((Oh boy here we go. Warning for gore and torture ahead of time.))
Deep breaths. In... and out. In... and out.
You had your eyes shut tightly as you tried to control your breathing. Or, really, control your thoughts. Dammit, this was exactly what you stayed awake to avoid! They’re fucking haunting you while you’re awake now as well? God dammit. You shook your head, trying to ignore the cold sweat and shivering.
It wasn’t even the usual daymares now. No, you were getting used to them. But as part of your stupid healthy sleeping thing, certain... other things... had started creeping to the forefront of your memory. Things you wanted to forget, almost more than the attack. At least those weren’t things you did. But no - they forced their way into your mind, clear as day.
You just had to make things worse for yourself, didn’t you?
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The attack must have been two and a half sweeps ago now, but they caught her barely a perigee after it. Maybe that’s why you were so willing to do it - the smell of ash was still in the air, some of the blood still stained the rubble, friend and foe alike. You wondered what the difference between them was, but shut that thought down quickly. Highbloods didn’t deserve sympathy. They’d brought it on themselves.
You’d been tending to yet more half-healed wounds when you heard someone shouting outside, you remember that. You didn’t know what it was though - someone captured? Was there another attack? You’d grabbed your shotgun almost without thinking, storming outside.
You’re not being a coward this time. FIGHT.
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You’d just been so.... eager.
It made you sick.
You’d never hurt anyone before, and there you were, ready to plug a few shells into someone. Your hands gripped the ceramic of the sink as you blew out a stale breath, loosening your collar just a touch... you didn’t know anymore whether you felt unwell from the memories - no, the guilt - or the drugs. Every time you took them, you half hoped you’d overdosed by accident, but you never did.
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It turned out that it had been your side that had captured one of them. A highblood girl. She looked terrified - could she really be part of the group that attacked? Looking back, you doubt it. But there, all you could do was listen to Kimtor and the others talk about interrogating her. She made eye contact with you, and a split-second later, you found yourself volunteering.
“I’ll do it. We need her alive, don’t we?”
You remember saying it so... softly. You took even yourself by surprise. Garrak opened his mouth to protest, of course - he lives for this sort of thing, the sick fuck - but you just raised a hand to silence him. Everyone else seemed to agree. You supposed they thought you’d know how to keep them alive if you fucked up, so they let you drag her to one of the recently vacated hives.
You have a score to settle.
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Yeah, a score. That wasn’t a fucking score, Thotht, that was a fucking vendetta.
You found yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror as you laughed at yourself, almost manically. You didn’t look well - your cheeks seemed two sizes too small got your skill, your eyes were bloodshot, and the bags under them were almost blood coloured. You didn’t even want to think about the rest of your body... Kerice was right, you were killing yourself slowly.
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You’d spent the first hour just... staring at her. Sizing her up. It was the most emotionless you’d ever felt. Some small part of you had been rationalising it as “necesary”, and the rest of you had listened to it. You couldn’t let yourself feel any sympathy, even if she did wet herself. You remember placing your gun off to the side - keeping it, you thought, just in view as you approached her. You’d knelt down in front of her, eye level - you can’t imagine she DIDN’T see the loathing in your eyes.
You asked the questions you’d been told to, of course. You wanted to give her a chance to tell you, so you could make her confirm it again and again afterwards. She just shook her head furiously, tears in her eyes as you raised the scalpel at the third “I don’t know!”
I’m going to need some better equipment.
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You hoped it’d stop there. You didn’t want to remember what came next. You almost succeeded - the sound of your breakfast splattering against water and porcelain almost got your mind off it. Almost.
God, she’d been innocent, hadn’t she?
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She was guilty, that much was obvious. She denied it to much not to be. It was obvious the scalpel wasn’t working. You’d cut her arms, legs, stomach, face... she kept insisting she didn’t know. You practically threw the blade at her in frustration, pouring a bottle of salt water over her. The screams as it made contact with the cuts were music to your ears. You’d exhausted everything you had - scalpels, scissors, even plain kicking and punching.
She’d begged, offered you anything to let her go. Money, art, sex, weapons... anything she could offer, she had. You just stared at her, smiling gently as you reached behind the door for your toolkit. You didn’t even bother with the hammer, you just went straight for the power drill.
You really, REALLY liked the way she started sobbing in resignation as you pressed it against her shin.
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You straightened up, gasping for air, wiping some spittle from your mouth and staggering to the sink to wash your hands. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, a few tears of exertion rolling down your cheek.
Good. You fucking should be crying, you’re a monster.
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You pressed the button on the drill, wincing despite yourself at the blood spraying you in the face. You paused, wiping it away, letting the girl whimper out a short plea before pressing down again, the sound of metal grinding on bone intriguing you. Of course, you stopped after a few seconds. Bloody thing would jam otherwise. You briefly debated doing the other leg before pausing.
“Mm... you know what, sweetheart? I think I want a drink. I’ll give you a few minutes to think about your next answer, yeah?” He placed the drill in her lap before giving her cheek a couple of gentle pats, smirking as she winced, cowering away as best she could, tied to the chair.
You stepped out, meeting the uneasy stares of half of your friends.
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Nobody looked at you the same after they heard that. You didn’t need to tell them - they heard it all. Of COURSE they’d be standing outside, where the fuck did you think they’d be?! At the cafe, having a cup of tea?! You picked up your razor, pressing it to your face, determined to at least shave - what you’d come here to do - pausing briefly as you realised just how easy it’d be to slit your throat with this and not have to think about it anymore.
You tried to calm yourself - you’d talked it out with all of them, you were all friends again - but it didn’t help. Any time you made progress, the other half of your brain reminded you; you’d tortured a young woman who was probably innocent, and you’d enjoyed it. You put the razor down for another round with the toilet bowl.
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“Has she told you anything?” Kimtor asked, pulling you aside with her good arm. You remember glancing at her stump - it gave you ideas.
“Not yet, no. Getting there though, I think.” You idly picked at a bit of dried blood on your face, Kimtor looking horribly troubled. She walked with you to your hive, leaning on you for support, not yet adjusted to having one arm and eye. Not that it helped, she was about two feet taller than you at this point in your life.
“... I see.” She leant against your doorframe as you made yourself some squash, looking almost sadly at you. “You’re... alright, right?”
“What do you mean? I’m fine.” You don’t remember how you said it, but you remember the way her eyebrows curled slightly, the way they do when someone is hearing sad news. She opened her mouth, as if to say something - but shrunk back, staying quiet for a few minutes while you drank in silence.
“... Don’t kill her. Alright? When you’ve gotten enough or don’t think you can get anything, fetch me, we’ll drop her somewhere. Got it?” She seemed sincere when she said it, and you gave a derisive snort. “I mean it, Gruant.” THAT part came out as an order.
You didn’t answer her as you pushed past her, on your way to see your new best friend.
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You flushed the toilet, not bothering to stand this time. You leant back, resting against the wood of the side of your bathtub, staring blankly at the space in front of you - reality dictated that there was a towel rack, but you didn’t feel much like agreeing with reality today.
You saw the girl, her face seared into your memory. She was smiling, as if greeting an old friend. You could almost hear her calling your name before cuts appeared out of nowhere, coagulated blood on her cheeks and neck, a look of utmost terror in her eyes.
It took everything you had in you not to cry out.
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You’d let her off easy that morning. Rather generously, you thought, you’d brought her something to eat and untied her for a few minutes, standing guard with your gun pointed straight at that pretty little face of hers. She ate, then promptly crawled into a corner, looking fearfully up at you as you stepped forwards, hovering over her.
“Get back in the chair.”
She shook her head slowly, a few tears dripping from her eyes. You pressed the side of your shotgun to her ear, the muzzle against the wall as you repeated your demand. Another shake of the head - you fired, she screamed.
Even you had to wince and wonder - albeit briefly - if you’d gone a bit too far (you decided that of course you hadn’t, this was a torture session after all), as the pressurewave from the blast ruptured her eardrum, a small amount of clear fluid erupting outwards. She cried out in pain as she fell to the side, covering her ear, cursing your name. You leant down, binding her hands and feet and leaving her in the corner as you left, pausing only to spit in her direction.
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You knew this was bad for you. Remembering like this. But then, you asked for help, didn’t you? It’s not your fault she turned your back on y- get a hold of yourself, of course it’s your fault, you disgusting, useless sack of shit.
It wasn’t a comforting thought, and it didn’t stop you from pulling yourself towards your medicine cabinet, hoping to get yourself a temporary reprieve from the shaking at least.
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You didn’t go back that night - or the next. Two days you left her in there, alone. When you returned, she looked in a bad way - pale, her lips cracked, barely conscious. You grabbed her head and splashed water on her face, pouring a bit into her mouth, then a little more as she greedily swallowed it down. You waited till she looked a little more awake before you made your offer.
“I’ve been told to let you go.” You paused, letting her look hopeful before crushing her dreams. “But only if you tell me what I want to know.” Her eyes looked as if they’d be brimming with tears again, if she had any moisture to spare for them, answering in a croaky voice.
“Please... I don’t know, I swear...” She whimpered pitifully, earning her an unceremonious drop to the floor as you let go of her, standing over her.
“Give me something. And then I can let you go!” You held his arms out wide, as if you couldn’t wait for it. In truth, you couldn’t - you felt VERY close to killing her out of sheer frutstration. And vengeance - but mostly frustration. She shook her head again, before passing out. Ugh. Worthless.
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Kimtor had relieved you after that. You never saw the girl again, but you do know that she was let go while you were busy. It seemed almost cruel - she was in a bad enough shape that death would have been a genuine mercy to her. Her legs were definitely useless - where would she have gone? You take a sip of water, throwing a handful of pills into your mouth and swallow, shuddering at the bitter taste.
Sometimes - just sometimes - you get like this. And invariably, you end up wondering about her. You knew now, looking back, she was innocent. Mistaken identity. You’d tortured someone innocent. You always came to the conclusion that you had to set things right - hell, you called someone a bitch in an elevator a couple weeks ago and you’re wanting to make THAT right. This is a bit more serious, isn’t it?
It’s a terrible idea. She wouldn’t want to see you, and even if you did find her - she’d kill you. But your sensibilities compelled you almost - surely, as a highblood, she’d understand things like revenge? Even if not, there were two words you felt you had to say before your life ebbed away from you, like your consciousness was.
You didn’t specifify so RNG says Gruant and Strala
Gruant enjoys dominant women - not like full on dominatrices, but women who aren’t afraid to push him around a little and get what they want.
Strala likes dirt - both in terms of outdoor sex, and also generally being dirty while doing it from having been in the woods for god knows how long. Not the point of being ABSOLUTELY disgusting, but enough that you need a shower.
★ Gruant worries a lot more than he lets on. Even if he’s publically threatened to cut your head off, he probably cares on SOME level.
★ Gruant’s main outfit was originally a suit. He doesn’t know where the tie and jacket went, but he wears the rest regardless. He thinks its “trendy”.
★ He’s actually really shit at anything other than first aid. Whenever someone asks him for advice, he Troogles it. He just doesn’t have the heart (or self-esteem) to tell them.
OOC:
☆ Gruant has currently latent psionics that give him faster healing for himself/other people, when he learns to focus it. I got the idea for these based on my own fuckery with biohacking (note: don’t try it without massive research) since I was experimenting with a few supplements to speed up healing and immune response as I designed him.
☆ None of Gruant’s relationships are pre-plotted - they all arose from “hey, know what’d be cool?” conversations (exceptions for my other trolls since I like that little village of mine)
☆ In one possible ending to his drugs plot, he was going to be killed off. Instead he’s currently sort of… massively withdrawn and anxious from stopping them.
