Whumptober 7. Lab whump with extra dehumanisation and gore, this time!
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There’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.
The first experiment is simple. The muzzle is removed, and the body is fed water for the first time in days. It is helped to drink until it can drink no more, turning its head away from the feeding tube. Then, for the next twenty minutes, some mild acid forces the body to produce saliva, which is collected in test tubes on ice.
The body endures this placidly. It is cooperative with the cotton swabs placed inside its mouth. It holds still with its jaw wide, not needing to be forced. Maybe it is grateful to have been given water. Maybe it hopes, as the doctors do, that saliva will substitute blood in their treatments.
But the testing is done quickly and the results are clear. If there is power in the saliva, it is so diluted as to be useless.
And there’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.
The second experiment is nails and hair. The body is unresponsive when the hair is trimmed. It looks to be sleeping, though nobody is sure whether it truly sleeps like humans do. It wakes up, as best they can tell, with no idea of what was done. But later that day, they trim its nails. The clippings are stored in another sample container and taken away for testing.
This is equally unimpressive. There was already significant doubt that such expendable parts of the body would contain anything of value. But it was proof of the previous experiment. Only things integral would be useful to gather.
And there’s a taste in his mouth that he can’t get out.
By the end of the week, Caroline has allowed another experiment, more invasive now there have been no ill effects from the others. The body still bleeds through the needle in its arm, and nothing else matters. So Caroline authorises a tissue sample.
The first one is small, just a scraping of dead skin from under their trimmed fingernails. The body barely responds to the dull shear on their fingers. The flakes are taken away in a petri dish.
Next is a slice of fresh skin. One hand is taken into a bowl of water to be thoroughly cleaned. This, unlike the rest, gets a response, tears leaking down its cheeks as if touched by the gesture. But it is done by uncaring hands, who only want to make sure the site of their sample is sterile.
Gloved hands press the knuckles flat on a rolling steel side table. Caroline does the incision herself, peeling back mere millimetres of skin with her sharpest scalpel. The blood, which cannot be wasted, is allowed to flow openly until it clots on its own. Caroline takes the sample off herself for immediate testing, while one of the acolyte doctors is responsible for soaking up every drop of blood.
Lachlan doesn’t know if the skin sample works or not. All he knows is that, the very next day, Caroline returns for more. As the body heals, and does not scar, she grows less and less worried that she will do something irreversible.
Kurt used to speak up. He is supposed to, if she risks permanent damage to the body, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s barely present anymore. He’s here because he was told to be here, and outside of working hours, he is gone.
Caroline stays. Caroline sharpens and sterilises her scalpels. She gathers her two favourite students, the brightest and most loyal. They cleanse the site of her next incision. She has chosen the thigh, and they make sure every strand of hair and speck of dirt is gone from the area she designs. No contaminants. Why stop at blood when flesh could yield better results?
The body knows it is coming already. Even as Caroline only prepares, it has clearly worked out the pattern. It keens in pain at the first touch of metal and doesn’t stop when it comes in earnest. She presses the scalpel into flesh, barely needing to push with as sharp as she has the blade. Blood wells up around it, and she cuts with confidence.
The body – Northlight – cries out through the muzzle, legs jerking and arms pulling at the restraints. The pain is audible in their voice. The tears flow from their eyes again, backwards down their face as their head is thrown back. Caroline is immune, extracting the gouged flesh and having it conveyed to be chilled and preserved for testing. One of her students is already stifling the bleeding. The other conveys the sample away.
Lachlan tries not to look at the blob of flesh on the tray, nor at the bleeding hole in Northlight’s leg. He looks at the body’s tormented expression, and tries not to listen to the whimpers low in its throat. It’s a sensible thing to do with the experiments, to build up like this. It makes sense. It’s scientific. The body was always going to respond like this. Simulating feelings. Like how trees bleed sap.
The…
Northlight cries in hopeless pain as the wound is tightly bandaged. Northlight shakes their head in plea when the doctor leaves. Northlight endures without painkillers, without even food. Northlight turns their eyes to him.
There’s a taste in Lachlan’s mouth that he can’t get out. Metallic and sour. He knows it can’t be real, but he can taste it all the same. He drinks it in his dreams and it makes him ache and shiver.
Every morning he goes to wash his face in the laboratory toilets, and he bares his teeth the mirror, to check them for sharper edges.
He was just working on his bike. Then the metal of his wrench scraped the wall of the bike, Jason froze.
He found himself in the warehouse located in the Republic of Bosnia. He could hear the clown's laughter, see the green hair, stupid purple suit. He could feel the cold cement, the crowbar as it slapped against his body.
Jason wanted to escape. His breathing picked up, making it harder for him to breathe. He jerked through the shivers that controlled his body as the crowbar slammed against his head.
This isn't real, Jason thought. I'm alive. This is over. I'm alive. I'm alive.
He remembered a trick that helped his mind get back to where he was as he gripped his shirt, tight like it was a lifeline. Ever since that night, Jason couldn't wear any fabric that reminded himself of the Robin costume, so he wore leather with soft cottony fabrics underneath.
It felt like hours, but he found himself releasing the tension in his muscles, the shivers didn't stop, but the visions, the fears crept away, lurking in the shadows for another attack.
Pushing himself into a sitting position, he looked around to find himself back in his garage, his bike in progress and his phone. Grabbing it, Jason dialed his security blanket.
"Bruce Wayne," the voice on the other end spoke. Jason's breath hitched as he let the tears fall. "Jason, are you okay?"
"Bruce," Jason cried. "It happened again. I was working on my bike and my tools scraped on something and I spiraled. I think I'm okay now, but can you come get me?"
"I'm on my way," Bruce answered immediately. "Keep on the line while I get there, okay?"
Norman, Rafale, Grisha and Artyom end up pinned under heavy enemy fire. Things go south real bad. Norman tries to call air support from a lady in the sky.
Author's note: the writing in this is shoddy at times, especially the air support part.
Bullets flung clumps of dirt from the ground, slowly chipping away at what little cover the small band of mercenaries had.
Rafale, the youngest, was too busy taking pot-shots whenever he could, trying to take down at least one of those bastards.
Two other voices, they spoke Russian, exchanging single words, almost like directions. Two on the right, they'll reload soon, followed by a single understood.
The marksman never understood, only guessing what they said. Sometimes he guessed right, which seemingly pleased the pair.
He turned to his left, to check on the nearly unfazed man who held onto his rifle as if it were the last thing keeping him alive. The man's hair stuck to his damp forehead, a small ponytail draped over the collar of his coat.
"Norman!" Rafale hollered, trying to reach the man through the deafening symphony of fire, to no avail. The man kept to the ground, hand seeking something in a hurry. He made a sound, something between a grunt and a whimper, as he retrieved his radio.
The marksman tried again, this time grabbing Norman's attention.
The rifleman's eyes betrayed a deep fear, something Rafale had seen before. It never meant anything good, and the youngest was worried what might come next.
He fiddled with the radio, grimacing when it emitted a nasty sound, as if something snapped.
Norman was anxious to call for help. There was a friendly plane overhead, at least that's what they've been told. Callsign Valkyrie. Some rust bucket from mid-seventies, but mean enough to rain hellfire on anything on the ground at blistering speed.
Norman couldn't lead them out of here, not through the enemy fire, not without risking their lives... unacceptable. He could survive, but they couldn't--
A bullet whizzing by and narrowly missing his head, that was enough for the rifleman to commit.
He had to. He refused to let his own die.
⠀
The radio protested, fought back against his attempts to bring it to life.
All it did was buzz and croak. No sign of anything coherent. It didn't stop him from trying anyway. "Valkyrie, this is Nomad Actual, requesting air support ASAP!"
⠀
No response.
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He tried again.
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Nothing.
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Shit.
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The rifleman cursed under his breath. The impacts were inching closer, there wasn't a lot of time, he had to do something!
Norman tossed the radio to Rafale. The kid had no idea about radio protocol, nor how to call in close air support, yet Norman trusted the youngest would come up with something.
⠀
The pair of Russians hopped over the dirt ridge, one tall and brown-haired, the other shorter with black hair. Their expressions seemed blank, yet determined, in a way, they crouched down and moved to secure Rafale's left flank, in case the enemy would try their luck.
Now unburdened by the issue of radio communication, Norman advanced forth, knuckles white with the sheer force of grip with which he held his weapon. His leg was a mess, had been for a long time, it slowed him down when he needed it most. Yet he'd push through, like he always did, however this time, it wasn't for his own sake.
⠀
The ground shook, dirt flung higher and further. The enemy brought bigger guns, which worried the rifleman. Too reminiscent of--
He couldn't dwell on it right now, not with three other lives, *ives undeserving of such fate, he couldn't let it drag him back there, he had to stay here, now...
A crack and a thump, chunks of earth and gravel peppered his body and he cursed himself for not bringing a helmet.
Norman took a hasty peek over the dirt ridge.
At least six men armed with regular magazine-fed automatic rifles, one with a machinegun, and... one with a rocket launcher, though he couldn't tell what type. Two of them were much closer than he anticipated.
Another bullet whizzing too close for comfort, he felt the turbulence by his ear and Norm had to cut his little scouting attempt short. The enemy knew where he was, that their target sat at the weakest part of their shoddy earthen cover.
And they replied with a vengeance.
The rifleman couldn't retreat fast enough, crawling backwards against rough dirt seemed harder than he remembered. Norman made his best attempts to stay as low as he could as he rose to his knees, trying to retreat faster--
Screaming, Rafale was screaming, panicked eyes pursuing something on the horizon. Norman looked up, barely making out a silhouette of a man, the enemy's rifle pointed too high to hit him, he wouldn't be able to swing his own rifle around fast enough, Norman elected to draw his sidearm, but the foe was faster.
Momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash, he felt the impact, either the shoulder or the chest, he didn't know if it hit the armor plate or not, he couldn't tell. No warmth. No pain. A problem for later.
The handgun sat firmly in the New Yorker's palm, he aimed as best as he could with a single hand, and fired.
It took three rounds to eliminate the threat. The first one missed, the second hit who knows where, and the third ripped the assailant's throat wide open. Norman could barely avoid the falling corpse, it was bleeding all over the place and the rifleman couldn't tell which blood was his and which belonged to the body. There was... a lot of it, everywhere, even running in a tiny river down the rough dirt slope.
There was another head menacingly peeking over the horizon, but it wasn't looking at him, the approaching man was looking to his right, rifle slowly swiveling to follow his determined gaze, he was looking at Rafale, at Grisha, the tall one, and Artyom, the shorter one.
The rifleman took aim, he didn't care if he'd hit the bastard or not, just that he try and take him instead...
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One trigger pull.
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Two.
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Neither hit.
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He counted the rounds. Fired five, two certainly remain, maybe one extra...
⠀
The assailant ducks, raging eyes swinging to the source of Norman's fire.
He had two seconds to make his shots count.
⠀
One.
Miss.
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Two.
Near miss. Almost nicked the fucker.
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Three. Empty click, slide locked back and the gun - useless. Useless without ammo, something he couldn't afford to do at the moment.
But by then, the assailant's rifle was trained squarely at the rifleman's torso, one flash, two, he felt the impacts, the third grazed his arm, fourth kicked up dirt behind his back.
Norman fell to his back, air driven out of his lungs by sheer force of those impacts, he couldn't scramble to get his rifle. He waited for that one last flash and the darkness, but it didn't come.
Rafale, like a wrathful angel with his rifle a blazing sword, drove a round straight through the man's head.
Norman was used to seeing chunks of people fly off, detach, especially when they shouldn't, but seeing bits of bone and brain erupt from someone's head, that always nauseated him, no matter how desensitized he may have been.
He inhaled.
Something didn't feel right.
No pain, but... pressure. Pressure, ribs, left side. No warmth.
He had bigger problems at the moment, this one could wait.
One was the plane overhead. Did the kid manage to get in touch? Was it coming? And when? What ordinance? For how long?
The rifleman managed to roll over, wincing at the sharp sensation shooting out into his partially... numb arm.
Numbness. That's new, he mused, vestiges of worry gently tugging at his adrenaline-filled mind. A delay may cost them a life, he had to get back...
The rifleman's feet refused to fully cooperate at first, slipping as he brought his better leg forward, he brought his rifle close, laying the butt against the ground and pulling himself back on his feet with the rifle's sixteen-inch barrel.
Once on his feet, he took off running, vision growing hazier and unfocused, inching closer and closer to that familiar warm darkness.
⠀
Rafale's hands trembled when he pulled the bolt, loading a fresh round into the breach. Blaming himself for not seeing a particularly well-concealed enemy, he tried to shake the thought, tried to keep it from messing with his aim, hoping it would go away, but it wouldn't. It lingered on his mind with every aimed shot, every shot which kept the enemy at bay, which was supposed to keep them from braving the storm of fire and lead. Like those two did...
He could've done better.
He could've spotted those bastards, they weren't exactly concealed or low to the ground.
The marksman reasoned with himself, that dwelling on it won't change things, even seeing it as confirmation when he saw Norman running towards him in the corner of his vision--
But the rifleman's legs, they crumbled mid-step, sending their team lead tumbling to the ground.
The marksman barely kept himself where he sat, instinct pulling him towards Norman--
"Stay, stay!" Grisha commanded, rising with a clear goal and leaving his rifle behind, rushing--
--it was his own fault, and only his, that he couldn't keep then away, he had to go help him!
But killing them, dropping bodies, Rafale would be more helpful if he simply kept at it, he knew how to shoot, not how to fix people. That... that honor went to others, others who were more capable.
⠀
The eldest of the four moved with purpose, gaze trained on the rifleman struggling there on the ground before him. The New-Yorker's hands were moving, fingers curling up and grasping at loose dirt. He was alive, that was certain.
Grisha's knees met the rough ground, scraping against the dry soil. Air tasted of sulfur and blood and he exhaled through clenched teeth, unable to shake the stench.
Blood, there was so much on his clothes, right sleeve thoroughly drenched in crimson, left leg dotted with dark splotches of the same liquid.
Norman tried what he could to get back up, hands slipping, limbs too weak to hold up. Grisha came to a conclusion that he couldn't walk on his own, not at the moment.
"Is... is the air support comin'?" he questioned, voice weak, breath shallow.
Some of the blood was definitely his.
The taller of the two grabbed the incapacitated rifleman. "No. What air support?"
Grisha didn't receive a reply. He didn't ask again, instead focusing on moving to a safer area.
There was a tree line to the south. Too far to run, too far to drag, too far to carry. They had to stay here, behind this almost lethal ridge, all they could do was stand their ground. Maybe this mythical air support would come and save them.
"Rafale has my radio, I need to talk to him."
The first thought on the elder Sokolov's mind was whether or not was this man crazy. Seeing him fight was akin to watching a hen run across a highway, and while that wasn't a rare occurrence, Grisha had always hoped it was only an aberration, yet this incident was thoroughly changing his opinion.
With a hum, he tugged the rifleman along, and occasional labored exhales were the only audible sign Norman was still alive.
⠀
Magazine was dry, hit the release and slam a new one in there, pull the bolt, aim--
"Hey. The radio. Now."
Rafale sent the fresh round downrange before replying: "I couldn't--"
"Just give me the radio."
Norman sounded... tired. Or angry, Rafale wasn't sure.
A crack and a thump, once, twice, still too close for comfort, the youngest essentially threw the equipment at team lead, for his rifle hungered for more heads.
Grisha left the rifleman with Rafale, heading back to his brother.
Norman struggled with the radio for a moment, trying to recall which knob was the PTT button. He clamped down on an unsuspecting button at the long side of the housing. "Valkyrie, this is Nomad Actual, we need immediate air support, do you copy, over..."
Nothing.
"Valkyrie, Nomad Actual, requesting immediate air support, over."
The radio remained quiet.
If it's broken, they're as good as dead.
Then it beeped. Long, short, long.
"Nomad Actual, this is Valkyrie, one AJS-37, IP Ford at seven thousand. I have rockets. Play time is zero plus fifteen. Available for tasking, what do you got for me?"
Female voice, noise in the background. Norman couldn't help but grin. This was it, this was their ticket out of the fight!
He was exhausted, but he had to do this, they were so close to the end...
"Valkyrie, this is Nomad, Type three in effect, advise when ready for nine-line."
He inhaled sharply, wincing. His ribs hurt, air felt almost too thick to breathe, especially when he figured out just how much he would have to speak.
But if it meant they'd survive...
⠀
"Ready to copy."
⠀
It's time.
Norman quickly ran through every little bit of information, everything Valkyrie needed to know to strike right.
"Line is as follows," the rifleman spoke, eyes scanning the sky in hopes of seeing their savior, "one, two, three - N-A. Five-hundred sixty feet MSL, infantry, sierra foxtrot zero niner zero five five eight, marked by Willie Pete, south one-hundred, troops in contact, egress south-west."
He felt out of breath, even after relaying so little information. Yet this was enough. It was enough to get them out of here. "Advise when ready for remarks and further talk-on."
⠀
It's all just procedure. At this point, all Norman could do is stick to what he's been taught to do.
⠀
"Ready to copy remarks."
⠀
Almost ready, almost there. "Final attack heading zero nine zero."
There she was, a tiny little dot in the clouds, moving closer and closer. Two pairs of triangle-shaped wings, smaller pair in the front, bigger one in the back.
⠀
Norman couldn't focus on much else, not the unyielding gunfire, not even the worryingly large amount of armed men slowly encroaching on their position.
He did what he could to lift his rifle, and load a single white smoke into its grenade launcher. He fired it. Sure enough, white smoke appeared some moments later
⠀
"Nomad, Valkyrie, Check In."
⠀
He felt the warm darkness creeping in, its tendrils slowly corrupting his sight. Yet his desire to see this thing through, it was stronger. "Valkyrie, Nomad, we're receiving multiple contacts from north and northeast, we're gettin' hammered real bad down here. Mark is on the deck, friendlies one-hundred meters south of Willie Pete, just behind the ridge. "
The gunfire wasn't stopping, they kept coming, trying to cross the ridge and finish them for good. Artyom had his hands full, letting off bursts into anyone who strayed too close.
Norman watched the sky, and then he saw the glistening iron beast.
It was banking, slowly turning to ingress direction, its wings showing a jagged double-delta shape. Norman felt the rumble, felt its roar in his bones, saw the fury with which it turned. Valkyrie dipped beneath the horizon, disappearing into the earth below.
Norman sat there, paralyzed at what he just witnessed, fully believing they just lost the only means of saving themselves.
Valkyrie was... gone. Now what?
Long, short, long. "Valkyrie, In from north-east."
The iron beast suddenly resurfaced to his right, its once silver silhouette suddenly draped in shadow as it shot up into the sky, rolling onto its back at the top of its turn, ready to unleash wrath at the verdant earth below.
Amazed at the menacing display of power, he replied with the magic words: "Valkyrie, cleared to engage!"
The plane was approaching at a terrifying speed, a pale horse of death slicing the sky in two, and Norman swore he saw a vicious toothy grin painted below the cockpit.
"Keep your heads down and don't shit yourselves!"
The warning couldn't come soon enough, for not even ten seconds later, Valkyrie launched her attack.
Ground shook at the onslaught of explosives, each impact launched large amounts of dirt high up in the air.
It was... almost apocalyptic.
Earth rained from the sky, gravel and dirt and bits of rocks pelting anything that managed to survive, this hellish atmosphere only accentuated by the mighty roar of the beast's engine.
⠀
The radio only barely came through all that deafening noise. "Valkyrie, attack complete. You alright down there?"
The hits landed dangerously close, and to no one's surprise, they didn't remain unharmed.
The rifleman listened intently, or as much as his ringing ears allowed, to any signs of the enemy.
No barking of guns.
There was nothing left alive in that strip of land.
"Good hit, good hit," Norman croaked, "think you killed everything down here..."
His hand fell to the ground with a sigh. Finally. It's over. They can... regroup and... "No targets available, good job... You may depart..."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Characters: Reno (Compilation of FFVII)
Additional Tags: Whumptober 2020
Summary:
A short fic written for Whumptober 2020.
Rookie Turk Reno is investigating a weapons smuggler on the Northern Continent when the mission goes horribly wrong and he finds himself captured.
