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thetomorrowshow · 5 months ago

Text

febuwhump 12 - used as practice

title: burying my whole life

fandom: traffic smp

part of my bad boys gang au!!

cw: blood, violence

Scott swallows, shifts his weight.

He lets himself, for a moment, wonder about Martyn. Is he in the same situation? Blindfolded, tied to an uncomfortable chair? A dirty gag pulled taut between his teeth?

Or is it worse?

Then he shakes himself. He’s not thinking about that. He’s not going to sit here and run himself ragged, panicking about what they might be doing to his friend. He’s fine, so he has to assume that Martyn’s the same way.

This was supposed to be an easy job. They only take easy jobs, after all—one of the perks of being independent contractors is that they get to pick and choose whatever jobs they want to work. But hiding bodies hasn’t been enough to cover rent as of late, and they really can’t afford to lose the junkyard.

They’ve worked for every respectable gang in the city, so Scott would have thought that there would be a bit more respect on the Mean Gills Hunk o’ Junk services. His and Martyn’s matching t-shirt uniforms are practically a Red Cross symbol around here. They aren’t to be touched.

The job had sounded pretty easy. Implicate this new gang, the Neighbors, in a murder that belonged to the Clockers. Scott didn’t feel too bad about it, seeing as the Neighbors hadn’t been so kind as to utilize their services yet. They seemed like a pretty small start-up, and the Clockers were probably trying to squash them out of the game before they really got their feet under themselves.

Well, they have their feet under them, that’s for sure.

The Neighbors aren’t actually a gang, that much is clear. They’re some sort of—private elite force, Scott thinks, with training that he’s never seen from the usual thugs. He and Martyn can hold their own in hand-to-hand combat, but a single man in a button-up shirt had taken them both down with a couple of lightning-fast sweeps of his legs. It had been almost like an art form, a fluid dance that only he knew the steps to.

Scott had woken up . . . wherever this is. Alone. Unable to move his arms more than to flex his wrists, his legs bound in three different places, the only movement allowed him the ability to twist his head around. Nothing to look at, not with his eyes covered.

How long was he out? How long has he been here, in this unknowable prison, waiting for whatever judgment is sure to come?

In all likelihood, Scott’s dead. There are very few scenarios here where he ends up alive. They’ll probably interrogate him about his past work, the many bodies that he’s thrown into the incinerator or buried beneath all the junk. Then they’ll kill him, his knowledge of whatever they’re doing too threatening to their work.

Why did he ever have to get involved in this business in the first place? He’d always dreamed of living an average-length life.

What had seemed like an easy way to get a lot of cash has backfired in an unfortunately foreseeable manner.

Scott sits in silence for far too long. Hours, if he had to guess—which is unpleasant, frankly, waiting for his own death for so long with restricted blood circulation. If they were polite about it, his captors would have come in right after he’d woken, done their quick little interrogation, and shot him in the head.

When someone finally joins him, they don’t ask the demanded questions he expects. They don’t take off the blindfold or the gag, but they release him from his other binds (which he can now tell aren’t ropes, but something like mini bungee cords, easier to loosen quickly) and pull him to his feet and into a brisk walk, all without a word.

Scott stumbles along with them, a person on either side, his wrists clicked into handcuffs before he can so much as lift his hands. That’s frustrating, and not because it restricts his chances of escape, but because he’s already struggling with walking as pins and needles fill his legs and he’d like to be capable of catching himself if he falls, thank you very much.

Somehow he keeps his feet, though he hasn’t got any sort of presence of mind to pay attention to where they’re going, especially when he can’t see. Probably to some other room to be interrogated.

But they stop suddenly after what he assumes is a bit of a hallway, and they don’t have him sit down or remove the blindfold or anything. They just stand there, fingernails digging into Scott’s arms, and wait.

Scott lets out a slow huff of breath through his nose, flexes his fingers. Is this some sort of intimidation thing? What are they waiting for?

This is going to be it. He’ll be standing here for ages, then some big scary man will come in and tear off his blindfold and gag. He’ll demand to know his purpose and press him for every bit of information he knows, then he’ll nod to one of his goons and they’ll shoot him in the head and his body will be dragged away (probably to be buried in his own junkyard).

He knows so many things, though—what if he keeps giving information that the big scary man doesn’t even want? He’s so overflowing with things that he knows he doesn’t even know what he knows! Great, now he’s going to get a bad grade in hostage, something that is normal to—

Shuffling footsteps.

Scott swallows as best he can behind the gag. It sounds like multiple people, kind of far away. Maybe two more men with Martyn in between them?

“Here,” a lilting, woman’s voice says. She sounds far away—like she’s at the other end of a long room. “There’s your target.”

What?

A beat passes.

“What?” a man (from that same distance) says incredulously, echoing Scott’s thought.

“You’re a marksman, aren’t you? Show us your skills.”

Is Scott in a shooting range? Why would they bring him here?

“What did he do?” the man asks.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s an enemy to us.”

“But—but he’s helpless.”

“What does that matter?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Scott can see it, in his mind’s eye. Him, bound and gagged, a faceless perpetrator, stood at the end of the shooting range. This anonymous man, perhaps facing a test of loyalty, placed at the other end with a gun in hand.

There’s still men on either side of him. A test of accuracy, too.

They aren’t even going to interrogate him?

Scott feels kind of offended, honestly, that they’re using him as nothing more than a prop in someone else’s test. He has knowledge of worth! He has dirt on every gang in the city, and despite what he always claims, it can absolutely be tortured out of him.

Maybe Martyn already gave up everything useful. Maybe Martyn traded his life for Scott’s. Sounds like something he would do—there’s never really been love lost between the two of them; circumstance brought them together and convenience kept them together and now convenience dictates their separation.

To be fair, Scott would have sold him out, too.

Ah, well. He lived a decent life—for the first sixteen years, or so. He was kind of a terrible person after that. To be frank, he probably deserves to die.

As someone else’s loyalty test, though? Really?

His ideal death is absolutely to sacrifice himself to save someone else for reasons that he’s not going to personally examine, but this is just embarrassing.

“I won’t.”

If Scott didn’t have a gag in his mouth, he would have groaned. Is he seriously going to drag this out? He’s seen movies, he knows what’s going to happen.

Sure enough, there’s a long pause, then a meaty thud followed by a pained grunt. After a moment, the woman speaks again.

“Shoot him.”

When the man speaks, his voice is notably strained. “No.”

Another thud. Then another, and a bit of a crack, and the man makes another sound of pain. After a moment of relative silence, he hears a sliding sound, as if something heavy is being dragged along the floor.

A door opens, then shuts.

Scott still has a gag in his mouth, but he makes his best attempt at a groan anyways.

That pattern repeats itself four times.

Scott is pulled from his chair and into what he has to assume is a target range. The anonymous man being tested is brought in, he refuses to shoot Scott, he gets beaten into submission, and then both of them are dragged away again.

The sixth time, as Scott stands in the target range with guards on either side, he wishes they would loosen the gag. Then he could at least try to make this interesting. It sounds fun to beg for help. Or maybe he could try to anger the man. Or he could stay silent by choice. That would be enigmatic.

The man sounds exhausted today, and Scott briefly wonders what he’s been going through when they’re not in the room together. Do they hurt him? Interrogate him? Train him? At least with Scott they give him food and water at fairly regular intervals. The man seems to get weaker and weaker by the day.

“Really?” the man says, his voice carrying thinly across the room. “Again? Same guy? Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Don’t you?”

There’s a long silence that follows that.

Scott waits with bated breath.

Is this going to be it, at last?

Even though he’s been prepared five times now, his unpreparedness strikes him like a staff to his knees. Did he ever thank his neighbors for the housewarming cookies they brought him? How long has his cat been alone at home? Why didn’t he ever reach out to his mom? Just a call would have sufficed. He could have even visited her.

The silence continues.

Then—a cry of pain—and relief drops through Scott’s chest.

It’s immediately chased by exhaustion, and a little bit of shame (it’s not like this putting-off of his death sentence will change anything that he has or hasn’t done, and all it’s doing is causing pain to this other man), but he only swallows and allows himself to be led away.

“Give me the gun.”

There it is again—that jump in his stomach, the weakness in his legs, because this is it, this time. No more trials.

Seven is a meaningful number, Scott heard once. He doesn’t know what it means. He has to assume it means the end.

“Good. Shoot—”

BANG.

Scott can’t help it—he flinches (he curses himself in the moment for flinching)—

He . . . isn’t hit.

There’s sounds—sounds of a struggle, shouts and deafening gunshots and the men on either side of him split apart, leaving him standing alone—and Scott hasn’t properly walked or stood on his own in what feels like days, so he sways in place, but he can’t balance himself with bound hands—

Running footsteps come toward him, and someone (who smells like sweat and blood, gross) wraps an arm around him before he can fall.

“Run, run, run!” the man’s voice says, too loud in his ear.

And what’s Scott supposed to do but run?

He lets the man guide him, stays as close as he can without tripping over his legs. He runs blindly, desperately trying not to fall—which is harder than it looks, blindfolded and handcuffed and weak. He manages to follow the twists and turns fairly well until the man drags him on a sharp turn and he stumbles over his own feet, falling flat on his face.

“Oh, geez—sorry, one second—”

A door squeaks; hands grab at his face, and the gag is pulled and pulled (and with it, painfully, the corners of his lips) and then torn loose. Scott gratefully lets his mouth fall shut, then winces as the blindfold is forcefully ripped from his eyes.

He opens his eyes (which hurts, the light hurts, how long has he been here?) and looks up.

In the dim lighting, Scott blinks past watery eyes and sees the man who has held his death in his hands seven separate times.

He’s—

He’s actually kind of hot.

Like, yeah, there’s blood trickling down the stubbly side of his face, and he has a massive black eye, and his blond hair is clumpy and tangled and gross-looking, but . . . he’s got potential. He definitely isn’t the worst last thing to see.

Scott swallows, his mouth bone-dry and tongue swollen, and manages, “Hey, hot stuff. What’s a guy like—like you doing in a place like this?”

Adorably, the man blushes. “I—um—can you shoot?” he blusters.

Scott hopes he manages a devilish smirk with his numb lips. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”

“Holy moly.” The man actually gets up and walks away, though he returns after only a few seconds. “Look, I can get us out of here if I can get a phone. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“I haven’t checked,” Scott grouses. “I think it was confiscated in the onboarding training.”

“Yeah, same,” the man says absently.

Scott would check his pockets, but his hands happened to be bound with actual handcuffs, rather than the bungee cords that had bound him to the chair. He hasn’t noticed anything in his pockets as of yet—and who would leave a prisoner with their cell phone? It’s likely long been destroyed.

“Okay, well—I have these guns,” the man says, holding out two handguns. “Genuinely, can you shoot?”

“Not like this,” Scott says drily, jangling his handcuffs. The man hasn’t even offered to help him up. He’s just lying on the dusty carpet of this—it looks like a small meeting room, with a table in the center and a handful of chairs scattered about.

Come to think of it, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to hold a gun while handcuffed, but Scott isn’t exactly a marksman. He can hold his own in a fistfight, and he’s actually pretty decent with knives, but guns aren’t his specialty. Sure, they keep a handgun in the office in case of emergency, but he’s never really needed to use it.

“And I can only shoot one right now. . . .”

Scott scoffs, which quickly turns into a real coughing fit. When he can breathe, he chokes out, “You can only shoot one, period. Dual-wielding pistols doesn’t actually work, genius.”

The man shrugs. “I’ve been practicing, I can get decent cover fire. But they broke a few fingers, so. . . .” He holds up his left hand, which Scott can just barely tell in this lighting is shockingly swollen.

Despite his doubts on the gun matter, Scott grimaces. Broken fingers hurt, and he’s only ever broken one before (perks of accidentally slamming your hand in a door). He can’t imagine breaking multiple, then having to shoot with that hand.

“Okay. Here’s the plan,” the man says, checking out the open door. “First person to walk by, I shoot ‘em and take their phone. Then I call my friends and we get out of here.”

“That’ll be way too loud,” Scott points out. “They’d kill us before any of your supposed friends even showed up.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re throwing around any clever ideas,” the man says hotly.

Which is entirely unfair, seeing as Scott is literally lying on the floor, and until mere minutes ago was not only handcuffed, but blindfolded and gagged. Honestly, it’s shocking he can even function right now. It’s shocking he’s even alive right now.

They’re not actually going to escape, right? There’s no way, not when they’re in the depths of the Neighbors’ organization, when there are surely plenty of skilled fighters searching for them right now. They’ll probably kill Scott on the spot, then take the other guy back to continue whatever they’re doing with him.

“Search the room, would you?” the man says. “I’ll keep a look-out.”

Scott rolls his eyes, then shifts to his knees and pushes himself up, starts going through the room.

It’s just as small as he’d assumed, a table barely larger than a desk in the center with four chairs, two on either long side. There’s not any sort of tech in here, not even a projector, and the whiteboard on the wall only has a singular dried-out marker with it.

He turns around to tell the guy that there’s really nothing here, but he already has a preemptive hand held out toward Scott, clearly signalling to be quiet.

Scott freezes. Listens.

He doesn’t hear anything until the footsteps are almost upon them, just outside the door of the meeting room, and quick as a flash his accomplice darts out the door, then back in, dragging a struggling man in a suit with him, hand with the broken fingers covering his mouth.

There’s a moment’s struggle in which Scott’s accomplice tries to drag the suit to the ground, and the suit tries to get his gun aimed behind himself to shoot him. Scott’s fairly certain he hasn’t been noticed yet—he hurries forward, ramming his head into the suit’s stomach—

The force of it bowls all three of them to the floor with a loud thud. Scott rolls over someone’s lumpy body—his new friend cries out—the Neighbor grunts—

It’s too dark, for goodness’ sakes, Scott can’t see and he’s all turned around, his hands held together by the stubborn cuffs, there’s no way he’s going to survive this—

BANG!

Blinding pain overcomes Scott’s entire system and he thinks he only doesn’t scream because he’s left without any air in his lungs. He doesn’t know where he’s been hit, but it hurts more than anything that’s ever happened and he can’t see, can’t feel his body, can’t do anything but gasp in agony.

Is he dying? He’s probably dying. He’s definitely dying, it—it hurts so—

What’s happening? Why is he dying? He’s dying—

Scott isn’t sure how long he spends hanging in the limbo of all-encompassing torture. At some point, though, the pain begins to centralize in his right arm, and he sucks in a deep breath, some of the red on the back of his eyelids fading. The ringing in his ears starts to recede, little by little, until he can hear someone muttering in his ear.

“—you’re all right, help is coming, just need you to stand up—”

An arm worms its way under his back and pulls him up slowly, Scott helpless to prevent it. His knees buckle when his bare feet find the floor, but whoever has him doesn’t let him fall. His right hand pulses angrily, far too hot for him to focus on much else.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. We need to get out of here so my buddies can get us away, right? Can you open your eyes?”

Scott tries. He really, really, does, but he can’t quite wrench them open, his eyelids soldered shut. He does manage, however, to stand, though his legs tremble weakly under the weight of his body.

“Let’s go, let’s go. Are you gonna pass out? You look white as a ghost. Stay awake, yeah? What’s your name?”

His name. Scott lets the person supporting him guide him forward. “Scott,” he rasps.

“Cool, nice to meet you. What do you do for work, Scott?”

“Junkyard. I—” Scott finally forces his eyes open, the world before him grey and tear-blurred. “I—”

“Junkyard, that’s cool. Got any family?”

They’re escaping. They’re getting out of here, Scott and this random man. What happened with the other guy, the one in the suit? Did they take him out?

“Scott? You good?”

“Yeah,” Scott breathes, and his hand pulses—

He looks down.

He can’t really tell what’s up through his tears, but there’s a dirty piece of fabric tied around his hand, soaked through with blood. Blood’s all up his arm, all over his leg, dripping lazily from his fingers. He blinks, blinks again.

“Can you walk yet?” the man asks, and Scott now notices how exhausted he sounds, almost entirely out of breath. “‘Cuz—dude, I can’t go on like this.”

Surely he can walk, right?

Scott decides to at least try.

He pushes off of the man—not completely, but enough that he’s mostly supporting his own weight. He’s still pretty much blindly following, but they really ought to move faster if they’re actually going to get out. Scott pushes past the jelly that his legs have become and increases the pace, swallowing back the instinct to vomit.

“What’s y’r name?” he forces out, more to keep himself conscious than out of actual curiosity. Which is probably why the man was asking him personal questions in the first place, come to think of it.

“Jimmy,” the man replies, after only a moment’s hesitation. “I think—I think that’s the door out. It looks like—here—”

They push together on metal, heavy heavy metal—

Scott breathes in fresh air—

Then his legs give out entirely.

He sinks to the ground in some sort of weird slow motion, and Jimmy manages to drag them both over the threshold before he’s falling too, and Scott feels all fuzzy in the back of his mouth and really, really sick. . . .

Then black.

“I can’t believe you passed out on the doorway.”

“Uh-huh, and who was it who basically dropped me?” Scott retorts, no heat in his words. Jimmy snorts.

“I’ll have you know, I had three broken fingers, four cracked ribs, and a broken collarbone,” Jimmy counts off. “Not to mention all the bruises. You just had a tiny gunshot wound.”

“A gunshot wound that blew off half my hand,” Scott says wryly, gesturing to his heavily-wrapped right hand, now bereft of a pinky finger and a decent chunk of his palm. “Those tend to bleed a lot.”

Jimmy winces. “Sorry—”

“No, you’d better not be apologizing again,” Scott interrupts. “Losing a finger is better than losing my life.”

“I should’ve been able to get the gun away from him, though,” Jimmy says awkwardly. “I know this stuff, I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Right, I totally expect you to be perfect after being tortured for a week.”

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t—”

“You’re both injured and you aren’t supposed to be out here,” a voice comes from behind them. Scott’s heart jolts, but only Grian comes up in front of them, arms folded over his zipped-up leather jacket. “Come on. In you get.”

Being out on the back porch had been fun while it lasted, Scott supposes. Back to the weird library-turned-hospital.

But Grian grabs Scott’s left arm, shoos Jimmy on when he pauses. “Go on, get your bandages changed. Scott and I need to talk.”

Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, eyes darting between Scott and Grian. Scott, despite his nerves, nods confidently.

“I won’t be long,” he says. “I’d never miss a chance to see you shirtless.”

The tips of Jimmy’s ears turn pink and he grumbles something, but heads on inside. Once the door to the patio closes, Grian lets go of Scott, leans back on the railing.

“You have to stay, now,” he says bluntly. “You’re too much of a risk.”

Scott grimaces. He doesn’t remember how they got here—he fainted as they left the building, then woke up in a bed in the heart of the Bad Boys’ base. Eight years he’s avoided swearing fealty to any gang, and somehow, he’s ended up with the Bad Boys. “I have a business,” he tries half-heartedly.

Grian snorts. “You think the Neighbors don’t know where it is? They’ll kill you before the day’s over.”

Okay, he really didn’t think that would work, anyways. New tactic. Become a Bad Boy?

He really doesn’t want to be a Bad Boy, but until he can find a way to flee the country, he’s probably stuck here. Good thing he’s hurt his hand so, he won’t be expected to be any sort of gunman.

He’s pretty good at making the most of situations, though.

“I think I have some talents that the Bad Boys would find useful,” he says. “As long as I’m compensated.”

“You’ll have to talk to someone a bit higher up the food chain to work that out.”

Scott nods. “The Baddest of Boys.”

“Please never say that again.”

“The Worst Boy, even.”

“Go back to bed.”

Scott chuckles and moves to head back inside, but once again, Grian catches his arm.

“Tim’s got a lot of people protecting him,” he says in a low voice. “If you’re just messing around, you’d better leave him alone.”

Which doesn’t make any sense, Scott thinks as he heads back to his library-hospital bed. He doesn’t even know a Tim.

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