#delulu to the MAX pedal to the metal baby

[cvntroach5000]

Underneath it all, we're just savages

author's note: i dont know what the fuck is happening in the trailer, but thats okay. i have ideas and those ideas dont need this context, they just need to entertain me and i hope they can entertain you as well. nexos is not the actual name of the place and i dont like the codenames used for the lis in the event, so ill just be making shit up. do not take anything i say at face value, this is a self-indulgent space. also this is more of a preview than a whole fic, so please send feedback if you'd be interested to read more!

based on the new tommorows catch-22 trailer, written with the event outfit in mind, no use of y/n, reader has the command evol, if you feel like im referencing something no you do not

i think command evol reader is going to become a recurring thing on this blog, so stay tuned for more of that ig

pairing: sylus x reader (implied LaDS men x reader)

content warning: imprisonment, power imbalance, mind control, depiction of fictional mental ailments, descriptions of bodily discomfort

Becoming head warden of the Nexos Prison was not something you did out of ambition. It wasn't some kind of dream-come-true, a job and position you yearned to seize. It didn't make you feel fulfilled, it didn't bring you happiness nor satisfaction. It did ensure you had a roof over your head and food to fill your stomach, basic needs you suppose you were grateful to have taken care of.

But the reason you were here, overseeing the most dangerous wards and the most rabid prisoners was because they were yours. Madness tried to take them from you, so you followed them to the place where insanity rules to reclaim them. Once you'd succeeded, you'd leave this wretched place and take your prizes with you.

Six wards, six sectors in each. The sixth sector of every ward was your territory. Unless explicitly asked, other wardens steered clear of those places. Not that they were forbidden entry, but rather it was wise of them to stay away if they valued their lives. In each sixth sector was a lion's den, containing a single ferocious beast. People infected with insanity, distorted into abominations in body and mind.

You don't work on Sundays. This is a prison, not Hell, even if the lines seem to blur sometimes. The remaining six days, you make rounds through the wards, interrogating the predators residing in your sectors. As the number goes up, so does the level of contamination. The first one is quite sound of mind, even if his body acts out. The sixth one is wholly feral, lashing out physically and verbally, itching to tear everything near him to shreds. But it's okay, it's not like you play favorites with your charges. They are all precious in their own ways and working with them gives you purpose. The only gratification from this cursed fucking job.

Today, you're going to the Sixth Ward.

...Perhaps you do play favorites, after all.

The prison is a labyrinth, massive and intricate. Everything is made with enforced steel from Deepspace. It's cold and harsh, giving the place as little comforting energy as possible. You swear, if those who are sent here were not mad already, they'd be driven mad by the dreadful atmosphere. Nobody gives a shit to put up some pastel colored wallpaper or even a little photo of a sloth that says 'Hang in there'. Though natural light is scarce in the desolate wasteland beyond the prison gates, Nexos goes above and beyond to snuff it out and enshroud the whole facility in complete darkness. Some hallways are lit so poorly, the staff carry around lanterns to be able to navigate through them.

It only takes two hours of elavator rides, weaving through the dark halls and passing through security to arrive at your destination of the day. You climbed the chain of command so fervently when you first arrived here. You used to be nervous and unsure, worried you might mess up at your tasks. Anxious and insecure, struggling to communicate with the other staff. Now you barely notice the guards cowering and scattering as you pass by. You don't even feel a rush of adrenaline as you finally make your way to the gate to the Sixth Sector.

As the doors slide open, a long corridor comes into view. Even from the entrance you can feel the stiffling energy crackling from the cell at the end of the hallway. It's disorganised and weak, as if the air itself is calling out for help. You let slow, long steps guide you down this path you've walked hundreds of times before.

There he is.

You catch a glimpse of the shock of white hair in the darkness, an imposing figure leaning against the jailbars. Even sitting down and slouching, his hulking body looks massive. He doesn't react to the sound of your footsteps. You've made no effort to conceal your presence, yet he doesn't seem to notice you up until you are directly behind him.

His hand slams into the bars, snapping back in a sudden burst of instinct. He almost seems surprised to see you—he really didn't register your presence until now. Still, he lets out a low, breathy laugh. You can see his fangs gleaming in the faint light as he grins mischievously. His gaze seems shrouded by a dark cloud, pupils practically gleaming as they erractically scan over you.

"Well, hello there, dear supervisor. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" There's bite to his tone, yet he doesn't sound entirely sarcastic either.

You adjust your gloves and review the toolbox you have prepared outside his containment cell.

"Hello. I'm here for your routine interrogation." You announce robotically, as per protocol, "Do you know who I am?"

The prisoner exhales through his nose as though offended by your question. But he takes a moment to observe your face before slowly admitting,

"No. Should I?"

The furrow of his brow softens and he seems to genuinely rack his brain for an answer. He means to tease you, imply you're a nobody that he'd have no way of knowing. And yet he studies you carefully, searching your uniform for some kind of identifier; a name tag, ideally. Though there seems to be a thin metal plate over your right breast, he doesn't spy any words engraved in it.

"Noted." You finish preparing your tool box, setting it just outside the door of the cell.

"I will now be entering your cell. Stand in the middle of the room and raise your arms, please." You instruct him.

He snaps his teeth at you in defiance, but complies, positioning himself as you asked. A special set of chains snakes down from the ceiling, coiling around his wrists and pulling him upwards. He hisses as the links in the chain bite into his skin and he is hoisted high enough that even with his height, he's forced to stand up on his tip-toes.

You lift your hand up to the scanner on the door, activating the security lock. After authorising your identity through the biometric scanner, the bars of the door slide to the side. You leave your toolbox outside for now, slowly entering the beast's cage.

It is dreadfully barren, a single chair stationed in the corner and a pathetic, thin little mattress lying directly on the cold floor. Unfortunately, there wasn't much else that could be provided to predators of his level. They were so stripped of their senses, they barely registered the discomfort they lived in. Always pacing around like starving lions, they were restless. They didn't sleep, they simply collapsed from exhausion once the contamination couldn't force them to stay alert anymore. And they recovered fast, prowling in their cells again as soon as an hour later.

You hum in acknowledgement, stepping forward to inspect your charge. There's a few fresh bruises on him, some a ghoulish shade of purple. A couple of small scratches and one open cut. You suspect he'll heal up soon and create more wounds to replace the old ones. None of them ever had the same injuries two visits in a row. Still, this was a pretty tame entry on his record.

After circling around him, you are quite satisfied with your findings. You look at his face to find him staring back at you, analysing you with intensity to match yours. His eyes trail over the items lined at your belt; a whip, a pistol and a baton. You take the whip from its strap, caressing the leather as you do.

"Heh, I see you came here to play. Plan on beating the disobedience out of me?" He taunts you, but the crazed look in his eye tells you he's almost excited by the prospect.

You huff increduously, "My weapons are tools of self-defense."

He lets out a humorless laugh, "There is no such thing as a weapon for self-defense, sweetie. Weapons are always made with the intent to hurt, to maim. You cannot enforce peace."

You swiftly crack the whip, using it to seize the chair in the corner by one of its legs. You pull it towards yourself, halting its acceleration with your foot. You turn it to face the prisoner and sit down, crossing your legs. You like putting on little shows like this for him. They are wholly eccentric and unnecessary, but often, they help loosening a stuck cog in his brain. Something to work with later on, as you continue your routine interrogation.

"You know, you used to tell me that your body is a weapon. What about your body then? Does it, too, only know to hurt and to maim?"

He seems a little taken aback, but shakes it off quickly. He snarls, gnashing his teeth at you like a wild beast.

You sigh. You snap your fingers and the chains holding him up to the ceiling clatter to the ground. He grunts in surprise as his heels touch the ground. He rubs his sore wrists, red eyes raking over you in intrigue.

"Aren't you arrogant, letting your prey loose like that." He scoffs.

He's trying to figure out if you're stupid or if you've got an ace up your sleeve.

"Sylus."

His ears perk up at the sound of his name, so foreign yet so familiar. Nowadays, it means nothing to him. He can't even recall it himself. And yet, your voice and that name resonate with a primal part of his soul, buried under the layers of madness and contamination.

"Who—"

"Sit."

His brain barely registers the command before his body acts on it. His knees give out and he falls to the ground. It's like his nerves are on fire. More than a prisoner of this cell, he now feels imprisoned in his own body. Like a spirit, tethered to a hollow, useless shell. He can barely form thoughts as his entire being responds only to you and your instruction.

"What... Did you..."

"It's my Evol. Everyone obeys me, whether they want to or not. You are no exception."

Sylus's mind is racing a million miles per minute, yet it feels completely standstill at the same time. He's trying to comprehend this power, gauge its limits, figure out its weaknesses. Pinpoint the loophole he can exploit to escape your grasp. Through the haze over his mind, he registers how your eyes have a knowing glint in them. Like you know exactly what he's thinking, like he's an open book to you.

Can you—

"I cannot read minds, no." You clarify before he can even attempt to voice the question.

He notices the whip is gone from your hands. Instead, you play with the baton, inspecting it as you ponder your prey.

"You must be thinking 'There has to be a weakness I can use to break free'. You always loved testing the limits of my ability."

You're answering his questions, yet your words leave him more confused than before. Always? When did he ever see you use your Evol? When has he strategised with it in mind?

A sensation like an electric current runs violently through his body, making his brain tingle as though it's going to pop. It hurts to think, yet he can almost taste all the answers he seeks. They are like blood on his tongue, reeking of iron.

He strains his neck to look you in the eyes.

Your gaze is so empty, as though you are looking through him. Miles into the distance at versions of him he can't recall.

"What if I told you..."

There's a buzzing in his ears, growing louder by the second.

"That we've had this exact conversation hundreds of times before?"

The buzzing halts to a complete silence. And the prisoner slumps to the floor, unconscious.

You stare at his limp body for a moment. Then, you get out of your chair and pull up your notepad.

Another failure.

Tommorow, you're circling back to the first ward. Let's see if there's going to be any progress there.

As you fill out your report, you hear the faint sound of wind rushing through the corridor. Of course, there is no wind in Nexos Prison. Cawing echoes through the cramped space and a single mechanical crow flies into the open jail cell.

Mephisto perches on your shoulder, peering at the tablet in your hands. Then, his eyes shift over to the unconscious, white-haired man on the floor. He lets out a soft caw, flicking his metal wings. Absentmindedly, you reach up to scritch his head, even if the robotic bird can't really feel anything, only simulate the joy of being pet.

"Don't worry, Mephie. He'll return to us."