At first Delilah had held herself together well. At first she'd just internally repeated the pledge of allegiance while getting the shit beaten out of her, occasionally throwing a few quips at her captors. Then her sarcastic remarks stopped, and she just didn't talk at all. Then she started begging them to stop, screaming until her voice was so hoarse she could no longer make a sound. They had continued the torture of shooting her, pretending they were going to, and alternated a bit by beating her senseless. She flinched at every bullet fired, resisting the desire to whimper and squirm away like a beaten dog, but still kept her integrity. There was no way in hell she was giving these assholes what they wanted. 

They extracted some of the bullets from her (which was completely unnecessary given that they were nowhere near any of her vital organs) in a rather brutal method and patched her up, letting her sit for a while in complete silence. One might think that was nice, but under the circumstances, she would have given an arm to have [i]something[/i] to distract her from her wounds, even a leaky faucet. But there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of her heartbeat and breathing, and the screaming of her own mind. At some point she started singing to herself. Nothing terribly complicated, just a few lullabies she knew; something she hoped would calm her heart and distract her from her wounds. Her voice was not beautiful. It cracked every few seconds, hoarse from the hours of torture she'd endured, and the soft tune was almost painful to sing, but it was a distraction. It was something to get her mind off the aching in her legs, or the taste of blood in her mouth. It was something. 

It could have been an hour, it could have been fifteen minutes, but before long her captors had returned, and this time they had a few new people with them. This was going to be lovely. They started by stripping her of any clothing she had been wearing, no doubt another form of psychological torture, and then they forced her onto the ground and bent her over backwards, binding her wrists and ankles to each other in an unnatural position. For the first couple of minutes it wasn't [i]too[/i] bad, but then her muscles and joints started to ache with the tension of being forced into turning directions they had not been created to. Her back especially was loudly protesting. After it was clear that this position was beginning to bother her, they began questioning her again. "Who do you work for?" "What country are you from?" "What were you looking for?" "Tell us what the CIA is planning." "We know you work for them." All of them took turns questioning her, yanking her hair and continuing the earlier process of punching the shit out of her. Well, they were nothing if not predictable. 

This continued for another several hours. At some point they had blindfolded her, perhaps thinking depriving her of sight would make the torture worse. It did. With sight she had at least been able to prepare herself for their never-ending blows, but now she had no idea who was dealing what, what direction they were coming from, when they would strike, or anything of the sort. It was a small, but agonizing detail, just like everything else. 

After a certain amount of time, Delilah stopped registering what was going on around her. She was still awake, but she'd stopped screaming, or fighting, or really doing anything. She just lay there and took it. In her mind she had gone somewhere else, somewhere far away from anything that was going on. She went back to the coffee shop where she'd first met the man who was probably somewhere in this building, and thought over how much she'd liked that little coffee shop in Paris. It was small, but it had smelled so heavenly of coffee and baked goods, and it had been so very warm. The people were friendly, save for the occasional mean-spirited person who came through, but even those people were short lived. It had been one of the nicest ops she'd ever been on. She remembered thinking she could spend her life as a barista in Paris, and looking back now she wondered why she'd ever joined the agency. She could have been serving old people their coffees for the rest of her life. Ah, what a quieter, simpler life that would have been. 

They unbound her at some point, and somehow it hurt worse than being bound. It was enough to bring her out of her mental safe place, anyway. Her back refused to bend forward, and it felt like the breath was being knocked out of her any time she tried. And her legs... Oh her legs felt like they'd been broken in five different places. Her knees especially ached and screamed for some sort of respite, but it would not come. 

After they had untied her, they picked her up and shoved her into a box of some kind. It was narrow and tall, perhaps two feet wide. She felt them close the door, hearing it shut mere inches from her face and she leaned forward a little- and her head touched something smooth. She couldn't tell if it was glass, steel, aluminum, or whatever other substance, but it was very cold, and it was just enough for her to fit in. Not enough for her to sit, lay down, or do anything else, so she was forced to just stand there on her aching legs. She wanted to lay down and curl into a ball, but that was physically impossible. She couldn't sleep, and though she was trying desperately to get back to her mental safe haven, it was not coming, and she started sobbing. Delilah hated crying, but it was the only form of relief her body could produce at the moment, and it was better to do it now than in front of her captors. Although for all she knew this was a glass box and they were watching her. The very thought made her squirm, and her arms bumped into the walls of the box she was in. It was so, so very small. A little voice started to whisper she was never going to get out. She was going to be stuck in this box forever and it was going to crush her. The hood on her head didn't help, as she could feel the warm air when she exhaled, and it just made the space feel that much smaller. Shestarted to feel like the air itself was suffocating her.

"God dammit get a hold of yourself," She whispered, fidgeting and fighting back the feeling of panic that was building in her stomach, threatening to take away her ability to breathe.

There was a noise from outside the box that distracted her. It sounded like... Crashing. Screaming. Fighting. Someone was fighting. It could have been her counterpart, or it could have been another prisoner that was kept in the wretched dungeon. Or maybe it was just someone getting the mess beaten out of them. The more she listened, the more she thought the latter wasn't true. It was definitely two people fighting, but there was no way to tell who was the prisoner and who was the captor. All she heard was grunts and yells of pain, then one more scream, and silence.