This is just a little piece of experimentation writing, I had an idea and ran with it just to try out the Vibes. I had to give them names for it to feel right, I guess we’ll see if either of them show up again in the future. I wanted to try something here, starting with the small detail and slowly widening the lens… I like how it turned out!
Contents: aftermath of torture/interrogation, mob/crime type setting, hand whump, knives, guns, blood, threats, all that juicy stuff.
It hurts like hell as his hand is lifted—the mangled broken one with its cracked bones and dislocated joints—so the pad of his thumb can be pressed to the fingerprint scanner. Of course it’s the broken one that Blake uses, not the one that’s chained to the table leg.
Gil grits his teeth through every tiny shift, air whistles past his teeth as he hisses, almost a whine. And then he breathes, swallows, gets air into his lungs just in time to be able to gasp as his hand is laid back down on the surface of the table and the pain spikes all over again. There’s a gentle clunk in front of him and he opens his eyes to see his phone shining up at him.
“Now the passcode.”
He looks up, licks his lips. The handcuff rattles as he tries to raise his right hand. Blake holds his gaze, waiting perched on the edge of the table.
“The passcode.”
They’d asked for it before, but that was hours ago. Hours before the pain he’s in now. Long before he’d reached the point of caving in, willing to do this—to make it stop.
“Y-yeah, give me… yeah.” His voice is hoarse. He’s out of options, or at least out of options that don’t involve more pain.
It’s a special kind of agony to raise his hand and use the back of a knuckle to key in the four digit number. It aggravates the injuries, but it cuts deeper too. He knows he’s giving in; too weak to hold out. But wouldn’t anyone, after all this? He isn’t sure.
“Very good. See how easy this can be?”
He scowls, face twisting in disgust. Gets a laugh for it.
“I know, you have your orders, your principles to follow. Unfortunately so do I, it’s a shame they clash. I’m sure neither of us wants to be here.”
No, he doesn’t want to be here. Would walk out if he could, if his legs would even hold his weight after all the pain, the exhaustion.
“Not exactly my choice for a vacation, no,” he replies, stifling a cough as his lungs protest. Cracked rib, then. Or bruised at least. The chair squeaks under his weight, the legs crooked. His knee knocks against the table but it’s too solid to wobble. Had held his weight well enough while they worked him over.
Blake leans back, spreads his arms wide. “We do our best with what we have.”
And what they have is a pile of shit. Fuck all. Until now… until he gives them everything he has. Maybe not everything, he’ll have to see what he can hold on to. He takes a steadying breath. Pulls himself back from the points of pain in his body, into the room to focus on what he has to do next.
“Now, let’s go through this a bit at a time.” Blake swipes the phone and clicks around. “Contacts first, one by one. I show you a name or number, you tell me what their relation is to you and your operation. Understand?”
“Can I have some water?”
There’s a silent exchange between Blake and the man guarding the door. It’s thick and heavy–the door, and the man– off to the side near the corner, opening to a room longer than it is wide, but not by much. Not big enough for Gil’s screams to echo, but big enough that his eyes can wander over cracks and peeling paint on the walls. He snaps his attention back to Blake as he gets his answer.
“After you answer some questions, sure, then you can drink.”
His throat is like sandpaper, raw and rough. He bobs his head anyway. What else is he going to do?
“Of course you’d say anything right now to get this to stop, wouldn’t you?” Blake appraises him over the phone, the blue light glinting in his eyes. Makes him look even more unnerving, eerily otherworldly. But he’s only a man, he just happens to be a man on the winning side of this exchange.
Another hesitant lick of his lips. “I… no, I mean, I’m cooperating?”
“Right, sure.” The phone is waved around as Blake squints, thinking. “But even so, you know I’ll need to verify each thing you tell me, independently. You talk, we check, then we move on. I can’t take your word for anything under these conditions.”
These conditions. The ones where he’s ratting out everyone he knows. “I understand.”
“Great, so, first things first—your role. And your real name?”
He must hesitate a fraction of a second too long because there’s the distinct sound of a gun being cocked behind him, and the large man blocking his exit comes into his field of view. Finger casually held down the side of the barrel, gun turned slightly in his direction. He sinks down in his seat, bare feet sliding on the boards underneath—slick with blood. With other things.
Blake shakes his head, chuckles. “That’s not necessary, Crill. No, no death is not what’s going to motivate you right now is it?”
He clenches his jaw, rotates it, grinding his teeth. Took one too many hits to the face and it’s all swollen, bruised and hot. He shakes his head, or at least, he shakes.
“No, the threat of more pain, that’syour motivation.”
“You don’t need—” he starts, desperately, and is cut off as a large, sharp knife appears in Blake’s hand from the sheath at his hip. He follows it, can’t look away from it. “Please, come on, I won’t…”
“Won’t what? Talk?” The knife twirls, the point edges towards him, wobbles like a wagging finger.
“Won’t hold back!”
That gets a smile, the knife sidles closer, plucks at the collar of his shirt and swipes downwards slowly until the top button strains and then pops. He looses a breath with it as the button bounces out of sight, a whine stuck in his throat.
“I know,” Blake replies.
His shirt is already in tatters, burnt, ripped, soaked in blood. Not like he’s going to miss that one button but the casual destruction fills him with dread as Blake rounds the table, picks up a pad of paper and a pen. A second phone. Settles in like this is a business meeting. As if one person at the table hasn’t been brutalised, isn’t bleeding.
The morning light just peeking through the mesh covered window paints the entire scene in bleak, grey tones. A washed out horror show that he’s too tired to make sense of.
“Keep doing what I ask and we can relax while we wait for your stories to be corroborated.”
That makes him shudder. How can he relax like this, alone, haunted, hurt? His mind drifts out of the window. There’s an entire world waking up outside. Getting out of bed, eating, starting the day right. And yet he can’t wake up from the nightmare he was dragged into. He blinks, stupidly, trying to clear some of the haze from his mind. His wits are nowhere to be found, though. Must have bled out of him along with his screams.
That smile again, small, but so confident. “Let’s begin.”
Captured Captain America was tortured - drug, brainwash, hang, electrify, waterboarding, beaten, and sound attack. Even Cap’s heroic mind and super-human body could not resist combination of inhumane tortures any more.
With lockdowns in place, it was pretty easy for these lads to nab the faggot who thought ‘a late night walk won’t hurt, will it?’. Turns out it did, especially when these two were landing blows all over the fag lad.
Several hours later, these chavs have still got plenty of energy. “Time for some more cock sucking, faggot, then we’re both gonna take turns on that pussy of yours, then beat the shit out of you one more time. Oh and did we mention we’re gonna film the whole thing this time?”
“Well…, what do we have here?” - one of the gang members mumbled, cautiously approaching the silent body resting against the alley wall. Their buddies were right behind them, weapons at the ready. “Hey. You alive?”
A choked groan was their only response. The injured whumpee sucked in a pained breath, managing to open one of their eyes. “…Hrgh…?”
“Oh, good.” - the gang member said, casually crouching down beside them. “Don’t know who you pissed off, but want me to finish the job?”
Whumpee croaked out a sob. “N-No…, plea-se…”
“Hmm… Want some help then?”
The whumpee seemed hesitant but muttered out a quiet, “Y-Yes…”
“Alright then. This is gonna cost you later though just so you know.” - they responded before carefully picking Whumpee up into a bridal carry. “The name’s Caretaker, by the way. Let’s get you cleaned up, eh, pretty?”
Mmm I love having my ass beaten and bruised as punishment for being a naughty, slutty, bad little girl. What do you all think of my bruised ass? Like, follow, message, ask, or reblog!
“You sold me out, you sonofabitch.” I’m slurring my S’s and the dizziness has kicked up a couple notches. That spell took a lot out of me. Alex frowns. He takes on a tone like he’s talking a crazy man off a ledge. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on, Eric, you look like hell. I’ve been trying to find you since your call cut out. Let me get you some help.” “Fuck you,” I say, loud enough to make him flinch. “You sicced that sonofabitch and his fucking band of thugs on me.” Alex blurs a little, the floor tilts enough to make me stumble but I hold on to the gun. “I’m not doing anything, Eric. You’re bleeding. Your nose is broken. Your face is nothing but one big bruise. We need to get you some help.” “You’re not fucking touching me. Griffin told me about you. Told me about your deal. Right before he tried to have me killed.” “Griffin? Ben Griffin? The hell does he have to do with anything?” “See, you know him. You knew he was around. You knew he was looking for me. You gave me to him to clear the half million you owe him, get your club back.”
“The fuck are you going on about? No. I mean, yeah, I know him. Everybody knows him. And yeah, I owe him money. But he sure as fuck doesn’t own any of this club. We’ve got a revolving account with him. He’s one of my suppliers.” “What?” “He sells me beer, Eric.” Did I get the name wrong? I don’t think so. I can’t remember. There’s something else to say, but I can’t think of it. “You didn’t fuck me over,” I say, somewhere between relieved and feeling like an asshole. I blink away the double image of Alex. My thoughts slide off each other. The room takes another tilt and I stumble, suddenly too woozy to stand up straight. He catches me as I go to my knees, grabs the gun with one smooth motion. “No, man. I didn’t do anything like that. I wouldn’t do that.” “He was with Boudreau.” My voice sounds very far away. “Changed his name from Duncan.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. Let’s get you patched up and you can tell me all about it, okay?” Alex thinks he’s just his beer guy. I laugh. “Boy does he have you fooled,” I say, and slip into unconsciousness.
