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It’s weird, to wish that another one of his brothers were here with him, in some abandoned warehouse in some nameless city, somewhere lost in the world. It’s weird to wish it were Alan or Scott in the room behind him, with the door closed and the keening sounds of pain making their way through it anyway. It’s weird to wish it were Gordon instead of Virgil, having jolts of electricity fired through him by one of the Hood’s weird, semi-robotic henchmen.
John can’t do anything. He’s had his turn, and it nearly killed him. He’d screamed and pleaded and sworn up and down he didn’t know anything, didn’t know where his father was, they weren’t the ones hiding him. They’d been looking for years, they hadn’t ever found anything. What the Hood wants with Jeff Tracy, John doesn’t know, doesn’t want to know, and that’s all he can say, that he doesn’t know, until that menacing voice calls off its dogs, and it’s apparent that John’s been utterly broken, rendered useless.
He remembers–vaguely, like it was happening to someone else when it happened–being dragged out of a dark room and dropped onto cold concrete, his hands bound and going numb. He remembers his whole body sagging, slumping against the wall, semi-conscious next to his brother. Virgil’s elbow nudges him briefly in the ribs, and then he’s gone. And John’s left wishing for Scott or Alan or Gordon.
But it’s Virgil. And that’s the thing about Virgil. Virgil won’t say a thing. Virgil won’t ever break. Virgil will let them keep it up until they’ve killed him, rather than give them the satisfaction of ever saying a word.
And that, it turns out, is the real torture.