Three Graces - Torture
Oct. 31st, 2011 02:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nothingtoregretAuthor: Regret
Rating: 18
Word Count: 1,327
Summary: David explains a little of his past to the stranger. It's not like he's got much choice...
The back of his head was throbbing, that was the first thing he was conscious of. Beyond the heat and the discomfort and the sand in his mouth, the nagging, aching pain. He buried his head under his arms, wishing he could bury it beneath the sand too and forget everything.
“Get up.”
A foot caught him in the ribs, not hard - not hard enough to break anything, anyway - and David exhaled a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Fuck you,” he grunted, tensing his stomach for a second blow.
Which didn’t come. Instead there was the click of the safety, like an echo of a nightmare. “Sit. Up.”
The relentless sun (god he was starting to hate that sun now) scratched at his eyeballs as he grudgingly shifted his arms from his head and forced himself into an uncomfortable sitting position. The world had no business spinning so quickly. “What?”
The man in front of him was crouched on his haunches and watching his every move without blinking once, the gun in one hand and a knife in the other, held loosely as if it was a casual thing, that he just happened to be holding it when David woke. His gaze flicked from the stranger’s face, to the gun, to the knife; which one he was supposed to keep an eye on he had no idea. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me,” the other man leaned in, his eyes firmly locked on David’s own with an intensity that finally inspired a spark of terror in him, “what you did that made them want you dead.”
He opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he thought of that comment but stopped. Why, he didn’t know: whether it was the gun, the knife or the fact that, now he thought about it, it was the first time anyone had asked him, the insult caught in his throat and refused to budge. He just stared, and the stranger stared back; somehow the insult converted itself into words he never thought he’d speak aloud.
“It was my own fault.”
***
The floor was harder than his own cell’s, if that was possible, and he hit it with enough force to wind him. The shadow that fell over him he’d seen often enough to recognise even as he gasped for breath. “Mr. Deor. I’m sorry we have to do this, but you really are being stubborn.”
“I’m not,” he groaned, pushing himself up. It got harder each time. “I’m being principled.”
The fingers that looped into his hair, pulling him into a kneeling position, were so familiar through habit. Their owner, his visitor who had so patiently and indulgently waited for him to complete the machines could no longer be described by either word. “No, David,” the word was spat in his face, “you’re being an idiot.”
David tried to shake his head (unsuccessfully, as the grip on his hair tightened further) and forced a smile. “No, I’m—”
The word was cut off abruptly by a hand wrapping itself around his throat. Instinctively his hands jerked towards his neck, trying to pry the fingers digging into his soft skin away. No success. The hand tensed, the man lifting him as though he weighed nothing, dragging him to his feet. “You will do what you’re told, do you understand me?” He hissed, his breath burning against his skin. “We can’t kill you but we can make you suffer and if I’m honest,” he leaned even closer, smirking as David failed to recoil, no matter how much he struggled against the grip, “I will enjoy it, you arrogant little shit.”
The fingers slowly, one by one, released their hold and David slumped back to his knees, both hands pressed to the tender skin. Breathing hurt, each one a burning gasp. Any attempt to form a rebuttal went out the window; all he wanted to do was get some oxygen into his body without it feeling like each breath would kill him.
The slip of something cool and rigid yet flexible around his neck paralysed him. Something cold, two solid lines, pressed against the nape of his neck, and then pressure again, uniform this time and not as hard. “Stand up.”
David shook his head; immediately he wished he hadn’t. The pressure grew, the ligature tight enough that he couldn’t even try to get his fingers under the straight edge without gouging the skin of his throat.
“This,” the voice whispered, uncomfortably close to his ear, “is my belt. It does a better job of hurting you than I can. So you are going to stand up.”
David stood.
The pressure eased almost immediately, air crashing back into his lungs. “Why are you doing this?” Each word was agony.
“Because we need you. You made this machine, you can modify it.”
“I—” He remembered when they told him, three days ago - at least he thought it was that long ago - what they truly wanted his machines for. They hadn’t been keen on his reaction then either. His jaw still ached. “I don’t want to...”
Anticipating the reaction didn’t help. He choked, the belt the only thing stopping him from doubling over, hands pressed to his neck. “I don’t care what you want,” the man behind him snapped. “I thought that had been made abundantly clear; you will do it.” A sharp impact, the feel of shoes against the back of his knees, and David dropped like a stone, the belt the only thing holding him up. He let out a hoarse cry, thrashing around and pulling at the supple leather with enough force to open welts in his skin. “Do I make myself clear?”
He didn’t know what scared him most: the flashes exploding across his vision or the impassive voice of the man inflicting this on him. He couldn’t even nod, couldn’t speak; how the hell was he supposed to respond?
The pressure slackened without warning, the belt slapping him across the back as he hit the floor. The shoes came into blurred view as he curled into a ball on the floor, hands laced around the belt and knees pressed to his chest. “You have five minutes to pull yourself together and start work.”
David nodded slowly, heart and head pounding; the foot came up and he cringed back but the fear was unfounded this time. The feet turned and walked away, leaving him gasping on the floor with tears streaming down his cheeks.
***
The mercenary’s gaze had been unwavering and more than a little unnerving. Throughout David’s words the knife had been tossed into the air and unerringly caught several times. The only thing stopping the wanderer from slowly backing away from the big man had been the sneaking suspicion that he could impale him in any body part he chose with a simple flick of the wrist.
“So they threatened you.”
He shrugged. The gesture was barely noticeable through his clothes. “Something like that, yeah.”
The merc leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees, and gestured with the tip of the knife at David. The action made him feel unaccountably uncomfortable. “That isn’t the whole story.”
“No.” There was no point in lying.
“Why not?”
“You’re taking me back to them, aren’t you.” It didn’t need to be a question. He’d known ever since the gun had been buried in his hair.
The big man didn’t bat an eyelid. “Depends. If you’re who I think you are, I could just kill you instead. There are people who would pay well. Or,” he tossed the knife into the air again. The handle landed with a gentle thump in his gloved palm, “I could make what they did to you seem like child’s play. People would pay well for that too.”
David sighed, staring down at the sands between them, and smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “No. You couldn’t. No one could.”
Rating: 18
Word Count: 1,327
Summary: David explains a little of his past to the stranger. It's not like he's got much choice...
The back of his head was throbbing, that was the first thing he was conscious of. Beyond the heat and the discomfort and the sand in his mouth, the nagging, aching pain. He buried his head under his arms, wishing he could bury it beneath the sand too and forget everything.
“Get up.”
A foot caught him in the ribs, not hard - not hard enough to break anything, anyway - and David exhaled a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Fuck you,” he grunted, tensing his stomach for a second blow.
Which didn’t come. Instead there was the click of the safety, like an echo of a nightmare. “Sit. Up.”
The relentless sun (god he was starting to hate that sun now) scratched at his eyeballs as he grudgingly shifted his arms from his head and forced himself into an uncomfortable sitting position. The world had no business spinning so quickly. “What?”
The man in front of him was crouched on his haunches and watching his every move without blinking once, the gun in one hand and a knife in the other, held loosely as if it was a casual thing, that he just happened to be holding it when David woke. His gaze flicked from the stranger’s face, to the gun, to the knife; which one he was supposed to keep an eye on he had no idea. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“Tell me,” the other man leaned in, his eyes firmly locked on David’s own with an intensity that finally inspired a spark of terror in him, “what you did that made them want you dead.”
He opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he thought of that comment but stopped. Why, he didn’t know: whether it was the gun, the knife or the fact that, now he thought about it, it was the first time anyone had asked him, the insult caught in his throat and refused to budge. He just stared, and the stranger stared back; somehow the insult converted itself into words he never thought he’d speak aloud.
“It was my own fault.”
The floor was harder than his own cell’s, if that was possible, and he hit it with enough force to wind him. The shadow that fell over him he’d seen often enough to recognise even as he gasped for breath. “Mr. Deor. I’m sorry we have to do this, but you really are being stubborn.”
“I’m not,” he groaned, pushing himself up. It got harder each time. “I’m being principled.”
The fingers that looped into his hair, pulling him into a kneeling position, were so familiar through habit. Their owner, his visitor who had so patiently and indulgently waited for him to complete the machines could no longer be described by either word. “No, David,” the word was spat in his face, “you’re being an idiot.”
David tried to shake his head (unsuccessfully, as the grip on his hair tightened further) and forced a smile. “No, I’m—”
The word was cut off abruptly by a hand wrapping itself around his throat. Instinctively his hands jerked towards his neck, trying to pry the fingers digging into his soft skin away. No success. The hand tensed, the man lifting him as though he weighed nothing, dragging him to his feet. “You will do what you’re told, do you understand me?” He hissed, his breath burning against his skin. “We can’t kill you but we can make you suffer and if I’m honest,” he leaned even closer, smirking as David failed to recoil, no matter how much he struggled against the grip, “I will enjoy it, you arrogant little shit.”
The fingers slowly, one by one, released their hold and David slumped back to his knees, both hands pressed to the tender skin. Breathing hurt, each one a burning gasp. Any attempt to form a rebuttal went out the window; all he wanted to do was get some oxygen into his body without it feeling like each breath would kill him.
The slip of something cool and rigid yet flexible around his neck paralysed him. Something cold, two solid lines, pressed against the nape of his neck, and then pressure again, uniform this time and not as hard. “Stand up.”
David shook his head; immediately he wished he hadn’t. The pressure grew, the ligature tight enough that he couldn’t even try to get his fingers under the straight edge without gouging the skin of his throat.
“This,” the voice whispered, uncomfortably close to his ear, “is my belt. It does a better job of hurting you than I can. So you are going to stand up.”
David stood.
The pressure eased almost immediately, air crashing back into his lungs. “Why are you doing this?” Each word was agony.
“Because we need you. You made this machine, you can modify it.”
“I—” He remembered when they told him, three days ago - at least he thought it was that long ago - what they truly wanted his machines for. They hadn’t been keen on his reaction then either. His jaw still ached. “I don’t want to...”
Anticipating the reaction didn’t help. He choked, the belt the only thing stopping him from doubling over, hands pressed to his neck. “I don’t care what you want,” the man behind him snapped. “I thought that had been made abundantly clear; you will do it.” A sharp impact, the feel of shoes against the back of his knees, and David dropped like a stone, the belt the only thing holding him up. He let out a hoarse cry, thrashing around and pulling at the supple leather with enough force to open welts in his skin. “Do I make myself clear?”
He didn’t know what scared him most: the flashes exploding across his vision or the impassive voice of the man inflicting this on him. He couldn’t even nod, couldn’t speak; how the hell was he supposed to respond?
The pressure slackened without warning, the belt slapping him across the back as he hit the floor. The shoes came into blurred view as he curled into a ball on the floor, hands laced around the belt and knees pressed to his chest. “You have five minutes to pull yourself together and start work.”
David nodded slowly, heart and head pounding; the foot came up and he cringed back but the fear was unfounded this time. The feet turned and walked away, leaving him gasping on the floor with tears streaming down his cheeks.
The mercenary’s gaze had been unwavering and more than a little unnerving. Throughout David’s words the knife had been tossed into the air and unerringly caught several times. The only thing stopping the wanderer from slowly backing away from the big man had been the sneaking suspicion that he could impale him in any body part he chose with a simple flick of the wrist.
“So they threatened you.”
He shrugged. The gesture was barely noticeable through his clothes. “Something like that, yeah.”
The merc leaned forward, resting both elbows on his knees, and gestured with the tip of the knife at David. The action made him feel unaccountably uncomfortable. “That isn’t the whole story.”
“No.” There was no point in lying.
“Why not?”
“You’re taking me back to them, aren’t you.” It didn’t need to be a question. He’d known ever since the gun had been buried in his hair.
The big man didn’t bat an eyelid. “Depends. If you’re who I think you are, I could just kill you instead. There are people who would pay well. Or,” he tossed the knife into the air again. The handle landed with a gentle thump in his gloved palm, “I could make what they did to you seem like child’s play. People would pay well for that too.”
David sighed, staring down at the sands between them, and smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “No. You couldn’t. No one could.”
