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babytarttdoodoo · 9 months

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in the end everything collides

((Winner of Whumptober Poll #2 | Day 6 | Made To Watch))

The whole evening had taken such a blindingly bizarre turn that even with the sound of fists meeting flesh and hysterical giggling filling his ears, Sam couldn’t process what he was seeing.

It had started out normally enough. He had been finishing some paperwork at Ola’s after closing, something he had been doing more and more of in the off-season to take at least a little pressure away from Simi.

He had been having fun, even, thanks to Jamie’s unrelenting commentary on anything and everything that popped into his head. His teammate had dropped in for a late dinner and hung around long after closing to keep Sam company when he learned of his plans.

The offer had been gratefully received and only curdled to regret when Edwin Akufo strode in like he owned the place.

His competing restaurant was not faring well, apparently, and that was obviously entirely Sam’s fault. How dare he have competent staff and a talented head chef?

Sam had sighed inwardly when Edwin’s security goons had spread out around the restaurant, gauging how much egotistical posturing and property damage he would likely have to put up with before being left alone again.

He hadn’t really considered what would happen if he fought back because he had no intention of doing so. Jamie, on the other hand, swung first.

Of course he did.

To his credit, he landed more than one solid hit before a bodyguard got hold of his arms and twisted them behind his back. Edwin had teetered between incredulity and rage for only a few moments before manic glee stole over his face.

It was not a good look on him.

“Let him go, Edwin, he doesn’t…” Sam barely started voicing his protests before he was grabbed too, held in place at the silent order of the billionaire, flicking a hand in Sam’s direction like he was an unimportant nuisance. Forgotten in the wake of this new entertainment.

“Ah, ah, what do we have here? Who are you to jump to Obisanya’s defence, hm? Another nobody with delusions of grandeur from kicking a ball?”

Jamie’s face screwed up to one side and Sam’s heart sank.

“Eh, ain’t nothing delusional about my ball-kicking, mate. Get a bit closer and I’ll show you.”

Edwin threw his head back and laughed, loudly. It was wildly out of place in the tense atmosphere and deeply unsettled something in Sam’s gut when he abruptly cut off.

“I do not think so, Obisanya’s friend. But Curtis here is more than happy to get up close and personal.”

‘Curtis’ was well over six feet tall and at least half as wide. Like all of Edwin’s cronies, he was dressed in a fine suit, though the addition of several bulky rings on his fingers seemed unique to him.

“Edwin, please,” Sam tried again, panic and desperation making his voice thin and reedy. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do not have to do anything,” Edwin crowed, rocking back on his heels, delighting in Sam’s obvious distress. “I choose to do this, just like you chose to so rudely turn down my very generous offer. And your friend here chose to interfere. These are consequences, Sam Obisanya. A lesson for you both to learn.”

Sam pulled helplessly on the arms holding him firmly in place as Curtis cracked his knuckles and advanced on Jamie. The footballer was waiting with a smirk and raised brow.

“Am I supposed to be scared, like?”

The first blow snapped his head to the side. Sam cried out as if it had been meant for him.

Jamie just laughed, licking blood from his lip as he casually straightened up again. “C’mon, put your back into it, lad.”

The second hit slammed into his jaw, sending his skull backwards with such force that the man holding him barely avoided a broken nose.

Jamie took slightly longer to recover, head lolling forward for a moment before he looked up with bloody teeth. “You wanna really swing your hips, mate. Get a bit more momentum.”

The next punch sank into his stomach, forcing a pained grunt out of his mouth along with any air he had in his lungs. He coughed, gasping, and started to laugh again.

“My old man hits harder than that and he can barely piss standing up half the time.”

Curtis glanced back at Edwin with a raised eyebrow, clearly unsettled by his lack of impact on Jamie’s confidence. If they were waiting for him to back down, Sam realised, they would be here all night.

That was not a pleasant thought.

“What are you looking at me for? He told you to hit harder!” Edwin pointed out, annoyed but also eying Jamie’s grinning, manic face warily.

Sam couldn’t say how long it went on for; Curtis continued hitting Jamie and Jamie just kept up a running commentary, getting more and more delirious as it ran on.

There was a horror to it. A numb, dreadful feeling in Sam’s chest as he shouted and pleaded himself hoarse but the violence didn’t stop.

Until it did.

All of a sudden, Edwin flicked his hand again, a deep frown on his face that Sam had no mind to be concerned about. Both he and Jamie were released unceremoniously and he was moving to catch his friend before any other thought had time to form.

Jamie slumped into him, knees given out, still mumbling obscenities and casting aspersions about Curtis’ mother.

Edwin observed them both, making no move to stop Sam from grabbing a nearby chair.

“Your friend is clearly disturbed. You should get him psychological help.”

Sam barely acknowledged him, too preoccupied with holding Jamie up to dignify that with a witty response. The billionaire straightened his jacket with a scoff and beckoned to his entourage.

As quickly as the intrusion had sent the night to absolute hell, they were left alone again. Or, almost alone.

“Francis, I am not in the mood right now,” Sam warned the hovering man when he didn’t seem to be moving on.

“That is fair.” The evening’s events had rocked him so deeply that Sam couldn’t even summon surprise at hearing the handshake aficionado's voice for the first time. “Mr Akufo is leaving the country tomorrow. He is closing his restaurant. This… It is unlikely we will meet again.”

Francis cleared his throat, looking awkwardly out of character from his usual cool, collected demeanour. Not a violent man, Sam realised.

“Goodbye then. You can let yourself out.”

He gave Sam a firm nod, Jamie a lingering look, and did so, leaving them in peace at last.

“Jamie, are you familiar with the concept of self-preservation? At all?” Sam asked urgently, trying to judge how unfocused his eyes were. “Why did you do that?”

“I’m the only one who gets to be a prick to you,” Jamie slurred, struggling to keep upright. “‘Sides, he really didn’t hit that hard.”

Sam was justified, he thought, in finally letting himself cry.

#whumptober2023 #no.6 #made to watch #ted lasso #fic #whump vote result #jamie tartt #sam obisanya #edwin akufo #my fic #fic: everything collides #cw violence

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whumpitisthen · 6 months

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A True Sacrifice

It's an exceptionally quiet day at the facility today. The corridors are empty, the guards are sparse and the cafeteria buzzes with a nervous anticipation.

The slop the staff have the gall to call food has never been quite this well received. While usually most of the captives find distracting each other with idle chatter more pleasant than chowing down on the watery stew, today no one even looks another in the eyes. Everyone is hunched over their own trays and concentrate on only that, whispering to their neighbouring chairs if they must. No one is absent.

He sits at the end of a mostly empty table, watching two women share worried looks, looking over their shoulders for danger. The guards stand at attention, a serious look on all their faces. The black armoured uniforms and powerful looking rifles, while not exactly unexpected to see, are certainly an upgrade to the batons and the lighter padded outfits they usually have on. They do not communicate with each other either, only murmur into their radios once in a while, keeping their concealed eyes trained on the inmates.

He had heard too, of course. He heard about what is meant to go down today.

He has learned to both love and despise things like this — uncommon things. On the one hand, every day is the exact same — same food, same chores, same tests, same abuse. Unpleasant and mind-numbingly boring; and so when something scary enough happens that even the guards don their full security gear, he finds a particular interest in the careful air that settles over them.

On the other hand, nothing good ever comes from disorder. Not when everyone is warned in advance for an upcoming 'event'. Not when nearly every doctor, assistant and low ranking security officer has left the building, and only the most highly trained special forces remain, locked in a room with all the prisoners. Not when the name of that creature is mentioned in the report.

There are many unexplainable phenomena that exist between these four walls. Some of them are harmless, simply illogical items that humanity does not understand just yet, and so they keep them here until they do. A lot of them are harmful, yet not fully understood, so they are kept for examination as well as safety concerning the rest of the world. There are even some creatures, some that seem friendly or non-violent at worst, but are nevertheless held here for the nature of their bodies or their abilities or whatever else the scientists deem them unfit to be let free for.

And then some of them are downright dangerous, evil beings. Ones who need to be kept locked up and closely monitored, because all they know is destruction. Ones that find their purpose in deliberately hurting humans or anything living. Efficient killers, chaotic entities, spirits of another time or even dimension who almost resemble humans, but are twisted in their minds, harming those they meet, even if hurting isn't their intention. Plagues, contained disasters, beasts, hypnotic objects, a hive mind. He has been lucky enough not to be sent to visit any of them so far. He has heard horror stories from some of the older, more experienced prisoners, and was allowed to read some of their files every once in a while by a doctor who seemed just as fascinated by these things as him. Just the thought of being in the vicinity of some of these subjects sends a violent chill down his spine.

Well, he has been lucky so far. Maybe he will remain lucky enough to avoid today's guest as well?

The lights flicker, and any idle noise that may have existed before then is sucked out of the air. Every captive is frozen stiff, hesitantly jerking their heads in all directions wide-eyed, looking for guidance. He, for one. chooses to lean on his elbows and hunch over, walking through a prayer in his head. He can feel it approaching.

He had read the note left on his wall over and over; a small, torn, yellowed piece of paper with dark spots and browning ink. Unsure of who could have left it there, he settled on it being a normal occurrence in this place, and that maybe one of the friendlier creatures decided to leave him with some advice. He hopes it's advice, anyway.

"It exists in laws set by your kind only as long as it remains entertained. It has been knocking on its door for a week, louder every day. Its observers are terrified!

Tomorrow, it will ask for more entertainment."

The lights flicker again, three times in a row, and now people are starting to panic. Everyone was told to stay still, quiet and calm — if they want to survive. Normal people would at least question that casual threat on their lives, but most prisoners here have already learned that if you are ordered to follow such strange rules that come from the researchers, there is most definitely a very good reason you were, and should do your best to do as they say. If they tell you you cannot, say, look inside an inconspicuous red book with a gash on its cover set on a pedestal in the middle of the cell it's placed in, you better not, because chances are, someone before you has, and whatever happened to them was bad enough to warrant a warning for those that follow. He, regrettably, has had first-hand experience with that one. The things he saw on those pages still haunt him to this day, mixing into vivid night terrors every time he closes his eyes. He hasn't disobeyed anyone since then.

Despite all that, warnings are truly useless when primal instincts take over. He can pick out a couple of people starting to break down in fear, who are promptly held close by other captives — not entirely out of worry for them, more so out of concern for the collective them. It's best to help out the weak link in case their own skins are on the line and they become collateral damage because of one idiot who couldn't just sit still like he was told.

The guard closest to him talks into his radio, and in the quiet, he can pick out that even the soldier's voice is shaking with nerves. He wonders if all these armoured, scary looking guys will even be able to do anything if shit hits the fan. This doesn't seem like the kind of experiment that can be fixed with some guns and ammo if it goes wrong. If it was, there would be hundreds of the guys and the doctors would at least be present in the vicinity. They must be here for another reason; maybe to observe what happens inside while the scientists are away.

One thing they were all told was that once the lights go out, it will enter the room, and that once it does, everyone is absolutely prohibited from moving or reacting to anything at all until the lights are back on. No exceptions. They were told to just squeeze their eyes shut, keep their lips sealed and bear it until it's over. If they can do that, nothing will happen to them.

Then they were told that one of them won't make it out.

That's when it all came together in his head. He knows exactly which creature will visit today. He knows why it's visiting and how horrible the consequences of being picked by it are. He knows exactly what that note meant.

This is a subject that cannot be contained. Not by humans, not by any specific material, not by any spell or limit or whatever else. It has no weakness to be exploited, nor does it have a special connection to anything that could be manipulated. It exists outside of the laws set for people in this world, including but not limited to the very laws of physics. The only reason it remains here and obeys the rules of the facility is because it is playful and conceited, and it fancies a bit of fun more than senseless, endless tyranny over this world. It likes messing with people, hurting them and distressing them greatly with its presence. It finds humans fascinating. It is confident they cannot do anything about its existence or actions, but it finds living without consequences far too boring and predictable. No fun at all.

So, it made a deal with humans. It would act in accordance with the rules set for it by humanity for as long as they can entertain it. It will remain in its cell, it will not hurt anyone, it will not cause problems on purpose, it will not show itself at all — remaining a shadow dwelling monster instead, making it so that as long as there is light, it cannot cause mischief. All that on the principle of playing a fair game, of course. This makes controlling it not only possible, but easy. Unless, of course, the rules of the game are not adhered to well enough. Or it decides to bend some rules or find loopholes. It would not be the first time.

The price? A sacrificial lamb. It will be provided with one human of its choice, who it will ‘play’ with as much as it wants. However, its definition of fun and play are very different from what one might expect — it wishes only to bring that person to the very brink over and over, stretching them thinner and breaking them down to tiny pieces that it can build into something different and observe. And then, once that human breaks one too many times from the constant relentless torture and bending of the mind — if they even manage to survive for that long, — it tears them apart and demands another one. It will leave its cell to look for a new toy from the collection of prisoners provided by its captors. The deal seemed miraculously beneficial at the time to everyone, and it probably still remains so to this day. After all, what's one dead human every once in a while in exchange for control over what some believe to be the devil himself?

The young man reminisces about the note. It said the beast has been banging on its door for a week, getting louder and louder each day. It must have been getting very impatient after having finally snuffed out another life and waiting to be sent someone new. He heard it’s always a surprise when it decides it has grown bored. Sometimes it only takes a few days for the sacrifice to be tortured to death, other times it keeps its playthings around for months, slowly consuming them on a level no one could ever understand but them and their tormentor. It meticulously morphs them into something they never wanted to be and forces them into a corner by repetition and pain. It leaves him nauseous, the thought of what the poor guy who is chosen will be made to go through. This is an anomaly; there is no telling if the first chosen will even make it out of this room.

Now, the lights in the hallway leading to the cafeteria dim, flickering erratically until they finally die out one by one. It's like watching it approach in real time, not by seeing its body walk, only the darkness that follows it grow. Not long before it reaches the double doors — locked to keep everyone inside in the event of panic taking over and chaos ensuing, — he makes the conscious decision to take a deep breath and relax as much as he possibly can. He lays his head on top of the table in front of him, forehead warming the metal surface. He then surrounds himself with his arms tightly, building a little tent of warmth and protection to hopefully block out any sound or sight that may distress him. Maybe he can just completely ignore everything around him. Maybe it will be over quicker than he thinks. Maybe it won't even look his way if he can make himself small and unassuming enough, just quickly snatches up someone else and leaves right after, returning to its cell forever and he will never see it again. It's possible. That's the best he can hope for.

His heart stutters in unison with everyone else's when the last light outside goes out with a droning buzz, concealing what must be eyes peering in through the windows at the top. In the deathly silence, three slow, innocent knocks ring loud against every eardrum.

It is here.

"May I come in?" — follows its intimidating voice soon after. A grin can be heard through its low, throaty timbre, twisted humour dripping from its tongue. It sounds like it finds the notion of obeying powerless creatures like humans amusing. Like someone pretending to be invested in playing house with their niece, struggling to keep a straight face as they play along in something so juvenile.

None of the guards react, while the captives only plant their hands firmer to their mouths. You'd have to be some special kind of stupidly arrogant to think anything you say will be taken seriously by this thing. He supposes if such arrogance exists, it would be found among the head professors here. They must think themselves deities to be fucking around with supernatural destructive entities like this one without fear.

To his surprise, the hesitant footsteps of the guard next to him reach his ears, fading towards the entrance. Are they actually going to open the door for it? A tremendous amount of concentration is required to squash any thoughts coalescing in his brain of making a run for it and slipping out through the door while it's unlocked. Even if he somehow miraculously got through it, what would it solve? He would get shot before he makes it that far, and if not, then he will be running right into the clutches of a monster. Nevertheless, his desperate mind tries convincing itself that there is a way out of this.

"Aw, really now... Is there no one willing to play with me? I'll behave, I promise," — it all but whines, but he can feel its impatience growing. He has never been more aware of the hairs on the back of his neck than now as they prickle and lift with the shiver that runs down his back. Maybe it is for the best that one of the security officers grew a pair and decided to join in on the game of pretend, if only so it will stop hauntingly musing and clawing at that damn door. — "Oh! Hello there, little one. Are you lost?"

The guard says nothing in response, completely ignoring its mockery. He hears the keycard sliding into its slot on the wall, unlocking the doors with a sharp electric shriek. With great hesitance, and an audible inhale, the soldier reaches for the horizontal bar to push down on and open up the way inside for the menacing thing, stepping off to the side in tandem with the swing of the door hinges.

As the door is pulled open, there is only a blink of massive, sharp claws latching onto it before the light bulbs inside the cafeteria explode at once, drowning everything in near complete darkness, leaving only the red hue of the emergency lighting painting the walls with bloody shadows. A small commotion breaks out, the dramatic change in surroundings managing to freak out a few people, causing a bit of a scene towards the leftmost corner from where he sits. Listening to others panic only serves to scare him more, but he manages to keep it all under his skin, trying to distract himself from his quickly rising heart rate by self soothing motions. Around and ‘round, over and over again his thumb travels the sleeve of his prison uniform. Slow circles. He concentrates on trying to do the most perfect circle he can on the smooth fabric.

The small panic is ignored by the creature for now in favour of focusing on the valiant effort from the guard who was brave enough to approach it. It must appreciate the gesture.

It breathes out a chuckle that barely sounds human at all. — "What a brave little soldier you are. Thank you for letting me in, Brandon. Lovely to see you again."

It knows the guard? As far as the prisoner knows, no one here wears name badges at all except for him and the other captives. It could be that he guards the creature's cell, and they have interacted before. Perhaps seen each other. However, that still does not explain how it could know his name when no one is allowed to talk to it.

"Tell me — is your wife still ill? Have you managed to scrape together enough money to save her yet?" — It coos at the armoured guard, enunciating each word to draw out the hurtful sentence. This seems like an incredibly intimate, serious conversation to be having right now. Something tells him that it's not that the two have been chatting away with each other when nobody's looking, more so that it just knows much more about the people residing here than it lets on. The way it phrased the question seems too mean-spirited and mocking to be genuine, and the sympathetic drawl it used was less than convincing.

"Now, what is that expression for? I'm merely curious." — The guard must gesture or nod in some way, because though he says nothing in response, the prisoner can hear the heavy, languid steps of the creature entering the cafeteria finally, huffing in dramatic annoyance. That grin does not leave its mouth. — "Alright, alright. Don't let me distract you from your very important job."

The doors close and the telltale buzzer of the lock sliding back into place seals the fate of each captive in the room.

For the first time since it got here, it finally acknowledges the presence of the crowd of people anticipating their possible deaths sitting in neat rows at long lines of tables. He can only hope no one is dumb enough to act out; there is no telling what it will do if it is displeased. — "Awe, just look at you all. Trembling in your boots, like newborn kittens."

As it stalks deeper into the room, he listens to Brandon move back to his position next to him. He catches the clicking of his armour sheets knocking into each other from his shivering, despite him standing completely still. Even through the mask it's obvious how hard he is trying to keep it together, taking long, deep breaths in order to keep calm. The captive wonders if it was an allotted job to open the door for the creature, or if he really just thought it best to play along with its games.

"No need to be so scared… After all, I'm the most harmless thing in this facility. Perfectly contained and controlled. Predictable!" — It bangs on one of the tables right after 'predictable', jerking everyone in the cafeteria terribly. It giggles to itself in delight. Despite the warning the prisoners received about not reacting to anything it does, it has yet to punish failure to follow rules. And truthfully, everyone flinched, including the security personnel surrounding the room. It pauses, glancing from prisoner head to prisoner head, then passes over the guards once, waiting a good few seconds before continuing. — "You are all so well-behaved — were you expecting me? Did you know I would come out to play today?"

The way it saunters through the room like it belongs anywhere near here is almost disorienting. Somehow he is the one who feels like he doesn't belong. And truly, he doesn't. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't in the wrong place at the wrong time on that fateful day. He wouldn't be here if that one guard didn't see him sneaking out of his cell a few weeks ago. He would be free, finishing up university and truly starting out his adult life. He wishes every day for a miracle, but he doesn't even know what kind of miracle would be able to save him. One that could destroy this whole damn building, let everyone who was kidnapped against their will free, while also trapping all the abnormal, dangerous curiosities and experiments it holds safely deep below the surface.

The next time the thing speaks, its voice comes from a radically different direction from where he heard its footsteps leading. — "I did warn them in advance... It can't be that I frightened them so much they ran off, can it? There is not another soul in this whole place but us, little lambs."

A sharp gasp and a sob, somewhere to his far right. There is the subtle whisper of the uniforms the captives wear, the noise it makes as it is twisted. It has someone. Has it grabbed them? He wants to see what's happening so bad, but he wants to stay alive more. He keeps his head down and his eyes shut. — "It's so nice of them to leave me such a lovely gift."

"No, please, please — "

"It's just unfortunate that they had wasted my time — and yet more unfortunate that they didn't even come to watch me some more, as they so like to do."

It must have made its choice. He prepares himself for the death wail and desperate pleading of the poor soul, expecting the monster to latch into them and drag them away back to its own cell soon. He tries to plug his ears and curl up as tight as possible, to somehow block out the terrible, traumatising event and be glad it wasn't him that was chosen. What a morbid, inhumane thought. The only thing more shameful than being happy for another's misfortune is the fact he feels absolutely no shame for thinking like that.

“Hmm… I was really looking forward to showing them this."

The screech of agony comes and grows in volume so quickly he barely has time to jam his fingers deeper into his ears before it ends. Abruptly. A sickening crunch and a splash of liquid hitting the linoleum floor, then silence. Deathly silence. No one dares to utter a word. What happened? Is it over? He certainly won't be the one to risk asking.

Long enough goes by for one of his fellow captives to ask instead of him, tears audible in her voice. He would be lying if he wasn't close to bawling as well. — "I-Is it over?" — comes the innocent whisper. When her voice isn't immediately answered with violence and death, he dares to open up his fingers just a little to look through the cracks. She would not have been able to even finish that sentence if it wasn't over, right?

He sees a massive shadow cross the room right in front of him, blocking out the red light beating down on his face for only a split second. It moved inhumanely fast. It was inhumanely tall. It also had at least three more pairs of long limbs than a human would, each ending in too many bladed fingers.

It's gone before he could even squeeze his eyes shut again, already out of sight. It moves rapidly and without a sound — a horrible chill freezes his body in place at the primal fear that takes hold of him. He prays it didn't catch him flinching so violently.

Right after he concludes that it is definitely not gone yet, it answers the question for her, —

"I am afraid I am not done just yet."

The same woman who spoke up now screams for her life, her desperate cry only overpowered by the creature's demented laughter as it tears her apart without as much as another word. All that remains is the latter half of her corpse, fallen to the ground with a dull, final thud. This is bad, this is very bad. It must have killed its first chosen as well, — is he just meant to sit there until his turn comes? Just hope that his shivering and gasping of terror won't be too loud for it to end him? How long is he meant to stay like this?

Its long, deep sigh is filled to the brim with contentment. — "You break so easily..."

A shot goes off then, deafening like the screeching, roaring guffaws it lets out as it bends to dodge the bullet, leaping away into a corner swiftly. It clicks its tongue, probably at the one who shot at it. Its voice drops to a low growl that resembles the purr of a carnivore. — "Aww, did I break a rule? Did I make the big, scary humans angry?"

More shots follow in rapid succession, exploding from all angles, more and more of the guards lifting their respective guns to join in. Now the captives are made to scream from the added stress, frightened not only by the creature's antics, but from the gunfire as well. Some almost hope to get shot rather than ripped in twain by it. If any bullets reach at all they do not hurt it, as the only reaction it gives is uncontrollable laughter and mockery.

Worst of all, he can't even tell who's still alive anymore. Between the bullets and the creature roaming the floor, there's no way nobody is caught in the crossfire. A stray bullet catches his shoulder, singing his skin on its way. He cries out, gripping at it, but luckily it is more busy jumping from prisoner to prisoner to use them as living shields than with punishing them for their understandable reactions one by one. Something sounds almost bitter in its voice as it speaks between the rain of bullets.

"You almost got me!"

A muffled cry and the sound of a heavy rifle hitting the floor.

"Go on, make me obey!"

Ripping of armour, of flesh.

"Show me how scary you can be!"

Something bangs on the table in front of him with a sickening crunch.

"Oh, you shot your own. How sad."

In the end, when the fire dies down and silence stretches between drips of blood, no one dares to say a word. Whoever is still alive has either passed out from injuries or overstimulation, or has receded so deep inside their own minds that they still twitch and quake at echoes of long gone fire. He feels closer to the latter, unable to even move an inch if he tried, ears ringing like a church bell.

The room now strongly smells of gunpowder and blood. Most of the soldiers are dead, only a couple hiding away in corners, injured or just terrified, and a single one standing stock still, hands clasped tightly around his gun. He can hear him gasping for air.

It wanders between the corpses as if it was skipping through a meadow of flowers. It seems just as peaceful too.

"Mmm..." — It stops somewhere in the middle of the room, cocking its head to the side. It coughs out a snicker. — "Now you seem disappointed in me."

It's talking to someone again, but who? He's sure he's the only one left conscious after all that. His toes curl with the thought that it is talking to him.

"Oh, could it be?" — It sounds giddy, growing louder, condescending. It stretches every syllable threateningly, playful. His guts tie themselves in knots at its awful tone. — "I can hear you, Doctor! Brandon, you didn't tell me you had her on the line!"

If he concentrates, he can just barely pick out the tiny voice yelling orders at Brandon from his radio. He is obviously not following them, clutching that heavy piece of metal in his hands like his last lifeline, hugging it close instead of defending himself with it. He does not move, but the creature doesn't mind walking closer to him instead, kicking corpses out of the way nonchalantly. — "She has caught it all, has she? Doctorrrr, why didn't you show up today? I was looking forward to seeing you."

It is coming closer again, closer to Brandon most likely. He wonders just what in the actual hell this guy did to have made friends with something like it. One wrong move is enough for it to tear out your throat, and yet it treats him like a dear friend compared to everyone else. The tip of his rifle still burns from all the lead he shot its way prior to it killing off most of his colleagues.

The radio has become suspiciously quiet.

"You left me this delicious gift, but didn't even come to see me? Brandon, tell her to come visit me!" — It is right next to him, talking to Brandon — it's just his luck that he managed to sit next to the murder demon's only buddy.

Brandon says nothing. It's voice darkens then, purring out these words, — "I truly would have loved to see you today, doctor. It's a shame you weren't here. I would have been more than happy to let you join in on the fun. I would have loved to show you the consequences of your carelessness in person."

The radio sparks to life again, her voice coming hurriedly, — yelling at Brandon to shoot it now now now — but not much more makes it out before it grips the black box and tears it off of the guard, whispering right into it to make sure the one on the other side listens well, — “Next time you need someone to test your new toys out on, make sure they actually work before you piss me off. See you on Monday, love.”

Whichever scientist it is talking to starts yelling again, voice distorting with the steadily increasing pressure it uses to crush the small device in its hand. The last dying static that makes it out of the speaker is snuffed out viciously, causing both other men to flinch when it shoves the thing into the wall right next to Brandon's head, shattering it to pieces and letting the plastic shards fall to the blood covered floor. It's silent once again.

So the fuckers were watching. Of course they were, nothing happens in this godforsaken place without their knowledge. However, what the demon meant was clear — the scientists have displeased it by making it wait despite their agreement, angered it when they didn't even come in to witness its retribution in person out of cowardice — proving they knew fully well they had messed up — and then made it furious when they opened fire as soon as it began doling out more pain than they thought it should. All that, banking on these new weapons being sufficient enough to stop it. It’s all clear to him now — it decided to hold this horrifying spectacle as a punishment and as a warning in response to the arrogance that had let the researchers slip up and forget their place. Now, of course, the ones paying for it are people like him, with no control over the situation, not people like that doctor watching from a safe distance from what must be another lab, or even her own home, free of all consequences for her rash actions.

Well, free for now. He doubts it will forget her disrespect come Monday. If he was in her place, he would quit and never return.

"What do you think, my darling Brandon? Shall I make the message more prominent?" — Its spine creaks like a firecracker. He imagines the massive thing hovering over the cornered soldier with a scary grin, daring him to shoot it so it can make him regret he was ever born in the blink of an eye. The last bastion of this toy castle, standing between a wall and a creature that could tear down this entire building, if only it wanted to.

No shots are fired, no screams are heard. A loud metallic bang on the floor — Brandon dropping his weapon. The creature hums a pleasant sound after nearly a minute of unsettling eye-contact and only the sound of their own breathing, finally snickering and backing off of the terrified guard. It seems satisfied. — “Atta boy. I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Brandon’s quivering lips part behind the mask of his helmet, letting past a shaky exhale. He pushes himself back further, searching for balance on the wall behind him with his knees feeling like they could buckle at any moment. Though he is a special case, he is far from immune to the vicious whims of the horrific creature.

The monster begins wandering the room once again, surveying the darkness for prisoners that may still be alive. Its demeanour has changed, though; it seems much more irritable, less playful. It is no longer hiding its heavy footsteps, and it no longer taunts and mocks neither Brandon, nor anyone else. He doesn't know if the change is a good or a bad thing. He's only glad it hadn't noticed him yet.

It finds a possible candidate for itself but kills them off in the same moment when said candidate jumps to their feet in a blind panic and tries to run from it. It sends an arm through their abdomen, lifting them up towards the ceiling and tossing them into a wall, no doubt shattering their spine and killing them. The way it kills does not become any less terrifying, no matter how many times he has to listen to bones crack and flesh rip. It sighs, moving on. — “Disappointing. Awfully disappointing.”

Another life snuffed out not a minute later — it's almost dismissive with how carelessly it sends bodies flying through the air like puppets. No one seems to be able to satisfy it. It’s like it has lost interest in playing along. That isn't exactly surprising, if he thinks about it. If he was such an all-powerful, menacing beast with no kryptonite, and his fun was ruined by the people he had made a deal with out of boredom, he probably wouldn't stick to the rules either, but ignore them and look for other ways to amuse himself.

However, stuck with his thoughts as he is, the only thing he could truly concentrate on is one question: what if no one will be chosen by it today? It can surely just break out of here and look for more meat, if not just completely abandon the agreement and go on a merciless hunting spree. That would be disastrous, maybe irreversible. He can only hope that if he is killed today, unable to please it, it will at least find the motherfucker who kidnapped him and kill them too. All of them.

Bodies that still have a soul in them are scarce. The mental fortitude he needs to stay so still and quiet as he listens to it smashing someone's skull into a wall just a couple tables over has become even scarcer. He's going to die here. He will. It doesn't want a prisoner like him, it just wants to destroy. No rules tie it down until the doctors repent, and to repent they might have to give their lives. It's just going to kill off each leftover prisoner one by one; probably Brandon too once it runs out of defenceless captives.

“Is this it? This is what I was made to wait for?” — It comes up behind another man and doesn't even wait for him to react, snapping his neck in one quick motion. — “What a waste of my time. This is getting more and more boring, Brandon, and you know how I get when I'm bored.”

As if demonstrating, it snaps the arm of a person lying on the ground, already injured from a gunshot just to hear them wail. Once it heard enough, it tears off the whole limb, and moves onto the next one, not letting up until their body finally gives out. The prisoner can't see any of it, but he can more than sufficiently imagine it from the horrid sounds.

He can hear frustration clear as day in its otherwise emotionless voice. This is the end. It's only a matter of time before it finds him. At least he won't be taken by it, tortured for god knows how long; and he takes solace in that. His death will be brutal, but quick. Maybe he should just get its attention and be done with it.

He considers it, but his train of thought is swiftly interrupted. — “May I make a suggestion?”

It's a timid, yet loud, hesitant voice muffled by a padded helmet. No one but silence answers it. The beast stops in its tracks, pausing for just a moment. He cannot believe he heard that right. The first thing he feels is bitterness, for he really will be left all alone when the creature eliminates this suicidal soldier before him.

“Brandonnn…” — it sings at him, a vile, dangerous melody crawling with unsaid intentions. However, to his surprise, it doesn't instantly leap across the floor to tackle the guard and behead him for breaking a rule. Instead, its eyes find Brandon, humming to him from what sounds to be across the room. It brings small relief to hear that smile having returned to its face. If nothing else, at least it's interested again. — “You are being very brave today. You aren't supposed to speak to me, don't you know? It's very dangerous.”

It purrs at him knowingly, but doesn't pounce on him. Not yet. What could Brandon's plan be? Distraction? Self-sacrifice? Maybe the monster whisperer can find a way to calm it down after all. He holds his breath, praying that whatever the guard is about to do doesn't end in more carnage.

“Well, seeing as, uh, we're all breaking the rules, I thought I'd, I'd join in.” — It's unusual to hear a prison guard so nervous; usually they sound either bored and emotionless, or antagonistic as they drag captives off to help out with deadly experiments that are too dangerous for more important people to take part in. It's hard to feel righteous joy at listening to one of the people who routinely treats all like him as less than human finally being on the receiving end of the cruelty of a subject like this when he may be next; but he can't say it's impossible. Every stutter makes both men more anxious, and the monster more intrigued.

The creature starts walking towards him at a languid pace. The guard tenses. — “You just can't help playing with fire.” — He can almost hear Brandon's heart pounding from where he cowers. The silence is deafening. — “And what may your suggestion be?”

He hesitates to answer. It’s approaching him, now closing in on him much too quick to think clearly. Like a timer, counting down with each step towards his death. Like convincing the Grim Reaper to grant him more time.

As it steps up to him, towering over the man in a terribly intimidating fashion, he forces himself to answer it in the smallest, most strained little voice he has ever heard from a guard, — “I think you would like this one.”

The confusion is quickly overridden by terror. It can't be. Brandon can't do this to him. It's not hard to imagine what the offering could be, but he still tries to come up with a different answer. Breathing becomes a challenge. The creature's curiosity has been peaked, however. It looks towards where Brandon points with a questioning hum.

The prisoner can feel its gaze landing on him. Its voice travels towards him while it addresses the guard.

“I am very curious why you think I would.”

For a moment, hope reappears in his heart. He at the very least managed to put it in a better mood and distracted it, but that is not enough to save anyone, especially not him, now that he drew attention to him like this. Everyone is still just as stuck, but maybe a miracle could happen, and he manages to convince it to go after someone else — the doctor, for example. Whichever one pissed it off so bad.

Brandon swallows thick as he thinks of the right words to say next. The longer he talks, the more his hope of ever getting out of this in one piece diminishes. — “He, he has been behaving perfectly this whole time. He has been quiet, and still, and, and I know you like the ones that, uh… that are easy on the eyes, as well as obedient.”

The creature is laser focused on every word he says, equal parts amusement and something darker lurking beneath. — “I must say, it is nice to hear your voice. A welcome change. Keep talking for me. Convince me.”

It turns away from Brandon to scrutinise the captive’s quivering body instead, burning holes into the top of his head. Though he cannot see what's going on, he can hear it very well, and when it starts walking over to him, he gags on a sob and his breaths become irregular.

“Right, uhh — I've seen him around a lot. He's new, but he's never really been a troublemaker. He, uh, seems smart, a bookworm. A loner. I heard he was a top student at a nearby academy before he was brought here. I always see him reading reports and docs. I'm sure he's read yours too. Maybe he could be… interesting, to play with. Right?” — This was humiliating, dehumanising and evil. With every word it became harder to stay still, yet easier to lose himself in despair. Brandon is basically killing him in the most roundabout, terrifying way. It seems to be considering this option, thinking it over. — “Come on, what else… And, uhh, I spoke to him once. I think you'd like his voice, he's got this soft, light way of speaking. Maybe it sounds good as he… screams. You know? He cries easily too. I've heard from one of the others that he's a crybaby. He isn't used to pain. His life was pretty easy as far as I know, so he bruises easily. I think he, uhh, he could… entertain you for a little bit?”

“Mmm. Is that so…” — It's behind him, it's right behind him, what is he meant to do? He no longer supports Brandon's idea, and he downright despises it once the demon starts touching him. He feels its long fingers wrap around his shoulder, teasing at his neck. It purrs as it listens to Brandon, clearly delighted by some of the things he says about him in this awful, uncomfortable, much too personal rant. — “Oh, that does sound very enticing. And he is indeed very well behaved. I barely noticed him at all.”

As it leans over him to observe from up close, he gives up entirely on trying to survive, jerking away from those awful, dangerous claws with a whimper; to the delight of the monster. He doesn't want to be chosen, he really doesn't, he can't do this, he can't — but he can't even force a single plea out of his throat. He is frozen solid, yet pliable in its embrace as it circles him, inspects him, smells him. Possibly worst of all, he can't even bring himself to be angry with Brandon. He probably would have tried something similar in his place. However painful it feels to be betrayed by someone who seemed to be on his side, it is still for the greater good to sacrifice one for the lives of many. He just never expected to be sacrificed himself. He assumed there must be another from the hundred other prisoners next to him that would be a better choice, and found crucial comfort in that.

He tries to avoid looking at it as it pulls and nags at him. Its frigid claws freeze his lungs and burn his skin. This fear is unlike anything he has ever felt before. Debilitating, primal, fit for a prey animal in the clutches of a predator. It makes alien sounds that resemble giddiness, digging through his hair eagerly, grabbing onto a stray lock and jerking it hard enough to wrench his head to the side, keeping him bent like that. Its words chill him to the bone as it murmurs into his ear. — “You lasted so, so long, little lamb. If only your shepherd dog could have scared off the wolf on his own, huh? His owner is not here to help, and he is too cowardly to give up his life to save yours. How sad.”

It does not sound sad whatsoever; it sounds wicked and excited. It completely suffocates him with all those limbs, feeling every part of him. He has never felt so many hands on him at once. It's awful, he can't even fight off any of them before they have him by the wrists and ankles and waist and neck and chest and he is completely defenceless against all of it. He feels himself being lifted into the air and there are even more hands touching him, coming to caress his face and knot his hair, and when he opens his mouth to scream a desperate wail of helplessness, fingers enter his mouth to push on his tongue and explore his molars.

Brandon has gone quiet, averting his eyes and trying his best to ignore what he has done. It's for the greater good, that's all that matters. And he might keep his job after all, despite his failure to follow orders from his boss. If he returns in one piece and with a successfully tamed monster back in its cell chewing on its newest victim, perhaps he will be excused for it.

When it finally seems satisfied, it simply drops him, uncaring of the height he was held at. He lands painfully on his front, scraping his chin off the floor. He tries to clamber away immediately, blindly backing away from it, but those hands return sooner than expected, gripping him by the neck to keep him in place.

It forces him to look in its eyes. It has awful, terrifying, coal black orbs that pierce him right through. Whatever it is looking for in his teary expression, it finds it, because it grins with sharp teeth and takes hold of one of his wrists again, dragging him along with itself. It walks right past Brandon, tearing the doors open with no issue. It pauses in the doorway, turning to the guard once more.

“Thank you for helping me choose, my dear Brandon. I hope to see you again soon,” — it says, waving him goodbye. It wastes no time to return to its cell, a newly reignited curiosity pulling it towards the corridor. Brandon succeeded in exciting it. Ideas of torment materialise in its head already as it listens to the poor prisoner sob, pulling at the fingers gripping him tight.

In a moment they are both gone. The lights brighten, the danger is gone. The few people who survived this encounter are saved. Brandon escorts them back to their cells, one by one, taking the time to let quiet tears fall as he shuffles through the sea of dead. He does not have the peace of mind to write a report nor to notify anyone about it being over for another couple hours. And in reality, it isn't over. It never is. The prisoner will die sooner or later, and then he will have to do this again and again and again. He will have to live with his choices, and if it comes down to it, he will have to make the same decision again.

The next day, as he stands outside the cell door, listening to the unending wailing and begging coming from behind the solid steel, he will have to convince himself that this is better. That he made the right choice. He will cry and apologise over and over again to the locked metal gate.

And it will be listening to him, satisfied with its one true victim's pain.

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

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quietlyimplode · 9 months

Text

the language of flowers and silent things

Whumptober 2023: Day 6 - made to watch

Warnings: violence/physical abuse

Word Count: 1.8k (image not mine)

Summary: Clint and Barney get separated

A/N: <3

Masterlist

Whumptober Masterlist

1999

IOWA

“You can make this easier on yourself,” the detective tells him.

“They’ve sold you down the river, son, left you for dead.”

He leaves the pile of papers in front of Clint, the pictures making him look up and away.

“I don’t think it was you that did that,” he says kindly, “but I can’t help you if you don’t tell us anything.”

Clint looks away.

“You think about it, and I’ll leave these pictures here, okay?”

The detective leaves.

The dead man in the picture is familiar to Clint, having bashed his face in three nights before.

He pushes it away and closes his eyes, trying to remember.

After he punched him, he was sure he was still alive.

He wasn’t the only one after him, the criminal underworld also searching for Degraves. He knows he didn’t… stab him.

But he knows who would have.

The decision becomes whether he tells them or not.

The cold metal of the handcuffs does not feel pleasant against his skin, and he just wants to get back to the circus, find Barney and tell him about Degraves’ death.

He needs to make sure he’s safe.

He supposes he could give them some information, and there’s no harm in telling a portion.

Especially if it gets him out.

There’s no harm in that, right?

“I didn’t kill him,” he says again to the camera, “but I might know who did.”

It’s not immediate, but eventually the door opens.

The detective stalks back in and stares at him.

“Tell me what you know,” he says.

Clint sits back.

“The carnival, we sell magic tricks,” he starts.

“Magic.”

The man is disbelieving.

Clint’s hands are suddenly free of the handcuffs and he raises them up.

“Magic,” he laughs.

The detective startles, and slams Clint’s hands back into the cuffs.

“How did you do that?”

Clint laughs again.

“Magic.”

Now safely back, the detective growls for Clint to continue.

“It’s mostly low level things, but sometimes we get asked to carry somethings.”

Nervously, wondering just how much to expose, Clint sighs.

“Sometimes, they’re not so forthcoming in what they they have us carry.”

Sitting heavily, the detective motions for Clint to continue.

“Degraves hurt my brother,” he discloses, looking down. “Barney just wanted to know what was in the packages, he wasn’t expecting videos of girls.”

The detective asks Clint to stop.

He leaves the room and comes back with an older man. His demeanor seems stranger, older even though likely they’re the same age.

Clint frowns.

“Jus’ let me go, man. I don’t really know anything.”

Sitting down on the spare chair, the man in a trench-coat crosses his legs.

“He hurt my brother, so I punched him a couple of times, but I didn’t kill him. I think that it was people that he had the videos for. Cause Barney destroyed it, you see?”

Clint omits the rest.

The money Barney had hidden, the thousands of dollars that he’d found. He hopes Barney is at their rendezvous, predetermined locations for safety.

If he’s not, maybe he’s at the circus still.

Clint can feel the slow creep of change coming and it feels harrowing to think of.

All those foster homes.

Then came back Gus, with his safety and the circus.

The Swordsman and all his training.

And now this.

“They say you can’t miss,” the man in the corner comments.

Clint doesn’t like his words, the implication that comes with it.

That he knows him, that he knows of him.

It doesn’t feel right.

“I didn’t shoot him,” he repeats.

“I didn’t say you did,” the man retorts, “but I think you have a certain set of skills.”

Clint shrugs.

“I’m good with a bow and arrow,” he replies.

“And a gun?” the man asks.

“I don’t know? I didn’t kill him, okay? Whatever you’re implying, I didn’t kill him.”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m just wondering what you can do.”

“I just want to go,” Clint mutters.

The man stands.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Clint and the Detective say in unison.

“I don’t think you killed him,” he starts, then turns to the detective.

“And you know he didn’t, so let him go. Follow the big money, and I’m sure you’ll get the real killer.”

His words are cryptic and Clint doesn’t understand.

“I have a job for you, Clint Barton, should you want one.”

He smirks.

“Do the handcuff trick again,” he requests, and out of spite for the detective he does.

The man’s laugh is a gaffaw. Loud and exuberant.

He hands Clint a business card, with the word SHIELD emblazoned on it.

“You’d need some training, but I think you’re someone we might need.”

Clint makes the card disappear; rolling his eyes.

The man laughs again.

“Magic, never have to look far to find it huh?”

He leaves with an exit, and Clint looks expectantly at the door.

“Can I go?” He asks the detective, and the man shrugs.

“Unless you have anything else to say?”

Clint shrugs back.

“Then you can go, but know we will be watching you.”

Barney greets him at the base of the steps.

“We need to leave,” he tells Clint, his words rapid and low.

He’s sweating and Clint doesn’t understand.

“Where?” Clint asks, hurrying alongside him.

He knows they need to, he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand, the anticipation that something will happen imminent.

“Do you have your stuff in a go-bag?”

Clint shakes his head.

“No?”

Barney sighs heavily.

“What do you need?”

Clint tries to keep up, Barney’s quick walk back to the campsite too fast.

“Why? What did you do?”

Barney glances back, eyes darting and fear passes over his face.

“Barney, what did you do?”

They reach their caravan and Barney tells him to pack, Clint does so haphazardly, his heart sinking as he realises what packing means.

“Barney, what did you do?”

He glances back.

“Did you kill Degraves?”

Barney shakes his head.

“No.”

He glances around, fear in his movements.

“They know, yeah? They know we took the money, and I…” he pauses.

“Swordsman said to give it back, I said I didn’t have it, we got into a fight, and he said I had to leave.”

Clint turns around.

Swordsman isn’t good but he’s kept them both alive.

“Why didn’t you just give him the money? What’s the big deal?”

Barney motions for him to keep going.

“You don’t understand, little brother, we need the money, better in our pockets than theirs. It’s blood money, they are doing some bad things here. I didn’t understand before, but I do now,” he mutters.

Clint doesn’t.

Swordsman fed them, trained them, given them jobs, then when he’d taught Clint how to shoot they became a part of the circus.

A part of something.

Blood money didn’t matter.

All circus money was built on lies and trickery.

Barney knew that.

This was all they had.

Clint’s heart drops.

He doesn’t want to go.

This is the only home that wanted him.

“You’re jealous,” he accuses.

Barney hadn’t really fit in, not really, maybe that was it.

Clint had seen how his stocky frame had not lent itself acrobatics or anything athletic. Barney had been able to do all the behind the scenes, sets and hard labour.

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

Angry tears prick at Clint’s face as Barney looks at him dangerously.

“Pack up,” Barney challenges, angrily, “or stay here. I need to go.”

The door flies open and Swordsman stands at the hilt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he bellows at Clint.

Staring at Barney, Swordsman stands up straighter, there’s two more of the crew behind him and pushes Barney out of the small caravan door.

“Give us the money and you can stay,” he growls softy.

“Otherwise, you’re out.”

He turns to Clint, “do you know anything about it?”

Barney stops fighting.

He looks at Clint and sees his hesitation.

It seems in that moment that he understands Clint’s hesitance, his tears and all his fears at once.

That this is the only place Clint fits, that they’ve stayed the longest, and been happy.

Despite everything, Barney understands.

But he can’t stay.

He has enough money to start again.

Clint is old enough to take care of himself.

He nods.

He puts three fingers up for the sign of love high enough for Clint to see, clenches it into a fist, then throws the first punch.

Swordsman rolls with it and throws the next one.

Clint scrambles only to be held back by two crewmen.

“No!” he shouts.

The fight is one sided, Swordsman’s strength and agility far outweighing Barney’s solidity. He dances around him, picking him off.

“No!” Clint yells again.

“Let me go! Stop!” he shouts.

He struggles hard against the two as Swordsman floors Barney with a right hook and an uppercut.

“Barney!”

Clint’s sweating, almost in tears as Barney is beaten, kicked to the ground.

“Leave,” Swordsman growls at Barney. “Leave now, before we start on your brother.”

Barney stands, shaky legs holding him as his swollen face looks to where Clint is restrained.

“What did you do?” Clint sobs, “why would you do it? Just give them the money.”

Clint knows that he can’t stay here, not now, not after this.

The grief at having to move on makes tears fall harder.

“What did you do?” he sobs at Barney’s retreating form, as he stumbles away, Swordsman pulling his gun and shooting into the air.

They let him go and he falls to the ground, spent from fighting and pushing back.

“Why?” he asks Swordsman.

The man turns to him.

“Nobody steals from us.”

He holds his sword out, the gun sitting on top of it.

“You have a choice now, Barton. Stay or go. If you stay, you’re part of it, protected by us. If you go, you have a day to get your affairs in order. But this will be as far as we go.”

The threat of the sword and the visceral memory of his brother being beaten in front of him, decides for him.

He needs to find Barney.

Clint knows the only thing he needs are his bow and arrow, and his watch. The possessions he owns minimal.

Scrambling away, he runs after his brother in the direction he went, losing him in the darkness.

Hours it takes him to return back to the circus to pack his bag.

He wants to call Gus. Tell him what’s happened but he has no way of contacting him.

Clint sucks down the grief.

His brother gone, his makeshift family gone, and any hope he had, all reduced to rubble.

Backpack full, he takes one last look at the circus and walks away.

#whumptober2023 #no.6 #made to watch #violence #clint barton #Barney barton #hawkeye #Clint barton fic #hawkeye fic #marvel fic #my fic #clintasha fanfic #whump fic

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