Jimmy woke slowly, smiling at confused but pleasant memories of staggering home so drunk that a buddy had to support him, even unlock the door for him and help him get undressed for bed. Funny, he rarely got drunk, and he sure didn't remember going out drinking last night. The last thing he remembered was having lunch at a roadside diner with his new friend, the one who wanted to start a one-armed basketball team. Alex; that was his name. His memory of the beginning of the meal was clear enough. The guy had been very pleasant company, although he'd teased him gently about reading the supermarket tabloid he'd found abandoned on another table on the way back from the men's room. "Hey, this stuff really does happen," he remembered saying. "Take this for example: 'Aliens Experiment on Single Mom's Unborn Fetus.' That actually happened to a friend of a friend of mine." Alex had laughed at that, but so had everyone else he'd ever mentioned it to. At least Alex had been friendly about his disbelief. A few minutes later Jimmy had tried again. "This one here: 'Man Buried Alive for Two Weeks Is In Perfect Health'? I tell you, two weeks is nothing!"

He did remembered digging into his main course, but not finishing it, and he didn't remember who had picked up the check. He wouldn't have let Alex pay without a fight, would he? He had a feeling he'd left the diner already drunk, but he didn't remember even having a beer with his meal.

Slowly, as he struggled out of sleep, he realized that his arms were raised over his head and handcuffed. He opened his eyes. He was lying on a bed in what looked like it might be a cheap motel room. He was shirtless and barefoot, lying on top of the crisp sheets. His wallet was on the nightstand, with its contents -- not just money and credit cards, but pictures of his team and of the Lone Gunmen -- removed and spread out for examination. There was another bed beside it, still neatly made. Alex was sitting at the desk.

"Alex? What gives?"

"Hey. You're awake. How do you feel?" He walked over to the bed.

"Not very hung over. Was I drinking?"

Alex looked down at him in astonishment. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"Was I in some kind of accident?"

His mouth twisted. "Guess again." He was back to the low, dangerous whisper he'd first used back at Headquarters.

"Someone has taken us prisoner?" Jimmy asked almost eagerly.

"You're getting warmer."

"Uh..." He didn't want to believe it of Alex, but this was looking like some kind of spy movie, like the ones his parents used to watch. Kinda cool in a way. No one had ever wanted to kidnap him until he met the Lone Gunmen, but the minute he'd fallen in with them he'd started having all kinds of dangerous adventures. None quite like this, though. "Let's see. You're really a foreign spy, and you've kidnapped me to get secrets out of me?" He felt a mixture of fear and excitement at the thought.

"Hey, very close! You're smarter than you look," Alex said, patting his belly almost affectionately. He didn't say it in a particularly nasty tone. Not like Langly, who Jimmy liked to think was his friend.

"W-why did you take my shirt off?"

His captor didn't answer.

"Oh, man. Are you gonna torture me?" Jimmy had never had to stand up to being tortured like the heroes in the movies. He liked to think he could take a lot of it and never crack, but he wasn't sure about that. Looked like he might have the chance to find out.

"Not right now. We'll see about that later."

"What are you gonna do with me, then?"

"Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?"

"I'm a little thirsty, thanks."

His captor grabbed a travel mug and a straw and went into the bathroom to fill it. He held the straw to Jimmy's lips, and Jimmy drained about half of it. "Thanks, that's enough."

"Let me know when you want more. I've learned it's bad karma to mistreat my prisoners." He went to the desk and came back with a grease pencil. To Jimmy's surprise, he started writing right on Jimmy's chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Haven't you ever used a laundry marker to put your name on your gym shorts? I'm marking you as my property."

This wasn't the way spies behaved in movies. They were usually perfect gentlemen. This was a little more like what insane costumed super-villains did to super-heros after dousing them with kryptonite or whatever. Usually even they weren't that sick. Jimmy kicked himself; he knew the guys would never have trusted a stranger the way he did. He'd just assumed that he could always take care of himself, if his trust turned out to be misplaced. It had never occurred to him that he had anything to worry about from a one-armed man.

Jimmy peered at the message Alex had written across his chest. "Is that your real name? 'Skecyrk'?"

"'Sceckirk'? Oh." Alex laughed. "That's 'Krycek.' See, it's 'K,' 'R,' Y', 'C,' 'E,' 'K,' apostrophe, 'S'." He traced the letters with his finger, which tickled slightly. "Alex Krycek. You can call me whatever you want. Oh, except don't call me 'Xela.'"

"Why would I call you 'Zella'?"

Krycek sighed and went to get something. Jimmy tensed, wondering if he was getting some kind of diabolical torture device, but it was only a camera. Jimmy didn't think there was any way you could torture someone with a camera, unless you counted endless slide shows of boring vacations or baby pictures.

Krycek aimed the camera at him. Jimmy realized he was going to take a picture of him chained helplessly to the bed, which was kinda humiliating. "Who's that for?" he demanded.

"Say 'thumbscrew,'" Krycek said cheerfully, and snapped a photo. He looked at it critically as it developed. "You don't look scared enough. Let's try again. Say 'torture rack.'" He frowned when that one developed too. "Maybe I should dump a bucket of ice down your pants. That'll make it look like you're in pain."

"You wouldn't!" Jimmy said defiantly.

Krycek snapped another picture. "Don't make me do it," he said as he waited for it to develop. "OK, this one will do. For now."

Jimmy glumly stared at his new markings while Krycek rummaged around and produced a white plastic bottle. Krycek spent a minute or two trying to get the cap off one-handed. Finally he thrust the top into Jimmy's hand and ordered him to open it. Awkwardly, Jimmy twisted it until the seal broke, and unscrewed the top as Krycek held the bottle.

"Not bad. I should take you home and chain you up in my kitchen. I could use a slave to open bottles and jars for me."

"I'd take up too much counter space. Maybe you can get my friends to invent some kind of jar-opening machine for you. You can trade me for it."

The bottle turned out to contain rubbing alcohol. Krycek wet a washcloth with it and scrubbed vigorously at Jimmy's chest, cleaning it of the grease pencil markings.

Jimmy felt a glimmer of hope when he saw Krycek put one of the pictures into what must be a portable scanner and open up a laptop computer. If there was a computer in the room, there was a good chance of rescue. It was like having a potted plant in the room if your best friend was Swamp Thing.