Creative writing 11: writing checkpoint #2 post 1

good god i hope this formats correctly

Apollo blinked open his eyes, greeted to a throbbing headache and a dimly lit room. His mouth was dry and stuffed with a cloth of sorts. Any attempt to move was shot down by firm bindings around his wrists and ankles. The chair that held him was uncomfortably solid and crushed his wings awkwardly to his back. Finally, his mind started to work, and work fast, then faster as he struggled. He sorted through the events of the day… he’d heard a commotion in an alley and rushed to check it out… and then… and then… nothing. Nothing came to Apollo’s mind. It went blank, his memory a void. Uh oh. 

So that wasn’t a good sign.

The light above him flickered, as if it was barely hanging on. Maybe whoever had brought him in was so desperate for money that they were willing to hold him for ransom. Maybe they were just sadistic. He grunted, shaking the chair which was evidently bolted to the ground.

Briefly, the lightbulb turned off entirely. A crack of light split the dark room open as a figure stepped in. The single lightbulb cast the man’s shadow over him, though dark eyes gleamed at him all the same. Those eyes held the promise of fury and power.

“Well, well, well… Whadda we got here?” Came his voice, accent thick, likely only for show.

“A little birdy, thinkin’ he can just fly in and go wreckin’ all my stuff, y’know I don’t take kindly to people messin’ with my business, eh? But, I’m sure ya figured that out already.”

Apollo glared as the man, apparently the mafia head, circled around him, his steps heavy and measured. He seemed to have rehearsed this… or maybe this happened often enough that he had it down to a science. Whatever. He wasn’t scared. Not at all. 

“Don’t get your type here often, Hawk, but I’ll deal with you all the same.”

Apollo just blinked, knowing he wouldn’t be able to spit a sharp retort with the gag in his mouth. Gods, his mouth was dry.

“You’ve done a damn good job of makin’ my life Hell these past few months, I’ll give ya that. Goin’ after my shipments, rippin’ through my goods… For what, I wonder?”

Apollo wrinkled his nose, rolling his eyes. The mafia boss seemed to twitch under his skin at that gesture, but carried on all the same.

He grabbed Apollo’s chin, glaring back at him. Apollo swallowed, feeling his feathers bristle.

“So, you see, here’s the thing. You ain’t gonna get away with it. Not anymore. Eh?”

“Thinking you’s untouchable ‘cause you got those pretty little wings, boy? You think I ain't about to deal with a little pest like you? Well,”

The man’s hand slid down to loosely wrap around Apollo’s throat, a very real threat.

“Old Randy’s been around, an’ I make a good livin’ makin’ problems disappear.”

“I’ll give you two options, kid. Either you tell me what I want to hear, or I’ll stop playing nice.”

He pulled the cloth gag out of Apollo’s mouth, letting the harpy speak for the first time since he’d woken up.

“Bloody hell! You sure talk a lot!” He said snidely, daring to smirk up at his captor. 

“So, what do you think I’m gonna tell you?”

The mob boss, Randy, seemed irked by his accent. Well, Apollo was too, by Randy’s certifiably faked accent. 

“I want you to tell me who it is that you’re workin’ under.”

“Oh, that’s easy!”

Apollo said, making Randy wait for his answer. Randy’s finger tapped against his jugular vein.

“Noboby. That’s who.”

A beat of silence passed between the two men, glaring into eachother’s eyes.

Randy took a deep breath, counting. One… Two… Three…

“Tell me the truth, Hawk.”

“I am! I work for nobody, I have no connections!” Apollo said, trying to get his neck out of Randy’s fingers. He wasn’t entirely lying, he worked alone, but George had always been close, close enough to share his bed.

“Now let me go, because I won’t say a thing more to a bloke like you!”

Dammit, now he was thinking about George… Thankfully, Randy punched him in the gut before he could make that stupid, dreamy, spaced-out face he always did when he thought of that man.

Apollo doubled over as much as he could in his chair, groaning as he felt his stomach churn. 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, kid.”

“I ain’t your kid, oi!”

The word felt foreign on Apollo’s tongue, even as he said it mockingly. He just needed to stall as long as he could, he’d a chance eventually. Eventually. 

“What’s your name, punk?” Randy demanded, pulling his fist back, expecting to see Apollo flinch, but found himself slightly unnerved when he was met with nothing but a defiant stare from those piercing yellow eyes.

“Icarus.” Apollo replied.

“Icarus?” Randy echoed, his tone disbeliving.