#wiktor vasiliev

[niennandil-me-writes]

Goretober 6: Injection

cn: drugs/nonconsensual drugging, abuse, blackmail, syringes

The pains were flaring up. It had been over a week since Martin got his last dose of Trust, so he was already expecting it when Wiktor opened the door to his cell, a metal suitcase in hand.

“I need you on a mission.”

Martin had spent the last days telling himself he wouldn’t give in this time. He shook his head, staring down at his hands. The vertical cuts running down his forearms were inflamed again, but he couldn’t even feel it beneath the effects of the Trust. It felt like every single one of his cells were being torn apart, rearranged wrong and then welded together with flames. In a way, it felt a lot like guilt.

Wiktor sighed, annoyed. “You have an hour to think better of it. That’s the latest we can start this. After that, well, I don’t know when you’ll next have the opportunity.”

Like on command, a strong surge went through Martin’s body, a particularly nasty flare that made him topple over and twist on the floor. He forced back a scream. Blood filled his mouth from biting his tongue.

Even if he could last an hour, what would happen after that? Martin had denied Wiktor once, hoping that the withdrawal would kill him or at least render him unconscious. But Trust was binding, not freeing, and he’d been awake through all the pain. That had been months ago, though, and as his body had gotten more addicted to the drug, the withdrawal pains had become worse and worse. An hour of this would make him lose his mind. After that? Last time he had thought about begging for the dose, or at least another chance to earn it, and only barely had he been able to keep his dignity until Wiktor had come to him with another offer for a mission.

Sobbing, Martin nodded, pain rendering him mute.

A rare smirk spread on Wiktor’s lips and disappeared just as quickly, as he set down the metal case on the floor and opened it. He laid out a couple of printed pictures, a glass bottle, and a small purple rock on the floor, before he finally took out the syringe, which he proceeded to plunge into Martin’s neck.

Immediately, the pain started to dull, and then dissipated. Soon it would all be gone, at least for a while. Comfortable warmth replaced the burning heat. Martin sighed in relief.

“You’ll get the second dose once we’re in A/78-Zeta.” Wiktor typed something on his minicalc, and the shackles around Martin’s arms detached from the wall.

Martin wiped the tears from his eyes and directed his attention at the pictures in front of him. They showed a world draped in pink-and-blue clouds, with islands floating in the air, and one showed a temple made of crystal. He picked up the rock, felt it in his hand, smelled the contents of the bottle. He focused on the sensations and electricity surged through his arms, bringing a new kind of pain as the machines inside his festering flesh started working.

As he lifted his arms to open the portal, Martin couldn’t help but wonder if in some parallel world things had gone better for him. If there was still a Martin who wasn’t miserable.