It didn't even occur to him that the wine tasted...off. Bitter. Wrong in some hard-to-define way. It was strong wine, that much soon became clear; Booker quickly found himself flushed and giggling at all of John's jokes. He discovered, to his chagrin, that he had managed to become drunk. He also realized he didn't care in the slightest. It was remarkably easy, in this state, to become David, the ditzy, free-spirited art student and traveler who would be John's weekend companion. Just for a while, he could let go of Russia, of war, of his dying son cursing his name. Of exile. Of his own traitorous ways.

It wasn't until he stood up to pay the bill that he realized something was wrong. That sweet wine had gone sticky in his mouth, and light-hearted tipsiness had given way to heavy limbs and slurred speech. The room was slowly spinning as John pulled him close, walking him out to an old nondescript dark-colored sedan. He heard at a distance as his captor laughed to the waitress that, 'poor lad had too much wine on an empty stomach' and 'can't for the life of him hold his liquor, poor love', and other such blithe reassurances that this was not in fact a kidnapping. Booker's heart sped up as John wrangled his floppy, useless limbs into the back seat and shoved him down, tossing a blanket over him. In the dark, breathing damp flannel and at the mercy of what felt like a horribly winding road, Booker tried mightily to vomit up whatever he'd been drugged with. To no avail though; carsickness rolled inside him but the nausea never quite peaked. By the time the car stopped he was a sweating bundle of panic, even as he tried to remember that no matter what, he could come back to life afterwards. John came around to the back and scooped Booker up, blanket and all, his feet and one hand dangling free. He tried to headbutt John, hoping that he'd drop him and enable Booker to escape, but he was too dizzy and weak to manage more than smacking his cheek into the man's collarbone as he was carried.

John chuckled and stroked Booker's head.

"Now now, lovey, don't start fighting just yet. Plenty of time that, soon enough."

Booker had a vague impression of a rural cottage, and for some reason the blooming pink roses on the tablecloth as John brought him through the kitchen. He realized sinkingly that they must be headed to the bedroom, though until the door opened, Booker had no idea the truth. John deposited him on a bed with no covers apart from a sheet and what seemed like a sort of waterproof mat. A camera was aimed towards it, and a set of old-fashioned metal handcuffs were chained to the wrought-metal headboard. Hard by was a little rolling table spread with various implements that recalled Kozac's lab. This time he really did gag, head hanging as John shackled him in place and began methodically undressing him. Shoes and socks first, button down shirt, then his jeans, undershirt. At last he was only in his boxers, and suddenly his tormentor withdrew.

"Hello again friends," he addressed the camera, which was apparently now recording, "I'm very excited to introduce to you a new guest performer today. This is David, and we've gained the honor of his company for the next several days! As always, you, the viewer, decide his fate. Last time it was decided that you wanted our next guest to perform for us on camera, so once friend David has got his bearings a bit we'll get on with the show!"