*:・。☆ warnings: heavy gore, torture, hurt/comfort, whump, s/a towards reader, men being gross, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, blood and violence, branding (torture method), waterboarding (torture method), reader (thaye) is a badass, first kiss, dismemberment of fingers, eye trauma, protective!ghost, implications of smut/sex, aftermaths of torture. (there is probably a lot i missed, but idc lol all the other shit should b enough warning!!)
〔☆〕 desc: you and the 141 are deployed to austria with the intel of a drug boss known as rolmuth who is harboring romanian soldiers to the east coast to smuggle illegal mercenary personnel into america. what happens when a rapid snowstorm picks up and you (callsign 'thaye') are separated from the others then further captured and interrogated alongside your lieutenant?
—✩ PHANTOM TOUCH ✩—
word count —15.6k
a/n: sorry for my inactivity! the entire time i was workin on this shit... let me tell you.. this is 51 pages on google docs LMAO so i hope the length and word count makes this fat fucking hurt/comfort one shot worth it.
VIENNA, AUSTRIA.
“Move, move, move!” Price yells.
Snow fell and blanketed the ground beneath you, you were dressed in white camouflage tactical gear.
Your movements were slower as you trudged yourself through the snow, you turned in every direction searching for your captain.
Your lieutenant.
Anybody.
Rapid snowy winds smacked you in the face, nearly forcing your eyes shut as you traveled through the gusts.
“Soap?!” You shout, planting your feet below into the patches of snow,
Your arms raise to cover your face.
“Fuck!”
“Thaye!” A voice echoed through the snow that encased you in a blanket of long silence.
Snow nestled into the ground below—everything around you seems to just slow down.
You traipse yourself heavily through the thickness around you as you snap a clip into your M4 carbine, swinging it behind you like it had been previously.
Thump.
Your head droops down and you feel your heart drop into your stomach seeing the body of one of the men you were deployed with face up.
His head four inches deep in the snow and his right eye completely destroyed, his chest marred with several bullet wounds.
The root of his nose is fractured to the point where it’s flattened into what’s left of his skull.
You swallow the knot in your throat that might have also been barf trying to make its way out of you, kneeling down to peel the soldier’s dog tags off of his corpse.
Hudson “Scooter” Wheeler.
It makes you smile slightly, your thumb dragging over the metal tag to wipe off the thickness of blood that had coated the carving of his name.
“I’m sorry, Wheeler.”
The loss of fallen soldiers leave footprints and engravings on one’s heart that never allows them to be the same, again.
You wished sometimes you could just be without the worry about who you have to lose and who you have to save.
Restless nights followed by mornings and afternoons full of nothing but unpromised resolutions. You nearly felt as if insanity would be a better route than going through the pain of losing the people you stood side by side with, enduring the effects of grief, bloodshed, and war.
Although there were moments of bonding and camaraderie that were forced to turn into utter gore and distrust due to the change of the objective that deemed those to turn against one another in hopes of survival and success.
Pride; a fickle sense that could drive an individual to the depths of madness and create a staked claim to prove more power then they own or deserve.
You didn’t understand it. Nor did you want to.
You were left in a society where the drabness of gray ruled the world and pain of loss clenched to the soldier’s hearts almost desperately.
And yet that perpetual colour of gray; a colour so dull but so compelling, it still lights the depths of hell you lived in by merely a petite dose.
Your mouth had begun to feel tacky with your muscles stiffening as the weather conditions intensify by every fleeting moment.
Inside your combat boots, you feel your feet begin to grow numb; similar to the feeling of stepping on fresh-cut grass and grazing dull needles.
Now, you wonder what hypothermia would feel like. You weren’t used to this sort of weather.
Even under your white half-face balaclava, you felt your lips and their absence of moisture.
Still, you trekked forward, squinting eyes searching for any sign of life around you.
Your face lights up at the sight of a shadow-like movement through the blistering storm and rapid winds once you wipe off the frost lingering on your goggles.
They moved closer—it seemed to be one person.
There’s a tree to your left—your legs manage to jerk themselves through the snow until you're beside it.
You cautiously lower your body into the snowpack below you, clutching your rifle in your grip while your eyes fixate on the moving figure ahead of you.
Your finger grazes over the trigger of your carbine rifle.
A leg comes before the torso, then the face.
The skull mask.
Ghost.
Relief washes over you immediately—raising to your knees.
“Lieutenant!” You call.
His head immediately snaps in your direction, and the time spent staring at each other seemed everlasting, though in reality it was just a few seconds before his large hand was squeezing your shoulder and he was right in front of you.
“Thought we lost’ya,” Ghost rasps.
“What’s the sitrep?”
“Enemy force has ordnance on standby—Price ordered all units to the West Safehouse,” he says.
You nod softly.
“Why’d you hang back?”
His eyes widen under his balaclava and you open your mouth to speak—Ghost tugs you by your vest, pulling you to the side.
“Gh—“
There’s a person behind him.
Sounds muffle around you, complete silence surrounding you as Ghost’s head is slammed with the butt of a rifle.
Your hands reach down to pull your handgun from off of your hip, pointing it towards his attacker, squeezing on the trigger and unhesitantly dropping him to the ground before he can double back and finish him off.
No words leave your mouth as you turn in one quick jerk, the barrel of a L1A1 being aimed between your eyes.
Not even seconds later was the thick handle of a bowie knife met with the back of your head.
Immediately, your body meets with the snow, and you feel the coldness of the snow over your mask.
You struggle to pick up your head, pain surging in the back of your head enough to blur your vision.
Keeping your eyes open was a challenge—they constantly blink shut as you watch the enemy force yell at each other, manhandling Ghost by ripping his weapon sling off of him and dragging him by his fur-lined parka.
His body was dragged up into a Humvee and roughly thrown in before you were picked up by your ankles and wrists and tossed right on top of him.
Your head slumps against Ghost’s bicep as you're washed up by incapacity, your mind fogging against your will. Enervation holds you captive and sweeps you off your feet.
You’re met with blackness, next, yet the only thing you could think of was your failure to protect your superior.
☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆
You awoke to the sounds of struggling—something teetering on the floor.
It takes a moment for you to come to your senses and stir from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings.
The ever-present smell of waste and deteriorated flesh smacks you with reminiscence, the overbearing cold, the taste of grime, blood, and bile in your mouth.
When you go to move your hands, they’re immobile; binded by thick ropes that with your state of exhaustion and physical weakness, would be impossible to escape from.
Your heavy head manages to shift for oneself to observe the room—your gear was purloined, leaving you in your cargos and a tank-top.
Below you, the ground was concrete and stained with blood that led to the large metal door that had a closed hatch.
Vaguely, you recall in short and brief flashes why you were there, your eyes shutting for a few moments before opening once again.
Ghost.
Where was Ghost?
“Lieutenant,” you cough. “Ghost, wh—“
“‘M here, kid.” Ghost wheezes. “To’yr left.”
Your head turns, stopping at the sight of his mask on the concrete, blood smeared across the maw of the skull, over the eye socket.
“Ghost, are you injured?”
“No.”
Slowly, your eyes trace up the ground beneath you until Ghost’s boots are in view.
His soles skid against the ground as he attempts to drag the dentist chair he’s strapped in. “Fuck!”
You shift in your wooden seat in an attempt to reach your hand down to pull up the velcro flaps of your cargos. You couldn’t reach.
Ghost’s boots stop skidding against the floor as the metal door’s rusted hinges creak, the door being flung open to welcome a man inside—three other men were behind him holding military grade rifles with drum magazines.
The man inside the room raises his hand, offering departure in the Hindi language, to which his men shut the door behind him.
His arms were wrapped behind his back, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off of the thick stone walls.
He walks around the room for a while, allowing you to raise your head to take in who he was.
A European man that’s approximately 184 centimeters with long pushed back shaggy dark hair; his eyebrows arched, a bushy beard.
On his cheek, a nasty deep laceration scar that reaches the end of his eyebrow. Under his left eye, another scar reaches the bridge of his nose.
The man is inches from your face, now, a tilt in his head.
“We see how long it takes to break you, Sergeant.” His eyes crinkled as his lips upturned in a depraved smile.
He lifts himself from his bent position, grips the crest rail of the chair, and pulls you farther from Ghost.
“Who is your commanding officer?” He asks, feet spread apart as he looks down at you to assert his dominance.
“Fuck you.” You bite back.
The man’s hand roughly takes hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards the dangling ceiling light.
“I eat boys like you for breakfast.”
Ghost chuckles beside you.
His eyes narrow as he releases a choked scoff, his head swinging back before bursting into laughter.
“My drug ring reigns across the entire country—my men swarm all city.”
His accent is thick, though his English isn’t terrible.
“It is either you tell me now and you and friend die quick, or you die slow of bleeding until we find on our own.”
“Good fuckin’ luck,” Ghost grunts.
You swallow thickly, groaning as the man pulls your head back by the scalp of your hair.
You purse your lips as you collect saliva from the walls of your mouth, spitting just above the man’s eyebrow and watching as the gob runs down over his eye.
He snarls, dragging an open hand down his face. Using that same hand, the male flexes his hand into a fist and socks you in the jaw.
“Hey!” Ghost shouts.
You hear it pop and you immediately outstretch your neck and slam your forehead into the bridge of his nose, arms jerking in an attempt to escape your restraints. “You motherfucker!”
He lets out a groan, his head flinging back as blood streams down his nostrils, his hand trembling over his nose.
“Bitch! Madarchod! Bevakooph veshya…” He hisses through clenched teeth. “Broke my nose!”
His palm smacks you across the face so hard, a pinkish red hue starts blossoming across your cheek. He repeats it again, then again, and again.
You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself as numbness circles inside the flesh of your cheek, a similar feeling to those static electricity globes that you’d get for your twelfth birthday and press all five of your fingertips against.
“Hey! This is between you an’ me, a’right?” Your lieutenant gives a sharp nod, trying to reason with the man.
He stares at Ghost for a few moments, squeezing his fingers in his fist before leaving the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.
You take the moment to actually look at Ghost, your eyes taking in his features entirely.
From his long and messy dirty blonde undercut, to his shade and stubble.
To his bruised and bloodied lips and the thick scar running from his top lip to the underside of his chin.
To his thick and beautiful eyebrows, the scar on the start of his left eyebrow, running down to the bridge of his nose.
To his deep and all familiar brown eyes—long and light eyelashes accompanying their shape.
To the scar that spread out from the right inner corner of his lip and across his cheek as if it was the engravings of a smile line.
There were several scars littered across the male’s face; each one of vast distinction from the other.
Once again, the door thrusts open and the man returns, cotton wads up his nostrils with another male by his side, pushing in a rolling mayo stand with different tools and items you assumed were torture devices.
“Hey! Hey! What’re y’doing?” Ghost jerks in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing as the man picks up a syringe, flicking the glass and squeezing out a droplet of the liquid inside. “What th’fuck is that?”
“You will have your answer soon enough,” he simply replies.
“Agarwal—blade.”
The second man grabs the rotary tool from off the tray, a saw blade in the other.
Your hands tug against their bindings enough to chafe your wrists, it feels as if your skin is being shredded with a cheese grater.
“Paip rinch, ab.” The taller man holds out his arm, to which the man who was now identified as Agarwal hands him a pipe wrench.
“English, asshole.” You grunt.
He slings it over his shoulder and slowly walks towards Ghost as he whistles.
Ghost’s eyes don’t avert from his gaze, even as the pipe wrench drops from off his shoulder to clatter on the floor, hanging from his wrist and dragging along the ground.
“Who…is…your…superior?” His voice is grim, each word coming out as he takes a step.
Using the hook jaw of the wrench, he lifts Ghost’s chin.
“Piss off,” the blonde huffs.
Not even seconds later does the man swing the wrench around and belt it into his stomach. Ghost lets out a wheeze, his body lurching over in reaction to the sudden pain coursing through him.
“No!” You yell.
“Who.” He asks again with spite in his tone—he was demanding, it no longer was a question in his favor.
“You’ll know who when he comes’a knockin’ ‘n blows lead thru th’lot of ya.” Ghost says with a slight raise in his head.
The wrench is swung back into his stomach, causing Ghost to hurl and expel vomit onto his boots.
“Leave him the fuck alone!” You kick yourself forward a bit using your boots. Agarwal’s hands grip the slat of the chair and pull you back towards the tray.
“No, no,” he nearly coos, yanking your head back by the thinner group of hairs on the nape of your neck.
You clench your jaw and subside, lifting yourself up with your hips to help avoid the pain.
His eye’s strain, beads of sweat rolling down the end strands of his hair regardless of how cold it was inside of the formidable room.
“Get me my player,” the bearded man says as he trails his 12” redwood handle knife across Ghost’s jawline.
Agarwal’s hand releases your hair to your relief and he leaves the room.
“Disgusting—“ the male snarls. “Making mess of my floor.”
Your eyes narrow as you watch a pool of blood start to form as he slashes Ghost’s cheek, a groan spilling from your lieutenant’s throat.
“Fuck you ‘n y’r floor,” Ghost coughs.
He drops the wrench to the floor, then uses a rag that was hanging out of his pocket to swipe off the blood from the knife’s blade.
Two men walk in, one pushing in a record player and the other holding a tactical vest and a book.
Your vest and your book.
His name patch reads “Gamble”, the one who throws your vest and the book onto the floor.
“Rolmuth, the woman—she has had access to our radio frequency and has been writing down our shipment codes and locations.”
Ghost’s head raises, his pupils shrunken as he takes in the sight of the morse code book.
The man holding the knife cracks his head in your direction before proceeding towards you.
“Thaye…” he susurrated.
You don’t flinch when his arms raise to swing the knife over towards your temple, a maniacal laugh escaping through the barriers of Rolmuth’s teeth.
The knife lowers to release one of your hands, though before you can reach for anything, he slams your arm backward against the back leg of the chair, the feeling of your bones snapping beneath your skin causes you to let out a sharp, excruciating cry as your now-broken arm falls limp to your side.
“Thaye!” Ghost shouts. “Fuckin’ bastard…”
“How?!” Rolmuth yelled through his teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl as he nearly foamed out of his mouth.
His fist meets with your cheek and your eyes squeeze together in grimace to the pain as he punches you again.
Ghost calls out your name and you can hear the metal of his chair scrape and grind against the ground.
You feel your cheek begin to swell, the tender flesh on your face blooming into purple and blue bruises.
He walks to the record player and takes a record out of its sleeve that was resting on the shelf of the small table the player was brought in on. It has wheels on it—similar to the mayo tray.
Rolmuth blows on the record, though the sleeve looks too clean to hold any dust, then places the record on the platter. After pressing play, he drops the tone arm down.
The record scratching sends chills up and down your spine before the music almost beautifully fills the room.
Why does the sun go on shining?
You watch Rolmuth pick up a pair of pliers.
Why does the sea rush to shore?
You wonder if he’s going to try to rip out your teeth.
Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,
He clasps them around one of your fingers on your broken arm.
Fuck.
The cold metal around your finger makes you nearly want to cry.
‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?
He was going to rip off your finger.
“Who is your captain?” His hand squeezes the pliers, applying pressure to your singular finger.
“Go…to hell—“
A scream rips itself from your throat as you feel your sinew and flesh tear, the pliers tearing your finger from off your bone.
“Tha’s enough!” Ghost jerks and flails in his seat, there’s a sip of panic in his voice. “Get th’fuck off of her!”
Why do the birds go on singing?
Rolmuth wriggled the rest of your finger off, your eyes daring to skim down to look at the bone sticking out from your knuckle.
Blood spews out of the gore, coating your entire hand and dripping from the crevices of your skin into your lap, staining your cargos, turning their white color into several distinct shades of red.
Rolmuth sets the finger—your finger down lightly on the standing metal tray besides you.
Why do the stars glow above?
A penetrating ringing fills your ears; one so loud it felt like it’d be the cause of your tears instead of the pain surging through the entire left side of your body.
Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?
You’re in shock, unable to speak. Your jaw is locked, your teeth are clenched so hard it feels as if you might shatter your teeth.
It ended when I lost your love.
Ghost’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, when he calls out your name, you’re pulled out of your trance. You jerk your slumping head up.
You want to call out his name, but it seems like your throat is swallowing every little word that is being screamed inside of your head.
The room is spinning and you can’t feel your arm, you can’t feel the finger move that was just severed from your hand.
“Look at me, look at me, love…” your lieutenant simpers.
Your eyes search the room until they land on Ghost’s, he sounds far away. You feel your eyes widen as cold metal wraps around another finger once again.
Why does my heart go on beating?
Rolmuth’s lips close in near your ear as he tugs lightly at your middle finger.
“You don’ want to lose this finger, do you?” You feel the man’s hot breath run up the side of your face and brush past your ear.
“Who…is…your...captain?”
Why do these eyes of mine cry?
Every nerve in your body seized, your spine stiffening with every urge to kill the man standing beside you.
Ghost coughs up blood; internal bleeding.
“I’ll fu…cking…skin you…” you croak, your words finally becoming coherent.
He laughs. Rolmuth’s single arm raises in a humorous gesture of surrender.
Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?
Your eyes squeeze shut, though shoot open at the rush of heat, the pliers applying clutched pressure to your finger before Rolmuth started ripping off the second finger, wiggling it until it broke off skin and sinew.
It ended when you said “goodbye.”
“Look at me, Thaye.” Ghost’s voice sounds desperate, so you offer him a short glance as your jaw slacks and your body retracts.
Your strained eyes snapping to the bearded man as he places down your middle finger on top of your pointer finger.
A gag surfaces in your throat and your body twitches as you watch your finger fall and roll almost as if it’s the most natural thing.
Ghost yells your name again.
You finally focus on him, your eyes welling up, reddening and puffing against your will.
“Jus’ look at me, angel,” Ghost’s silked voice calms you, although in a manner you can’t hear him as well as you want to.
Every muscle and ligament inside of you feels tense and stuck.
Why does my heart go on beating?
You had three fingers on your left hand—three fingers.
Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring.
“Y’ll kill her, she’s losin’ too much blood—she’s goddamn delirious!”
Gamble’s fist barrels into the side of Ghost’s head, you hear a feral groan leave his gullet.
At least I can still put a wedding ring on my left hand. You thought.
Those three fingers trembled and twitched, it was the only movement on the left side of your body besides for your left eye—is he going to take one of my eyes? Your head is swarming with thoughts.
“Ghost…” you slur, still locked onto the blonde’s eyes.
“I know, love,” he says as gently as he physically can. “So proud of’y…”
His speech comes out as a garble, but you’re still able to understand him.
“‘M gon’ get us outta here…alive, a’right?”
Your head slumps at the attempt of a nod.
“Save y’r energy, lovie.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Agarwal grips Ghost’s earlobe, pulling him closer. You’re not able to cognize his words, but you’re aware of the vexation in his countenance.
You flinch once Rolmuth drops the pliers on the metal tray. He removes his latex gloves that were blanketed in your gore and throws them onto your lap.
“Clean them up—she still is of use to me.” His voice grows more distant as he leaves the room.
Gamble injects Ghost with a syringe that was hanging off of his waist, casting him with drowsiness, his eyes struggling to keep open before he’s blacked out.
“What did you do—…what did y’do to him?” Your eyebrows stitch together. “What did you do?!”
They unstrap his arms from the chair, then his ankles.
“Answer me goddamnit...” You seethe, tears warping in your eyes.
“Shut the bitch up,” Gamble nudges Agarwal in the shoulder before he pushes Ghost further out of his restraints, his body still and unconscious allowing the scarred man to bind his wrists with zip ties.
Agarwal simply nods and paces toward you. The stock of his gun smashed into your jaw before you could react.
☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆
DAY TWO.
The woman in the doorway was bedraggled; tired eyes and shrunken tear-stained cheeks.
There’s a light illuminating from the pulled-back curtains—a light so bright it could dry the shining tears that spill out scarlet fluid over the eyes of the miserable.
You feel only patient while waiting for the morning sun to rise over the horizon line of the ocean side.
It’s deteriorating yet caliginous frame of murky grey stone and vast sorrow of an arched entrance sat in disposition from harrowing memories filled with bloodshed, grief, and war.
Your face relaxes at the distinctly ravishing but delicate overcasted ray of light shot down from the amidst along the ruins, the melancholy ambiance nearly sent chills down your spine.
Heavenly cries of forgotten mothers begging for forgiveness of their past sins, children's playful and beatific screams, although it was nothing unknown to you.
Screams were usually followed by split rib cages and bullet wounds—tears, blood, those screams and sweat, you went through it all just for it to lie unheard and forgotten.
You searched the odd and seemingly afterlife-like realm with your eyes, you could only wonder where you were, and why you were there.
Why the flowy white dress draped over your body oscillated with the wind in a gorgeous motion.
You're lifting your head out of the water now.
The taste of salt seems so thick, heavy. Like you could drown in it. Like you could get drunk off of it.
The waves crashing onto shore sound so loud atop the eerie silence, their white crests phasing through your body as if your presence was unknown to them.
You loved the ocean because as opposed to the ones who were supposed to; the ocean loved you and was never afraid to come too close, even at your worst.
As you move farther from shore, the water slowly travels up your body, submerging your frame.
You close your eyes as your head is the last thing the water consumes. You feel the water bubbles tickle your skin and elevate themselves up to the surface.
It doesn’t take long for that familiar burn inside your lungs and that familiar feeling of being gagged by the water to swarm your senses.
Your head jerks up and you let out a loud gasp as you fade into consciousness, slipping into colored imagery instead of just monochrome.
Waking up felt like hell; your mouth was dry and most of your limbs felt unresponsive.
Only when you see Ghost curled up on his side, laying on the floor in front of you, are you able to register where you are and what’s going on.
His knees bucked up into his abdomen with his hands zip tied behind his back and his face battered and bruised.
Specks of dried blood ran from his scalp down his face reaching his compression undershirt.
He was asleep.
There was a gentle rise and fall with his chest—you could still hear his labored breaths from where you were.
It felt colder.
Your eyes wander down to your left hand that was wrapped in bandages that were stained red, your two fingers missing and replaced with nubs that were uneven from each other.
If your arm wasn’t broken, you could use it to break the leg of the chair and wield it against the next person to walk through that large metal door that made you wonder if it was life or death upon you.
If your fingers weren’t missing, you could use them to untangle your restraints on your other hand.
You could barely move your wrist—the pain that swells your entire arm makes it nearly impossible.
Ghost stirs on the floor, his body curling into itself further before his legs straighten out.
“Lieutenant,” you mumble. “What did they do to you…?”
His eyes flicker to yours.
“‘M alive, aren’t I?” Ghost says.
His voice is so hoarse and weak—he sounds dehydrated.
“You are.”
Your eyes close a moment to allow yourself to breathe in the air around you.
The single door breaking up the dull room that held them hostage creaks open on rusted hinges allowing Rolmuth to enter.
Two different men from the day prior push in the same record player and the same rolling metal tray that was stained with your blood.
“Rise and shine,” one says, his boot meeting harshly with the lower section of Ghost’s back.
The blonde’s eyes stay intent on the movements of Rolmuth as he lifts up different record sleeves to read their names. He slides one out and places it on the platter.
That familiar sizzle fills the room before the gentle hum of the music begins.
A short gasp leaves your mouth as Rolmuth kicks down your chair by the back stile, your head immediately jerking forward before it slams down onto the cement floor.
He dismisses the two of his men.
Rolmuth’s hand levitates over the tray and he grasps an old tan hand towel, draping it over your face.
You can hear the buckle of Ghost’s pants tink lightly on the floor as he jerks himself. “Fuckin’ bastard!” He yells.
I don’t want to set the world on fire.
It was going to be okay, you told yourself. You trained for this. Truthfully, you were one of the best swimmers on the task force. You can hold your breath—but if that rag manages to cave in, you’ll most likely panic and lose focus.
I…just want to start a flame in your heart.
“Are you ready for talk, now?” Rolmuth arches over you.
In my heart, I have but one desire…
Your voice muffled, you call him something along the lines of an asshole and a prick, which is quickly silenced by the pressure of water that smacks you in the face.
And that one is you, no other will do…
Ghost watches the man pour a jerry can of water over your face. His breath hitching in his throat watching your body twist and turn trying to evade from the water.
I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim
Your body arches up in protest, head jerking side to side as if it would make it any more easier on you.
I just want to be the one you love…
Focus on the music, you tell yourself. You can barely hear your own voice.
And with your admission…that you feel the same,
Rolmuth’s smile is ear to ear as he continues tipping the canister over your cloth-covered face.
I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of, believe me…
You violently thrust your body, panic surging through you as you feel water invade and swallow your lungs.
I don’t want to set the world on fire…
Involuntarily you gasp and choke in more water, you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.
I…just want to start…a flame in your heart.
Your throat was burning like scolding lava, your heart throbbing inside your chest threatening to rupture. You don’t dare to make noise.
You’re gagging, gasping, sputtering. That you can’t handle. But you don’t let yourself cry. Not like this.
I don’t want to set the world on fire, honey,
The music is starting to garble.
Why is it starting to sound so distorted? You ask yourself.
I…—you too—uch.
“Stop, y’ll fuckin’ kill her! Bloody tosser!” Ghost grits his teeth before spitting out words.
Now that you have the chance to think about it, that song reminds you of someone.
I just want to start…
Your grandfather—you’d sit on that circular crocheted rug and listen to that song as him and your grandmother baked apple fritter.
A great big flame…
He loved that woman more than life itself; when she’d started to get sick with bone cancer, he helped her bathe, he helped her eat, get dressed.
Down in your heart.
Your mother told you about how he had asked her doctor to keep the fact that she only had three weeks left to live just between them.
You see, way down inside me,
She was still happy. So happy. He wanted to spend those last three weeks with her. He retired from his job and took her to all the places she’d talked about visiting.
Darling, I have only one desire.
She passed away, and he spent every day doing all her favorite things. He watered her plants, he baked. He listened to her favorite songs.
And that one desire is you,
He adopted a puppy—a beautiful Australian Shepherd which he named after her. Your mom would say that your grandma’s being was reincarnated into that dog.
And I know nobody else ain’t going to do.
Would that happen to you too? Who would you want to belong to? What kind of dog would you be?
A deafening ringing fills your ears, you finally stop fighting. Breathing.
“She’s not movin—“ Ghost wheezes. “She’s not fuckin’ movin’!”
He was trained for this. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t.
“Enough!” The blonde yells again.
They could crack him, but they can’t break him. They wouldn’t kill her.
Rolmuth finally puts down the canister and removes the rag from off your face, his body bends over to lift your chair back up.
Your body twitching, struggling to release the water clogged in your gullet
“Wake up, bitch,” he snaps and his open palm cracks against your cheek. Your eyes shoot open.
Your mouth opens, your strained and bloodshot eyes widen with horror as you vomit out water, sputtering between your lips as you hack and gag.
The taste of bile is sickening to your empty stomach.
Ghost calls out your name, catching your attention as you stabilize from your state of stupor.
“So proud of’ya, Thaye,” he groans. “Y’r strong, ‘lright? We’ll kill these bastards, all of’em.”
You can hardly spare the man a small nod before your chin is grabbed by Rolmuth’s uncut nails—blood and dirt caked underneath them.
“You tell who you are work for, I consider sparing life.” Rolmuth runs a blade across your cheek, increasing the pressure slightly to slit your skin—a feeling similar to a paper cut. You moan in pain. “Your friend I can not speak for.”
Blood trickles down from the incise, slowly flaring through your cut and pushing from the barriers beneath your top layer of skin.
“F…uck…—“ your silenced by sudden metal on your tongue, scraping gently like a threat.
“I will carve out ur pretty little tongue, cut it in bits, and feed it to you.” Rolmuth coos. “Would you that, yes?”
“Y’sick fuck, get th’fuck away from ‘er!” Ghost attempts to jerk himself up, the bonding on his ankles not allowing him to, his bruised ribs protesting in pain as he lets out a sharp breath.
Your eyes burn into his, your neck flinching as he slowly pushes the blade farther down your throat, his hand prying your mouth open.
He chuckles lowly, small “ah’s” leaving him as he slowly opens your mouth farther to allow the tip of the knife farther down. You salivate, drool racing down your chin and over the creep’s knuckles.
Ghost’s eyes divert from your face to the man’s hands. Disgust laced in his features.
He swallowed thickly, he could feel his skin boiling. He wasn’t angry.
Pissed.
He was incensed.
More than that.
“G..host…” your slightly muffled voice trembles.
His gaze fixes back on yours, watching as your left eye twitches at each of Rolmuth’s motions.
“I know, love…J’s look at me, ‘lright? J’s look at me.”
It presses onto the skin of your tongue, it’s curved edge digging into the fragile skin and tissue causing the metallic taste of iron to taint your sense of taste.
You still bore into your lieutenant’s gaze.
Saliva and blood dribbles down your neck, the sight no doubtedly arousing the male in front of you—his tongue leapt out to slowly trace along his bottom lip.
You might drown in your own saliva at this rate.
Your lieutenant purses his dry and cracked lips, but he doesn’t look away.
He takes the blade out of your mouth, rubbing it against the cloth of his pants to clean it.
Rolmuth raises the knife and pierces your thigh, the feeling of cold metal hitting you first along with the shock, the sound of cloth tearing.
“I want names!” The man hollered, spit landing on your face just below your eyes.
Ghost watches your pupils shrink, his own eyes widening and slowly shifting to your thigh.
An intense tingling sensation swarms your entire leg, then a heat. A heat that felt unbearable.
Ghost searches for your eyes again, his mouth moving, though you can’t hear anything he says.
He broke through skin and sinew, twisting the knife inside of the laceration.
“Talk, bitch!” Rolmuth’s eyes darken.
It takes a few moments for the pain to surface, and when it does, it’s scorching. Your jaw slacks open as your eyebrows pinch together, a shrill whimper escaping you.
“Don’ look, don’t.” Ghost pleads with you. Even he was struggling not to look at your thigh.
It didn’t take eyes to tell there was blood bubbling from the wound and dripping down your pants and trembling leg.
A narrow vertical split across the midsection of the flesh of your thigh. Your eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s.
Was his hair bleached? It seemed like such an unnatural shade of blonde. Brunette underneath. He must bleach it himself.
Rolmuth gave it one more twist, releasing a thin, raw, scream from your throat.
Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of that from you. Especially not you.
“They’ll b’ere soon, Thaye.” Your lieutenant says.
“You are weak,” Rolmuth spits. “You will break.”
He rolls his shoulders before gripping your pointer finger and holding a jab saw above it.
Your eyes flicker to Rolmuth’s and Ghost calls your name.
“I want a name!” Rolmuth’s scream makes your head spin.
“Fuck y—“ your voice is replaced with a high pitched cry followed by gasps and whimpers as Rolmuth’s new blade carved through sinew and bone. He lifts up your finger against the blade and with one swift movement, your finger falls onto the floor.
“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’bastard!” Ghost’s lips twitching in pain mixed in with a whole lot of anger.
Your body jumps up, an animalistic noise escaping your throat as you swing your head back and wince loudly, the pain in your thigh
“Name! Or I take another!” Rolmuth yells just inches from your face.
You couldn’t handle it—your vision is swarmed by black spots and your head is killing you. Your body is in so much pain you feel so much, but so little all at the same time.
When your eyes roll to the back of your head and lolls, you can faintly hear the man yell ‘shit’ before you’re unable to comprehend what is happening.
Everything fades into a subtle blackness, and the last thing you hear is Ghost yelling your name. Screaming your name.
☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆
DAY 4
You wake up to the sound of loud groaning and thumping.
It takes you a few moments to register that you’re awake and you can actually move.
So you do—you upheave your head and take in the light spilling in the room from between the iron barred vent.
It stings your eyes, blotchiness surrounding your peripheral before you’re able to adjust to the light.
Ghost is on the floor taking blunt forces into his lower abdomen—the blonde sputters out a cough as his entire body jerks at the contact.
The man grips the neckline of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his head from off the ground as thick red paste runs down his split and swollen lips.
His legs lift themselves up in an attempt to propel his body up and out of the man’s grasp, but he falls flat as his neck is slammed back onto the cement.
Before Ghost can gasp for air the moment his neck is released, a closed fist slams into his cheekbone, knocking the wind out of him.
“Stop,” you rasp. “Let’im go…”
Ghost is twitching on the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. His entire face is caked in red flakes and black and blue blemishes—the entire left side of his face is fattened with knots.
“No…” you snarl.
The man whirls his head and glares at you, an amused expression of disbelief stamped onto his face.
“No?” He says cockily.
The man paces towards you and cuts off your bindings, bundles your hair in his fist and drags you over towards Ghost, you whine and raise your unbroken arm to try and pry his hands off, but he only tugs harder.
He pulls your hair up until you're positioned on your knees, chin raised up and neck tilted.
You hear a click, it wasn’t a gun.
He unsheathed a pocket knife. It was a fairly decent size. You were tired of seeing knives.
Ghost watches the man’s hand lower to your abdomen, fingers pirouetting across your delicate skin, it sends a shivering fear throughout your entire body like electricity.
“Please…” you meekly whisper, attempting to pull yourself away, your body is so weak from lack of use. Your voice came out as a croak.
His other hand holds a knife that teases the neckline of your shirt.
Ghost thrashes against the floor attempting to wrestle out of his bindings. “I’ll skin you,” Ghost’s voice is hoarse.
“How would you feel If I just…” His fingers trace along the scars on your stomach. “Touch her, ever so lightly…Right in front of you?” The man snickers.
You yelp as his knife cuts a thin line down your blood-stained neckline until your cleavage is exposed.
Tears surface the corners of your eyes.
No, no, no, no…
“Keep y’r eyes on me,” Ghost whispers weakly. “That’s it, love.”
You feel your shirt tear entirely down the middle and fall down your arms, pooling around your wrists.
Your vision blurs and your mouth starts to feel dry, teeth chattering in unison with your trembling lips.
When the knife rests over the center gore of your bra, your breath hitches in your throat and tears bead down your cheeks.
The blade slices through the cloth and immediately your hand rises to cover your nude chest.
Ghost’s eyes stay locked with yours, one half-closed from being beaten beyond his control.
You feel his facial hair scrub raw against your skin, sipping in your fear and vulnerability.
“Team Delta en route for seaside, Corbin, what’s your report?”
His radio.
The man pauses and takes his hand off the midline of your ribcage to grab his radio.
“Delta, this is Pooch on standby—hostages are stable, the woman is awake.”
You release a choked sob, causing the man to release the talk button and bash it against the side of your face, sending you straight onto the floor.
“Thaye…” Ghost croons.
You clutch your chest with your one hand as you feel the right side of your face swell.
“It’ll ‘b over soon,” you tremble, releasing a shaken breath. “They’ll find..us…”
“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is slicked with spite. “Both of you.”
“Pooch, this is Delta, rog that. Don’t kill our intel—0-7, signing off.” It crackles.
You lift your head and turn it slightly, blinking causes the pain on your cheekbone to burn like acid.
“Go to h—“ the radio is bashed into your face again causing your vision to swim and make your head stumble.
The sound of blood trickling and hitting the floor fills your ears, your left palm flattens against the cold floor. Missing fingers wrapped to keep you alive, not because they care.
He punches the radio into your right eye. You keep your head down in submission.
“You wanna act tough? Get treated like you're tough!” He yells.
His hand tugs your head back—you can see your own blood splattered against the communicator before you’re met with the same fate.
Ghost watches as the man beats the right side of your face in with the butt of the radio until it’s practically unrecognizable—caked and blistered. Bruising and swelling so tender on your skin.
He can’t do anything.
He can only watch.
You whimper and cry, hissing through your tears while your jaw clenched, the radio mercilessly landing on the same spot allowing more blood to cascade from the wound.
The last hit is the hardest, sending your numbing cheek staggering back down onto the ground, you wheeze.
If Ghost’s hands weren’t tied behind his back, the man standing above the two of you would be a mangled corpse. He knew that.
Your breaths are shallow and rasped. It feels like hell to breathe—to move your face. Crimson just pools beneath you as Pooch flicks off your gore from his communicator.
He grunts in disgust as specks splatter onto the ‘cleaner’ side of your face. Like water spots on a windowpane or glass shower door.
When you hear the door slam behind you, it makes you flinch.
Your body has broken into tremors now, maybe it’s not tremors—but your spasming.
And your hand is still covering your scar-ridden chest, but you feel like you might pass out again.
Ghost’s own breaths are ragged—you wonder if lunderneath all the blood on your face if you’d look just like him.
“Sleep,” he rasps. “I’ll watch ya.”
You relax as much as you possibly can, your single eye twitching shut in favor of your other one.
All you’ve had these past four days was sleep, yet it didn’t replenish. It didn’t make you feel any less tired or exhausted.
With your bones feeling brittle and sore, it was hard to shift yourself into the mindset of falling asleep, but you tried.
You felt Ghost scoot himself towards you, possibly just to shield your unclad chest and give you a taste of comfort.
Your eyelids feel heavy with pain and fatigue, your body stilling as you allow yourself to sleep.
☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆
DAY 5
Your hands are tied above your head, a gag set between your teeth which you gnaw at in an attempt to drag it down to hang around your neck.
Ghost is a few feet away from you—both of you hanging on metal piping with rope around your wrists.
Ghost’s boots were on the floor, he was too tall to hang like you, where you could swing your feet. Did they take your shoes?
You watch the steel poker ignite in the industrial furnace; the end of it glowing all shades of red, yellow, and orange.
It was two different tools Rolmuth was holding, now. They had two different symbols on each one that you were unfamiliar with. He was choosing.
Rolmuth spun the branding irons with his thumbs and pointers, chuckling dryly to himself as he approached Ghost, setting one of them back inside the boiler.
His boots were so loud, they echoed off the walls of the room they were in—It looked like some sort of boiler room, but you weren’t too sure.
You two must’ve been in a warehouse of some sort.
Rolmuth has to look up to look your lieutenant in the eyes.
When they’d woken you up, they threw you a gray tank top, so you weren’t as exposed as you were before.
The Hindi man pulls down Ghost’s gag.
“460 degrees of heat on metal…” he says as he lifts the hem of Ghost’s shirt. “You talk, I spare you more scar.”
“Go fuck y’self, y’manky twat…” the blonde snapped.
An open mouthed yell left Ghost’s throat as the metal is lanced firmly over the middle of his stomach, tugging at his flesh and skin.
Ghost’s eyes squeeze shut as loud whimpers escape from him, ragged winces.
“Stop!” you cry.
God, you’d never heard him in so much pain. You never thought you’d ever hear him scream in agony, in physical pain.
You're forced to watch the smoke trailing up the rod, Ghost’s back arching in tormentation.
“You piece of shit!” You twist and turn your body causing the rope to shred through layers of your skin.
His muscles tense and his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping the pipelines holding him up.
Rolmuth removes the metal from Ghost’s skin—it could be described as a flesh eating parasite; the way that his skin sticks to the rod as if it’s desperate for that contact.
A hitched gasp manages to make its way past his lips as he feels a tinge of relief, his body twitching and pained moans and hisses filling your ears.
You jerk your body weight down, kicking your bare feet until you feel the metal start to dent.
Rolmuth sets the iron back onto the furnace over a rack, he’s bending over to adjust the heat, the fire is roaring.
You tug your arms down and you let out a strained whine at the feeling of your wrists starting to bleed.
When the metal gives in above you, it creaks and drops you down.
You slide down the metal and Rolmuth’s body swings up from fidgeting with furnace levers and knobs.
His arms are immediately reaching for his gun while you lift your legs up and kick the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades, hard.
Rolmuth’s head slams back into the brick base of the furnace, he lets out a groan, his form dragging down and slumping against the floor.
Your body lands harshly on the ground, an excruciating response coming from the back of your head.
Black spots cloud your vision as you slowly try to regain your composure. Your vision is blurring, everything sounds far away and echoed.
The gun slides across the floor.
Your jaw clenches as you pick up your heavy head, your eye searching for the gun regardless of the pounding that distracted you.
When you spot the muzzle, you lurch yourself forward and reach, finger grazing the trigger guard before your pulled back by your hair, earning a yelp to leave you.
Your lungs refuse to cooperate in your chest as your scalp is nearly torn from your head.
Rolmuth growls with clenched teeth, pulling you away from the gun and towards him as he kneels himself over you.
This was the first time you were able to get a decent look at his face—if it weren’t for your messed up eye—but you only can see the rage dispersed over his face as his hands gather around your throat.
He slams your neck down, adding onto the pain thrusting through the back of your head.
“Bitch!” Rolmuth snarls.
You suck in your gag, causing panic and adrenaline to rush through your entire body as your binded hands thrash and attempt to push him off of you.
You duck yourself, bend your leg and kick it against his ankle to heave yourself up with all your weight upwards.
He exclaims in his native tongue, some of which you can only recognize as insults and swears.
Ghost calls your name weakly.
Rolmuth’s hands slip from your throat allowing you to breathe and sit yourself on top of him, you tug your body and maneuver yourself until you're behind the man, pulling the knot of your bindings against his throat and crossing them over.
His neck lifts to try and give himself access to air, though you tug and hold his waist steady between your knees.
You yell with your clenched teeth, the fabric between your lips making the muscles in your jaw ache.
Him wheezing beneath you, fingernails clawing at your split and abused hands before he shifts.
“Thaye!” Your lieutenant hollers.
Rolmuth’s hands reach down to his vest to pull another gun, aiming it at your foot and pulling the trigger causing you to let out an agonizing scream, pain racking your entire body.
The bullet shoots clean through, you knew that for sure. It was too close.
Your grip on his neck loosens so you can slap the gun out of his grip.
In three quick motions, Rolmuth’s back atop you with his hands grasping your hair again, dragging you towards the furnace until your face is close enough to feel the heat radiate onto your face.
You feel the thickness of gore engulf your foot and drip down your toes onto the floor.
Your grunting, muffled, and loud breaths make your head pound as the man squeezes your jaw and forces your neck towards the mouth of the forge.
“No…” you snarl with bared lips, kicking your legs regardless of the pain, throwing yourself towards him to keep yourself as far from the flames as you could.
Rolmuth laughs dryly accompanying his guttural breaths, his body stretching yet keeping a firm hold on your mandible as he takes hold of one of the branding rods.
“No!” Your eye widens and your hands reach up to push his face away from you.
“Fuck!” He growls, shaking his face to keep your hands off as he pulls the iron out of the furnace.
He wastes no time pressing it into your side regardless of the thin tank covering your skin, and the cloth does absolutely nothing in regards to the sudden gut wrenching sensation that makes it feel like your entire body was drenched in gasoline and set on fire with a blowtorch.
Your cry is deafening to the ears and the smell of burning charred flesh is quick to fill your nostrils. You feel and you hear your skin bubble up, sizzle, then pop, then stick to the metal and entangle itself around the start of the handle taking the appearance of something similar to chewed bubblegum.
Even trembling and shaking, you manage to find a way to position your hands so you can plant your thumbs into his eyes and use some of the only fingers you have left to press them into his eyes, causing the man to yell.
Still, your screams aren’t matchable as your fingernails gouge into his sockets and claw at his eyelids, shredding through flesh easily as blood began to dribble down his face and over his lips like tears. You still manage to scream louder in anger than the man can in pain.
Your fingers shove deeper into the grooves of his eye sockets, the organs are pushed so far back that blood sprays across your face and he finally releases the rod.
It clangs to the floor, and he starts sobbing in his native tongue, convulsing hands reaching up towards his red-painted face as you pull your gag out.
“Go to hell,” You seethe wobbly as you lift yourself and steer yourself behind him, taking Rolmuth by the nape of his neck and forcing himself inside the mouth, against the grills inside the furnace.
He shrieks and cries, moving erratically as his face is engulfed by the fire. Slowly, yet quickly, his skin is shredded by the blazes and the bottom rows of his teeth are exposed.
It takes him a while to stop making noise before you pull his head out and throw his twitching body onto the ground, then you finally allow yourself to lean against a boiler tank and take pressure off your injured foot.
You propel yourself off the tank by your palms and drag yourself regardless of your ankle to the edge of the furnace, turning yourself around to scrape the rope against the brick.
A gasp releases from your throat at the sudden relief around your wrists, the rope falling to the ground.
“Ghost?” You lift your head.
“‘M here.” He replies.
“I don’t know if I can get up.”
“I know you can,” Ghost urges. “Find…” he sputters up blistering coughs.
“…Fin’a knife, ‘n get me outta these binds, yea?” He huffs. “‘N I’ll do the rest.”
Your eye blinks as you grip the ankle of Rolmuth’s corpse, pulling him toward you to start flipping up his vest and pant pockets.
He didn’t have a knife on him.
Got to be fucking kidding me.
A door is swung open, a singular set of footsteps stepping into the room.
Your eye searches for a weapon—anything that can deal enough damage.
A metal fire poker is hanging off the wall to your right, so you swing your elbows back and lift yourself up by the palms of your hands.
As quick as you can, you hoist yourself up by using the support of a metal deaerator, your arm sliding against it as you limp and throw yourself towards the wall creating a subtle thud.
“What the fuck…?” A man’s voice murmurs.
You silently curse to yourself under your breath as you grab the fire poker off the nails that were being used to hold it up.
Using the heel of your injured foot, you shuffle against some shelving, looking between the gaps for the man inside the room.
He’s holding a Fennec, nothing you haven't dealt with before.
He’s twenty seconds to your left, carefully skimming along the floor with his eyes down the sights of his gun.
You pinch a metal screw off of one of the shelves and toss it into the corner closest to you to lead him your way.
“Fuck,” the younger male jumps slightly. He looked young and lanky, at least from his physique.
When you hear his boots start to rub against the floor, you lift your head slightly to watch him turn towards your direction.
Your fingers and nubs flex on the thin metal, it’s hard to gain a clear grip.
The man comes around the corner of the shelves, the sounds of his tactical gear shuffling alerting you when he gets closer until his helmet is in sight.
You immediately thrust the fire poker into the gap below his collarbone and into his scapula, dampening the fabric of his undershirt in that area as it rips.
Out of panic and shock, his finger grips the trigger and you have to jerk him away before any of his bullets are able to hit you.
“Please!” The boy pleads, gun dropping to hang around his neck as he grips the caps of your shoulders. You only glare at him before plunging the fire poker further into that same spot until it tears and mauls through his back, sticking out on the other end.
He’s gasping out, but it’s almost like no air is exhaling, mouth held agape as his grip on your shoulders releases.
You shout and cry out at every thrust until the hole carved into his skin is able to suck in the hooked tip.
The male’s head falls and you allow his body to slump down and forward, the metal rod holding his stilled body up.
You heave dryly and press a palm on the wall to support yourself, your foot is killing you—literally.
The blown out flesh and puckered skin walls made you want to barf. You could stick a finger through your foot and feel your pulsating muscles just hug around your finger.
You lean down and unclip the knife holster from the gun belt, unsheathing it then hobbling around the shelving towards Ghost who was still hanging from the pipes.
“Okay, okay…” you breathe sharply, struggling to lift yourself up onto the brick platform of the furnace, nearly stumbling off before you catch your footing.
“Keep still,” you say, arching your hand to start cutting at his bondings until he’s dropped onto the floor.
Ghost lets out a loud groan, his arms clutching his ribs. They’d broken one of his ribs, maybe multiple. You both were in bad shape.
It takes him a moment to get himself off the floor as you seat yourself and scoot off of the hearth.
He grabs both of the hand guns that had been dropped onto the floor, holding one out to you.
You unclip the magazine, then snap it back into the chamber at the sight of one missing bullet.
It was the same one that Rolmuth used to shoot your foot.
Ghost’s hand rests on your cheek, gently. “Y’did good, ‘lright?” He spoke with a lilt.
“Can y’walk?”
“A little.” You nod. “Fuckers took my shoes…”
He lets his hand fall to check his magazine, then he nods. “‘Don’t know if I can carry ya with m’ribs.”
“It’s okay, just don’t wait for me.” You reply.
His eyebrows furrow. “Bloody hell, Thaye, I ain’t leavin ya.”
“I know but—“
“No.”
Ghost’s half-lidded eyes glare at you, giving you all the warning to stop.
“Stay behind me.”
He starts walking towards the door, slowly peeking it before leaving with you behind him.
Walking hurt—even while you only applied pressure to the heel on your injured foot, the muscles contracted and the pain was torturous.
One man entered the hallway holding a box from another room, which Ghost took care of by shooting a single bullet between his eyes.
The box had opened and dropped glass equipment, alerting four others who had been lingering in the room he came from.
They yell and communicate in their native tongue, one sticking his head out of the door threshold to aim his rifle.
Ghost fires his pistol and the man swings his head back into the room, still opening fire into the hallway.
“Fuck!” You hiss, dodging the bullets and moving quickly behind a filing cabinet, lowering yourself down.
Ghost’s back presses against a door to your right, pulling himself out of cover to fire at the man.
Two bullets miss and the third causes his head to fling back and smear blood as his body arches and falls down to the floor.
You lift your head and aim your pistol, gasping when your throat is suddenly hooked back from behind you.
When the combatant turns you around and attempts to make a slash at your throat, you manage to extract yourself by gripping his wrist and snapping his elbow out of place, the sounds of bones snapping as he yells.
His knife drops from his hand and you scramble to pick it up from the floor.
You groan as his boot digs into your bandaged hand before you're able to pick it up, then his hand grips your neck to lift you up.
He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, locking his wrists over each other at your back. You clench your teeth and jerk violently in his grasp.
Ghost is fighting four other men, locking them in the crook of his elbow and smashing their skulls between the doors.
The man holding you in position crushes you in his grasp even with his broken arm. He tries dragging you into another room.
“Let me the fuck go,” you gasp, causing the man to laugh.
“You will regret ever trying to leave your room,” he utters.
You breathe a moment, heart pounding through your chest as you swing your head into the side of his neck and sink your teeth into his skin with all the strength in your jaw.
Crimson liquid seeps into your mouth and down the front of your neck as you yank out the flesh of his throat. You spit out the skin and blood, wiping your mouth and tongue against the skin of your arm as the man’s grasp loosens
His shoulder blades and chest are glistening in red, gore spurting out of the torn spot in his throat as his body stumbles and he’s gargling on his own blood trying to speak.
“Fuck you…” You shutter weakly, eyes slowly skimming down to the knife lodged inside your waist.
Shit.
He must’ve stabbed you before lifting you up, your adrenaline pumping so fiercely you couldn’t feel it until now.
You stumble on your feet slightly, shaking hands lowering to wrap around the handle and pull it out of the slit.
The runnel of red paste turns into a thick stream down as it drenches your tank top.
You lift your head slowly and throw the knife overhead across the hallway, hitting a man who’s pointing a handgun at the back of Ghost’s head.
It’s blade spades into the back of his skull and makes his body wriggle down onto the floor.
“Ghost…!” You gasp and press your open palm over your soaking top and open laceration.
Ghost steps over both legs of a bloodied man before shooting him dead and advancing towards you.
“Shite…” He huffs, gently removing your hand and placing it back after gaining a clear inspection.
His hands grip the hem of his shirt and roughly tear at the fabric creating a long strip, then he moves your hand aside again to tightly secure it around your wound.
You hiss and groan, hand gripping his shoulder as he tugs and pulls at your body while tying the knot of the fabric.
“I’s ‘lright.” Ghost mollifies as he scoops his arm underneath your armpit.
It offers you some support as he guides you both out towards a staircase.
It wasn’t a warehouse—you and Ghost were just in a basement that was turned into a meth lab.
Boxes and boxes full of lab equipment scattered along the floors.
You’d never seen such a big basement, one with torture chambers and stonework rooms.
Hell, in the corner of the room with all the steel liquid tanks and chemical barrels.
A woman is in bright blue hazmat coveralls and a chemical mask standing on top of a metal stool.
Ghost raises his pistol and you lower it slightly with your palm, his eyes glaring at you with his head kept facing forward.
“You can’t miss, we don’t know what corrosives are in these tanks. Is it worth it?” You keep your voice low, personal between the two of you.
He doesn’t reply, instead he looks forward, then squeezes the trigger and picks the woman off by shooting her in the side of her neck.
You swallow thickly as her body spasms on the ground, the stool getting caught in her ankle as crimson fluid rises and bubbles inside of her mouth.
Ghost guides the two of you up the cobble stairs, one hand dragging up the wall and the other across your lieutenant’s wingspan.
Your eyes flash at the sudden two objects being thrown down the stairs, the sudden silence as they roll down step…after step…after step before Ghost is swinging you up into arms and yelling.
He’s breaching himself through the door, into open fire before the staircase you had come up from explodes into the emitting heat compressed air and blasts behind the two of you sending you both flying forward.
Smoke engulfs the room, giving both you and Ghost coverage to get behind cover.
You're pulled by the back of your shirt behind a deep freezer, bullets flying and hitting the metal.
“Fuckin’ pricks got us pinned!” His head lifts over to fire at three of the men who have ballistic shields covering those firing LMGs behind. “‘N I’ve got four left.”
You can’t see through the thick smoke—you can’t breathe while wheezing into the crook of your elbow. “Seven,” you inform him.
“Cover me,” Ghost grabs your arm for a moment, letting go and serving around the freezer.
You follow behind him with a raised pistol, shooting off at any glares you're able to see through the fumes.
Six…Five…
A man steps out from cover behind a wine cabinet, but before he can fire his rifle, you pop him in the eye.
Four…
Ghost quickly crouches down and shimmies the rifle out of the corpse’s grip, grabbing at a magazine and stuffing it into his vest he’d managed to keep.
You groan and push over a bookshelf behind Ghost once you’re both out of the smoke. He takes aim and opens fire at three men, blowing holes in their chests before he rams into the fourth with a loud yell and slams down the stock of his assault rifle into his face until his teeth and nose are finely pressed into the persian rug.
You finish off two more who try to walk through the threshold of the room, turning your head over your shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.
Two…
You jerk yourself away before you get slugged by a riot shield, ascending yourself and shoving your firearm past the barriers of his lips from behind. You pull the trigger and his head flings as the bullet rings out and creates a sizable hole in the back of his head.
One…
Before his body hits the tile, you take hold of his riot shield and deflect the hail of gunfire from the individual who came emerging from the threshold corner.
You walk forward until his clip is empty to drive the shield into his vest-covered chest, stunning him so you can push it aside and fire your last shot into the underside of his jaw.
Zero.
Bullets continue spraying throughout the entirety of the house while you make sure you don’t pass out from the amount of blood you’ve lost.
You grab the TAQ-V from off the floor and click a new magazine into it, shoving a spare into your back pocket before pushing into the same room as Ghost.
He’s piling bodies on the floor, wrestling for dominance over a knife.
You fastdraw another handgun you’d grabbed off of one of the bodies and shoot the man in his knee cap to allow Ghost to gain the upper hand and pierce the man’s temple with the weapon.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly.
You nod softly, inhaling sharply as you feel wet blood pool around your uninjured foot.
They took your shoes for no reason, like they had a use for them.
Maybe it allows you to move around more quietly, but it still disturbed you that they took the time to even peel off your socks.
“What intel did y’know that we didn’t?” His chest is against yours, head craning down to keep the conversation between the two of you.
“Lieutenant, we don’t…” You pause a moment, your head spinning.
Hunger, thirst, the cold, the blood loss. There was so much holding you hostage and you weren’t even able to comprehend how you were still standing—limping.
“Well, Seargant?” His voice is low, still holding the same husky British drawl.
“We don’t have the time for this, for now—“ Ghost shoves you aside before you can finish, raising the muzzle of his rifle to open fire on the men entering the room.
“Fuckin’ riot shields!” He pulls you behind a flipped over tattered blue couch that had already gone through its fair share of bullets.
A bullet flies and hits the side of the couch a hair’s breadth from your face.
“Goddammit,” he curses while replacing the magazine in his gun.
The men brandishing shields push further.
When one reaches close enough, you run in front of the shield and grab the sides before he crashes into you.
You turn him until his body is vulnerable to Ghost, your teeth ground into each other.
“Ghost!” You yell to catch his attention, head snapping in your direction to fire a single round into the back of his head.
You throw the body off of yourself and yank the riot shield to cover yourself, ducking your head as you recoil your fist and punch one of the men baring LMGs hard twice in the jaw.
You thrust the shield into the next, throwing it into his abdomen as he topples, finishing him off by shooting him down in the chest.
One turns with his M4 raised, but you turn your gun around and bash the stock into the base of his chest, then again into his cheek, swiping your leg across the floor and knocking him down then picking his head up and slamming it down on a thick shard of glass sticking upwards to finish him off.
Ghost drops the last body, finishing off a magazine into his vest and throwing the weapon aside. You toss him another one, which he catches with ease.
“We’ll force upstairs, look f’r our shit, ‘n leave.” He says as he picks up a frag grenade from off a vest.
“There should be Skimobiles somewhere around here, the ones they were using in the FFO,” you nod.
“A’right,” he groans while rolling his shoulders. “On my mark.”
He trudges past bodies until he’s at the threshold of the staircase, stepping up slowly with the grenade in one hand and his gun in his other.
You follow behind leisurely, eye down the scope of your rifle.
He pulls the clip and tosses it up, arm stretching behind to press his hand against your shoulder blade.
“Oh shit—grenade!” A man yells from upstairs before detonation.
“Go!” Ghost immediately backs up off the wall and skips over two steps into the corridor, prefiring as he loops around a wall.
There’s already bodies and limbs splayed across the room from the combatants who were hit by the frag.
Your back rubs against the wall as you lean to shoot down the hallway, whirring bullets firing past you.
After a few back and forths between staying flat against the wall and leaning to fire off your gun, bodies drop and you’re able to progress down the hall.
Ghost is somewhere on the opposite side of the house, you still hear heavy gunfire.
You pause at the sight of another man at the end of the hallway and you recognize him immediately.
The look in his eyes and the scruffiness of his face made your lips stretch in almost the most feral look.
Corbin, that was his name. Callsign ‘Pooch’.
Anger burns in the depths of your lungs and stomach as you grip the wall for support, lunging yourself forward to lift your feet over each body that was littered across the hallway floors.
Sweat ran down the sides of your face and splotched down around the neck of your shirt with the blood.
You watch his face twist into a wolfish grin as he slings his gun over his shoulder and walks towards you.
“Alright, sweetheart.” He purrs.
White noise fills your ears.
All you can see through the glossy shine of your eyes is the man who humiliated you in front of your superior.
All you can see through the blinding red rage is the man who beat Ghost and cracked his ribs, forcing you to watch him retract and twitch at every fleeting fist.
Even the hail of gunfire is silent in your ears as you drag your injured foot. Everything sounds underwater, everything feels dull.
His fist intersects and meets with your cheekbone causing your head to shift to the left and your body to stumble where you stand.
You grip his wrist and divert his second punch by lifting your arm and thrusting your knee roughly into his thigh to tamper his movements.
He groans, with grim chuckles following after. “I’m going to enjoy every last second of this,” he coos.
Your body shivers in disgust as you slide your fingers down to your waist, priming the knife stuffed beneath the hem of your shirt. “Go fuck yourself…” you hiss.
His eyes flicker down to your hand and his boot immediately connects with the middle of your torso, sending you across the floor with a loud thud.
Pooch steps between your legs and lifts your upper body by the neckline of your shirt, his knuckles slamming down to beat on your already swollen face.
Drool and blood pour from your mouth, a strangled gasp leaving you at every punch before he releases you harshly back down onto the floor.
Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, the pressure and swelling in your face and head being all too much for you.
A boot is savagely kicked into the lower pit of your abdomen, making you gag on air.
“Get the fuck up.” Pooch spits.
You clutch your stomach and turn, slowly feeling for the knife, then quickly lifting the edge trimming of your tank top and grasping the handle, pulling it out and sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to knock him off to the side.
He yells out swears as you level yourself over him, his legs kicking out to make your chest rest on the soles of his boots.
Both of your hands grasp the handle of the knife making it easier on your lack of fingers. His hands grip your forearms as you cry out and try forcing the knife down on him.
He kicks his legs up and backwards, upending you over him and sending the knife flying.
You hiss and give yourself no time to recover, flipping on your stomach and army crawling with your forearms to grab the knife.
He topples atop your body, planting a piercing slap across your face before reaching for the knife and propelling it downwards into you.
Before you’re able to block, the knife breaks through the skin in your stomach, your hand managing to grab his wrist before he’s able to gut you open.
You seethe and let out a sharp whine followed by a croaked cry, your other hand circling his wrist in an attempt to push him away.
Quickly, you roll your body off to the side and let go of him, causing the knife to pierce into the wood flooring as you grip a console table to succor yourself up.
Corbin abandons the knife and flings himself upwards, swinging his gun into his arms.
“I’m done playing games.”
You advance on him, grabbing the rifle and pushing it into his chest before he can aim it at you.
One of your hands grip the upper hand guard while the other grips the bolt and holds the muzzle up.
You yank his body over towards the window behind you, turning your body then grabbing the man by the back of his hair and smashing his head through the glass.
It shatters from contact and leaves cuts and shards in his skin, a loud yell clawing its way from his throat.
His finger grips the trigger and bullets roll out into the floor as you pull his head back.
You pull the rifle sling from off his shoulder, tossing it aside and disarming him from the X12 tucked into the back of his pants.
He growls at every tug of his scalp as you shoot him in the back of the leg and force him onto his knees.
A loud wail echoes the hallway from the man below you.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” you snap.
“You don’t get to scream.”
“You don’t get to cry and whine like a little bitch.”
There’s no remorse in your voice, no sense of mercy for the man being held on his knees and whimpering.
You smack the magazine onto the base of his nose, blood dripping it’s way down his nostrils as a struggling noise spills from his lips.
“You…fucking….” he chokes on his own words.
His entire body violently trembles at the tortured scream he releases as you squeeze the trigger again, shooting Pooch in his shoulder then proceeding to stick your thumb into the ravage wound harshly.
“Bitch! Fucking bitch!” He strains and pants like a dehydrated dog trying to jerk away from you.
You replace your finger with your foot, lowering his back against the floor as you press your toe into the bullet hole.
Another scream tears out of him as you blow another hole into the other side—his chest convulses.
Blood seeps from his mouth, you hold the grip of the handgun with both hands and sob out loud as you empty the entire magazine into his head until his face is unrecognizable to the amount of bullet holes.
You keep pulling the trigger, even as the gun starts to click announcing its out of ammunition.
The entire floor below you is covered in gore; flesh, messings of brains, blood, skin.
So much.
Your body snaps around as a hand abruptly drapes over your shoulder, your arm raising the gun ready to bash it into the skull of the next man to try and touch you.
“Thaye, Thaye—y’got him! Thaye, he’s dead!”
Someone calls your name trying to snap you of out haze.
Ghost—your eyes soften with glistening tears as he calmly disarms you after deflecting the hit with his forearm, tossing the handgun aside so he can push you into his chest by the back of your neck.
“‘S over, sweet girl.” Ghost says with intonation. “Can’t hurt ya anymore.”
Your eyes are wide with terror, hands bundling your lieutenant’s shirt as you exhale a shaky mewl.
It’s him who releases you first, handing you your custom rifle and radio.
His balaclava is back on his face, along with the skull mask.
“Y’r vest ‘n boots are in the room I came from,” Ghost jerks his head.
You nod softly and shamble towards the doorway in the direction he’d pointed out.
You pause.
A little boy walks out of the threshold—he’s holding a gun far bigger than his head.
Your eyes widen slightly. “Did these men take you from your family?”
You turn your head over your shoulder to call for Ghost, the sound of a bullet whirring filling your ears.
Ghost wastes no time pulling out his handgun and shooting the little boy in the head before running towards you.
Your right shoulder is screaming at you as time seems to slow down to a crawl. You hear Ghost yell behind you and the gunshot ringing as the little boy falls back and you do too, hitting the ground hard.
The masked man is on his knees in front of you within seconds, lifting your head into his lap.
“Thaye! Thaye, don’t y’fuckin’ die, not now…” He growls, applying pressure down onto your shoulder with both of his gloved hands.
Your lips slant in a tired manner, eyelids feeling heavy. His bloody hand kneads your cheek, smearing gore along your already dirtied skin.
“Fuck! Fuck!” he curses loudly. “Stay awake, love, please…”
God, he was hurting, it hurt to have your head against the burns on his stomach, but he wouldn’t let you die.
“Babygirl,” he says weakly.
All you can see is an uncleanable amount of red seep and cover your shirt.
Your lungs clutch together inside your chest, labored breaths escaping you with a strained noise.
“I know…I know—keep those gorgeous eyes on me, sweetheart.” He inhales a shaky breath, flipping up your blood-crusted hairs from sticking to your forehead.
You whisper an apology, catching his attention as you grip his waist. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow.
“Don’t. Don’t say sorry,” he says. “You did this, you saved our lives, love.”
“‘M just finishin’ the job, ‘lright?” His split and bloody lips find a place on your temple, planting a raw and long kiss to your throbbing skin.
“…’least I got to see your face before—“
Ghost holds you, squeezing your hand as a slight warning. “Don’t talk like that.”
It was a demand.
“That an—“ you spur into a coughing fit, blood spraying onto the man’s vest. “…Order, Lieutenant?”
“Spare y’r energy,” he huffs.
“Simon—“ you slur.
“Stop.” He snarls.
Your ragged breaths start to stray, causing panic to surge through the man above you.
“No,” he growls, squeezing your smaller hand in his a bit tighter than before. “Don’t, Thaye,” he says through clenched teeth.
Your body falls limp in his lap, the grasp loosening on his shirt making his heart pound through his chest, a painful pounding that felt similar to acid reflux.
“No!” Ghost yells, desperately palming at your tangled hair in panic. “Fuckin’ massacre,” he exhales shallowly.
One arm scoops beneath the back of your knees, the other across your shoulder blades with his hand holding your arm.
A loud strained groan claws it’s way from his gullet at the sudden pain inside his ribs as he lifts himself up and off the floor.
His muscles tighten inside his body, a burning sensation in his abdomen as he clutches you close to his chest, feeling your blood seep into his shirt.
☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆
The gentle rhythmic beeping and steady flow of air through your nostrils was something that felt unreal and forced.
You slowly flutter your eyes open to light slipping in between the beige curtains. Your eyes are half-lidded and threatening to close against your will as your bandage wrapped hands rests atop the metal railing on either side of you.
It smells of strong floor cleaner and hand sanitizer, a scent that is slightly uneasy on you as you slowly slip back into consciousness.
Your muscles feel tight in your body; pain racking your shoulder and neck as you crane it to take a look around the room.
The walls are spinning and the ceiling above you is spiraling making you sick to your stomach.
On the bedside table to your left—closest to the window—there’s flowers. They’re too withered to try and recognize what kinds, shredding to flakes in your fingers when you caress them between your pinky and thumb.
Your hand drags up to pull nasal tubes out of your nostrils. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe air, throat tightening and lips so still from lack of moisture.
There’s a penetrating migraine in the back of your skull as you carefully swing your legs over the side of the bed, the thin baby pink and spotted hospital gown flowing down your sides leaving you slightly exposed in your thigh region.
Bare and bandaged feet slide along the smooth cold tile, sending chills up your body as you grip the IV stand with your trembling hand, the other holding onto the bed railing for support.
You groan and strain as you struggle to lift yourself up, propelling upwards with your palm and grip on the stand until your knees straighten and your standing up somewhat decently.
Where was Ghost? Is Ghost alive?
So many thoughts coursed through your head along with the punishing feeling of dehydration.
You guide yourself using the wheels on the IV stand towards a counter, your hands gripping the handle of the sink and pulling it upward.
A choked moan manages to break from you as you scoop the water in your hands and swill the rich liquid.
Water dribbles down your chin, which you wipe away before lifting your head to look into the medicine cabinet mirror.
Your hand rests on the wall in front of you as you heave.
They cut your hair shorter, not too short but enough so that it was comfortable. Your entire right side of your face being bandaged, stains of blood being a faint copper color.
Bandages wrapped around your neck and reached down your shoulder you’d been shot in.
Your hair had been taken care of neatly while you were in a coma, that was obvious.
Ghost. Where?
You grip the IV stand and hobble towards the door, turning the knob and gripping the threshold with your other hand as you step out.
A nurse pauses in her tracks, rushing to your side in an instant. “How are you up? Your injuries are critical,” she gasps, palm flattening against the small of your back.
“My lieutenant—…my lieutenant…” you say in an undertone.
“You need bed rest, you’ve only just woken up.” Her voice is gentle yet commanding.
“No,” you bark, shuffling out of her hold. “Please take me to him.”
The woman bites her lip before nodding hesitantly, hand against your back again to guide you towards his room.
It was only a few doors down from you—when the nurse opened the door, allowing you into the room.
You see the back of Ghost’s head facing in your direction, his hair tousled from the bandages wrapping around his head.
“Ghost,” you call.
His head turns from facing the window to facing you, you hear him murmur your name in reply.
“Y’minx,” he breathes. “Hell y’doin’ out ya bed?”
You carefully walk yourself towards him, the nurse holding her hands atop her chest nervously. The sound of the plastic wheels of the stand makes his breath hitch in his throat, the sound of reassurance that you were alive.
“You okay, big man?” Your voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he’s able to that you perfectly.
“D’ya ever worry ‘bout y’self, love?” Ghost asks with a tinge of humor.
Heavy casting was on his right leg, bandages and patches on practically every inch of his body—similar to you.
“Sometimes,” you smile softly and push strands of his hair out of his face, your heart slightly shatters in your chest at the sight of him flinching at your touch.
Ghost scoots himself over slightly, wincing at the sudden movement.
You seat yourself beside him on the large gatch bed and his hand pushes you down to lay beside him.
“Wait, Mr. Riley—“ the nurse takes a small step forward.
“I’ll ‘b fine,” he grunts.
Her eyes blink slightly as she takes a few steps back, her lips separating to speak though no words come out. She simply turns on her ankles and closes the door behind her.
Ghost secures an arm around your waist, pushing your back flush against his bandaged chest.
Your eyes trace his tattoos and the muscles of his arms, every scar and blemish.
“Where’s the force?” You ask quietly.
“Left recently,” he mumbles back tiredly, pressing his nose into your hair. “Y’smell like pomegranate—got y’self a damn spa crew while y’were out?”
You laugh dryly, breaking into a light fit of wheezes.
“Not too hard, Seargant.” Ghost’s finger tucks a loose strand of hair from your bangs behind your ear.
Your wet bandages on your hands rub against his knuckle as you hold onto his hand, he seems to pay no mind.
You turn your body slightly so you can get a better look at his face. “Odd seeing you without your eye black.” You quip.
His closed eyes open to look down at you. “Mm, might as well see m’down in me knickers then, eh?” He chuckles huskily.
“Very funny,” you roll your eyes lightheartedly.
You catch his small glances to your lips, his hand leaving your chest to run his thumb down your bottom lip until that same hand is cupping your cheek lovingly.
His eyes narrow, he’s sleepy, but you still catch yourself propping your body up with your elbow and closing the gap between the two of you.
Instantly, his head cranes and tilts to deepen the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to press his thumb into the underside of your jaw and drag his fingers along the nape of your neck.
Ghost breathes into your mouth, the taste of mint leaf and citrus enveloping your taste buds as his tongue laced over yours.
The kiss was passionate, you feel his eyebrows furrow showing his desperation as you both kissed softly at a gentle pace and motion.
Your eyes flutter open as you feel his warm lips leave yours with a quiet pop, both of you panting lightly with his forehead pressed against yours. Ghost’s eyes are unable to open for a few moments after you disconnect.
When they do open, your eyes bore into his brown orbs, the dark purple hue circling under his eyes showing his deprivation of sleep.
When he feels you buck gently back into his groin, he releases a small grunt, lips meeting yours again for a small chase kiss.
“Not like this,” he says quietly. “I’d take you on this bed right here, right now, but y’ve recently waken up ‘n we’re both still in r’covery.”
You hum in agreement, his hand finding it’s place on your chest once again with the knowledge of your lower abdomen injury.
“‘N to b’honest—‘can barely feel m’damned balls, feels like ‘ve got whiskey dick.” He grumbles, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.
“Simon!”
“Don’ you laugh at me, woman.” Ghost lowers his head into the crook of your neck, biting the skin gently
“My deepest condolences, Lieutenant,” you purr, catching his lips in another kiss when you jerk his head upward with your uninjured shoulder. He growls against your mouth in reaction.
There’s a long yet short line of silence as you turn towards his back again, your legs tangling with his as you hold your lips against his knuckles.
“Y’have no clue how strong you are.” He swallows the knot in his throat as he speaks. “God, Thaye, they…they told me there was a chance y’d never wake up.”
“Hey,” you hum. “Stop that, I’m here now.”
His eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead of you, maybe even the same wall you were staring at—if your eyes weren’t closed already.
“I just don’ know what I would’ve done if I made it outta there ‘n y’didn’t make it with me.” He says.
“Y’r the reason I made it out with you in the first place. If y’hadn’t pulled that barmy stunt—“ he pauses, and you feel the rise of his chest and the fall as he exhales deeply.
“Y’survived internal bleeding, trauma to the head ‘n eye, two broken ribs, second and third degree burns, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds and gunshot wounds..” Ghost squeezes his fist tighter against your chest.
“So did you, Si.” You coo softly.
“Christ…” he mutters.
His fingers interlock with yours best they can, regardless of the most of them being numbs on your knuckles, and it wasn't until your hand rested on his chest and rubbed over the raised scars, that he realized he hadn't been touched so gently in nearly eleven years. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was a feeling that he had craved desperately.
Never had fallen in love before, but he knew you had bad experiences with it—figuring out that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you while on deployment. Someone had to love you, and he was skeptical of it being him, but it was clear you loved him too and now he was scared you’d stop.
But hearing your gentle breathing as you slipped back into sleep hunched into his form led him somewhere he’d never been. You cleared his mind and cleared away his thoughts. For the first time, he doesn’t want to look away from what he has the ability to feel.
1K notes
·
View notes
kings rising highlights & annotations
chapter 2
(easily the most chaotic commentary i've done so far)
indented text is from the book. some quotes have commentary, some do not. some comments are serious, and some are definitely not. most of them will only make sense to people who have read the series. and, like, there are spoilers. so please read the books first if you're interested!
also: part of the reason i'm doing such a close reading is to study cs pacat's style, especially in terms of how she does romance and erotica. there are "craft notes" that might seem weird, like i'm being redundant or restating something rather than analyzing, but those are more things that i want to remember/take away from the writing!
i'm going to tag these longer posts with "sam reads capri" in case anyone wants to read them all at once.
this is a google doc i wrote with overall content warnings for the captive prince series. it's not perfect, but i do think it's important to include.
CHAPTER TWO
okay so this is the first of two laurent pov chapters we ever get, and it’s an intense torture/interrogation scene. this works SO well with the “laurent is in a different genre” bit. like the reader is not only getting his perspective, but the entire vibe just shifts. damen is a passing thought. this is a psychological thriller now, full stop, for this chapter. for the first time in the series, a first-time reader gets an idea that laurent is living a totally different flavor of reality than they’ve been reading. it’s genius to put this here and now, right before the reveal, as we’re scrambling to put everything together and hurting emotionally on damen’s behalf. like, fuck the emotions and romance, we’re doing a gritty torture scene. because that’s just how it is for laurent on this bitch of an earth, as a result of his own ridiculous choices and in general
Laurent woke slowly, in dim light, to the sensation of restriction, his hands tied behind his back. Throbbing at the base of his skull let him know he had been hit over the head. Something was also inconveniently and intrusively wrong with his shoulder. It was dislocated.
oh you know i’m annotating every little detail of this man’s internal narrative. for two scenes i get to be inside laurent’s brain and i am taking every opportunity to document things about his way of thinking that are outside of damen's perception. this is cs pacat allowing me to learn things about the way laurent's mind works, that can re-contextualize the entire rest of the series. i am calling these details, which i would not be able to ascertain if not for a single chapter being from laurent's pov, “cool laurent facts.”
cool laurent fact #1: laurent orients himself in a new situation first and foremost based on the current state of his own person—physical, mental, emotional—and his surroundings. from that, he uses inductive reasoning to understand what is going on.
inductive reasoning is a method of thought that typically goes from specific and limited observation to general conclusion. from what we know of laurent, the idea of him using inductive reasoning on a regular basis makes a lot of sense. laurent might be "mr. probably" who does random insane shit, but the truth is that laurent thinks through almost all of his random insane shit before he does it. the exceptions to this are almost always narratively significant, and they happen when laurent's emotions overwhelm his ability to reason things through at all.
so, like, in this quote: "throbbing at the base of his skull let him know he had been hit over the head." the observation is the physical pain, specifically at the base of his skull. the conclusion is that he was hit in the head. it's a reasonable general conclusion, even if it could potentially be correct.
then we have "something was also inconveniently and intrusively wrong with his shoulder. it was dislocated." observation: shoulder is not working as intended, and in fact is so dysfunctional that it's intrusive. conclusion: it's dislocated.
the entire time, as laurent is thinking these things, he isn't actually DOING anything. and this, i think, is what tends to drive damen (and the attentive reader) insane, because with the exception of these alternate pov chapters, we don't actually get to live in laurent's head. while we know that laurent is thinking things through almost all of the time, our confusion comes with the fact that we can't even begin to guess WHAT laurent is thinking. and since laurent thinks before he acts, we are usually forced to reverse-engineer how the fuck he got to the conclusion AFTER the resulting action has actually been taken. and that is exactly why my annotations about laurent are the way they are in the first place.
so what happens when laurent gets it wrong? because laurent's observations are ultimately limited, and he prefers to come to a conclusion before acting, any flawed conclusions he makes can lead to immense miscalculations. to someone like damen, these miscalculations are both frustrating and avoidable, because damen is much more likely to use deductive reasoning instead.
deductive reasoning uses pre-existing general premises to come to specific conclusions. we see it a lot in damen's pov, in which the things he "knows" about the world are what often inform the action he takes. these aren't personal and specific ideas, but extant generalized theories and conclusions, which are then either proven correct or incorrect once tested. in general, this means that damen tends to act first and think second—the opposite of laurent. it's pretty obvious how this can be to damen's detriment, especially since we read the series almost entirely in his pov. a good overarching example of his deductive reasoning is the way his perspective on akielion slavery shifts throughout the series. he starts out in book 1 believing that there is honor in submission, slavery is a pact, slaves are consenting, and all slave owners uphold standards of "decency" just as he himself does. but then as damen interacts more with the world of slaves and pets, and is made a slave himself, he realizes that those conclusions were incorrect. then he assumes a new conclusion—slavery is an irredeemable institution—and acts based on that instead.
the strength of damen's deductive reasoning, compared to laurent's inductive reasoning, is the adaptability it allows. damen gets shit done when it needs to be done. he might get it done in a way that's messy or artless, lacking all of the pertinent details to do it perfectly, but his ability to apply a theory to a situation and then play it out is a great counterpoint to laurent's general approach, in which things are overthought so thoroughly that action is not taken in a timely or responsive manner. like, we literally see that in the wall grate scene in prince's gambit, which is then referenced again while they're discussing war strategy.
of course, this isn't to say that laurent's inductive reasoning isn't also adaptable. he can adapt to a situation by thinking really hard about it, drawing a conclusion, and then making his move. it's just distinctively different to read that kind of internal process from him as a pov character, compared to damen's typical way of thinking. it's part of this genre shift, i think, because it's so stressful and meticulous. this is thriller/crime/mystery genre thinking, not romance novel or war/action novel thinking. we have gone from a pov character who is like 70% impulse-driven, to a character who in his right mind wouldn't even consider following an impulse unless it was thoroughly thought through, at which point it would fail to be an impulse at all. damen is built to be a romantic lead and action hero. i can't really think of literary examples because i don't read a lot of romance and action books, but idk, disney's hercules or adora from she-ra come to mind. meanwhile laurent is built to be in a gillian flynn or [insert more niche thriller authors i enjoy] novel.
all that is to say, this isn't damen's mind anymore, and we know it from the first few sentences of the chapter. if this chapter was being experienced by damen instead, i think the opening would go something like this: "damen woke to the sensation of restriction and immediately fought against his restraints. he was not able to free himself. he also realized, in his attempt and failure to free himself, that his shoulder was dislocated."
it seems like a minor difference, and maybe it is. but i find it fun to contrast the narrative perspectives of these two fascinating characters, and i like making my own observations and conclusions. i started my annotations back in books 1 and 2 with mostly inductive reasoning, making theories from my observations, but farther into book 2 and definitely in book 3 i can now use deductive reasoning to draw conclusions about characters and events using pre-existing theories. if i'm wrong, i adjust the theory, and that adjusted theory becomes the basis through which i interpret future events. and so on. the two types of thought work beautifully together, and ideally we should all be able to use both. that's part of why damen and laurent are able to help each other grow so much as people and leaders—they're balancing each other out by mutual exposure to opposing ways of thinking.
also, another little note on this specific passage: i love laurent's snarky dismissive attitude towards his own pain, and the hint of dissociation from his physical form. i would guess that laurent thinks in a similar way about pleasurable physical sensations, too: "something was inconveniently and distractingly happening with his body. he was aroused." fuckin weirdo <3
As his lashes fluttered and his body stirred, he became hazily aware of a stale odour, and a chilled temperature that suggested that he was underground. His intellect made increasing sense of this: there had been an ambush, he was underground, and since his body didn’t feel as if it had been transported for days, that meant—
He opened his eyes and met the flat-nosed stare of Govart.
i love when i predict/analyze something in detail and then it’s immediately proven correct by the following lines. laurent going on this whole inductive mind journey before realizing that govart is LITERALLY IN HIS FACE is sooooo laurent, and so NOT damen. like forget what i said before, if this was damen's pov, the chapter would simply start with "govart stared at damen."
again, this is a great way to immediately let the reader know that things are going to be different from this pov. yes yes yes yes
Panic spiked his pulse, an involuntary reaction, his blood beating against the inside of his skin like it was trapped. Very carefully, he made himself do nothing.
yeah i have a feeling the sex scenes from laurent’s pov would read a lot like this too
The cell itself was about twelve feet square, and had an entrance of bars but no windows. Beyond the door there was a flickering stone passageway. The flickering came from a torch on that side of the bars, not from the fact that he had been hit over the head. There was nothing inside the cell except the chair he was tied to.
he’s just like me fr, both in real life and how i figure things out while writing/playing d&d (“what are the environmental features, and what do they imply?” “what items can be used, and how?” etc.)
He was hit by the memory of what had happened to his men, and put that, with effort, out of his mind.
cool laurent fact #2: it takes effort for him to put aside his concern for the well-being of people he cares about. this is not what most people would assume, based on how he acts and speaks
He understood that he faced his death, before which would come a long, painful interval.
observation: he’s in a prison cell with govart specifically
conclusion: he’s going to be killed, but also tortured for a whiiiiile first because govart hates him so bad
maybe that's redundant, but i just appreciate how his pov really is written like an analysis within itself. it's great. he's an observer of his own story, as well as a participant. damen doesn't usually think from such a detached angle
A ludicrous boyish hope flared that someone would come to help him, and, carefully, he extinguished it.
cool laurent fact #3: sometimes, he hopes. it takes effort for him to extinguish hope within himself (“carefully”), but he believes that doing so is necessary in order to assess circumstances like a rational adult. but still, he does hope.
in just this one sentence, we are told so much. we now know that laurent believes that hope is inherently irrational and childish, which absolutely tracks with the other things we know about his character. we can see it in his choices throughout the series so far, and we can understand exactly why he believes this based on his backstory.
Since the age of thirteen, there had been no rescuer, for his brother was dead.
as i was saying, about laurent's backstory,
also. damen exists. he literally threw a sword at a guy trying to kill you in the last book. laurent you are so smart and you are so stupid and i can’t imagine your pov being written any other way
He wondered if it was going to be possible to salvage some dignity in this situation, and cancelled that thought as soon as it came. This was not going to be dignified.
in almost every instance where someone has been given the opportunity to assault or objectify laurent in a sexual context, they’ve taken it. damen is basically the only living exception.
deduction: laurent cannot get out of this situation without being assaulted, so there's no point in trying to salvage his dignity
BUT like, unless i am completely missing something entirely between the lines, govart doesn't even attempt to sexually assault laurent in this scene. maybe that's not what laurent means here, in terms of dignity? curious what people think about this. because like on first read especially, my immediate thought when this scene started was "oh fuck am i going to have to sit through a scene of laurent being sexually assaulted", since everyone (including govart) talks so much about wanting a piece of him. so i guess it's like, was laurent thinking about that here, or was it just me? curious what others think too
also "cancelled that thought" is just slightly anachronistic, and PERFECT. love it.
He thought that if things got very bad, it was within his capabilities to precipitate the end. Govart would not be difficult to provoke into lethal violence. At all.
“if i’m going to die, i’d rather be in control of the dying. and i know i could totally piss this dude off into killing me before he means to do so, and then i would technically win. ha-ha.”
i love the slight hint of childish antagonism here, with the “at all.” like laurent needs to take the moment to roast govart in his own head, while considering the logistics of his own imminent death. it is so funny to me that we finally get this scene, where laurent gets to be in the genre he's been living for the past two books, but no one actually relevant to the story gets to witness it for themselves. laurent is moonlighting in this scene as a character in a book that isn't this book at all. he's taking a break from the romance and realism-based war strategy shit to be an out-of-his-depths thriller protagonist taking on antagonists that should absolutely be able to defeat him immediately, but somehow managing to survive by absurd unconventional means AND being snarky about it. damen has seen hints of this side of laurent, and paid attention, and so have we as the reader. but this is just… full-intensity. the narrative is allowing him to have it, and allowing us to see him have it. it’s like we’ve been only watching the a-plots of phineas and ferb episodes the whole time, and assumed that perry is probably doing some cool stuff in the b-plot, and gotten a few glimpses via dramatic irony… but now we actually get to see the perry b-plot, and it's fucking awesome. but the a-plot cast will still never know.
The chair, made of heavy oak, appeared to have been dragged in for his benefit, which was civilised or sinister, depending on how one looked at it.
yeah this is the internal monologue of a person who grew up reading books more than talking to people. just being witty in the prose of his own brain for funsies
He thought that Auguste would not be afraid, being alone and vulnerable to a man who planned to kill him; it should not trouble his younger brother.
of course there’s the damen of it all, but i also like how this sentence suggests just how often laurent really does think about auguste. looking back at past scenes and imagining laurent having auguste constantly on the mind really adds a new dimension of tragedy to his existence, and further depth to his initially hateful and eventually conflicting feelings for damen. we could have assumed this without seeing laurent's pov, but it's nice to see hints in the text.
It was harder to let go of the battle, to leave his plans at their midway point, to accept that the deadline had come and gone, and that whatever now happened on the border, he would not be a part of it.
yeah forget about my entire breakdown last chapter bc i didn’t want to assume laurent meant to be there and end up disappointed. he meant to be there. good job laurent
The Akielon slave would (of course) assume treachery on the part of the Veretian forces, after which he would launch some sort of noble and suicidal attack at Charcy that he would probably win, against ridiculous odds.
1) laurent refusing to use damen’s name in HIS OWN HEAD is so fucking funny
2) “(of course)” cool laurent fact #3: he thinks everyone is probably going to assume the worst of him the majority of the time, including damen. cool laurent fact #4: he thinks in parentheticals, which makes sense
3) i like how in the same sentence where laurent is trying to distance himself from damen with the name thing, he also admits that 1) he knows damen is a good and noble enough person to fight, and 2) he (laurent) knows that damen is going to win, and is therefore not overly concerned. which means he would be concerned if he thought damen couldn’t win. probably for the best tbh laurent has a lot on his plate already
4) talk about ridiculous odds, laurent, you literally kill someone with a chair in this chapter
One on one: he must think about what he could practically achieve.
me trying to do The Tasks with adhd
Fighting free of his bonds at this moment would accomplish, precisely, nothing. He told himself that: once; then again, to quell a deep, basic urge to struggle.
i like how this is put. i can imagine laurent talking to himself in his head throughout a lot of the series. he separates his base human urges from his rational mind and then uses the latter to placate the former. as long as he can manage to keep reason in control of emotion, this is effective. but when he can’t manage it… lol
also “accomplish, precisely, nothing” is great. he didn’t need to throw the “precisely” in there, it probably just made him feel wittier. even inside his own head to an audience of himself (that he knows of), laurent has to quip
‘We’re alone,’ Govart said. ‘Just you and me. Look around. Take a good look. There’s no way out. Not even I have a key. They come to open the cell when I’m done with you. What do you have to say to that?’
‘How’s your shoulder?’ said Laurent.
i don’t want to be redundant, but i really am just delighted by this genre dissonance. i’m trying to read more of the romance genre, that's what brought me to capri, but THIS is the shit i'm used to.
The blow rocked him back. When he lifted his head, he enjoyed the look he had provoked on Govart’s face, as he had enjoyed, for the same reason—if a bit masochistically—the blow.
cool laurent fact #5: if the bit is good enough he’ll take the subsequent pain. hell, he’ll even enjoy it
god i want to read a thriller novel with laurent as the protagonist SO BAD. i think if pacat ever writes capri again she should do that, and have damen like. kidnapped. it’s not indulgent romance fluff like summer palace, it’s laurent doing badass chaotic hero shit trying to find his fucking wife
He forced himself to keep his voice steady.
i wonder how many times he thought this throughout the series. probably many
‘I think you have one piece of leverage over a very powerful man. I think whatever it is you have on him, it’s not going to last forever.’
context, as i recall: govart knows that the regent had his brother killed, i think? and he has the evidence to substantiate that claim if it was ever made. laurent pieces this together with guion, somehow, offscreen at the end of this chapter. or maybe he finds out later from loyse? but i feel like laurent is more proactive than that
‘Want me to tell you why you’re here? Because I asked him for you. He gives me what I want. He gives me whatever I want. Even his untouchable nephew.’
again, i'm kinda shocked that govart doesn’t actually try to do anything sexual with laurent here. i mean i'm glad that he doesn't, but also this quote makes it sound like that’s why govart asked in the first place. maybe it was just for violent revenge though, and humiliation?
also, like, how exactly did laurent get here? sounds like his forces were expected and overpowered at the fort, right? and he just kinda… got handed off to govart, under the regent’s blessing and guion’s supervision?
'At some point one of us will dispatch the other.’
He made himself speak without undue emotion, just a mild remark on the facts.
probably not surviving this, nbd (but still actively putting effort into regulating his emotions so he can survive)
digging into this more: i personally have this thing where my response to seemingly insurmountable odds, especially emotional ones, tends to be “once i’ve survived this, how will i explain how i did it?”
this whole approach is demonstrated really well in the masterpiece of a doctor who episode “heaven sent." it's first and foremost a meditation on persistence and grief, which are two themes very relevant to laurent's overall story. laurent’s approach to withstanding torture in this chapter, as well as his manner of survival after auguste's death, remind me a lot of "heaven sent" and my own personal methodology. fuck it, here are some laurent-coded "heaven sent" quotes, as a treat:
"The first rule of being interrogated is that you are the only irreplaceable person in the torture chamber. The room is yours, so work it. If they're going to threaten you with death, show them who's boss. Die faster."
"Rule one of dying: don’t. Rule two: slow down. You’ve got the rest of your life. The faster you think, the slower it will pass. Concentrate. Assume you’re going to survive. Always assume that. Imagine you’ve already survived. There’s a storeroom in your mind. Lock the door and think. This is my storeroom. I always imagine that I’m [here]… showing off. Telling you how I escaped—making you laugh. That’s what I’m doing right now. I am falling. I’m dying. And I’m going to explain to you how I survived. Can’t wait to hear what I say."
"I'm going to get out of here and find whoever put me here in the first place. And whatever they're trying to do, I'm going to stop it. Which might take a little while, so do you want me to tell you a story? The Brothers Grimm… according to them, there was this emperor, and he asks this shepherd's boy, ‘How many seconds in eternity?’ And the shepherd's boy says, "There's this mountain of pure diamond. It takes an hour to climb it, and an hour to go around it. Every hundred years, a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on the diamond mountain. And when the entire mountain is chiseled away, the first second of eternity will have passed!’ You must think that's a hell of a long time… personally, I think that's a hell of a bird."
it's the small victories, right? laurent can't exactly conceive of an eternity of grief like the endlessly-regenerating doctor, but those seven long years without auguste in vere must have felt like a torture chamber of their own. and, of course, there's this actual torture chamber, which laurent escapes thanks to his insane reckless persistence. what i mean to say is, laurent of vere is a hell of a bird :) i'm glad we get to spend some time in his head.
'If you kill me, whatever it is that you have on him isn’t going to matter. It will just be you and him, and he’ll be free to disappear you into a dark cell too.’
Govart smiled, slowly.
‘He said you’d say that.’
girl that doesn’t make it untrue are you stupid (yes)
‘He said, “The only way to make sure my nephew doesn’t talk his way free is to cut his tongue out.”’ As he spoke, Govart pulled out a knife.
The room around Laurent greyed; his whole attention narrowed, his thoughts attenuating.
yeah, this WOULD be the thing that scares him most. last time when he was gagged, it was technically part of his plan. this would be basically a death sentence, because laurent knows that his words are what keep him alive
‘Except that you want to hear it,’ said Laurent, because this was only beginning, and it was a long, winding, bloody road till the end. ‘You want to hear all of it. Every last broken syllable. It’s the one thing my uncle never understood about you.’
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘You always wanted to be on the other side of the door,’ said Laurent. ‘And now you are.’
“you are a messy bitch who lives for drama. and i AM the drama.”
basically, laurent buys himself more time 1) being alive and 2) keeping his tongue by essentially volunteering to have information tortured out of him. this is actually a pretty classic laurent move—remember all the way back in book 1 annotations, when i brought up this quote from sharp objects by gillian flynn?
"Sometimes if you let people do things to you, you’re really doing it to them… know what I mean? If someone wants to do fucked-up things to you, and you let them, you’re making them more fucked up. Then you have the control. As long as you don’t go crazy."
By the end of the first hour (though it felt longer), he was in quite a lot of pain, and was losing touch with how much, if at all, he was delaying or controlling what was happening.
you know for all of laurent’s comments about damen valuing honor and fair play and Doing The Right Thing, he really has no idea that damen would see this happening and immediately murder everyone involved in getting laurent into this situation
His tongue was intact, because the knife was in his shoulder. He had accounted that a victory, when it had happened.
You had to take pleasure in small victories. The hilt of the knife protruded at an odd angle. It was in his right shoulder, already dislocated, so that breathing was now painful. Victories.
love this use of a previous laurent-ism. god he’s made for this kind of situation why is this man in a romance novel (i’m happy he’s in a romance novel if that’s not clear, he shouldn’t have to be in these situations even if it’s entertaining and compelling and badass. being loved is harder for laurent to process than being tortured and that means he’s in the right genre to truly challenge his character into growth and catharsis)
He had come this far, he had caused his uncle some small consternation, had checked him, once or twice, forced him to remake his plans. Had not made it easy.
these sound an awful lot like dying words. the fact that this is the consolation prize laurent gives himself upon imminent death—that he’s won against his uncle a few times—almost feels like a subversion of a heroic martyr. i’m not big on martyrdom, so i almost think it’s more satisfying for laurent to die telling himself he’s Won against someone who’s hurt him, than telling himself he’s dying to save people who love him and still want him around. admittedly he does have that kind of martyr moment later, when he hands himself over at the end of book 3, but... does he even fully mean to die then? i know he has loyse’s testimony in his back pocket. is his intention still to survive, even then, or is he just satisfied that loyse could potentially bring down the regent once he's gone? idk, it just doesn't feel quite right for laurent just to give up his life completely, even if that's how damen interprets it. even then, i think he'd still have the intention to somehow survive, or at least Win against his enemies. laurent isn’t dying for anyone’s sins—if he’s going to die, he’s taking the sinners down with him, and probably counts himself among them.
i'll make sure to revisit this when the time comes.
His only advantage was that he had managed to free his left hand from its bonds.
personal tangent but this reminds me of the time my level 1 sorcerer was arrested in dungeons and dragons and she shoved her hand up her sleeve and replaced it with a mage hand, so it looked like she was handcuffed for her trial but actually wasn’t. and then she used the real hand to flip off the council running the trial and escape. she and laurent would get along
Because it was impossible to hear anything, he reasoned—or had reasoned, when more detached—that whoever had put him in here with Govart would return with a wheelbarrow and sack to take him out, and that this would happen at a prearranged time, since there was no way for Govart to signal. He therefore had a single goal, like moving towards a retreating mirage: to reach that point alive.
not him waiting for his corpse uber… and someone pushing the wheelbarrow who he can turn against govart. i like how laurent seems to have already made this plan, but this is the first time we hear of it. even in his pov we aren’t getting every single thing in his head
Guion’s voice. ‘This is taking too long.’
BOOOO TOMATO TOMATO
His voice was a little hoarser than it had been starting out; his response to pain had been conventional.
“his response to pain had been conventional” god he is so fucking funny.
laurent, rolling his eyes as he swirls the glass of water he’s using to swallow the maximum safe dose of ibuprofen: “my physical human reaction to torture is just so… banal”
Laurent closed his eyes, wrapped his unsteady left hand around the hilt, and pulled the knife out of his shoulder.
i’m listening to an instrumental music playlist right now and an acoustic cover of lady gaga and ariana grande’s “rain on me” came on the second laurent ripped out the knife
The hilt of the knife was slippery.
love how this doesn’t say “with blood,” because it doesn’t have to. also i took a quick break from reading and now there is an instrumental cover of “death of a bachelor” by panic! at the disco playing, which is rather appropriate for this scene
As, with his ruined right arm, Laurent swung the chair.
The heavy oak hit Govart in the ear, with the sound of a mallet striking a wooden ball. Govart staggered and went down.
LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Laurent focused all his remaining strength on the task of reaching the barred door and placing himself on the other side of it, dragging it closed behind him and turning the key that was still in the lock. Govart didn’t get up.
laurent, facing certain death and defeat, used the chair he had been tied to and tortured in to murder and imprison his two captors respectively. kind of a shame he doesn’t end up killing the regent with a bed for similar poetic justice (not really, i think the regent’s death is perfect)
In the stillness that followed, Laurent found his way from the bars, to the open corridor, to the opposite wall, which he slid down, finding at the midway point that there was a wooden bench, which took his weight. He had expected the floor.
i love this image so much—wait is this. it is. ladies and gentlemen and others, this is LAURENT LEAN #12!!!!
He did laugh then, a breathless sound, with the sweet, cool feel of the stone at his back. His head lolled.
snarky action hero laurent i love you so very much. sorry about the torture tho
‘Guion,’ said Laurent, without opening his eyes. ‘You had me tied up and locked in a room with Govart. Do you think name-calling will hurt my feelings?’
see previous comment
‘Let me out!’ The words ricocheted off the walls.
‘I tried that,’ said Laurent, calmly.
Guion said, ‘I’ll give you anything you want.’
‘I tried that too,’ said Laurent. ‘I don’t like to think of myself as predictable. But apparently I cycle through all the usual responses. Shall I tell you what you’re going to do when I stick the knife in for the first time?’
it took me a second to understand what’s being said here. i got briefly stuck on “i tried that,” but looking back on previous dialogue and the rest of what laurent says here, i think it’s something like this:
guion: let me out
laurent: yeah i asked for that too when faced with imprisonment and torture
guion: i’ll give you what you want
laurent: i also tried that. damn if you’re saying all the same stuff i did, maybe i’m more of a basic bitch than i thought. well hey if we’re the same i can tell you how you’ll react when i torture you, just how i reacted when govart tortured me (i am threatening you)
‘You know, I wanted a weapon,’ said Laurent. ‘I wasn’t expecting one to walk into my cell.’
okay now he’s just congratulating himself. earned
‘You’re a dead man when you walk out of here. Your Akielon allies aren’t going to help you. You left them to die like rats in a trap at Charcy. They’ll hunt you down,’ said Guion, ‘and kill you.’
‘Yes, I’m aware that I have missed my rendezvous,’ said Laurent.
every line he says is a banger. this is the verbal equivalent of wearing sunglasses and walking away from an explosion
‘There was a man I was supposed to meet. He’s got all these ideas about honour and fair play, and he tries to keep me from doing the wrong thing. But he’s not here right now. Unfortunately for you.’
THIS LINE FUCKS
and i love that this is how he regards damen. i love that he calls him a man, and not a slave. i love that it's "he TRIES to keep me from doing the wrong thing," because laurent would never give damen the satisfaction of completely taking control (except during sex, but we'll talk about that later). overall, i love how the entire phrasing is just the tiniest bit admiring and endeared, even though laurent is simultaneously insulting damen's integrity (a quality that we know DAMN WELL laurent admires deeply).
and hey!! cool laurent fact #6: he is totally aware of how down bad damen is, and the way damen has willingly taken the role of his (laurent’s) evil impulse control. and laurent doesn’t seem to particularly hate that, or even resist it, at this point in the series. this makes early to mid book 3 even funnier, in which laurent antagonizes damen and his friends (mostly nik) cartoonishly while KNOWING that damen honors him and feels guilty for lying, so therefore tolerates and even defends laurent's petty bullshit at his own and also nik's expense. just because damen cares about fair play, doesn't mean that his ideas about fairness are like… rational. or sane. and laurent knows that damen's thoughts upon his return and dramatic reveal are probably going to be along the lines of "i lied to laurent and also i murdered his brother, so it's technically not wrong for him to lash out."
i'm looking forward to the future of their dynamic, without those giant lies and power imbalances between them. i don't even mind the
"angst" of laurent being a petty bitch in the next few chapters, because we know he's being a stubborn idiot and it can only last so long before he breaks, and he doesn't have power over damen to actually abuse. while laurent previously held socially-reinforced authority over damen, they're about to find themselves on even footing. therefore it IS fair play for them to be freaks to each other, and i think a part of laurent is looking forward to that too. like he'll probably figure out his shit with damen, maybe, eventually. he knows damen will try his best to make laurent do the right thing, and laurent will most likely let him win. but he is also going to be a dramatic bitch about it first. as long as he survives.
needless to say, guion does not stand a chance.
‘Isn’t there? I wonder how my uncle is going to react when he finds out that you killed Govart and helped me to escape.’ And then, in the same dreamy voice, ‘Do you think he’ll hurt your family?’
Guion’s hands were fists, like he still had them wrapped around bars. ‘I didn’t help you escape.’
‘Didn’t you? I don’t know how these rumours get started.’
>:)
Laurent regarded him through the bars. He was aware of the return of his critical faculties, in place of which up to now had been the tenacious adherence to a single idea.
‘Here’s what has become painfully clear. My uncle instructed that if you captured me, you were to let Govart have me, which was a tactical blunder, but my uncle had his hands tied, thanks to his private arrangement with Govart. Or maybe he just liked the idea. You agreed to do his bidding.
‘Torturing the heir to death wasn’t an act you wanted attached to your own name, however. I’m not certain why. I can only surmise, despite a truly staggering array of evidence to the contrary, that there is still some rationality left on the Council. I was put in an empty set of cells, and you came with the key yourself, because no one else knows I’m here.’
Pressing his left hand to his shoulder, he pushed away from the wall and came forward. Guion, inside the cell, was breathing shallowly.
‘No one knows I’m here. Which means no one knows you’re here. No one’s going to look, no one’s going to come, no one’s going to find you.’
His voice was steady as he held Guion’s gaze through the bars.
‘No one’s going to help your family when my uncle comes, all smiles.’
He could see Guion’s pinched expression, the tightness in his jaw and around his eyes. He waited. It came in a different voice, with a different expression, flatly.
‘What do you want?’ said Guion.
1) the complex inductive reasoning is back! laurent is going to be just fine
2) laurent just unpacked guion’s plan exactly how i’ve been attempting to unpack laurent’s bullshit in my annotations for the past 2+ books. except mine are much more bewildered, and oftten inaccurate. but that's all a part of the fun. i appreciate the small victories of occasionally getting it right ;)
61 notes
·
View notes