#tinyduckies goretober 2024

[roachsideblog]

GORETOBER DAY 7: INSOMNIA

Hiiiiii I'm back with another drabble <3 I'll probably post these on Ao3 once I write them all. If you're wondering where day 6 is, it's on my nsft alt @sideroachblog here (no minors or I'll put razorblades in the halloween candy i hand out this year)

Thanks to @nonsenseafterdark for writing the prompt list <3

Words: 364

TWs: forced drug use, LSD, torture, panic attacks, bad trips

Summary: Makarov has fantastic method for sleep deprivation. No ships/romantic pairings.

~~~

“Can’t sleep, Sanderson?” Makarov asked.

The enemy sergeant sat chained in the corner of a prison cell, hugging his knees like a child hiding from the boogeyman. Considering the amount of LSD they pumped him with, it isn’t unlikely that that’s what the man thought was going on. Makarov zoomed the outdated camcorder in on his petrified expression and laughed. Sweat and tears poured down his cheeks as he whispered, ‘no, no. Please. Please, no. Please,’ on repeat.

Lysergic acid diethylamide. A psychoactive drug that intensifies one’s senses and thoughts. At high enough doses, auditory and visual hallucinations occur. Each time  Makarov forced a tab in Sanderson’s mouth it caused another eight-hour trip at the very least. Was it possible to enjoy the high? Maybe. But the fate of a trip hinged on one's mental state, and the sergeant was already run ragged from previous torture. He was dehydrated. Hungry. Beaten. Lonely after a week of solitary confinement.

Makarov didn’t want to kill him, but was far from done playing with his toys. Luckily, LSD is relatively physically safe. It’s damage lies in psychosis. However, Makarov’s favorite side effect, was the insomnia. LSD didn’t afflict all his prisoners with an inability to sleep, but it had Sanderson in a chokehold.

The poor thing shook like an animal, sweated like a pig until his hair was soaked, sucked in shallow breaths at a rapid pace. His pupils dilated and his eyes were open as far as they could go despite obvious exhaustion. Makarov could practically hear his heart beating out of his chest. This was Sanderson’s third dose in a row; nearing fifty hours awake in total (yes, the upper end of a trip length nears twenty hours). Makarov would be kind and give him a break after he came down from this trip. Eat, drink, and sleep in order to do it all again the next day. If only it didn’t build a tolerance so quickly and Makarov could keep this type of torture running long-term.

He couldn’t wait to get this video to that bastard MacTavish. To show what became of his pet project. If only Makarov could see in Roach’s head and record what horrors put him in such a state—he’d be the happiest man alive.

[roachsideblog]

Goretober Day 14: Technically Freezing/Hypothermia as per the prompt list by @nonsenseafterdark I did headwound.

Blacklist tinyduckies goretober 2024 and tinyduckies kinktober 2024 if you're sick of me, y'all <3

Words: 348

TWs: Facial trauma, graphic descriptions of wounds, gore

~~~

Freezing wind created by Nikolai’s chopper forced leafless trees and brush away from the landing zone. Powdery snow shot into the air providing minimal cover. In the center, Ghost stared down numbly at the flag of Japan.

“Move, move!” Soap yelled.

He checked the connection of his rappel, dropped the rope ladder, then slid down, barely registering the bullets whizzing by as Roach’s sprawled body grew closer, cherry red blood centered around his head. Landing in knee-deep snow, Ghost rushed over and checked for bullet wounds.

He need not search for long. A shotgun wound decimated Roach’s jaw. The entire right side of his face, honestly, reduced to ground beef. It was ripped up as if a pitbull got him. Mandible completely disconnected on that side, it dangled from the left at a nauseating angle. His tongue lolled out as Ghost sat him up. His helmet strap ripped, buckle falling to the left. The eye that wasn’t swollen shut opened, rolling from the back of his head to look at the Lieutenant.

“Up, kid! Get up!”

Roach tried and failed, barely moving before he made a pained noise that seared itself into Ghost’s ears. A gurgling howl followed by wet coughs that splattered blood over Ghost’s tac vest like the buckshot that caused his wound.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I've got you, Roach. I’ll get you outta this.”

He pulled the man up and clipped his loose body to the ladder. Roach voiced his pain as Ghost lifted him onto the second to last rung. Ghost placed his hands on the sides then stood on the rung below, holding him in place. A bullet impacted his backplate.

“Ready, Nikolai, get the hell out if here!”

The blades whirred as they lifted higher into the air, ladder swinging violently, blood and drool dripping from Roach onto the snow below like swipes of a paintbrush. Gaz and Soap began hoisting them up. The man leaned back against Ghost’s chest, head limp on his shoulder, his good side gazing up in absolute terror. From this angle it was as if nothing happened.

[roachsideblog]

COD GORETOBER DAY 10! Woo, still only a day late.

Blacklist tinyduckies goretober 2024 and tinyduckies kinktober 2024 if youre sick of this <3

Prompt: Surgery (thanks, @nonsenseafterdark !)

Words: ~1k

TWs: Insects, gore, body horror, medical horror, burns, torture, blood, insect/animal death, being drugged, gangrene, decay, emetophobia/vomit. No human death though. But maybe that makes this worse <3

Summary: Makarov tried playing surgeon and kidnapped Captain Soap to show off his results.

Shit's fucked up. I'm not kidding. Dead Dove, babes.

~~~

Smoke from the blast obscured Soap’s vision as he climbed through the hole he just made in a cinderblock wall. Makarov’s base of operations—the heart of everything they’d been fighting for so long, the final barrier between him and avenging two of his best men. It was quiet compared to the facility’s perimeter lined with guard towers but he dare not think too hard about the ‘Q’ word. He steeled himself, crouching below the black sooty clouds, smelling thermite even through his filtered mask. A faint buzzing sound emanated from down the hall.

Lt. Simon Riley and Sgt. Gary Sanderson. Ghost and Roach. Shot dead by General Shepherd, their bodies burnt to a crisp. All they wanted was to defeat Makarov. To ensure weapons of mass destruction never made it into nefarious hands.

He crept along the concrete floor. The buzzing grew louder. There was nothing. No one. Not until a staircase appeared, leading down into a dark room. Descending, the air was stagnant and sickeningly sweet with the smell of decay growing stronger and stronger with every step until Soap’s eyes watered.

Through the threshold. He checked his six and—

A sharp pain pierced his upper arm. A goddamn blow dart hung from his flesh by its needle as if he were a wild animal. His heartrate began to slow immediately, dizziness taking hold.

Footsteps.

Soap jerked up, saw Makarov emerge from the abyss ahead, then collapsed before managing to fire a single round.

…

He woke tied to a metal chair. The buzzing was louder than any explosion. It was deafening in the tiny, dark room. The walls, floors, and ceiling were painted black.

A corpse fly landed on Soap’s nose. He shook it off, only to startle thousands more into the air.

Only upon further inspection did Soap realize all the dark surfaces were actually coated in insects that wriggled like ferrofluid.

The walls were light gray concrete.

He gagged, mask nowhere to be seen. The stench of death was unbearable but if he breathed through his mouth the flies sensed its moisture and flew in. Breathe through his nose and the smell brought tears to his eyes that the nasty things landed on his cheeks to lap up. He scrunched his eyes, forcing air out of his nostrils to keep curious corpse flies out.

A floodlight turned on and they all went mad, nearly blotting out its intense light. They rammed into its glass case, shoved themselves inside to fry on its bulbs.

“Captain MacTavish!” called a familiar Russian accent. Makarov. He had to yell over the roar of wings. Lucky bastard had a hazmat suit with a face shield as he appeared from the glare of the light, every footfall crushing flies.

Soap couldn’t reply lest a fly crawl down his throat carrying remnants of whatever attracted them here. Rage filled his veins.

“You've been such a pain in my ass. A pest, if you will.” He laughed and gestured around. “Seems you fit right in. Tell me, why are you here?”

Soap’s nostrils flared.

“Yeah, yeah. To put a bullet in my brain. I know. Show some introspection skills. Because I think you’re here for the same reason all these fucking bugs are,” he spat, grinding his toe on the floor. Flies fled but it was too crowded; an unlucky handful were mashed into paste. “You’re confused, I bet. Don’t worry. All will be revealed.”

With Soap silenced by disgust, Makarov disappeared again, though not for long. He came back holding a rope that disappeared behind the light. He stopped walking when it grew tight. Faintly, Soap could hear someone shambling. Something dragging. The rope went slack and Makarov yanked it tight again, causing whoever was on the other end to stumble forward and pick up the pace. Their movements grew louder. The humid, rotten smell got thicker. Ragged wheezes could be heard, as if their lungs didn’t inflate fully. They groaned in pain.

Flies cleared the area near Soap and raced for Makarov’s victim. He gulped hard, on the edge of his seat wondering what the fuck was about to reveal itself.

Suddenly, a massive frame blocked the floodlight.

A wide set of shoulders. A torso about two men across. Yet the person was average height, if a little tall. Makarov leaned on Soap’s shoulder and yanked them closer. The silhouette became clear. It had three legs. Two heads.

Ghost and Roach shambled into the light. They were sewn together with thick leather thread, sutures not quite healing as their burned skin remained in active decay. About half their flesh remained pink and red, the other half varying shades of blue bruises, pale bloodless patches, and green gangrenous bits. Veins bulged. Roach was missing his right arm, leg, and that side of his face. Ghost’s legs did the walking, the right and middle two, while Roach’s left leg dragged limp on the ground as if his ankle weren’t fully attached.

Soap gasped at the horrific sight, coughing up flies.

“Had to fit them together like puzzle pieces. Sanderson’s one half was burnt to a crisp; I didn’t even need to cut anything off. Pulled him apart with my bare hands like pulled pork. Wearing gloves, of course.”

Soap vomited into his lap. It couldn't be real. There must’ve been something more in that tranquilizer.

“You don’t appreciate art,” that fucking bastard scolded. “Anyway. Ghost’s left arm had to be amputated so their shoulders could connect. I think the burns acted like pottery slip—they fused together like two pieces of wet clay as they healed. Ha, ‘healed’ is such a funny word.”

Ghost’s eyes welled with tears. His polyester balaclava had melted into his face.

Roach groaned. Maybe if the skin around his mouth wasn't simultaneously stretched and sloughing off, Soap would hear him pleading for death. Goggle-shaped burns cut into his cheekbones and nose bridge.

“Care to join them, MacTavish?”