[ His stomach rolls in such a way that he knows he's been moved without his consent. It's enough to send a bright flair of anger inside of his chest, because if there's anything he does not like it's being treated like a puppet. He even turns to say something sharp and harsh to the soldier manning the porter but then --.

Well, this is no place he's seen. The walls are high, the landscape dark. The look on the man's face is one of such vile contempt that Athos feels a chill go through him. It would be so easy to walk away and find someone he recognises. Lucy. D'Artagnan. His friends who would be able to help him work out just what was going on. And yet he tries this way. ] What's happened? Where have you brought me?

[ The soldier sneers but does not speak and Athos has never been a cautious man when wronged. He reaches for the sword at his belt only to find it's no longer there. Stepping in he raises a hand, points a finger at him. ] You'll tell me what's going on or I'll --.

[ The jolt of pain that courses through him from his wrist is excruciating. He feels his knees go out beneath him, his breath caught in his throat. Through watery eyes he sees the guard start to laugh. ]

[ The humiliation stings long after the shock of electricity. Athos feels it like a festering wound, still seeping inside of him. But he stays quiet and watches. Some people he recognises from the network. Some he does not. But they are all treated as badly as he had been, beaten and bruised and addressed like animals. The indignity is something he cannot stand, the fact that these men - these creatures - have so little compassion. They are not soldiers but mercenaries.

He sticks to the shadows as best as he can, his hat pulled low on his head to avoid the gaze of anyone too keen. But he does not avoid the other imPorts. In fact when someone stumbles in front of him then he is the first to reach them, giving them an aid back to their feet. His voice is low when he speaks so as not to be heard. ]

Keep walking. We'll get out of this, I promise.

[ He falls asleep in a tavern. No, a bar, that's what d'Artagnan told him to call them. So he falls asleep in a bar, a glass of brandy at his fingertips and an unnatural cast to his slumber. He hasn't done this in a long time, since before he had Porthos to carry him home, since before he knew he had an image to present. That's what makes it so strange.

That and it was only his second drink.

When the first shock comes it is the brandy is the one that suffers, flung aside by his seizing fingers. The words he snarls out are under his breath and almost intelligible. Every so often he makes a start forward as if he means to slam himself into something. Or someone. ]