at all for several long moments.

Groaning behind the gag, he resumed working his arms as soon as the pain receded enough, careful to move his upper arms as little as possible while he tried to loosen his wrists from what felt like yards of sticky duct tape. As strong as the stuff was, that was the only thing he could think it might be. After only a couple of minutes, however, he relaxed against the floor of his prison. He knew without doubt that, given enough time, he could work himself free of his bonds, but with the wood still stuck through his chest, it was going to be an extremely long and painful process -- tiring as well. Extreme bloodloss was as debilitating to vampires as it was to humans -- well, almost. He refused to even consider the possibility that he might actually lose enough to worry about being dusted.

In the meantime, he decided, he needed to figure out where he was being held. Gritting his teeth around the gag, Spike awkwardly lifted his arms up behind him, trying to tell how big a space he was in. Not very, he concluded as his hands bumped against cold metal not more than 6 inches above him, jarring him painfully. For a split second he wondered if they'd put him in a bloody coffin, but quickly realized the shape was all wrong for that. He had too much space on either side of him.

He shuddered as his mind replayed the last time he'd been in one, and he quickly forced himself to think of something else. That was all he needed was to dream about his awakening as a vampire again tonight. Sniffing the air around him, he rolled his eyes. He was in a bloody trunk. He'd ridden in several willingly, but this was just plain undignified. His being here now, really didn't bode well, he thought. The fact that it had been sealed so well that absolutely no light reached the inside was telling, and he really didn't like what it had to say.

Instantly stilling as he heard voices outside his confinement, Spike listened. Perhaps he could learn something, anything, to help. Muffled as they were, however, he couldn't really make out what any of them were saying. He could only tell that they were growing closer. Had he been out longer than he'd assumed? How far had they taken him? Were they even still in Sunnydale?

Moments later the vehicle moved under him, and was followed only seconds later by the sound of several doors slamming shut, shaking him. He moaned as the stake shifted. The engine turned over, sending him back to struggling frantically against his bonds. Only this time he resolutely ignored the pain it caused him. He had to get free and out of this vehicle before his abductors got where they were headed. He knew damn well their destination held nothing good for him, and he stood a far better chance of getting completely away if he was still in familiar territory.

The vehicle took off in a squeal of tires, ramming Spike back against the rear of the boot. The sudden, harsh movement tore the stake sideways, opening the wound further, and sending spirals of pain through his chest and down into his abdomen. His lower back, too, felt like someone had tried to tear him in half.

He cried out, thankful -- when the pain subsided enough for him to think at all -- that the gag had muffled his scream. He didn't want to give these people the satisfaction of hearing him yell in pain. If Glory couldn't make him break while trying to beat information out of him about who The Key was, these buggering humans sure as hell shouldn't be able to do so.

It pissed him off that they'd managed it once, even if it had been by accident -- and using a motor vehicle to accomplish it. His only comfort was the fact that they didn't know he'd given in to the pain; they hadn't heard him. Chuckling, despite the continuing pain, he had to admit, he could be glad they'd stuck him in the boot, for no other reason than it made it easier for him to get free. They certainly couldn't act to stop him from trying, if they couldn't see him trying anything.

Blocking out the odd, distorted sounds of the vehicle's passengers, Spike concentrated on working his wrists side to side, still trying to keep his upper arms as still as possible. Each twist he made gave him just a little more play, stretched the tape holding him secure just a little bit further. Unfortunately, each time he started to get impatient and pulled a touch too hard, he stretched the muscles of his chest, making him flinch and still. And with each stab of pain he endured, Spike upped the length of torture his captors would endure before he killed them.

He'd never been overly fond of drawn out torture, being too impatient to drag it out that long, but he'd make an exception this time. Even his soul was in agreement on that score.

Oh, he knew he couldn't do it now, or even tomorrow, but he had confidence that given enough time, he'd find a way to get the chip removed. Once he did, these idiots who were tampering with beings they couldn't possibly understand would regret it. They would pay. They would rue the day they had first crossed paths with Spike, William the Bloody. He may have come by his first nickname in a less than honorable way -- from a vampire point of view, but he'd earned Spike legitimately. And that was something these people would learn the hard way. If Spike was surprised to feel nothing but eager anticipation of that time, he didn't show it. He simply continued working his bonds and dreaming.

No, he thought suddenly, maybe he'd earn himself a new nickname. Railroad spikes had been good in their time, but now-a-days there were so many more . s . subtle tortures available, tortures that allowed the victims to survive longer. Yes, he'd find something new, something far more painful than spikes. In the darkness surrounding him, Spike smiled evilly. One day, the would regret him. That was the *only* thing he was sure of right now. Except, of course, that the length of their torture would depend entirely on how quickly he managed to get away.

Used to the steady thrum and sway of the moving vehicle, Spike stilled instantly, all his senses alert, when the car slowed to an unexpected stop. Training all of his enhanced senses on the world outside his dark prison, he tried to figure out what was happening. After a mental count of 75, however, he nearly growling in frustration. He couldn't hear anything -- even the humans in the car were quiet -- and all he could smell were the exhaust fumes of the vehicle. **Unleaded,** he thought irrelevantly. It definitely wasn't diesel at any rate.

The car moved forward again, and Spike's frustration grew. How long had they bloody been traveling? He wasn't sure, but knew it had been too long for him. He didn't even have a way to know how fast they'd been traveling -- not really anyway.

The sound the tires made against the pavement was a small clue, of course. The high pitched whine that had accompanied most of his enforced trip told him they'd been traveling at relatively high speeds, and he wasn't happy about that. Each mile that he traveled meant it was less likely the Scooby gang would be able to find him.

Spike's body and thoughts froze as one. Would the gang even look for him? Or would they simply wish him good riddance? **Bloody hell!** Would they even realize he was missing? His unbeating heart twisted and cramped in his chest as he realized he wasn't certain. The gang would stop at nothing to get one of their friends back -- they'd proven that time and time again. The question now running through Spike's mind was would they do anything at all for him?

Dawn would, he thought suddenly. Dawn would miss him, would realize he was gone. **Yes!** he thought exultantly. ** Lil' Bit will miss me. She'll know something is wrong.** The problem with that, Spike realized, his excitement fading as quickly as it had come, was would they believe her? She was a 'mere' child. As smart as she was, she wasn't a grown up. Would they listen to her . . . and even if they did, would her concern stir them to do anything?

With a sinking feeling in his heart, Spike knew they probably wouldn't. They'd simply put her ideas and upset down to the recent death of her family. **Of course Dawn panics the minute someone doesn't show up. She just lost her mother, and right after that lost her sister. She doesn't know Spike. She's 'just a child'. She doesn't realize she can't trust him.** Spike's mind quickly came up with excuse after excuse that the others would use to explain away Dawns worries and fears.

He blinked furiously as he realized anew that there was no one he could count on except himself. Then he got angry. He was a vampire for crying out loud -- even if he was a chipped one with a soul. He didn't need anyone, least of all a human child.

**Willow!** he thought suddenly. She might notice. She might worry. She might even believe Dawn. There was hope after all.

Spike frowned, nearly growling at himself. What the hell was he doing hoping for help at all? He was a master vampire. Whatever lay ahead of him, he'd get through it. He'd survive, and anyone who managed to hurt him had better beware, because he would come back for them.

His burst of bravado left as quickly as it had come. **Oh, who am I kidding?** Spike closed his eyes, tears leaking out the sides of his tightly clenched eyelids. He wasn't a master vampire anymore, and if he was really honest with himself, he hadn't been for a very long time. Giles had it right the first time. When the watcher had first said it, Spike had automatically objected, no male liked that said about them, but -- Spike laughed, the sound grating and forlorn, devoid of any trace of humor -- he was right. When those government assholes had put the hell-be-damned chip in his head, they'd rendered him impotent.

He wasn't a vampire anymore. He wasn't even up to the level of the humans. He was the prey of the prey. He was nothing. He was less than nothing. He was an idiotic, impotent demon who'd gone and fallen in love with the slayer. How much more pathetic could he get? He couldn't -- that was the answer to that question. Why should anyone care what happened to such a pathetic loser?

**I care, damn it!** he thought suddenly, fiercely. Breaking free of the suffocating feeling of doom, Spike once again began yanking at the sticky mess that held his arms immobile. The gag muffling whatever sounds he made, Spike allowed himself the luxury of screaming to his heart's content as he pulled, yanked, and twisted. It was with an astonishing burst of immense satisfaction that his hands came suddenly free.

He grinned, panting through the pain. He was almost there. He wasn't helpless. He would *never* be helpless. The back of his mind continuing to catalogue the sway and rhythm of the car, the twists and possible turns it made, Spike pulled the tape the rest of the way off his wrists, wincing at the additional pain as it pulled free, taking hair and even some flesh with it. Then alternately clenching and relaxing his fingers, he stretched his arms as far out to the same as room -- and wounds -- permitted, relishing the small amount of freedom he'd gained.

Experimenting with his newfound freedom, Spike realized something he hadn't before. He couldn't move his legs. The son's of bitches had taped his legs together too. He growled deep in his throat, reveling in that tiny release of his pent up anger. They would definitely pay for this indignity. Several minutes, and three deep, not truly needed, breaths later, he calmed down enough to realize he could worry about getting his legs free later. Right now, he needed to get the stake out of his chest. *That* was what was crippling him most severely. Until it was removed, his body wouldn't be able to heal properly. Hopefully, he had enough time to both get it out, and let the would heal -- at least a little -- before he had to act to obtain his freedom.

No longer trying to move, or do anything more than listen, Spike allowed his body to relax fully, resting with both hands curled lightly around the tip of the stake protruding obscenely from his chest. Realizing that he would pay just about any sum of money -- or even blood for that matter -- to have someone *else* remove the bloody stake, Spike steeled himself for the coming pain.

He snorted, wincing. **Pain?** he thought, just a touch hysterically. The word didn't even come anywhere near describing the experience he was about to inflict on himself. If there was someone else, it would be over quickly, not much pain involved -- not really -- just one quick stab of utter agony. Pulling the stake the rest of the way through himself, however, would rival the worst Angelus had ever done to him. **Of course they couldn't have shoved it in from the front.** Pulling it back out the way it went in would have been relatively easy. The problem lay in the fact that he was going to have to pull it out grabbing the narrow end. He shuddered -- regretting it instantly.

Frowning, he took a second to wonder why the hell he was doing it to himself. Surely whatever these humans could come up with wouldn't -- couldn't -- be as . . .inventive as what Angelus had managed many times. He'd survive it. Why was he so friggin worried?

//And if they kill you after?// asked a sinister voice inside him.

**Oh yeah. That's why.**

Take one last breath, filling underused lungs as deeply as possible, Spike held the air inside and yanked. He screamed as the stake moved, rubbing the splintered wood against raw wounds. He let go almost instantly. Panting away the debilitating pain, Spike once more reached for the stake, groaning when he realized he'd moved it less than a third of the way through. He certainly hoped he had a lot of bloody time left.

Inch by agonizing inch -- resting between tries -- Spike managed at long last to pull the sodding stake free of his body. Throwing it toward the head of the boot, immense satisfaction coursed through him as he heard the cursed thing thud three times before falling to the floorboard. It was then that Spike noticed the difference in sound. He frowned as he listened closely, taking a moment to figure out exactly what the difference was.

**Gravel!** They weren't traveling on solid pavement or asphalt anymore. Sometime during his de-staking they'd turned onto a gravel road, and he'd missed it. **Fuckin-A,** he thought -- to use slightly more modern vernacular. **When did that happen?**

Once his surprise abated, however, it didn't take him long to figure out that they had to have changed from one road type to the other very recently. It had to have happened during his last, successful, attempt to rid himself of the wood piercing his body. **Five minutes -- or less,** he reasoned, returning his concentration back to the sway of the car, and using a small portion of his mind to count the seconds between turns, and between the subtle accelerations and brakings of the vehicle he was held captive in.

He hoped that when he freed himself every little clue he could gather now would help him find the way back to where he belonged -- the quicker the better, as far as he was concerned. As it was, hunger was beginning to make itself known. Dinner had been in that grocery sack.

The car banked to the left sharply, pushing his body down toward his feet and against that side of the vehicle. **Left turn,** he thought, **ten minutes -- give or take -- after the road turns to gravel.**

//At what speed?// asked that insidious voice.

"Sod off!" he muttered angrily, frustrated when the gag completely muffled the words. It didn't have the same feel to it that way. He reached up and jerked the gag out of his mouth, ripping it completely off himself.

Spike gave it an addition count of 200 before even attempting to flip onto his side. It was then he realized that something was really wrong. It was far harder to do than it should have been. The lower half of his body felt like a dead weight -- and all too familiar dead weight. **No,** he whispered, shaking his head, denying his new knowledge. He could feel them, his legs. So that couldn't be it. But even with the, as yet unhealed wound in his chest, and with his legs tied even tighter than his arms had been, it should have been relatively simple to roll over.

It was with a deadening feeling in his gut that it became impossible to deny what exactly was wrong. Somehow, they'd managed to paralyze him. How, though? The last time it had happened, it had taken a fight with Buffy, a fall of over 15 feet, and a church organ landing on top of him.

Irrational panic set in. His body reacting automatically to the sudden rush of fear and adrenaline, he began panting, unable not to. He fought the all consuming feeling. He couldn't afford to panic now. So, he couldn't move his legs . . . yet. So what. It would heal given enough time -- nothing to panic about.

**Right!** he thought angrily, unshed tears clouding his eyes. **Tell it to someone who believes it!**

Damn, but he hated feeling helpless like this. It left him feeling . . . vulnerable, so bloody . . . weak and inferior.

"NO!" he screamed, giving vent to his ever-growing rage. Eyes wide, fear coursing through him, nearly unchecked, Spike desperately tried to focus on anything *other* than his new discovery. He didn't want to imagine how they'd done it. He didn't need to know that. He didn't want to think about how long it would take to heal. He already knew it would take far too long -- been there, done that, hated it the first time round.

He tried listening to the voices inside the passenger section of the car, but, unfortunately, they weren't saying much. **Bugger it!** He needed something to think about, something to concentrate on. Counting time was just not enough.

The car slowed to a stop, mockingly rocking his prison, and it was with *very* mixed feelings that Spike tensed, awaiting what would happen next.