The music they sang though. . . It made Hank stop in his tracks, confusing the bandits he fought.
"I, your name, do solemnly swear, not to off myself, think about offing myself, or continue thinking about offing myself without reaching out for help, after listening to this song."
"P. . . player?" Oh, the poor dear. . . his player, his darling, wanted to hurt themself in that way?
The bandits stopped as well, whispering amongst themselves.
"Wha wassat?"
Hank shook their head and dove back into the fray, the screams of his enemies no more musical than your voice, cooing at him between verses. "- dead! Better dead! Gun against your head, you like 'em dead!"
This had to be a cry for help, no way it wasn't, Hank needed to help before it got-
"Well, sorry for the dark tone. What can I say, Penelope Scott is muh jam! Next up is. . . let's see, chat. . . Cigarette Ahegao! One of my faves!"
Oh.
It was just some stupid song.
Hank shook their head again. "Jesus, player, don't scare me like that!"
Hank panted, still shivering with energy. He needed to keep going, to keep killing. He looked around. Blood and viscera were splattered all over the walls, painting them a deep red. Bodies twitched lifelessly. Hank sighed, it seemed he'd killed everyone.
Dissapointed, he made his way out of the room. Wish there was more ta- "Oomph!" He stopped dead. Face buried in his chest was a small merc, likely no older than twenty. Didn't know they made em so small.
The merc slowly lifted his head, stiffening when he saw Hank's face, his head cocked to one side. The merc began to stutter- something Hank found strangely endearing. "Uhm, h- hey there big guy!" The merc laughed nervously.
Hank put a paw on the merc's shoulder and leaned in, intrigued by its inaction. The merc squeaked fearfully. "Uh, you- you're kinda cute when you're all bloody!" Hank froze up. The merc trembled fearfully. "Uh, big guy?" Hank leaned in closer, causing the poor merc to whimper. Hank chuckled.
Maybe he could spend his energy doing something. . . different.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Rotting meat, consumption of rotting meat, assassins, intimidation, mention of using others for personal gain, implied abuse, headache mention, dissent
The night was silent- as was your team. Eight elite assassins, all from their different backgrounds, hunting their prey for their own reasons. You? You wanted to escape this hell. The Auditor offered you handsome pay in exchange for another agent’s life, and you were going to receive it.
You had to admit, though, why she’d needed such experienced and jaded killers to dispose of this monster. Would it be that hard? You’d taken care of dangerous dissenters before, and have even taken down Hank once or twice. You shook your head, cocking your rifle. If you were forced into a team, it was for a good reason.
One of your teammates, titled “Ranger”, cocked his head at your determined expression. “You, uh, really excited for this, huh?” he asked. You simply huffed. You despised talking. Ranger took notice of this and chuckled. “Not a talker?”
“No,” you signed angrily. “Quiet.” You smirked at his embarrassment. Grabbing a mag and stuffing it in your pocket, you continued: “I’m getting that hit.” He snorted, much to your frustration.
“And if I do instead?”
You stood to full height, watching as the man crumbled with anxiety. Grabbing him by the collar, you mouthed, “Fuck around.” you dropped him to the ground with a thud, smiling at his frightened face. If you weren’t going to be working solo, you could at least use these lesser grunts as bait or assistants.
This would be a long night for sure, but it’d be fun as well.
* * *
The MAGnified Elton scrounged about, shifting garbage bags like some giant, fucked up raccoon. His claws tore into the junk and plastic, spilling bodies and discarded food. Food.
It grabbed a corpse and bit into the hot, decaying meat. Disgusting, but it’ll have to do. He forced himself to wolf it down, so he wouldn’t have to deal with the taste.
Elton snarled in distaste as the rotten flesh oozed down his throat, like a sludge. He hated it, and the splitting headache caused by those screws in his head didn’t help. That’s only one of the reasons for his dissent- the agency was simply too stressing. Maybe if he just worked harder. . .
No. He’s worked hard as he could. He deserves this. He deserves the world for his work. Luckily for him, his special thing is searching for him just as he is it.
WARNINGS: Chase sequence, minor nonsexual fearplay, abuse and amnesia due to abuse mentioned, gore mentioned, cannibalism mentioned and described, dangerous predator/hapless prey dynamic
NOTES: he's shirtless
Your breaths echoed all too loudly in the hallways as sweat dripped down your face. You cradled your cut hand- you'd wounded it on a scrap that stuck out from the walls. With a deep breath, you leaned into the old, grey walls, stray rebar poking out and catching your shirt on occasion.
It was hard to remember why you decided on pit fighting as what could be called a career choice. Maybe it was the thrill, or hope, or promise of popularity that seeped into your mind. Whatever it was, it pushed you to fight.
And fight you did. For weeks you knew only blood and sweat, dirt stuck to your skin and hardened into a shell as there was no clean water to wash it off. You remembered the coppery, pungent smell of gore that lingered even after the arena was wiped clean of it, and the screams of the crowds, chants of kill, kill, kill! reverberated between the walls of your head.
It was silent now- and you hated it.
You'd never even made it to the last leg- certain death at the paws and fangs of the champion. It was considered a mercy, compared to what horrors awaited to those losers, those heavily injured but not killed. Those such as you. The paramedics took you away, stitched you up, and sent you to "play" with your ruthless tyrant Top Dog.
Phobos.
He treated it like a game, though to you it was far from it. Whatever god there was had dug your grave and spat upon it the second you were forced into his "throne room".You were but a tiny, scampering mouse, twitchy and scared, and he was a horrible cat, ugly in his intentions and cruel in his desires.
You got up as you heard the clunk, clunk of steel-toed boots against the scrap-metal floor. He was so close you could hear his words. "Come out now, my sweet little songbird," he cooed, "The cat would like a word with you."
Hot air breezed past your head as you ran, quiet yet urgent, bare feet making little sound save the CLACK of metal denting underfoot. You were certain he was right on your tail, taking his time to get your blood flowing with fear. You're naught but prey, and you knew it. Your dirt-stricken face heated as your breath became labored- Your steps slowed down. You needed another rest.
You shook your head. Rest can wait. The man was on your heels and you had to lose him, fast. You turned a corner, spotting something akin to a door- at least you think. Doors aren't really necessities and draping a curtain over a window is easier. Hope rose within you as you put more energy into your legs, huffing. You were gonna make it to wherever it lead- and deal with whatever was inside.
You beat and pulled on the door as panic took over once more. Either locked or jammed. You were going to die to a cannibal god. But you weren't going to go down easy- you didn't care anymore. If there really was nothing to stop this, you'd just prolong the inevitable for as long as you could. Maybe you'd rough him up a bit, and die with pride.
"Well hello there, sweet mouse."
Nope. All thoughts of honor or prowess fell from your head. You couldn't fight Phobos. He'd just rip your throat out, maybe eat you where you lay, turn you to a mess of gore to feast upon. You tried taking deep breaths, turning around to face him. "Hello there, cat," you snarled with surprising venom.
He seemed to be taken aback by your fire, but quickly recovered. "Ah, I see your tongue is sharp. Let's hope it's juicy as well." He slowly wandered over to you, drinking in your rage and fear, and smirking at your trembling form. When he finally reached you, he placed a paw on your chin in an almost affectionate gesture.
You growled, shivering with anger. This prick was going to slaughter you like a cow and feast upon your corpse, and he was being so smug about it. "Do your worst!" you spat. He began to rub your lower lip with his thumb, as if he was trying to seduce you.
He licked his sharp teeth, taking you in with a half-lidded gaze. With a soft laugh, he responded. "Oh, I plan to." He moved his paw to cup your cheek, moving in slowly, pausing right before his mouth met yours. "Do you?" he whispered.
"What do you think 'do your worst' means?" Staring into his eye, you noticed there was no glint of malice, no wicked stare.
He quietly closed the distance, holding your hip with his free paw and pulling you in with surprising gentleness. The moment was surreal, a pit fighter and a Top Dog, one a meal and one a king, making out in the middle of the hallway. You were soaked in sweat and cacked in dirt, but Phobos didn't seem to mind.
You pulled away for a moment. "Do you. . . do this to all your prey?" you whispered silently.
Phobos shook his head and without a word, softly continued the kiss.
The night was silent- as was your team. Eight elite assassins, all from their different backgrounds, hunting their prey for their own reasons. You? You wanted to escape this hell. The Auditor offered you handsome pay in exchange for another agent’s life, and you were going to receive it.
You had to admit, though, why she’d needed such experienced and jaded killers to dispose of this monster. Would it be that hard? You’d taken care of dangerous dissenters before, and have even taken down Hank once or twice. You shook your head, cocking your rifle. If you were forced into a team, it was for a good reason.
One of your teammates, titled “Ranger”, cocked his head at your determined expression. “You, uh, really excited for this, huh?” he asked. You simply huffed. You despised talking. Ranger took notice of this and chuckled. “Not a talker?”
“No,” you signed angrily. “Quiet.” You smirked at his embarrassment. Grabbing a mag and stuffing it in your pocket, you continued: “I’m getting that hit.” He snorted, much to your frustration.
“And if I do instead?”
You stood to full height, watching as the man crumbled with anxiety. Grabbing him by the collar, you mouthed, “Fuck around.” you dropped him to the ground with a thud, smiling at his frightened face. If you weren’t going to be working solo, you could at least use these lesser grunts as bait or assistants.
This would be a long night for sure, but it’d be fun as well.
Not cookies, or fire, or earthquake. Not a workplace death, or Puffball.
Tommy. Tommy fuckin' Sheriff.
Lucky'd never met the man- of course, she didn't want to, but all the same- why? How? Was it really one, tall, admittedly handsome man. Lucky shook her head. Focus focus. I gotta get out. In a rush, she gathered up her papers to finish at home- she wasn't too worried, after all, the agents would slow him down, right?
BANG! BANG!
Lucky jumped at the noise, dropping her papers. "FUCK!" She cried, quickly bending down to collect them.
She froze as she heard the very distinct sound of a wholeass door being ripped open. "Well, well, whadda we got 'ere?" Asked a husky voice. Lucky didn't move, staying in her very, ahem, awkward position as footsteps clanked towards her loudly. "Stand up, pretty lady."
Lucky gasped loudly as a paw gripped her scruff, causing her to go limp. She was lifted up off the ground and dropped, falling on her shaky feet. "Turn around, girl. I wanna see a pretty face before I mangle it."
Lucky blushed, deeply. Turning around with a gasp, she realized who it was: Tommy. Tommy fuckin' Sheriff. "Ehm, yer prettier in person- um, I mean-" She clasped her paw over her mouth. Fuck. Whoops.
Thankfully for her, the remark was. . . well-recieved?
"D'awwe," Tommy replied with an awkward cough, "Now yer makin' me blush. C'mon, girlie, don't make me feel so conflicted 'bout this."
"D- d'ye have ta?" Lucky asked shakily. Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.
Tommy eyed her up and down for an uncomfortable amount of time before running a paw bean along his lower "jaw". "Hurmph. S'pose not. Can't leave ye alone though. . . hm."
Just take me, please.
"Welcome to th' team, girlie. What's yer name?"
Lucky's face flushed even further. "E-erm, I'm Lucky."
@boltznbotzz *abuses my sona* *abuses my sona* *abuses my sona* *abuses my sona* *abuses my sona* *abuses my sona* *abuses my s
HEAVILY based on the song Oleander by Mother Mother
TW // captivity, isolation, forced poisoning, mentions and descriptions of torture, implied kidnapping, Axosona is just being used as torture porn at this point and it's a bit uncomfortable. NOT a vent, I just like senseless torture porn.
"I made it for you- pasta's your favorite, right?"
"Mm, is it poisoned?"
"It took such a-"
"Is the food fucking poisoned or not."
Silence. Then the clacking of footsteps. "Fuck you, man." Flowers pulled his legs closer to his chest, wincing at the cramps in his stomach. "Shit," he whispered painfully.
He turned his attention to the food. God, it looked. . . delicious. Had pasta sauce and a parsley finish, like at a fancy restaurant or something. Smelled awesome, too, like warm marinara sauce. Welcoming. It won't hurt to have a few bites, will it?
It was the bitterest thing he'd ever tasted, but FUCK.
Old hyperfixations be damned, Flowers was hungry. Chomping and slurping like a rabid animal. He felt a strange rumble, but payed no mind. Food was all that mattered.
~~~~
"OH MY GOH- GUH-"
Flowers kneeled in a puddle of his own sick, trying desperately to stop dirtying the corner. He heaved and let another curdling wave spill. "Gwagh, GWUGH-" And another.
Laughter sounded over the intercom, filling Flowers with rage. "YOU GET OF TO THIS, YOU SICK FU- GUGH-" Another wave. Flowers was losing breath.
"Of course! You're fucking pathetic!" The voice laughed.
been a while since i wrote something, huh. anyway-
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Doc knew exactly what was gonna happen here.
First, some agents would come in. Then, they’d ask him about his base, he wouldn’t answer, they’d beat him up a little, and then they’d kill him.
Easy-peasy.
He stared at the metal door a few yards away. It was so close. . . but his chair was bolted to the floor, and his hands and feet were tied. If he was strong enough, he could break the leather bindings. . . if he was Hank enough. . .
The door slid open and two agents wandered in, along with a half-MAG. “Hey, dissenter,” An agent sneered.
Ugh. “Hello, bootslut.”
The agent recoiled slightly but soon recovered. “You know what we’re here for, yes?”
Doc rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you ask me questions, I give you jack shit, you torture and kill me. Done.” He sighed and leaned back.
“Eh, close enough. Listen, our pal Mason here,” he gestured to the half-MAG, “Is a bit pent up. We was thinkin’, maybe you could help wif ‘at.”
The trapped hacker lifted a brow. “Whadda you want me to do about it?”
“Fix him and we, eh. . . might letcha go.”
That was a fat fucking lie, a real flimsy fib. Doc sighed, frustrated. “Mmhm. Whatever. Couldja unstrap me here?”
The agents chuckled. “Nah, we like to see a struggle.” They walked out, leaving Doc and Mason alone.
Mason whined and sniffed the air. “What are you, blind? I’m right in front of-” The half-MAG removed his glasses, revealing an ugly scar over his cross. Oh. “Sorry.” Mason huffed.
He pushed his face into the stomach of the bound hacker. Doc’s body was larger than most, soft and squishy. The half-MAG took a long inhale of Doc’s sharp scent. The sterile smell would have stung the nose of any other, but the half-MAG seemed to enjoy it.
Suddenly, the intercom hissed. “Dude. Mason. You’re supposed to hurt him and shit. I know it’s your first day but like, c’mon man.”
Mason whined and pushed his face into the crook of Doc’s neck, opening wide and biting down as hard as he could- nearly cutting Doc’s jugular. Doc bit the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming too loud.
“Good job, Agent-L-554422! You will get a treat.”
Mason cooed happily, letting Doc bleed. He stepped back, then drooped when he noticed the scent of Doc’s discomfort. He reached a paw to cup Doc’s face and comfort him. Doc raised a brow, confused. Perhaps. . . he could use this compassion to his advantage.
“Hey. Mason, was it?”
Doc grinned when the half-MAG perked up. “You know those guys who brought you in? They want me to get hurt. Did you know that?”
Mason whined and stepped away, a stern look on his face. “No. . . nice men. . .”
Doc whimpered. “Maybe to you. They hate me.”
The intercom hissed to life. “Do not comply with him. You won’t get treats.”
“Bullshit,” Doc muttered. “Hey. Mason, do you like being called by name?” Mason nodded excitedly. “And do you like treats?” The half-MAG nodded again. “If you break me out of here, I’ll always call you by your name and I’ll always give you treats, okay?”
Mason rushed to the bound hacker’s side, sniffing. The intercom hissed again. “Agent-L-554422, you’re going to be apprehended and killed.” The half-MAG paused.
“Don’t listen to them, okay? They’re gonna slow you down.” Mason nodded and ripped out the bindings.
“AGENT L-554422!”
Mason quickly hoisted Doc onto his shoulder- not unlike a potato sack- and burst through the door, much to Doc’s screaming protestations of ‘no, wait, I’m not ready’.
Agents quickly rushed to the scene, and Mason, not one to give up, started throwing, kicking, punching, doing everything he could to create space between him and the agents.
This was not a good strategy when the agents Mason was fending off had long range weapons.
“MASON!” Doc screamed, beating at his back. “JUST FUCKING MOVE!”
Mason, finally noticing that he was covered in bullets, rushed past the agents as Doc screamed. “I’M SHOT!”
Mason, deciding to take a shortcut, kicked out a window. “Mason.” he readyed Doc for the throw. “Mason.” He finally tossed Doc out and leaped after him. “MASON- ACK!”
The two lay there for a little while, adrenaline wearing off- for Doc at least. Mason was still very, very high on it. As bullets whizzed through the air he plucked Doc from the ground and rushed off into the wastes of Nevada. “Wait! We can take a car!” Cried Doc, all too late as they passed the vehicles.
Most of the vehicles, at least.
Mason tossed Doc into the back of an armored truck, ripped off the front door, and instantly crashed it into a closeby ravine meant to deter escape.
* * *
Doc awoke to see Mason, off to the side, hunched over. He seemed to be digging something. Doc tried to sit up, but winced at a pain in his side. Were the agents really that incompetent? Sure enough, he had only been shot in the side,legs, and shoulders.
Mason, on the other hand. . .
He was riddled with bulletholes, every part of him covered with them. He kinda reminded Doc of swiss cheese.
Mason seemed almost done with his digging, as he was just patting the earth he’d dug. Mason finally turned to Doc, teary-eyed. “Mister?”
Doc glanced around. “Yyyeah. . .?”
The half-MAG quickly draped himself over Doc, sobbing profusely. “You was is shot! You ain’tid gon’ make it!” he whimpered and whined and nuzzled into the very confused hacker, who simply pat Mason’s back.
“Did you. . . think that killed me?” Doc asked, a bit confused.
“Yes!” came the shouted reply from the distraught half-MAG. “Thought yous was is dead!”
Doc remained silent for a moment, petting his companion. “You’ve got a lot of bullets in you,” he whispered. “Say, if you keep me safe until I get home, I’ll treat them for you.”
