A/N: This year I decided, after prompt 4 to write the Whumptober stories for Salvation because I needed a break from Musketeers. Please note the individual story warnings.

Prompt: Poisoned

Summary: Darius is captured by pro-Bennett supporters and tortured.

This takes place after season 2.

The Trial of the Fake President

First and foremost, his head aches in part because they pistol-whipped him to get him here. The man wearing an American flag-themed tank top in bad need of shower and breath mint yelling at him doesn't help either.

"You are aware I'm not even president anymore. I have no control over anything," Darius says with the energy of a man who's repeated the same phrase far too many times to count, except he can because he has a photographic memory.

This time the retort earns him a stomach punch. He has to give it to this guy. He does shake it up with the hits leaving Darius guessing each time. His hands are tied behind him and then to the chair so he can't hunch over in the aftermath of the punch to ease the growing ache. Perhaps it's his stomach that hurts the most.

"We wouldn't be working with the Russians and Chinese it hadn't been for you and your lying regime. They are our enemies, not our allies."

Darius ignores the spit that lands on him as the man rages. It's really nothing compared to the sweat and griminess from having been held captive here for the better part of a week he thinks. He's allowed up twice a day to use the toilet, which happens to be a bucket in the corner.

The questioning and the beatings are random. Questioning always comes with a beating, but then he supposes that's because he's insistent on giving the same answer each time. Beatings are sometimes separate of questioning and by someone other than the Americana man. He's not sure what the beatings are meant to accomplish other than perhaps wear him down. What they don't know is physical beating is nothing compared to sonic wave torture. For him, this is child's play. It does hurt though. That he won't deny except to Harris.

The hours and days continue on in the same way. Americana man rants and raves about the damage Darius' regime did and how unlawful it was, blaming him for everything from looting to the not-an-asteroid to his hangnail, apparently. Throughout the beatings, Darius feels his nose break, a few ribs crack, and his left knee and right shoulder dislocate. They enjoy resetting those as he can't contain his screams. His skin has broken in a number of places, leaving streaks and splatters of blood on him and the floor. His stomach's no longer pained with hunger, however. No, it gave that up a couple days ago. He's given water after his twice-daily walkarounds, which have become more difficult with a swollen knee after their poor attempts of resetting the dislocation.

Then, one day when he's delirious with pain and what might be a fever, he's gagged, a hood tossed over his head, which sends him into a flashback of drowning on land, miles away from a body of water and it doesn't stop until he's tossed in the back of a vehicle, a van he guesses by the situation and space. If he had a moment to recover from the flashback and rough landing, which leaves him with a brief period of unconsciousness, he might be wondering where he was going. As it is, the drive to wherever is rough, and he not only feels the poor road conditions in the various aches and pains of his body, he is knocked around, hitting the sides and being pushed back with a swift kick landing anywhere from his groin to his face.

The van stops suddenly, sending him to the front, hitting his already tender head. Two men pull him out by his feet. He cries out behind the gag, under the hood. Then he is taken, dragged because he can't keep up with their pace on one leg, over more rough terrain. It's bumpy with twigs and divots that scratch and tear up his bare feet. Despite this rough treatment and the warmth he feels emanating from him, he shivers from the cold. It is December, after all. Their nightmare year is almost over.

He hears voices, ones that are different from the hardened country twang he has been accustomed to since his capture. But he can't make out a single voice and he doesn't think it's because of his condition. There's a crowd out there and, as he's pulled up what he thinks are steps, he suspects that he's the main attraction.

He's roughly sat in another chair and tied down again. His hands are tied to the chair as are his feet and a rope roughly tied around his chest, tightened down enough that he is left gasping for a breath.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he hears the Americana man say. "I have here, for your democratic judgment, the unlawful President Tanz." In one sweeping movement, the hood is removed and Darius blinks against the harsh winter sun to see his apparent jury. As his vision clears, he sees it's not a small group but a large crowd numbering in the hundreds, he thinks. And they shout various accusations at him, only a few of which he can decipher above their din: criminal, imposter, fraud.

"You, Darius Tanz, may have been able to coerce a badly injured chief justice, who you are responsible for nearly killing, into ruling in your favor but here, amongst the people you claimed to rule, you will face true justice."

Darius knows that's the furthest from the truth. Bennett had truly brainwashed his supporters, pitting American against American in a battle of real versus fake news. And in that wave of fake news had sprung up a rabid rebel force that had strained national guard resources country-wide well past the announcement of the Supreme Court decision and even Mackenzie's death. Daily as President he was briefed on a new uprising and measures the national guards were taking to deal with them. The loss of hope during those 44 days he was in a coma had only stoked the anger, blaming him for the asteroid's impending arrival. And now, the 'facts' are being laid bare for his trial. A farce if he's ever known one.

The judgment, after the long list of indictments and reasoning for his guilt, is determined by the noise the crowd could produce. Americana man eggs them on for more noise, a stronger verdict he says. At first, he doesn't understand what they are shouting out. It seems more like a cacophony than anything coherent. And then it becomes clear.

"Death to tyrants! Execute him!"

It's then that he struggles, weakly because they've robbed him of his strength through the beatings and starvation.

"Look how he struggles. Even facing the will of the people, he thinks he can get away," Americana man says. "Get him on his feet. He has crimes to pay for."

A couple men, thick with muscle and stern-faced, cut the ropes that tie him to the chair and drag him up and away. He's thrown face-first against a wall and starts sinking immediately. One of the men forces him upright and holds him with a rough hand on his back while the other cuts the binding on his hands. Darius feels the knife slice through the skin on his wrist. Then, he's twisted around and his arms pulled up. His wounded shoulder screams at the movement and he passes out.

A bucket of water and sneering voice greet him on his return to consciousness.

"I always knew you were a coward. Trying to sleep through your own execution, You're not getting off that easy, murderer," Americana man says. Darius finds his arms secured to the wall behind him, out to the sides like a child might make a snow angel. As Americana man walks away, a cocky step to his stride, he sees the rifles and the men behind them. And though he should feel fear at the sight, he thinks instead that eight is rather overkill given it only takes a single bullet to kill and none of these people would lose a wink of sleep over having fired that bullet.

Americana man calls out the count to get the executioners ready and Darius knows from then that he's not giving them the satisfaction of seeing him cower before his death. They will see his confident, proud look, eyes clearly looking back at them, daring them to be so bold. He straightens his back and forces the leg with the swollen knee back under him. He will not die like the coward they've branded him.

He prepares himself for the bullets to come as the count get closer and when the 'fire' call is given, he hears the sound of bullets traveling. Each hits one of eight executioners, causing them to twitch and then collapse.

"No!" Americana man looks around and Darius follows suit, looking for the source. Never so welcome has the sight of uniformed men with Harris in the lead been to him.

"Mark Lewis, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Darius Tanz," a voice says on a loudspeaker as Harris and his men advance. The crowds, proving to be as cowardly as Darius expects, flees at the sight of a military presence. It means chaos for Harris, but the team pushes through coming closer every second to the stage.

"Attempted," Americana man aka Mark Lewis says. "There's no attempted here. This man must die for his crimes." Lewis pulls a gun from his waist holster and levels it at Darius.

"You don't want to do this," Harris says. They're feet from the steps. "Put down the gun or we will fire."

"Go ahead, your false president will still be dead." Lewis takes aim and shoots twice. Then his body twitches with a bullet and falls lifeless. It might be the other way around. Darius isn't sure because, in that second, it seems, he feels Lewis' bullets hit him. If he thought being shot with the bulletproof shirt hurt, actually being shot is a blinding pain worse than the sonic weapon. The pain radiates, overlapping such that he isn't sure where he's hit from the feeling alone. He looks down at the same time Harris arrives to start getting him free.

"Get the paramedics here," Harris shouts. He cuts Darius free, catching his dirty and bloody body as his feet seem to collapse underneath him. He lowers Darius to the floor, laying him out on his back.

"Do you have him," Grace asks through his ear.

"Yeah, but he's hurt. It's bad. We need a helicopter to evacuate him from here."

"I'll put in the request."

Harris grabs the black hood that'd been discarded to put pressure on one of the bullet wounds. The stomach wound is undoubtedly the worst and once he puts pressure on it, it elicits a strangled gasp from Darius. It's strangled mostly because Harris forgot about the gag, which he unties with his free hand.

"Darius? You with me?"

"Took your time, Harris," Darius says with a moan. He scrunches his eyes closed at the pain.

"And you have a bad habit."

Darius opens his eyes to fix Harris with a questioning look.

"This getting captured and tortured by your enemies."

"Not my fault." Darius coughs and gasps at the pain.

"I know. I know." Harris scans Darius for injuries. Cuts, bruises, a formerly dislocated shoulder and knee from the looks of it, and probably broken bones. Then there was the unnatural heat coming from the man and the loss of what muscle he'd gained after coming out of the coma.

Paramedics arrive quickly and move him aside as they assess and treat Darius with practiced ease. In short order, the gunshot wounds are pressure bandaged, oxygen is set up as is an IV with saline, EKG leads are attached accompanied by a steady beeping, and vitals are recorded. The helicopter lands not far from them and a couple paramedics come with a stretcher. Darius winces as they load him up despite their best efforts to be gentle.

"'arris," he calls out as they're carrying him back to the helicopter.

"You'll be fine, Darius. We'll see you at the hospital."

"Tell 'race…"

"I'm not your messenger. If you want to pass love messages to her, you're going to have to do it yourself. Now, behave and make sure you stay alive to annoy me with your unabashed arrogance."

Darius manages a slight smile and Harris squeezes his hand before letting go. He watches as Darius is secured and the helicopter takes off. He'll pass off processing of the scene to one of the generals and then go meet up with Grace and the others. They have a waiting room to occupy.