hi, i'm meadow, most people know me as ziggy though. a tumblr rebrand may be incoming, haha. in general, i don't post much, but some of you guys like my writing, so i'm here now ^^
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I AM A MINOR, i'm seventeen however i don't exactly.... care for nsfw? i'm not going to directly post it on my page nor am i going to write it under my name, but if you're an nsfw or 18+ account, lmk beforehand. hit up my inbox or something.
things i post!
fandoms
valorant, overwatch, genshin impact, faith: the unholy trinity, danganronpa, voltron, and the occasional oc work
about meeee :3
i'm meadow, ziggy, morrison, jill, whatever you may know me as! i'm filipino and i love valorant! i play for fun, sometimes i run comp, but mostly i love writing the characters :)i'm very active on twitter and tiktok so i'm excited to start posting here after lurking for so long.
hi! First of, I'm sorry this is an ask, I'm not familiar enough with Tumblr to tell where the message button is or if there's one.
I'm a French speaker, just read your cyphber torture fic and am... confused. I had to check out the translations lmao, esp for "mots sûrs"
So I thought I might as well come say, we don't really have that term in french. Trying to think how we'd say safe word in French - we'd probably just use the English safeword in a possibly very French accent lol
Everything else is technically correct, and though I'm not a big fan of the wording, that might just be me.
Was nice though, have a good day!
THANK YOU FOR THIS ACTUALLY
my french is less than mediocre i fear o(>< )o
i'm deffo trying to work on it so thank you for the feedback !! i really appreciate it
chamber/cypher (valorant)
tags: mentioned deadeye | omega chamber, name changes, unreliable narrator (only for a bit!), domestic, home, comfort, references to depression, bathing/washing, non-sexual Intimacy, implied sexual content, not beta read, cyphber week 2024
synopsis:
synopsis: after crossing paths with deadeye, cypher avoids the outside world like the plague. chamber wants his lover back.
day 1: domestic / "home" / comfort | mini-fic for cyphberweek on twitter!
sfw. 2.3k words.
Cypher seemed to be fine after the whole Omega incident. Amir was not.
His room, normally bleak, has accumulated a stench– a putrid mixture of cigarettes and cherry brandy–, the plates and cups are stacking, and the only thing kept somewhat clean would be his desk.
An ashtray sits to the left of his keyboard, clicking and clacking away at hours God does not consider. Cypher doesn’t even think God would be interested in what he has to offer; a sad, forty-one-year-old man's antics were probably the last thing on his mind; that’s at least what he thought.
The man sits at his desk, typing another wellness journal that Ling Ying had advised him to keep logs of during his episodes– especially after what happened a week ago. His fingers move hastily– typo after typo weaves its way into his review and he wants to claw his eyes out.
He hasn’t removed his mask in days– unless you count the occasional lift of the bottom to get to the bottom of a bottle or the end of a cigarette. Few people have checked on him. Ling Ying knocks on his door every once in a while. Han periodically brings him a plate of warm food. Hazal asked if he needed anything, to which he ignored.
However, Vincent hadn’t talked to him since the briefing.
Cypher believed that to stay the same until he ran out of painkillers, and decided he’d finally have to leave his room. Of course, he could just page Ling Ying for more, but she’d keep it on a specific dosage, and Cypher was not about to run out in a few days time. It’s not like he’d abuse the prescription– no, why would he do that?
So, he slides open the door, and he sees Vincent right outside his door, adjusting his cuff while his fist is up to knock on the metal.
Cypher’s existence is dreadful. Vincent’s is picture-perfect. Cypher feels like a child looking at him. Vincent doesn’t look at him with disgust. It’s more concern.
It’s silent. Staring. Burning.
Cypher tries brushing past his presence, “Excuse me,”
“Amir,” Vincent’s eyebrows furrow, turning in the direction he tries walking off to, reaching out his hand to grab the shorter man (not by a lot, Cypher wants to mention), from the back of his coat, forcefully hauling him back to the doorway.
“Ow.” Cypher fusses, swatting Vincent’s hand away, turning on his shoulder to look at him. The top shutters on his eyes are angled downwards— angry. Vincent almost laughs. He was like an angry little cat. He bites back his laughter with rising concern.
“You haven’t come out in days.” Vincent begins, fixing his cuff once more, rolling his wrist. “I knock, you don’t answer—“
“You haven’t knocked,” Cypher squints, a small hiccup accentuating his already sluggish words, “You haven’t even paged me—“
“I have knocked, Amir— supposedly only when you were either so drunk you couldn’t hear a simple tap or asleep.” Vincent snaps back, arms moving to highlight the importance of his words as if they didn’t already jab at Cypher enough.
He stays silent. Vincent opens his mouth.
“… thank God I found you before you went off and did something stupid.”
“Stupid?” Cypher retorts.
Vincent crosses his arms. “Well? What were you going to do?”
Cypher can’t just say he was going to get a bottle of painkillers from the medbay and expect Vincent not to think he was reaching to abuse it.
“Pain meds.” But he says it anyway.
“I think you’re in pain because you aren’t taking care of yourself.” Vincent rolls his eyes, one hand reaching over to push down Cypher’s hat. He flinches. The hand quickly retracts.
“… perhaps I’m too hard on you,” Vincent adds, pliantly tucking his hands into his back pockets. Amir’s shoulders untense at that movement.
“What are you going to do about it, anyway?” Cypher exhales through his nose.
“I’ll make you a meal—“
“You’ll use far too much butter—“
“— and wash the cigarette ash out of your mangy beard. But since you want to be a pain—“
Cypher rolls his eyes behind his mask, “It was a joke,”
Vincent sighs a laugh, “I know, mon coeur.” He says, passing Cypher, looking back expectantly, “You forget that I know how to banter.”
Cypher shakes his head, following Vincent without a second thought.
Their relationship was nothing friendly. Cypher hardly considered Vincent a friend. Their relationship just had benefits, is all— whatever that relationship may be. Vincent often cooked for him after their scenes; after long weeks; especially after a rough day. They hadn’t gotten together since the incident. This would be the first time.
His thoughts lead him to the kitchen with Vincent, sitting at the island while he waits for whatever buttery meal his lover (a work-in-progress title for Vincent; even Cypher doesn’t know what to call him) has prepared for him. His shoulders droop, feigning slumber. Vincent cracks two eggs into a bowl and walks over to the island to wash his hands. Cypher looks up.
“We haven’t talked since the … uh, comment dit-on, the … incident,” He exhales, drying his hands on his apron before returning to the counter, where he beats the eggs in the bowl before dipping two pieces of bread into the liquid.
Cypher clicks his tongue, “Brimstone called your strike team ‘SHATTER-02’, which I thought was incredibly unoriginal—“
“Besides the point, Amir—“ Vincent sighs, “I understand that things get bad for you, but this is terrible. You live in filth and you reek of drugs.”
He doesn’t stop there, “What happened to you was terrible. I agree. I’m here to help you come back from it.”
Especially because it was Him who did it to you, he wants to add.
Cypher rests his chin in his palm, looking at Vincent cook. Deadeye.
He shakes his head.
“Have your wounds gotten infected? Anything I should be aware of?” Vincent asks, picking up the soggy bread and putting it in a pan on the stove.
“No infections. It just hurts.” Cypher complains, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“I’ll get you a medically recommended dose and we’ll clean you up, oui? Is that of interest to you?” Vincent asks, brow raised.
Cypher tilts his head, “Will we share your fancy cigarettes?”
“No.” Vincent squashes his expectations— probably for the best. He imagines his double used the same brand. Even though Cypher smoked them with no problem, he didn’t want to remind him of that. At least… not while he was here.
“Luxuries aside… it sounds fine,” Amir says, getting up and walking around the island to stand next to Vincent and watch him cook. He hands the spatula over, and Amir begrudgingly takes it, pushing the toast into the pan to hear the small sizzle before he flips it.
It’s quiet from then on out. Amir flips the other buttered piece of toast and hands the firstly finished French toast to Vincent, who shakes some cinnamon on the top. He finishes it off with some syrup. He does the same for the next piece of toast.
Amir watches. Vincent empties his left hand and puts his thumb through the back belt loop of Amir’s coat. He rubs— so gently.
It is removed seconds later.
Cypher exhales, previously holding his breath. Amir’s face swells up. Comfort? Contentedness? He inhales.
He’s probably hung over. That is a good explanation.
Before he knows it, the apron is off and Vincent plates the dish, gently patting Amir on the shoulder, beckoning him over to the hallway once again. Amir grabs two water bottles from the fridge before retreating with his lover.
Because he’s had a long week. And that’s it.
The trip is short, and they make it to Vincent’s bedroom now. It’s neat, a bit rough around the edges here and there, yes, but it’s in a much better state than Amir’s. His LED screen is powered on, displaying Toulouse, Paris; home to France’s Aeronautics industry– Vincent’s hometown, from what Cypher gathered.
His bed is the same as always. Navy blue sheets, an abstract comforter, and gold satin pillowcases that he had spent far too much money on, and intended to use them until they frayed. When Amir found that out, he laughed in his face.
“I’ll help you wash up, yes?” He repeats, standing in front of Amir and gently placing his hand atop his hat, looking down at him. Amir scoffs out an affirmation, pushing away Vincent’s hand. He dares not to make eye contact again. He doesn’t know who he’ll see.
“We can do it the same way we always do,” Vincent says, voice gentle and sweet.
Amir missed it.
“Can I take this off?” He asks, hand rounding the top of Cypher’s hat. He nods.
Vincent removes the hat, walking over to put it down on his bed. “Go inside and call me when you’re ready. Take your food too.”
“What, will you feed me as you bathe me?”
Vincent titters. “That was the plan, yes. Maybe I didn’t think this through.”
“But of course,” Amir jests, “you never do.”
Vincent shoos him off.
French toastless, he walks over to his drawer, carefully taking out a long pair of shorts he wore to sleep, replacing his outfit with simply that and the undergarments he was wearing. He strips off his vest and dress shirt, folding them neatly on the bed for later use.
He hears two knocks from inside the bathroom, and he knows Amir is ready.
Vincent slides the door open, quick to turn off the lights and shut the door. He knows the routine all too well.
Turn off the lights.
Shut the door.
Climb behind Amir.
Vincent crosses his legs behind his lover, craning himself to align his nose with Amir’s neck, breathing him in. He laughs– he smells terrible.
“We said no kisses, Vincent.”
“That wasn’t a kiss,” a graze of his lips, “nor that.”
His lips graze behind Amir’s left shoulder, and Vincent’s nose rests just above his trapezius, leaving peppered kisses along the backside. Amir leans his head back, “You never listen.”
“Guilty as charged,” Vincent smiles against his skin. Amir gently taps his nose with the showerhead, and Vincent happily takes it, pulling the faucet knob. The shower roars to life, and cold water hits Amir’s leg, making him flinch. Vincent chuckles, adjusting the temperature to a tolerable warm.
“I’ll wash your body first,” he says, “then we’ll get to your crusty beard.”
He rubs at Amir’s stubble. Amir pulls his hand away with the same laugh bubbling in his throat.
Vincent takes an exfoliating loofah, from his shelving (when you shower in the dark, you tend to memorize where specific things need to be) and applies body wash to it, lathering in his hands before scrubbing at Amir’s back, gentle and soft in circular movements.
Amir could fall asleep, just as he almost did many times before.
The loofah makes its way down Amir’s arms. Vincent gets to his chest and memorizes where the stab wound from the previous week resided (just below his left clavicle) and avoids it, tenderly rubbing around the sides of it to avoid any discomfort on Amir’s end, even if he’d tell him if he was.
“Neck,” Vincent mumbles. Amir hums and tilts his head up so Vincent can reach. “Can you do your legs?”
“I don’t know…”
“My goodness, mon coeur.”
A laugh, cigarette befouled, “I can.”
The exchange is swift, and Vincent softly tucks Amir’s hair back to wet. “Is this okay?”
Amir stays still. An exhale.
“Just be careful.”
Vincent nods, pressing a kiss behind his ear, “Okay.”
Once Amir’s hair is completely dampened, Vincent puts down the showerhead and puts a generous amount of his expensive shampoo in his hand, carefully lathering it into Amir’s strands. He does it slowly, careful for any injury there.
“I’m done with the loofa,” Amir mutters, picking up the showerhead and rinsing off the rest of the soap from his body and the sponge.
“I can take it,” Vincent responds, taking it from the older man and placing it back on its respective shelf. He returns to massaging the soap into Amir’s head, using his fingernails to drag the grime out. “I must buy you curl product.”
“No need.” Amir responds, “They will flatten anyway.”
“At least then you’d have something to take care of,” Vincent argues lightheartedly, “allow me? Please? Just this once, mon amour?”
He knows Amir loves it when he calls him that.
“Fine,” Amir sighs, “only because I know you will do it anyway.”
Vincent laughs, “Because I never listen.”
“Precisely.”
The showerhead is exchanged with a gentle tap of the shoulder, and Vincent washes the soap out of his lover’s hair, angling it so it won’t get in his eyes. He wrings it shortly after, pulling the conditioner bottle from the shelving.
“Can I wash your face for you?” Vincent asks, “While the conditioner seeps in?”
“Don’t you always do that?” Amir asks, tilting his head towards Vincent just a bit– at least, that’s what Vincent thinks with how his head moves while he rubs in the conditioner.
“Yes, but I feel as if I should ask this time around,” Vincent says, voice small.
Amir tenses.
“You may.”
Vincent rinses his hands, pulling his facewash into his hands and arranging a careful amount. Amir turns to face him. His clean hand reaches out to feel Amir’s face– every cavern, every dip, every sag of skin, and every wrinkle, carving him out of the dark like Michaelangelo to David, bringing him to life with each etch. He can imagine him in his wake. What would he do for those lights to suddenly turn on?
Nothing.
He is content with this. He is content with his Amir.
He will bathe him in the dark for years if it means he’ll get to keep him.
For whatever man he might see, he will still be his Amir.
He feels a smile on the other man's face as the other hand comes to wash.
Son Amir.
His Amir.
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chamber/cypher (valorant)
tags: torture, psychological torture, cigarettes, kidnapping, gun violence, delirium, unreliable narrator, aftermath of torture, aftermath of violence, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic description of vomit, vomit, whump, cypher whump, torturer deadeye, dead dove: do not eat, hurt no comfort, canon divergence, near death experience, cross-posted on ao3
synopsis: after the events of the SHATTERED strike team incident, cypher is sent out on a reconnaissance mission where he is tasked with understanding just exactly *who* those agents fighting alongside viper were. after two weeks, the trail goes cold, and cypher is a second too late in finding out why.
or, cypher gets kidnapped by omega earth chamber (deadeye) and tortured.
sfw? very graphic so idk. 6.3k words.
notes:
hello! i’m back, this time with a lot of angst.
- i think what i wrote is rather graphic. continue at your own risk.
- any, and ALL “accidental uses” of different names are ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL.
- canon divergence where instead of simply digging through omega archives via alpha earth to uncover ATLAS, cypher is sent to omega earth to find out in person. everything else is the same.
- cypher’s fake name is ‘ Khidae Eak ‘
- it gets horny. really horny.
- translations will be provided in the end notes.
- cypher is a linguist nerd, french people use arabic curse words (from what i know)
- i made this while listening to old romantic music that you’d probably find in your dad’s vinyl collection. most of this playlist, actually. listen to it while reading if you want!
happy reading :)
Omega Earth wasn’t everything Cypher expected it to be.
As much as Pearl’s geodome was a beautiful place to reside, he was disappointed. Even if the giant sunfish that swam atop and the comic shop that Cypher frequently visited (despite its harsh propaganda) were nothing short of pleasant, it was still Omega Earth. He could get used to it, maybe– plus, he would’ve loved to buy another comic if it weren’t for the circumstances he was in.
Cypher was put on a recon mission; his only directive was to locate information on ATLAS and their presence on Omega Earth. Killjoy was incredibly against it, given their previous run-in during their time as the SHATTERED strike team, but Cypher insisted on his ability.
He’s been here for two weeks now, and all he’s gathered so far are the locations of different ATLAS operational facilities; A site and B site. The doors were often guarded by security cameras, so Cypher made an effort to avoid them, but he isn’t one for keeping his distance for extended periods. Like Icarus, he frequently finds himself flying too close to the sun, threatening to get burned.
Occasionally, he met with his fellow Alpha Earth agents, oftentimes Yoru, who used his dimensional rift to retrieve and relay information back to Alpha Earth in a stealthy, swift manner. Cypher was supposed to meet with him today, but he was taking a bit longer than usual.
He eventually found himself walking around. He bought a comic for memorabilia, a cup of coffee at the little Pérola Café pop-up, and then a few bottles of cherry brandy from that little winery down by the plaza. He circled back to the Garden of Heroes as soon as he got the memo that things were back on schedule— that was of course, after he returned to his safehouse and pulled on his mask. Pearl can know of Khidae Eak, but they will not see Amir El Amari.
The walk is cheerful, bustling,
and incredibly short.
Cypher doesn’t remember the details. All he knows is that eyes were on him, and evading them was not going to be easy.
The broker; hood and scarf on at the commencement of August, body completely covered. His eyes dart around the barren garden– the occasional tourist here and there– and he spots someone. Familiarity lingers in the air– the same glance, the same frame– it couldn’t be.
Cypher remembers looking at his PDA, ready to urge Yoru into hurrying up (excuse his phrasing), and that being compromised isn’t something that he’d appreciate. But he decides to start typing a few moments too late.
He remembers the sound of rushed footsteps, the smell and taste of alcohol, and a hushed urgency uttered in Portuguese, the enunciation nasally in essence, almost as if the orator was not a native speaker. The realization made Cypher’s head spin– or maybe it was the chloroform.
– It could be.
That’s how he managed to get ripped from his desired location with his hands and ankles cuffed to an uncomfortable metal chair, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue; his surroundings are dimly lit– or maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark as he wakes up after being unconscious for God knows how long– and his wrists hurt.
“Attacher ton amant à une chaise,”
Cypher exhales through his nose, the saying all too familiar, speaking honeyed on his dry tongue, – it could be.
– “C’est simple comme bonjour.”
“Vous savez votre français.”
“Et mes mots sûrs.”
“Vous êtes dégoûtant.”
“J’ai appris du meilleur.”
“My double?”
“Yes,” Cypher says, the slightest growl in his voice.
Deadeye exhales through his nose, feigning a laugh, which comes out an amused huff as he closes his captive, compelling his hat down by the rim, so gently that Cypher is reminded of his Vincent back home.
“Why are you here, Amir?”
He puffs, “Careful, I might as you the same thing, Vincent—“
The rattling of a snake,
the breaking of bones,
a groan from a broker,
the taste of iron on his tongue.
“You’re being a pain.”
“But you love when I’m in it.”
“Not you.”
Deadeye’s countenance flattens, his Headhunter spattered with Cypher’s blood as he bears his free hand to tilt Cypher's chin up to face him. His fingers trail down his throat, grazing it like he could tear his skin apart with his fingernails, just until they match the bottom of Cypher’s mask. his breath hitches. His Adam’s apple dips.
“Not the mask,” he almost begs.
Deadeye uses his Headhunter to chuck Cypher’s hat off, allowing it to fall to the floor as he practically shreds off the cuffed male’s mask. His nose is bleeding— bloodied— broken, and the bitter taste of iron sits upon his tongue, his gums an unhealthy brown from the cheap cigarettes he smoked with his beautiful Vincent.
“We’re long past that point, Amir.”
Deadeye speaks with certainty, but his actions speak louder, and they’re yelling in Cypher’s face: “I will kill you.”
But Cypher doesn’t fear death. He never has. Not since then.
Deadeye’s gums are the same color as tobacco, evident as he scowls, teeth yellowed from the smoke that Cypher assumed his counterpart blew into his mouth and forced him to savor, the cinnamon cigars being far too much of a delicacy to waste.
Cypher wants his Vincent.
“How did you know where I was?”
Deadeye strikes his pistol, barrel-first into the side of Cypher’s head, a groan stemming from his strained throat.
“I ask the questions here.”
Cypher is one for witty remarks, “so ask.”
It earns him a muzzle to the forehead.
“Do you want to die, Amir?”
“You want to kill me.”
Deadeye pushes the muzzle further onto Cypher’s forehead, “I said that I ask the questions—“
“No, you misunderstand,” Deadeye’s hand quivers with the beginning, and Cypher feels the ground shift, “it was a statement.”
The more Cypher speaks, the more he feels his heart start to beat behind his eyes– he’s seeing double and it’s like he sees Deadeye and his Vincent in front of him simultaneously. The hallucination makes him feel grounded. He wants to reach out and cup his Vincent’s cheek, rub the scar on his cheekbone, and turn away.
But Deadeye doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone. He’s not Vincent, and he never will be.
The foreboding silence makes Cypher feel like he’s done something he will regret, and his thoughts are proven correct as soon as Deadeye pulls back the hammer of his Headhunter.
“You’re right, my friend,”
Deadeye flicks his hand. Cypher’s ears ring. His throat becomes sandpaper.
“I do want to kill you.”
He shot his fucking leg. He shot him in the fucking leg.
“Because you know too much,” it fucking hurts, “and I need to make sure you don’t tell any more than you already have– one way or another.”
The breathing is heavy in the room, and Cypher feels like he’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t get his shit together. He’s a grown man cuffed to a chair with blood dripping down his leg and bleeding into his baggy gray pants. He loved those pants. The air is crisp, hard to swallow, and hot. It’s as if Chamber’s body heat and musk are forcing itself down Cypher’s throat– it’s asphyxiating.
Chamber’s hand clutches Cypher’s jaw, tautening each time a hic fled his throat, his eyes fleeting tears. Cypher thinks his jaw might give out with the way he’s clenching it so hard– Deadeye slams his skull against the concrete wall. Cypher cries.
“And I’m not opposed to using methods that are considered corrupt, Amir.”
He’s dizzy, he’s losing blood, and he knows he has to survive whatever Deadeye puts him through. He has to. He must. Cypher’s breaths are labored, but his eyes don’t falter– they’re forced open and he just wants to sleep—the intimacy of torture– plagued by your lover.
“I could leave you braindead, do you ever think of that?” Deadeye asks it with a sickening smile as if he’s enjoying it. Cypher would not be surprised if it was some crazy fucking fantasy of his– Cypher feels his face tighten.
“I’d rather not,” he whispers, and Chamber smiles at him, pseuding innocence. Cypher fears what's next. The broker knows everything about everyone but is oblivious and frightened here. He wants to fight back– he has to fight back.
Save your life, Amir– you’ve only got one.
“Imagine what your friends back home will think,” Deadeye tilts his head, twirling a curl next to Cypher’s temple. His lips purse and he pulls his head away as best he can, his brows furrowing in disgust– trepidation– sorrow? Cypher doesn’t even know what. “What would your Vincent think? Will he cry? Will you comfort him?”
Deadeye’s twisted smile widens, “Will you even survive to see him?”
The finger leads down to Cypher’s lower eyelid, his middle finger pulling down at it, his pointer prodding at his eyeball. The feeling is abnormal– the pad of Deadeye’s finger pushes at Cypher’s eye, and he tries to shut them, pulling his head away as sufficiently as he can. His mind blanks.
“You often prattle about being the ‘all-seeing eye’ Amir,” Deadeye’s hand doesn’t halt, but stays put. A hazy breath leaves Cypher’s throat, terrified, “but a spider cannot string its web half blind.”
Wait, Cypher wants to say, but it comes out as a pathetic whine, and Deadeye laughs at him. He laughs in his face. Not like this— no, it can’t end like this.
“You’re shaking.”
Part of him wants to bite the bullet and talk back, but the sheer fear that displays itself within his clenched jaw renders him wordless as Deadeye’s fingernail digs at his cornea. The bawl that seethes through Cypher’s teeth is piercing; he begs for mercy, forgiveness– anything to spark empathy in Deadeye’s amused stare, and from behind his wet finger, stained with Cypher’s tears (he didn’t even realize he was crying), he sees those same bedroom eyes that yielded him speechless in better ways than this.
He swats his head down, and Chamber swiftly slaps him, grabbing him by his jaw once again; the familiar ache returns. He’s cursing at him, laughing, and it’s demeaning. Cypher is glad that his head is ringing so much that he cannot hear him, and that his eyes are too blurred to even view the face of his love.
Or what it would’ve been, at least.
Cypher then realizes what is at stake here– he could possibly ruin everything the protocol had going for them right now– getting killed by an Omega agent could very well compromise the whole operation, much less get him killed. Cypher could care less about that.
He imagines Chamber wouldn’t, though.
So he forces himself to think. The pain is like sparklers underneath his skin, but he blinks back the hot tears and clenches his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into the skin– he tries to focus on that instead.
Handcuffs, you know how to get out of those. Crime novels might not be the best source to rely on, but it’s all you have, Amir; work with it. Chamber gently traces his jawline and he gulps. Cypher tries not to think about it too hard– if he does, he won’t see Deadeye anymore. He cannot handle that outcome.
To a flick of lighter, Cypher looks up– second nature, really– to see Deadeye lighting a cigarette; filter-tipped Virginia blend. Expensive. The authenticness of his character is uncanny. Cypher wants to throw up.
A London delicacy that has to be shipped in at a much higher price, and Chamber is holding it in his right hand, lifting Cypher’s chin to look at him with his left. His captor blows the smoke out in Cypher’s face, and he inhales– a reflex– as the smoke tingles against his eyes. Deadeye twirls the cigarette in his fingers, and inches the cherry towards Cypher’s neck.
“You’re greedy, Amir.” He says, the heat tickling the hairs that already stand on edge. “These go for fifty-five United States dollars per pack. Specialty blends Virginia tobacco, and you’re taking my leftovers,” Deadeye punctuates with a laugh, “you are pathetic. Très pathétique.”
The cherry makes contact, and the scorch makes him fume. “You’re wasting them–”
“On trash, yes,” Chamber says, “But I’ll relight it just for you, if that is what you want, Amir.”
“No,”
The zippo clicks again. Cypher braces himself.
Three cigarette burns mark his neck, and Chamber looks at them like an artist would his magnum opus, prideful in his masterpiece. He drops the cigarette onto Cypher’s shoe, stepping into it.
Cypher zones out.
Then he feels something against his left thigh. Thin– sharp.
Khra, fuck. Of course, he has to pull it out now.
“You’re ravishing like this, Amir,” you are not doing what I fucking think you are doing, “it feels as if it is my job to impair you,” you are not his, “Vous êtes mon problème, after all.” Focus– one hand to abduct the joint, the other set in place to perform the deed.
Dislocate your thumb and slip out your hand. Dislocate your carpometacarpal joint, specifically. You don’t want to break your hand– that’s one less resource you have– if you dislocate your thumb, you can pop it back into place. Easy as pie? Hopefully. Deadeye’s hand falls. Cypher exhales. He was not aware he was holding his breath.
Within the next strike, play it off. Easy.
Chamber drags down the flat side of the blade against his femur, and as the blade is pushed ever so slightly, Cypher lets out a yowl, his thumb angled at an abnormal angle now– one more to go. He uses his other hand to pry off the handcuffs. He forces his shoulders to stay put– a strenuous task, but he manages, and he makes sure to quietly drop the cuff, avoiding any sound cues that may alert his captor.
They did not die for you to fail to endure.
Cypher’s hair stands on end.
It seems Deadeye doesn’t notice the ploy, as he says something about how he had “barely touched” him and that he “shouldn’t jolt like that.” As if he cared.
Cypher can handle a slashed thigh, and he can handle a bullet to the leg– but either way, he will end up bringing fists to a knife and gunfight. He doesn’t even know if Deadeye has additional weapons on him. He fears the worst, even if he’s too set on persisting to realize it.
The blade digs into his skin, and it takes so much inside of him not to buck his legs while dislocating his other thumb, and a growl burrows itself in his throat, coming out in tragically sputtered speech. His eyes shake, looking down even if his brain told him not to, and he sees the blood seep from the cut, slowly– so achingly slowly– staining his already soiled pants. The blood from his nose has already dried and the smell is rancid. He feels a stinging, putrid, and chunky liquid rise in his throat. He bites his tongue and forces the egregious mixture back down. You have seen worse. this is nothing.
He works his other hand of its confines as best he can, his eyes flittering with every twinge of discomfort. He wants to thank God if there even is one out there, that Deadeye doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe there is one if he’s survived this long.
Cypher’s atheist views aside, he ignores the edge slicing into his skin and the wetness dripping down his thigh, working to pop his left thumb back into the socket. Chamber meets Cypher’s dazed stare. He smiles. Cypher exhales, his breath malodorous as olden remains of vomit rest upon it, the thumb unsuccessful in popping back into place as Deadeye rubs his thumb on the wound– it pricks. He feels small crystals chafe at the serrated edges of the cut, and Cypher realizes that he’s genuinely rubbing salt in the wound.
There is something so intimate about it. Captive and captor. He will never look at that smile the same.
Cypher looks at his ankles, one cuff under the leg of the chair and the other connected to him. Lift the chair. Slide it under. He almost laughs– it couldn’t be that easy, and he’s right; he’s shot, he’s cut, and he’s lost blood. Not to fucking mention that he can’t feel his face, but can somehow feel the sweat dripping down the side of his crown, sticking his curly brown hair to his forehead. The broker pops his right thumb back into the socket, flinching as Deadeye slams the knife in the middle of his legs.
He recounts. His legs have been shot at and sliced. That’s a disadvantage. He has no weapons. If he took the knife, he’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight. He doesn’t know if Deadeye has a quick reloader. Maybe he can get him to waste his bullets. Yes, that seems plausible.
Chamber’s hand reaches up to his jawline again, his thumb parting Cypher’s lips ever so slightly, but his jaw stays clenched– he can feel the simmering of salt on his lips. Deadeye forces him to open up, resting the salt-covered thumb on his tongue, and holding it down. A pathetic, broken sob leaves Cypher’s throat. Just a bit more. Find an opening, Amir. You cannot die here. You cannot let him destroy you like this,
because what would happen if you allowed it?
His breath hitches in his throat as Chamber forces his thumb deeper, “Clean it,” he demands, and Cypher leaps into the breach, the taste of sodium and iron on his tongue, causting– a chemical reaction that Cypher wishes didn’t do things to him. He imagines his actual lover performing and wants to fucking bite Deadeye’s thumb off.
“Watch the teeth,” Deadeye scowls, pulling his thumb with a pop and wiping it on Cypher’s shoulder. He swats his hand to clean it, looking away for just a fucking second. That is all the time Cypher needs. His heart aches for warmth, touch– Vincent– so he stands up, tugs the knife out, grabs the chair, and hurls it at him.
He doesn’t realize how badly his legs want to give out until he’s standing upright (more like glorified perching with the way his knees buckle), his grip on the knife faltering ever so slightly as he catches his breath, feeling the adrenaline kick through his veins. He knows it will be over soon– he is only human.
He squints as Deadeye tries to recover from the metal hurled at his frame, and he grunts– and of course, he doesn’t have his fucking glasses. His eyesight comes back to bite him in the ass in a life-or-death situation. Maybe God isn’t real. The room is dark, only lit by a buzzing lightbulb that hurts Cypher’s head. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have time to think because if he can, he’s doing something wrong.
A bullet flies past his head and it brings him back to reality– he is the disadvantage, one dislocated thumb refusing to pop back into place, legs ready to give out at any given moment, and Deadeye just fucking shot at him.
Cypher yells, legs flailing as he flies towards Deadeye, firing blindly. He can tell that he is disoriented still, so he uses it to his advantage. One hand reaches to Deadeye’s wrist– the one holding Headhunter– and pins it down to the best of his ability, kneeing his crotch (hard, at that) to further disable him. Deadeye’s free hand balls into a fist, and slams into Cypher’s cheekbone, groaning out in pain from the previous knee, sprawled on the floor as he tries to keep his hold on Headhunter firm, but Cypher tugs it out of his hand, head spinning as it slides all the way across the linoleum floor, clanking against a piece of metal.
An exit route.
Cypher slams the knife into Deadeye’s right wrist, and he wails, a loud curse echoing through the desolate room as his left shoots up to grab Cypher by the scalp. Chamber tugs his head back, harshly, and Cypher growls, kneeing him once more to slacken his grasp, raising the knife from the puncture with a hellish sound. The ridges of the knife dig against Deadeye’s skin, slitting his wrist into a perfect cavern, through and through. Cypher can feel both of their strength diminishing.
The words spoken are lost to CCTV footage, (that’s if there is a camera in here in the first place) and whizzed memory, but Cypher feels his body move on autopilot, rolling off Chamber, even if he can feel the tightened grip on his scalp pull at his hair follicles, and his body follows in the path that Chamber is dragging him in. He headbutts him once– twice– Cypher stumbles backward when his grip loosens, immediately sitting up to grab his right wrist, squeezing it to try and stop the pain. His groans lay low within his throat, guttural.
Cypher feels his head spinning, and the adrenaline starts to wear off– he cannot allow that to happen.
He holds his head, knife laying in his hand as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs wobbling after each frantic step, trying to find the gleam of the Headhunter as a guide towards the metal door. It’s so, so close, and Cypher thinks he’s reaching out to the door, only to fall over.
Deadeye yanked at one of the cuffs dragging behind his ankle, hard enough to pull Cypher down to one knee. Maroon secretion spreads along the floor in generous portions with the pressure, the sensation closer to tv static. Diaphoresis sets in, and bullets of sweat excavate out of his body, heat evaporating into the still air. It’s sticky, sweltering, humid— wet. He hurls himself over, reaching out towards the door.
Every waking thought made his head pound– his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, no, it was the terrible anxiety and realization that every decision he has made in his sad, pathetic life was a total failure and he had to be beaten to death by his lover’s clone to deduce that? Nora. Hadiya.
How could he let this happen? His head spins, this is it.
God forbid you meet at a crossroads with Amir El Amari.
He is the greatest mistake you could make.
Chamber crawls his way towards Cypher, flipping him over and trapping him between his legs, heaving. His hair is disheveled, framing his forehead with a slight glisten of sweat, and Cypher thinks he almost looks beautiful.
Deadeye takes the knife with the smallest struggle, using his right hand to hold it despite the gushing wound, his other creeping up to Cypher’s neck.
Chamber’s fingers graze Cypher’s neck so lovingly for a second, so short that he feels at ease. Chamber tightens. Cypher’s breath hitches. He whimpers. He pleas. Chamber wants to see him squirm.
Because what is more intimate than a captive and his captor?
“You fucking did this,” his words are gruff and are punctuated by the sickening ‘shhk’ of a blade ripping fabric and skin— Cypher doesn’t register the stab below his clavicle; rather, he’s too focused on grabbing Deadeye’s shoulder to push him off. He has one hand clawing at Deadeye’s wrist, hoping it’ll do something, anything, to get him one last breath of air.
Thinking is so hard, but he manages.
“My fucking—“ an enraged huff, “my hand, ayreh feek—“ he picks up Cypher by the neck and slams his head back down into the solid floor. He yowls. Cypher pushes him away, hand right under his jaw, trying to create distance. A growl, “vous ne valez rien.”
Cypher lets go of his wrist, trying to pull the knife out with a cigarette-befouled voice, “I’m going to kill you.”
Deadeye digs the knife in deeper, much to Cypher’s distress, and in response, punches Deadeye in the jaw. His captor shouts, reaching out behind him, throwing something– Cypher’s eyes suddenly fucking sting. Crystalline stabs at his cornea with each blink, like icicles under his eyelids, and he discovers that Deadeye just threw salt at him. Fucking salt. It’s scattered all over his face, catnapping the places where bones dip, and he feels it fall to the back of his throat. He shuts his eyes, hurling upward as he coughs, the hand around his neck uncooperative in his efforts to rid the sodium crystals from the back of his mouth.
“Not if I do it first.” He says through a laugh tainted with mockery, “I will crush your eyes,” he dips down to Cypher’s ear, “Amir,” Chamber says. Cypher doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.
His grip is unforgiving, irritated, and deadly. He wants to break Cypher’s neck.
For once, Amir El Amari fears death.
Cypher hears melodies in his ear, ringing ever so slightly. Jazz– romantic jazz, at that. Songs that Chamber played for him late at night after romantic (or less romantic) scenes, or a long day out in the field, and all they needed was a meal and a nap. Trumpets and pianos, saxophones and bass, played upon an old stereo with antique reverb and a low pass filter that seems to become more muffled the tighter Chamber squeezes– he squints, free arm reaching outwards beyond Deadeye’s acknowledgment.
He’s talking. Cypher can’t hear him. He just needs to extend his hand.
His vision is blurred. He feels the room starting to get darker. His heartbeat is slowing. Why so aware? Why now? In his final moments, he sees his lover and not his captor– why?
A twisted fucking way to go out, and Cypher doesn’t consider himself twisted.
A grip. Finally.
Cypher’s shaky finger pulls the decorated nano-carbon steel into his grasp, and a huff of air leaves his nose. His hands tremble in his wake, Deadeye, so focused on staring him down, that he doesn’t realize the limb snaking under his own and aiming the radianite-infused firearm right under his chin.
Cypher weakly smiled, mustering up whatever strength he had left.
Through broken breaths, “Laila sa'ida, habibi.”
The trigger is squeezed. The grip extricates. Cypher breathes. He pushes him off. Blood seeps onto his white collared shirt. Cypher brushes his face of bloodshed. He looks at the ceiling.
He just wants to sleep. But he can’t. So he won’t.
Cypher looks at the steaming gun, discarding it to the side, his back, head, – hell, his whole body aching as he shimmies his way towards the knife. He looks at Deadeye; his eyes are blown wide open, twitching ever so slightly, jaw slacked. He lies there, unresponsive as Cypher holds the knife in his dominant hand, cutting his left sleeve at the shoulder seam, and pulling it over his gloves. He leans over, grabbing the leg of the metal chair, and setting it up straight as best he can. Cypher puts his left foot up on the chair, looking at the cut. He furrows his brows, recovering from the blackness in his eyes, placing the knife on the chair. Cypher pops his right thumb back into its socket. He jerks his hand, getting used to it.
“Sorry for ruining your shirt,” he mutters, picking up the cut sleeve and unrolling it, “but you destroyed my favorite pair of pants,” Cypher ties the tourniquet, “so we’ll call it even.” He reaches over to cut off Deadeye’s other sleeve, repeating the action and looking at the bullet wound. He looks at the chair, then his thigh. Straight through. No bullet to pull out. That’s good.
It had just missed his bone. He’s one lucky, unlucky guy.
As soon as the deed is done, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, the whiteness sullies with dried blood, pulling out a few hairs from his face. He sniffs. It is unpleasant. He elevates his legs on the chair to regulate his blood flow as best he can, lying next to the corpse of his former captor. He nicks off another piece of fabric to stuff in the stab wound below his clavicle. He writhes.
He feels the familiar reverberation in his lower stomach, then the gurgle in his throat.
Of course. Why now? Nonetheless, he uses his arms to push him up off the floor, scrambling and clawing towards the corner for purchase. The sick noise in his throat materializes and before Cypher knows it, vile liquid exerts itself from his mouth, throat salty as the bile fans into the corner, painting the walls with its projectile and splattering onto his knees. A sharp, caramelized, nutty stench paired with butyric acid fills the air. It’s fucking putrid. He does this twice, retching violently as his body hurls over like a cat, legs shaking as his left hand begs the wall for acquisition.
By the end of it, his body feels ten times lighter, but he feels as if he threw up all of his vital organs. He might as well have, given the way his body almost slumped into his puddle of puke. He pushes himself away from the wall, falling backward onto the floor, careful enough so that he won’t harm his head any more than it has been. His very alive head lies upside down next to Deadeye’s very much unalived one.
Now it’s just Cypher, his thoughts, and Deadeye’s corpse.
Help should be on the way, yes?
So, kick back, smoke a cigarette, and find a way to contact Alpha Earth. Yoru should have picked up that something is wrong, reported back to HQ, and they’re sending people— probably not a whole strike team, but people— to retrieve him. It’s that easy.
He lies there for a minute– then five minutes– then ten minutes pass until he exchanges his gaze at the ceiling for Deadeye, then his vest. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to search him.
He grunts, pushing himself off the floor, head still buzzed from the previous beatings, sitting with his legs straight next to his cadaver, keeping the tourniquets from loosening. He reaches over, twisting his hips to look over Deadeye, first checking his vest pockets.
A speed loader, eight bullets. It seems Deadeye was ready for a fight. Obviously, he did not prepare well enough.
A zippo lighter. Majestic Eagle– 1990’s vintage. At least he’d have something to occupy him.
A handkerchief. Sunset in color swirled in design. It matches his tie. The crimson from the bullet has seeped its way into it. Cypher grimaces. It’s still wet.
Cypher wants to hope that there’s water. There isn’t even a flask. Apparently, Deadeye doesn’t have the same habits as his lover.
His pants now.
An art deco, 1930s-themed cigarette tin with seventeen treasurer cigarettes left. He might as well put them to use if it meant he’d be stuck here for a while. Chainsmoking is a very good use of your time if you don’t think about it too much.
An Altoids can. Open it? Around 60 mints. He might have to survive off that for a bit.
Cypher pockets the Altoids, quick to crack open the cigarette tin and flip open the zippo, lighting himself a coffin nail, savoring the specialty tobacco. He flips the lighter closed, the cylinder resting between his lips as he digs around for anything else– maybe his old belongings.
The broker manages to pull himself to his feet, his eyes still blurred to a manageable degree. A black plastic bag is what he’s looking for– his comic, his brandy, and hopefully his biscotti is in there. He hears plastic rustle by his feet, along with a clinking of glass, and he almost laughs in victory before he realizes that there could very well be people outside his escape route.
He picks up the bag and trudges his way to the metal chair, resting the plastic bag in his lap as he sits. He cracks open the bottle of brandy after desperately searching for his PDA (it hadn’t been in there– a shame; at least Omega agents were smart enough to do that, though), pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a strong swig to wash down the taste of vomit residue on his teeth and tongue.
His eyes dart back to Deadeye’s lifeless body, skimming his body for any part he forgot to search, hoping for a PDA, a homing device, something that could help him relay his location.
Then he feels a vibration.
It’s well known that Pearls’ power source runs underneath the city like its veins– its life force. Cypher has a feeling that it’s a hint as to where he could be situated.
If he remembers correctly, within the past few days he’s been here, the metro roars to life at around four o’clock in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. By that math, he’s been in here for six hours. How he slept that long? Cypher has no fucking idea.
And, if he takes into account the fact that it takes one large rumble (that lasts half a minute, from what Cypher gathered) across the city of Pearl to send the metro down to the city of Opal, he should be at least somewhat far from the metro, established that the rumble lasted about ten seconds for him.
Maybe reading the briefing was a good thing.
Cypher takes a bite of his biscotti, downing it with a swig of brandy, setting the bottle onto the floor with a tiny clink, holding the cookie in his mouth as he kneels next to Deadeye with a grumble of discomfort, lifting him and rolling him as needed to search.
He handles something solid, and upon a few taps, he confirms that it is, in fact, a communications device. Cypher prays it's his own.
It is.
Cypher doesn’t realize how fucking lucky he is as soon as he pulls it out. It dawns on him a few moments later (after staring at the PDA, wide-eyed, and enduring a painful giggle fit of disbelief) that he has a get-out-of-jail free card, and that maybe God does exist.
He scrambles to turn it on, and even if the signal is spotty, he still has signal. He will take what he can get.
AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:07 PM
ALIVE
DON’T KNOW LOCATION
POSSIBLY A SITE
CAN TRY RELAYING
AGENT-15 [YORU] // 4:13 PM
TOUCHED DOWN
RELAY IF POSSIBLE
WE WILL FIND YOU
AGENT-01 [BRIMSTONE] // 4:17 PM
STRIKE TEAM INBOUND
STAY WHERE YOU ARE
DO NOT ENGAGE
AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:21 PM
WAS NOT PLANNING ON IT
HURRY
Fourteen minutes to relay twelve messages. Cypher didn’t think they’d send in the first place. But that’s beside the point; he has a job now– press down on his relay system and pray that the signal is strong enough for the strike team to find him.
But to kill time, he’s going to chain smoke, drink, and read his comic book.
What a wonderful way to spend his afternoon as a 37-year-old man.
The cigarette stays pressed between his lips as he takes a drag, digging through the plastic bag for the flimsy bundle of paper, setting it in his lap as his fingers flip the pages one by one, tucking the stick into the corner of his mouth, taking another swig of brandy.
If he was going to be in pain, he was not going to be sober.
It’s not until Cypher has reread the comic five times (which takes a while– approximately fifteen minutes per read, making him stuck there for nearly an hour and a half) that he hears sirens going off and shit hitting the fan. He stays put, however, the blaring noises are just a tad bit discomforting to his already tinnitus-symptomatic head. It then occurs to him that maybe he should put his mask back on. But that means he’d have to stop smoking. And drinking.
Shame, he was already getting buzzed.
Even worse, he expected them to take longer.
Cypher pushes himself up from his chair, the comic falling onto the floor as he reaches down to pick it up and pack his pathetic plastic bag, his legs stumbling from his sluggishness, body heavier than it should be. At the expense of his liver, he made it through whatever the hell this was. He tosses Deadeye’s Headhunter into his bag.
He sloppily pulls his mask over his head, dismissing the way his sweaty curls stuck to the insides, too drunk and in need of a bed to care. His hat still lay unmoving on the floor from events he’d rather not recall, the way that dried blood found its home on the rim from where Deadeye pushed it off sending chills down Cypher’s spine. The bottle of brandy is 75% done, (Cypher didn’t realize that either; it was good brandy, as expected from Omega), held loosely in his hand.
The footsteps and sirens blare louder within Cypher’s ears, and the white, piercing noise grows with it, much to his distress. He’s stumbling, covering his ears– he’s tired, he’s drunk, and he needs a fucking doctor. These wounds aren’t going to heal themselves and he just wants to get out. He wants to see sunlight, and fuck, the anxiety is setting inside of him again. Fuck you, Omega brandy.
The door flies open, he turns his head.
Cypher almost falls over at the sight– dark, flashing red lights on the outside make him want to fall asleep in the warmness of his coat (which probably wasn’t even warmth, given the blood he’s lost) and never wake up. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.
Blue. Orange. Yellow. The colors are a blur.
His knees buckle, and he tumbles.
His captor.
“attacher ton amant à une chaise” = tie your lover to a chair / french
“c’est simple comme bonjour” = it’s as simple as hello / french
“vous savez votre français” = you know your french / french
“et mes mots sûrs” = and my safe words / french
“vous êtes dégoûtant” = you are disgusting / french
“j’ai appris du meilleur” = i learned from the best / french
“très pathétique” = so pathetic / french
“khra” = shit / moroccan arabic
“vous êtes mon problème” = you are my problem / french
“ayreh feek” = fuck you / arabic
“vous ne valez rien” = you are worthless / french
“laila sa'ida, habibi” = sleep well, my love / moroccan arabic
apologies if any of the arabic is incorrect. i’m on my second year of french as well, so that may be an issue too.
thank you for reading, i hope it was worth the hours i spent in a custom game as cypher on pearl to worldbuild and the time i spent scouring valorant archives to find plot devices.
huge thanks to the practice range discord server for keeping me sane during this (and giving me feedback when i was in the process of writing it)
another thanks to my beta reader, you’re a real one fr.
a follow-up chapter of the aftermath MAY come out within the next few weeks if i am feeling it. if not, maybe the next few months if i regain the motivation to work on this again :)
any questions can (and will most likely) be answered in the comments!
as always, my socials
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and our valorant lore-centric discord server! we’d love to have you! 人´∀｀)
kay/o is immortal, technically. so long as he doesn’t rust, he is alive and well. or, as alive as you can get as a sentient piece of metal.
years pass, decades, even— the radianite and omega earth crisis is lost to words in history textbooks and archives that kay/o has seen been put on shelves, and he feels lost.
or as close as you can feel to such grief as a robot.
he is an obsolete machine— nobody knows how to operate him— how to maintain him. he is forced to work on himself. it’s scrappy, but it gets the job done.
he finds himself meeting his old team in new people— someone with the same aura as reyna and someone with the same witty comeback as phoenix. he yearns.
he meets someone— tall, bulky, a gruff voice similar to two versions of someone he has met before— a mechanical heart never skips a beat, but he feels one fleet.
he smells like coal, ash, and gunpowder. brimstone.
he says, “you must be old. that radi-core is way past obsolete.”
chamber/cypher (valorant)
tags: torture, psychological torture, cigarettes, kidnapping, gun violence, delirium, unreliable narrator, aftermath of torture, aftermath of violence, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic description of vomit, vomit, whump, cypher whump, torturer deadeye, dead dove: do not eat, hurt no comfort, canon divergence, near death experience, cross-posted on ao3
synopsis: after the events of the SHATTERED strike team incident, cypher is sent out on a reconnaissance mission where he is tasked with understanding just exactly *who* those agents fighting alongside viper were. after two weeks, the trail goes cold, and cypher is a second too late in finding out why.
or, cypher gets kidnapped by omega earth chamber (deadeye) and tortured.
sfw? very graphic so idk. 6.3k words.
notes:
hello! i’m back, this time with a lot of angst.
- i think what i wrote is rather graphic. continue at your own risk.
- any, and ALL “accidental uses” of different names are ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL.
- canon divergence where instead of simply digging through omega archives via alpha earth to uncover ATLAS, cypher is sent to omega earth to find out in person. everything else is the same.
- cypher’s fake name is ‘ Khidae Eak ‘
- it gets horny. really horny.
- translations will be provided in the end notes.
- cypher is a linguist nerd, french people use arabic curse words (from what i know)
- i made this while listening to old romantic music that you’d probably find in your dad’s vinyl collection. most of this playlist, actually. listen to it while reading if you want!
happy reading :)
Omega Earth wasn’t everything Cypher expected it to be.
As much as Pearl’s geodome was a beautiful place to reside, he was disappointed. Even if the giant sunfish that swam atop and the comic shop that Cypher frequently visited (despite its harsh propaganda) were nothing short of pleasant, it was still Omega Earth. He could get used to it, maybe– plus, he would’ve loved to buy another comic if it weren’t for the circumstances he was in.
Cypher was put on a recon mission; his only directive was to locate information on ATLAS and their presence on Omega Earth. Killjoy was incredibly against it, given their previous run-in during their time as the SHATTERED strike team, but Cypher insisted on his ability.
He’s been here for two weeks now, and all he’s gathered so far are the locations of different ATLAS operational facilities; A site and B site. The doors were often guarded by security cameras, so Cypher made an effort to avoid them, but he isn’t one for keeping his distance for extended periods. Like Icarus, he frequently finds himself flying too close to the sun, threatening to get burned.
Occasionally, he met with his fellow Alpha Earth agents, oftentimes Yoru, who used his dimensional rift to retrieve and relay information back to Alpha Earth in a stealthy, swift manner. Cypher was supposed to meet with him today, but he was taking a bit longer than usual.
He eventually found himself walking around. He bought a comic for memorabilia, a cup of coffee at the little Pérola Café pop-up, and then a few bottles of cherry brandy from that little winery down by the plaza. He circled back to the Garden of Heroes as soon as he got the memo that things were back on schedule— that was of course, after he returned to his safehouse and pulled on his mask. Pearl can know of Khidae Eak, but they will not see Amir El Amari.
The walk is cheerful, bustling,
and incredibly short.
Cypher doesn’t remember the details. All he knows is that eyes were on him, and evading them was not going to be easy.
The broker; hood and scarf on at the commencement of August, body completely covered. His eyes dart around the barren garden– the occasional tourist here and there– and he spots someone. Familiarity lingers in the air– the same glance, the same frame– it couldn’t be.
Cypher remembers looking at his PDA, ready to urge Yoru into hurrying up (excuse his phrasing), and that being compromised isn’t something that he’d appreciate. But he decides to start typing a few moments too late.
He remembers the sound of rushed footsteps, the smell and taste of alcohol, and a hushed urgency uttered in Portuguese, the enunciation nasally in essence, almost as if the orator was not a native speaker. The realization made Cypher’s head spin– or maybe it was the chloroform.
– It could be.
That’s how he managed to get ripped from his desired location with his hands and ankles cuffed to an uncomfortable metal chair, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue; his surroundings are dimly lit– or maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark as he wakes up after being unconscious for God knows how long– and his wrists hurt.
“Attacher ton amant à une chaise,”
Cypher exhales through his nose, the saying all too familiar, speaking honeyed on his dry tongue, – it could be.
– “C’est simple comme bonjour.”
“Vous savez votre français.”
“Et mes mots sûrs.”
“Vous êtes dégoûtant.”
“J’ai appris du meilleur.”
“My double?”
“Yes,” Cypher says, the slightest growl in his voice.
Deadeye exhales through his nose, feigning a laugh, which comes out an amused huff as he closes his captive, compelling his hat down by the rim, so gently that Cypher is reminded of his Vincent back home.
“Why are you here, Amir?”
He puffs, “Careful, I might as you the same thing, Vincent—“
The rattling of a snake,
the breaking of bones,
a groan from a broker,
the taste of iron on his tongue.
“You’re being a pain.”
“But you love when I’m in it.”
“Not you.”
Deadeye’s countenance flattens, his Headhunter spattered with Cypher’s blood as he bears his free hand to tilt Cypher's chin up to face him. His fingers trail down his throat, grazing it like he could tear his skin apart with his fingernails, just until they match the bottom of Cypher’s mask. his breath hitches. His Adam’s apple dips.
“Not the mask,” he almost begs.
Deadeye uses his Headhunter to chuck Cypher’s hat off, allowing it to fall to the floor as he practically shreds off the cuffed male’s mask. His nose is bleeding— bloodied— broken, and the bitter taste of iron sits upon his tongue, his gums an unhealthy brown from the cheap cigarettes he smoked with his beautiful Vincent.
“We’re long past that point, Amir.”
Deadeye speaks with certainty, but his actions speak louder, and they’re yelling in Cypher’s face: “I will kill you.”
But Cypher doesn’t fear death. He never has. Not since then.
Deadeye’s gums are the same color as tobacco, evident as he scowls, teeth yellowed from the smoke that Cypher assumed his counterpart blew into his mouth and forced him to savor, the cinnamon cigars being far too much of a delicacy to waste.
Cypher wants his Vincent.
“How did you know where I was?”
Deadeye strikes his pistol, barrel-first into the side of Cypher’s head, a groan stemming from his strained throat.
“I ask the questions here.”
Cypher is one for witty remarks, “so ask.”
It earns him a muzzle to the forehead.
“Do you want to die, Amir?”
“You want to kill me.”
Deadeye pushes the muzzle further onto Cypher’s forehead, “I said that I ask the questions—“
“No, you misunderstand,” Deadeye’s hand quivers with the beginning, and Cypher feels the ground shift, “it was a statement.”
The more Cypher speaks, the more he feels his heart start to beat behind his eyes– he’s seeing double and it’s like he sees Deadeye and his Vincent in front of him simultaneously. The hallucination makes him feel grounded. He wants to reach out and cup his Vincent’s cheek, rub the scar on his cheekbone, and turn away.
But Deadeye doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone. He’s not Vincent, and he never will be.
The foreboding silence makes Cypher feel like he’s done something he will regret, and his thoughts are proven correct as soon as Deadeye pulls back the hammer of his Headhunter.
“You’re right, my friend,”
Deadeye flicks his hand. Cypher’s ears ring. His throat becomes sandpaper.
“I do want to kill you.”
He shot his fucking leg. He shot him in the fucking leg.
“Because you know too much,” it fucking hurts, “and I need to make sure you don’t tell any more than you already have– one way or another.”
The breathing is heavy in the room, and Cypher feels like he’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t get his shit together. He’s a grown man cuffed to a chair with blood dripping down his leg and bleeding into his baggy gray pants. He loved those pants. The air is crisp, hard to swallow, and hot. It’s as if Chamber’s body heat and musk are forcing itself down Cypher’s throat– it’s asphyxiating.
Chamber’s hand clutches Cypher’s jaw, tautening each time a hic fled his throat, his eyes fleeting tears. Cypher thinks his jaw might give out with the way he’s clenching it so hard– Deadeye slams his skull against the concrete wall. Cypher cries.
“And I’m not opposed to using methods that are considered corrupt, Amir.”
He’s dizzy, he’s losing blood, and he knows he has to survive whatever Deadeye puts him through. He has to. He must. Cypher’s breaths are labored, but his eyes don’t falter– they’re forced open and he just wants to sleep—the intimacy of torture– plagued by your lover.
“I could leave you braindead, do you ever think of that?” Deadeye asks it with a sickening smile as if he’s enjoying it. Cypher would not be surprised if it was some crazy fucking fantasy of his– Cypher feels his face tighten.
“I’d rather not,” he whispers, and Chamber smiles at him, pseuding innocence. Cypher fears what's next. The broker knows everything about everyone but is oblivious and frightened here. He wants to fight back– he has to fight back.
Save your life, Amir– you’ve only got one.
“Imagine what your friends back home will think,” Deadeye tilts his head, twirling a curl next to Cypher’s temple. His lips purse and he pulls his head away as best he can, his brows furrowing in disgust– trepidation– sorrow? Cypher doesn’t even know what. “What would your Vincent think? Will he cry? Will you comfort him?”
Deadeye’s twisted smile widens, “Will you even survive to see him?”
The finger leads down to Cypher’s lower eyelid, his middle finger pulling down at it, his pointer prodding at his eyeball. The feeling is abnormal– the pad of Deadeye’s finger pushes at Cypher’s eye, and he tries to shut them, pulling his head away as sufficiently as he can. His mind blanks.
“You often prattle about being the ‘all-seeing eye’ Amir,” Deadeye’s hand doesn’t halt, but stays put. A hazy breath leaves Cypher’s throat, terrified, “but a spider cannot string its web half blind.”
Wait, Cypher wants to say, but it comes out as a pathetic whine, and Deadeye laughs at him. He laughs in his face. Not like this— no, it can’t end like this.
“You’re shaking.”
Part of him wants to bite the bullet and talk back, but the sheer fear that displays itself within his clenched jaw renders him wordless as Deadeye’s fingernail digs at his cornea. The bawl that seethes through Cypher’s teeth is piercing; he begs for mercy, forgiveness– anything to spark empathy in Deadeye’s amused stare, and from behind his wet finger, stained with Cypher’s tears (he didn’t even realize he was crying), he sees those same bedroom eyes that yielded him speechless in better ways than this.
He swats his head down, and Chamber swiftly slaps him, grabbing him by his jaw once again; the familiar ache returns. He’s cursing at him, laughing, and it’s demeaning. Cypher is glad that his head is ringing so much that he cannot hear him, and that his eyes are too blurred to even view the face of his love.
Or what it would’ve been, at least.
Cypher then realizes what is at stake here– he could possibly ruin everything the protocol had going for them right now– getting killed by an Omega agent could very well compromise the whole operation, much less get him killed. Cypher could care less about that.
He imagines Chamber wouldn’t, though.
So he forces himself to think. The pain is like sparklers underneath his skin, but he blinks back the hot tears and clenches his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into the skin– he tries to focus on that instead.
Handcuffs, you know how to get out of those. Crime novels might not be the best source to rely on, but it’s all you have, Amir; work with it. Chamber gently traces his jawline and he gulps. Cypher tries not to think about it too hard– if he does, he won’t see Deadeye anymore. He cannot handle that outcome.
To a flick of lighter, Cypher looks up– second nature, really– to see Deadeye lighting a cigarette; filter-tipped Virginia blend. Expensive. The authenticness of his character is uncanny. Cypher wants to throw up.
A London delicacy that has to be shipped in at a much higher price, and Chamber is holding it in his right hand, lifting Cypher’s chin to look at him with his left. His captor blows the smoke out in Cypher’s face, and he inhales– a reflex– as the smoke tingles against his eyes. Deadeye twirls the cigarette in his fingers, and inches the cherry towards Cypher’s neck.
“You’re greedy, Amir.” He says, the heat tickling the hairs that already stand on edge. “These go for fifty-five United States dollars per pack. Specialty blends Virginia tobacco, and you’re taking my leftovers,” Deadeye punctuates with a laugh, “you are pathetic. Très pathétique.”
The cherry makes contact, and the scorch makes him fume. “You’re wasting them–”
“On trash, yes,” Chamber says, “But I’ll relight it just for you, if that is what you want, Amir.”
“No,”
The zippo clicks again. Cypher braces himself.
Three cigarette burns mark his neck, and Chamber looks at them like an artist would his magnum opus, prideful in his masterpiece. He drops the cigarette onto Cypher’s shoe, stepping into it.
Cypher zones out.
Then he feels something against his left thigh. Thin– sharp.
Khra, fuck. Of course, he has to pull it out now.
“You’re ravishing like this, Amir,” you are not doing what I fucking think you are doing, “it feels as if it is my job to impair you,” you are not his, “Vous êtes mon problème, after all.” Focus– one hand to abduct the joint, the other set in place to perform the deed.
Dislocate your thumb and slip out your hand. Dislocate your carpometacarpal joint, specifically. You don’t want to break your hand– that’s one less resource you have– if you dislocate your thumb, you can pop it back into place. Easy as pie? Hopefully. Deadeye’s hand falls. Cypher exhales. He was not aware he was holding his breath.
Within the next strike, play it off. Easy.
Chamber drags down the flat side of the blade against his femur, and as the blade is pushed ever so slightly, Cypher lets out a yowl, his thumb angled at an abnormal angle now– one more to go. He uses his other hand to pry off the handcuffs. He forces his shoulders to stay put– a strenuous task, but he manages, and he makes sure to quietly drop the cuff, avoiding any sound cues that may alert his captor.
They did not die for you to fail to endure.
Cypher’s hair stands on end.
It seems Deadeye doesn’t notice the ploy, as he says something about how he had “barely touched” him and that he “shouldn’t jolt like that.” As if he cared.
Cypher can handle a slashed thigh, and he can handle a bullet to the leg– but either way, he will end up bringing fists to a knife and gunfight. He doesn’t even know if Deadeye has additional weapons on him. He fears the worst, even if he’s too set on persisting to realize it.
The blade digs into his skin, and it takes so much inside of him not to buck his legs while dislocating his other thumb, and a growl burrows itself in his throat, coming out in tragically sputtered speech. His eyes shake, looking down even if his brain told him not to, and he sees the blood seep from the cut, slowly– so achingly slowly– staining his already soiled pants. The blood from his nose has already dried and the smell is rancid. He feels a stinging, putrid, and chunky liquid rise in his throat. He bites his tongue and forces the egregious mixture back down. You have seen worse. this is nothing.
He works his other hand of its confines as best he can, his eyes flittering with every twinge of discomfort. He wants to thank God if there even is one out there, that Deadeye doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe there is one if he’s survived this long.
Cypher’s atheist views aside, he ignores the edge slicing into his skin and the wetness dripping down his thigh, working to pop his left thumb back into the socket. Chamber meets Cypher’s dazed stare. He smiles. Cypher exhales, his breath malodorous as olden remains of vomit rest upon it, the thumb unsuccessful in popping back into place as Deadeye rubs his thumb on the wound– it pricks. He feels small crystals chafe at the serrated edges of the cut, and Cypher realizes that he’s genuinely rubbing salt in the wound.
There is something so intimate about it. Captive and captor. He will never look at that smile the same.
Cypher looks at his ankles, one cuff under the leg of the chair and the other connected to him. Lift the chair. Slide it under. He almost laughs– it couldn’t be that easy, and he’s right; he’s shot, he’s cut, and he’s lost blood. Not to fucking mention that he can’t feel his face, but can somehow feel the sweat dripping down the side of his crown, sticking his curly brown hair to his forehead. The broker pops his right thumb back into the socket, flinching as Deadeye slams the knife in the middle of his legs.
He recounts. His legs have been shot at and sliced. That’s a disadvantage. He has no weapons. If he took the knife, he’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight. He doesn’t know if Deadeye has a quick reloader. Maybe he can get him to waste his bullets. Yes, that seems plausible.
Chamber’s hand reaches up to his jawline again, his thumb parting Cypher’s lips ever so slightly, but his jaw stays clenched– he can feel the simmering of salt on his lips. Deadeye forces him to open up, resting the salt-covered thumb on his tongue, and holding it down. A pathetic, broken sob leaves Cypher’s throat. Just a bit more. Find an opening, Amir. You cannot die here. You cannot let him destroy you like this,
because what would happen if you allowed it?
His breath hitches in his throat as Chamber forces his thumb deeper, “Clean it,” he demands, and Cypher leaps into the breach, the taste of sodium and iron on his tongue, causting– a chemical reaction that Cypher wishes didn’t do things to him. He imagines his actual lover performing and wants to fucking bite Deadeye’s thumb off.
“Watch the teeth,” Deadeye scowls, pulling his thumb with a pop and wiping it on Cypher’s shoulder. He swats his hand to clean it, looking away for just a fucking second. That is all the time Cypher needs. His heart aches for warmth, touch– Vincent– so he stands up, tugs the knife out, grabs the chair, and hurls it at him.
He doesn’t realize how badly his legs want to give out until he’s standing upright (more like glorified perching with the way his knees buckle), his grip on the knife faltering ever so slightly as he catches his breath, feeling the adrenaline kick through his veins. He knows it will be over soon– he is only human.
He squints as Deadeye tries to recover from the metal hurled at his frame, and he grunts– and of course, he doesn’t have his fucking glasses. His eyesight comes back to bite him in the ass in a life-or-death situation. Maybe God isn’t real. The room is dark, only lit by a buzzing lightbulb that hurts Cypher’s head. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have time to think because if he can, he’s doing something wrong.
A bullet flies past his head and it brings him back to reality– he is the disadvantage, one dislocated thumb refusing to pop back into place, legs ready to give out at any given moment, and Deadeye just fucking shot at him.
Cypher yells, legs flailing as he flies towards Deadeye, firing blindly. He can tell that he is disoriented still, so he uses it to his advantage. One hand reaches to Deadeye’s wrist– the one holding Headhunter– and pins it down to the best of his ability, kneeing his crotch (hard, at that) to further disable him. Deadeye’s free hand balls into a fist, and slams into Cypher’s cheekbone, groaning out in pain from the previous knee, sprawled on the floor as he tries to keep his hold on Headhunter firm, but Cypher tugs it out of his hand, head spinning as it slides all the way across the linoleum floor, clanking against a piece of metal.
An exit route.
Cypher slams the knife into Deadeye’s right wrist, and he wails, a loud curse echoing through the desolate room as his left shoots up to grab Cypher by the scalp. Chamber tugs his head back, harshly, and Cypher growls, kneeing him once more to slacken his grasp, raising the knife from the puncture with a hellish sound. The ridges of the knife dig against Deadeye’s skin, slitting his wrist into a perfect cavern, through and through. Cypher can feel both of their strength diminishing.
The words spoken are lost to CCTV footage, (that’s if there is a camera in here in the first place) and whizzed memory, but Cypher feels his body move on autopilot, rolling off Chamber, even if he can feel the tightened grip on his scalp pull at his hair follicles, and his body follows in the path that Chamber is dragging him in. He headbutts him once– twice– Cypher stumbles backward when his grip loosens, immediately sitting up to grab his right wrist, squeezing it to try and stop the pain. His groans lay low within his throat, guttural.
Cypher feels his head spinning, and the adrenaline starts to wear off– he cannot allow that to happen.
He holds his head, knife laying in his hand as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs wobbling after each frantic step, trying to find the gleam of the Headhunter as a guide towards the metal door. It’s so, so close, and Cypher thinks he’s reaching out to the door, only to fall over.
Deadeye yanked at one of the cuffs dragging behind his ankle, hard enough to pull Cypher down to one knee. Maroon secretion spreads along the floor in generous portions with the pressure, the sensation closer to tv static. Diaphoresis sets in, and bullets of sweat excavate out of his body, heat evaporating into the still air. It’s sticky, sweltering, humid— wet. He hurls himself over, reaching out towards the door.
Every waking thought made his head pound– his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, no, it was the terrible anxiety and realization that every decision he has made in his sad, pathetic life was a total failure and he had to be beaten to death by his lover’s clone to deduce that? Nora. Hadiya.
How could he let this happen? His head spins, this is it.
God forbid you meet at a crossroads with Amir El Amari.
He is the greatest mistake you could make.
Chamber crawls his way towards Cypher, flipping him over and trapping him between his legs, heaving. His hair is disheveled, framing his forehead with a slight glisten of sweat, and Cypher thinks he almost looks beautiful.
Deadeye takes the knife with the smallest struggle, using his right hand to hold it despite the gushing wound, his other creeping up to Cypher’s neck.
Chamber’s fingers graze Cypher’s neck so lovingly for a second, so short that he feels at ease. Chamber tightens. Cypher’s breath hitches. He whimpers. He pleas. Chamber wants to see him squirm.
Because what is more intimate than a captive and his captor?
“You fucking did this,” his words are gruff and are punctuated by the sickening ‘shhk’ of a blade ripping fabric and skin— Cypher doesn’t register the stab below his clavicle; rather, he’s too focused on grabbing Deadeye’s shoulder to push him off. He has one hand clawing at Deadeye’s wrist, hoping it’ll do something, anything, to get him one last breath of air.
Thinking is so hard, but he manages.
“My fucking—“ an enraged huff, “my hand, ayreh feek—“ he picks up Cypher by the neck and slams his head back down into the solid floor. He yowls. Cypher pushes him away, hand right under his jaw, trying to create distance. A growl, “vous ne valez rien.”
Cypher lets go of his wrist, trying to pull the knife out with a cigarette-befouled voice, “I’m going to kill you.”
Deadeye digs the knife in deeper, much to Cypher’s distress, and in response, punches Deadeye in the jaw. His captor shouts, reaching out behind him, throwing something– Cypher’s eyes suddenly fucking sting. Crystalline stabs at his cornea with each blink, like icicles under his eyelids, and he discovers that Deadeye just threw salt at him. Fucking salt. It’s scattered all over his face, catnapping the places where bones dip, and he feels it fall to the back of his throat. He shuts his eyes, hurling upward as he coughs, the hand around his neck uncooperative in his efforts to rid the sodium crystals from the back of his mouth.
“Not if I do it first.” He says through a laugh tainted with mockery, “I will crush your eyes,” he dips down to Cypher’s ear, “Amir,” Chamber says. Cypher doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.
His grip is unforgiving, irritated, and deadly. He wants to break Cypher’s neck.
For once, Amir El Amari fears death.
Cypher hears melodies in his ear, ringing ever so slightly. Jazz– romantic jazz, at that. Songs that Chamber played for him late at night after romantic (or less romantic) scenes, or a long day out in the field, and all they needed was a meal and a nap. Trumpets and pianos, saxophones and bass, played upon an old stereo with antique reverb and a low pass filter that seems to become more muffled the tighter Chamber squeezes– he squints, free arm reaching outwards beyond Deadeye’s acknowledgment.
He’s talking. Cypher can’t hear him. He just needs to extend his hand.
His vision is blurred. He feels the room starting to get darker. His heartbeat is slowing. Why so aware? Why now? In his final moments, he sees his lover and not his captor– why?
A twisted fucking way to go out, and Cypher doesn’t consider himself twisted.
A grip. Finally.
Cypher’s shaky finger pulls the decorated nano-carbon steel into his grasp, and a huff of air leaves his nose. His hands tremble in his wake, Deadeye, so focused on staring him down, that he doesn’t realize the limb snaking under his own and aiming the radianite-infused firearm right under his chin.
Cypher weakly smiled, mustering up whatever strength he had left.
Through broken breaths, “Laila sa'ida, habibi.”
The trigger is squeezed. The grip extricates. Cypher breathes. He pushes him off. Blood seeps onto his white collared shirt. Cypher brushes his face of bloodshed. He looks at the ceiling.
He just wants to sleep. But he can’t. So he won’t.
Cypher looks at the steaming gun, discarding it to the side, his back, head, – hell, his whole body aching as he shimmies his way towards the knife. He looks at Deadeye; his eyes are blown wide open, twitching ever so slightly, jaw slacked. He lies there, unresponsive as Cypher holds the knife in his dominant hand, cutting his left sleeve at the shoulder seam, and pulling it over his gloves. He leans over, grabbing the leg of the metal chair, and setting it up straight as best he can. Cypher puts his left foot up on the chair, looking at the cut. He furrows his brows, recovering from the blackness in his eyes, placing the knife on the chair. Cypher pops his right thumb back into its socket. He jerks his hand, getting used to it.
“Sorry for ruining your shirt,” he mutters, picking up the cut sleeve and unrolling it, “but you destroyed my favorite pair of pants,” Cypher ties the tourniquet, “so we’ll call it even.” He reaches over to cut off Deadeye’s other sleeve, repeating the action and looking at the bullet wound. He looks at the chair, then his thigh. Straight through. No bullet to pull out. That’s good.
It had just missed his bone. He’s one lucky, unlucky guy.
As soon as the deed is done, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, the whiteness sullies with dried blood, pulling out a few hairs from his face. He sniffs. It is unpleasant. He elevates his legs on the chair to regulate his blood flow as best he can, lying next to the corpse of his former captor. He nicks off another piece of fabric to stuff in the stab wound below his clavicle. He writhes.
He feels the familiar reverberation in his lower stomach, then the gurgle in his throat.
Of course. Why now? Nonetheless, he uses his arms to push him up off the floor, scrambling and clawing towards the corner for purchase. The sick noise in his throat materializes and before Cypher knows it, vile liquid exerts itself from his mouth, throat salty as the bile fans into the corner, painting the walls with its projectile and splattering onto his knees. A sharp, caramelized, nutty stench paired with butyric acid fills the air. It’s fucking putrid. He does this twice, retching violently as his body hurls over like a cat, legs shaking as his left hand begs the wall for acquisition.
By the end of it, his body feels ten times lighter, but he feels as if he threw up all of his vital organs. He might as well have, given the way his body almost slumped into his puddle of puke. He pushes himself away from the wall, falling backward onto the floor, careful enough so that he won’t harm his head any more than it has been. His very alive head lies upside down next to Deadeye’s very much unalived one.
Now it’s just Cypher, his thoughts, and Deadeye’s corpse.
Help should be on the way, yes?
So, kick back, smoke a cigarette, and find a way to contact Alpha Earth. Yoru should have picked up that something is wrong, reported back to HQ, and they’re sending people— probably not a whole strike team, but people— to retrieve him. It’s that easy.
He lies there for a minute– then five minutes– then ten minutes pass until he exchanges his gaze at the ceiling for Deadeye, then his vest. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to search him.
He grunts, pushing himself off the floor, head still buzzed from the previous beatings, sitting with his legs straight next to his cadaver, keeping the tourniquets from loosening. He reaches over, twisting his hips to look over Deadeye, first checking his vest pockets.
A speed loader, eight bullets. It seems Deadeye was ready for a fight. Obviously, he did not prepare well enough.
A zippo lighter. Majestic Eagle– 1990’s vintage. At least he’d have something to occupy him.
A handkerchief. Sunset in color swirled in design. It matches his tie. The crimson from the bullet has seeped its way into it. Cypher grimaces. It’s still wet.
Cypher wants to hope that there’s water. There isn’t even a flask. Apparently, Deadeye doesn’t have the same habits as his lover.
His pants now.
An art deco, 1930s-themed cigarette tin with seventeen treasurer cigarettes left. He might as well put them to use if it meant he’d be stuck here for a while. Chainsmoking is a very good use of your time if you don’t think about it too much.
An Altoids can. Open it? Around 60 mints. He might have to survive off that for a bit.
Cypher pockets the Altoids, quick to crack open the cigarette tin and flip open the zippo, lighting himself a coffin nail, savoring the specialty tobacco. He flips the lighter closed, the cylinder resting between his lips as he digs around for anything else– maybe his old belongings.
The broker manages to pull himself to his feet, his eyes still blurred to a manageable degree. A black plastic bag is what he’s looking for– his comic, his brandy, and hopefully his biscotti is in there. He hears plastic rustle by his feet, along with a clinking of glass, and he almost laughs in victory before he realizes that there could very well be people outside his escape route.
He picks up the bag and trudges his way to the metal chair, resting the plastic bag in his lap as he sits. He cracks open the bottle of brandy after desperately searching for his PDA (it hadn’t been in there– a shame; at least Omega agents were smart enough to do that, though), pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a strong swig to wash down the taste of vomit residue on his teeth and tongue.
His eyes dart back to Deadeye’s lifeless body, skimming his body for any part he forgot to search, hoping for a PDA, a homing device, something that could help him relay his location.
Then he feels a vibration.
It’s well known that Pearls’ power source runs underneath the city like its veins– its life force. Cypher has a feeling that it’s a hint as to where he could be situated.
If he remembers correctly, within the past few days he’s been here, the metro roars to life at around four o’clock in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. By that math, he’s been in here for six hours. How he slept that long? Cypher has no fucking idea.
And, if he takes into account the fact that it takes one large rumble (that lasts half a minute, from what Cypher gathered) across the city of Pearl to send the metro down to the city of Opal, he should be at least somewhat far from the metro, established that the rumble lasted about ten seconds for him.
Maybe reading the briefing was a good thing.
Cypher takes a bite of his biscotti, downing it with a swig of brandy, setting the bottle onto the floor with a tiny clink, holding the cookie in his mouth as he kneels next to Deadeye with a grumble of discomfort, lifting him and rolling him as needed to search.
He handles something solid, and upon a few taps, he confirms that it is, in fact, a communications device. Cypher prays it's his own.
It is.
Cypher doesn’t realize how fucking lucky he is as soon as he pulls it out. It dawns on him a few moments later (after staring at the PDA, wide-eyed, and enduring a painful giggle fit of disbelief) that he has a get-out-of-jail free card, and that maybe God does exist.
He scrambles to turn it on, and even if the signal is spotty, he still has signal. He will take what he can get.
AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:07 PM
ALIVE
DON’T KNOW LOCATION
POSSIBLY A SITE
CAN TRY RELAYING
AGENT-15 [YORU] // 4:13 PM
TOUCHED DOWN
RELAY IF POSSIBLE
WE WILL FIND YOU
AGENT-01 [BRIMSTONE] // 4:17 PM
STRIKE TEAM INBOUND
STAY WHERE YOU ARE
DO NOT ENGAGE
AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:21 PM
WAS NOT PLANNING ON IT
HURRY
Fourteen minutes to relay twelve messages. Cypher didn’t think they’d send in the first place. But that’s beside the point; he has a job now– press down on his relay system and pray that the signal is strong enough for the strike team to find him.
But to kill time, he’s going to chain smoke, drink, and read his comic book.
What a wonderful way to spend his afternoon as a 37-year-old man.
The cigarette stays pressed between his lips as he takes a drag, digging through the plastic bag for the flimsy bundle of paper, setting it in his lap as his fingers flip the pages one by one, tucking the stick into the corner of his mouth, taking another swig of brandy.
If he was going to be in pain, he was not going to be sober.
It’s not until Cypher has reread the comic five times (which takes a while– approximately fifteen minutes per read, making him stuck there for nearly an hour and a half) that he hears sirens going off and shit hitting the fan. He stays put, however, the blaring noises are just a tad bit discomforting to his already tinnitus-symptomatic head. It then occurs to him that maybe he should put his mask back on. But that means he’d have to stop smoking. And drinking.
Shame, he was already getting buzzed.
Even worse, he expected them to take longer.
Cypher pushes himself up from his chair, the comic falling onto the floor as he reaches down to pick it up and pack his pathetic plastic bag, his legs stumbling from his sluggishness, body heavier than it should be. At the expense of his liver, he made it through whatever the hell this was. He tosses Deadeye’s Headhunter into his bag.
He sloppily pulls his mask over his head, dismissing the way his sweaty curls stuck to the insides, too drunk and in need of a bed to care. His hat still lay unmoving on the floor from events he’d rather not recall, the way that dried blood found its home on the rim from where Deadeye pushed it off sending chills down Cypher’s spine. The bottle of brandy is 75% done, (Cypher didn’t realize that either; it was good brandy, as expected from Omega), held loosely in his hand.
The footsteps and sirens blare louder within Cypher’s ears, and the white, piercing noise grows with it, much to his distress. He’s stumbling, covering his ears– he’s tired, he’s drunk, and he needs a fucking doctor. These wounds aren’t going to heal themselves and he just wants to get out. He wants to see sunlight, and fuck, the anxiety is setting inside of him again. Fuck you, Omega brandy.
The door flies open, he turns his head.
Cypher almost falls over at the sight– dark, flashing red lights on the outside make him want to fall asleep in the warmness of his coat (which probably wasn’t even warmth, given the blood he’s lost) and never wake up. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.
Blue. Orange. Yellow. The colors are a blur.
His knees buckle, and he tumbles.
His captor.
“attacher ton amant à une chaise” = tie your lover to a chair / french
“c’est simple comme bonjour” = it’s as simple as hello / french
“vous savez votre français” = you know your french / french
“et mes mots sûrs” = and my safe words / french
“vous êtes dégoûtant” = you are disgusting / french
“j’ai appris du meilleur” = i learned from the best / french
“très pathétique” = so pathetic / french
“khra” = shit / moroccan arabic
“vous êtes mon problème” = you are my problem / french
“ayreh feek” = fuck you / arabic
“vous ne valez rien” = you are worthless / french
“laila sa'ida, habibi” = sleep well, my love / moroccan arabic
apologies if any of the arabic is incorrect. i’m on my second year of french as well, so that may be an issue too.
thank you for reading, i hope it was worth the hours i spent in a custom game as cypher on pearl to worldbuild and the time i spent scouring valorant archives to find plot devices.
huge thanks to the practice range discord server for keeping me sane during this (and giving me feedback when i was in the process of writing it)
another thanks to my beta reader, you’re a real one fr.
a follow-up chapter of the aftermath MAY come out within the next few weeks if i am feeling it. if not, maybe the next few months if i regain the motivation to work on this again :)
any questions can (and will most likely) be answered in the comments!
as always, my socials
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and our valorant lore-centric discord server! we’d love to have you! 人´∀｀)
has been on my brain. so here’s my little masterlist on what i think everyone would be.
DISCLAIMER
i’ve played d&d like three times so don’t expect all of these to be accurate/they’re my opinion :(
astra // astral elf monk
hey, i just think it makes sense. monks can deal damage and since astra derives her power from the astral guardians, it makes sense, no?
plus, i think she’d be really badass with astral elf genes…
breach // centaur barbarian
WALK WITH ME HERE. just listen to me. A CENTAUR. HE’S SO CENTAUR.
he’s very tanky and i think it very much fits his whole vibe— and if you think he’s annoying with two legs, he’s gonna be ten times more annoying with four. can totally see him absolutely destroying someone by bucking his back legs into someone.
brimstone // dwarf paladin
honor is huge for dwarves and i really want to play that in with brimstone. i want to say that kingdom could’ve been this crazy god thing but maybe i could look into that later. all i know is that he is a paladin with a heart of gold.
in a little doodle i did, i made him a tavernkeeper… so maybe he’s an ex-paladin now-turned a humble tavernkeep.
chamber // high elf artificer
i wanted to make him a ranger, but an artificer makes me giggle. probably because one of my d&d characters is an artificer and was loosely based on chamber. (she’s a rich tiefling seamstress of many talents, if you even care.) also you can imagine chamber as a tiefling too, but, i think high elf works better.
deffo still a weapons designer, maybe even a blacksmith. probably works closely with magic users to make custom weaponry to channel their mana in.
clove // fairy bard
look, as much as i’d LOVE to make clove an immortal god watching over the whole fantasy world, i just HAVE to include them as a fairy who CONTINUOUSLY breaks the 4th wall. it’s so funny.
clove would probably have DEADPOOL level fourth wall breaks, and constantly make jokes and references of ‘the real world’ and how they’ve ‘seen all of you before.’
cypher // tiefling wizard
WALK WITH ME HERE. he had his horns ripped off. WALK WITH ME.
he hides his identity partially because iirc tieflings aren’t exactly … liked by the public eye? i also like to think he uses his wizardry to fuel his whole information broker schtick. he uses arcane eye and everyone hates him for it.
deadlock // snow elf beast hunter
i know that beast hunters aren’t exactly a CLASS but come on. lets be honest with ourselves.
deadlock who lost her team to a rabid mythical beast, now dedicating herself to hunting them down and neutralizing them, one bounty at a time. i like to think that she doesn’t necessarily kill them if they can be saved, or at least put them down painlessly. otherwise, she aims for the fuckin’ throat.
fade // half-elf sorcerer
walk with me here. fade is a MAN in the universe OKAY walk with me. i made a hc video on tiktok where i made fade a half-elf sorcerer that is haunted by the voices in his spellbook. his character name is demir, and upon further research, i have found out that sorcerers CANNOT use spellbooks. (stupid, i know.) so work with that as you will.
i think she works for nightmare to feed it in return to find information on her father. she's a bounty hunter, but ONLY for nightmares and for information. you feel me?
gekko // tall-man druid
i think this one’s a given.
i’m practically making him beast boy, BUT IDGAF!!!! he has a connection with his buddies and often shifts as needed. he likes turning into a dog and cuddling. trust. his character name is oetam. yes, it's mateo backwards.
harbor // warforged artificer
this one is kind of me fucking around. as much as i wanted to make him a water based race, he was chosen to hold the artifact.
i think he was made by realm to be their historian and antiquities expert, but as soon as he was the chosen one, was shut out, just like in the cinematic.
iso // half-orc fighter
i know i could've put iso as a tiefling or something like that but i think him as a half-orc is cooler. he's tall, bulky, and TANKY.
i originally wanted him to be a paladin, because he could change oaths from hourglass to the protocol through a huge quest in sparing omen... that whole thing, but i think a fighter works better.
jett // air genasi rogue
let's be so fucking for real JETT WILL BE PUT ON SOME ROGUE SHIT WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT. I WILL FORCE FEED IT TO YOU WITH A GOLDEN SPOON.
if omega earth isn't canonical in the d&d world (which i highly doubt) she has an evil twin that does shit on her name, henceforth, she has to hide. otherwise, same backstory.
kay/o // warforged fighter
HE. IS. WARFORGED. [actively shoving food down your throat]
very much strikes me as a robot learning how to be normal. definitely works along brimstone-- he got a job at the tavern and helps him sort out bounties and act as security. he's also totally a bodyguard for money.
killjoy // tiefling artificer
she's so tiefling u can't say anything. she's a PINK tiefling thank you very much. definitely a party girl, too!
i think she's the same idea as chamber, but she's paid by brimstone! i wanna think he took her in as his protégé but atp he might as well be hers. initially he wanted her to help with kay/o, but she just ended up control-freaking everywhere and upgrading everything in sight. she has matching names with oetam. it's aralk.
neon // wood elf ranger
neon is a speedster, so it makes sense to give her one of the fastest races in d&d (based on walking distance, at least). i wanna think she's a knight... stay with me here.
ex-k-sec makes sense for her to be a knight? so maybe she just has the title, but kind of just does contract work? also! the whole lightning thing... mayhaps cursed? or maybe just a lightning god didn't want her. choose which one you like out of those two.
omen // tall man-tiefling rogue
hear me out; he used to be a tall man, but after the whole 'incident' was turned into a tiefling. LISTEN BRO IT MAKES SENSE.
he works as a merc, sporting a cloak to shield his 'hideous' self. he frequents brimstone's tavern for jobs, and always emerges from the shadows instead of using the door. he's become accustomed to showing up after closing with the bounty, and in return, spooks everyone working there. killjoy had to hit her fantasy equivalent of an inhaler after a few spooks.
phoenix // dragonborn bard
[shoveling food down your throat] that is a fucking dragonborn if i ever did fucking see one.
and, he's a bard because he was in theatre school, duh. i like to think phoenix is a very popular entertainer but also uses his talents for other jobs on the side. otherwise... maybe he's a knight! i don't know. i like the performer idea better.
raze // dwarf alchemist
she was also in the d&d video! her name is razinho ('little raze' haha). probably a merc with a very, err, explosive personality. wandered in the tavern a lot and hit it off with aralk.
if i had to assign her a class, maybe a fighter or a barbarian.
reyna // vampire warlock
listen. i want to say that the vampire side of her is empress. she has to devour souls (or blood!) to keep empress happy. you see where i'm going here? [fade bulletin board spray]
she's tied to empress so long as lucia is sick. gekko and her met after she found him injured in dog form... guys please i love them so much.
sage // high elf cleric
her healing is a gift. come on bro. she's as cleric as it can get. while i think she also derives power from the earth (she's in fact a geomancer) i think the majority of her mana comes from the higher power that gifted her.
i want to think she also works as a ... well, sage. she does so back in shaanxi. otherwise, she's found at brimstone's tavern providing her healing. sometimes she goes into dungeons and does free revivals.
skye // dryad druid
[shoveling food down your throat] dryad skye [more food] druid skye. also isn't it crazy how THAT is the only skye picture we have. rest in peace.
i wanna think that her pack is a bunch of animal-shaped plants that she helped escape a garden. i think that's really funny. 10+ points if it's a garden belonging to kingdom.
sova // avian (owl) scout
a former knight in charge of reconnaissance. he left after a tragic accident.
he lives with his babushka and takes care of her-- sometimes he takes up bounties for extra cash, and brimstone is trying to work his way into sova's good side-- he could really use a scout.
viper // naga shifter alchemist
probably used to be a cleric but renounced her belief-- even better, after doing what she did to omen, she lost her power and took it as a sign to take up researching death.
yes, she is a naga. it makes so much sense, nobody talk to me. her and brimstone are old friends and she frequents the bar also because of omen. the reason he was sent to kill her should stay the same i think.
yoru // changeling rogue
last one! he was also in the hc video. except he was a fighter. his name is kurayami. no, not kuronami. he's a runaway samurai and hella edgy. oetam bullies him. demir, too.
changelings can impersonate people they've already seen, so maybe yoru uses paintings of his ancestors to decide on his identity. he has the mask still, too! he uses it when he's on his rogue shit.
thanks for reading! would love to hear what you guys think about these!
