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imjustthemechanic · 3 years

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The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan Part 17/? - A Miracle Part 18/? - A Matter of Circumstance Part 19/? - Nome Part 20/? - The Future Part 21/? - A Hero’s Welcome Part 22/? - Up to Speed Part 23/? - Expect Further Delays Part 24/? - The Welcome Wagon Part 25/? - Fugitives Part 26/? - A Reluctant Accomplice Part 27/? - Deja Vu Part 28/? - Interview with a Madwoman

Hey, check it out, I’m still alive.

Peggy knew she couldn’t spend all her time moaning over the romantic dilemma life had presented her with. She let herself dwell on it for a moment, then forced her mind on to more practical matters. By the time they returned to the farmhouse, she’d decided how she wanted to approach this interrogation.

“I think you should talk to her first,” she told Kay. “While I’m out of sight.”

“You’re the one who knows her,” Kay protested.

“Yes, but she’s expecting me,” Peggy reminded her. “If we start with you, it’ll catch her off guard.” She did not want Dottie to think she was in a position to make demands.

Kay nodded slowly. “All right, you go down by the hood. I’ll open the back.”

The back boot opened with a creak. Peggy could immediately smell ammonia. At some point during the night, Dottie had needed to relieve herself and had been either unwilling or unable to hold it in. Peggy probably ought to have felt sorry for her, but after all Dottie had put her through, it was hard.

There was a silence that was just a bit too long to be the moment in which Kay pulled the tape off Dottie’s mouth, and Peggy found it rather reassuring that the woman could still be taken by surprise.

“Dobroye utro,” said Kay. That meant good morning. “Olga Barynova.”

“Kto ty?” asked Dottie. Who are you? Her voice was level and measured, deliberately toneless.

“I’m you, but smarter,” Kay replied in English. “You didn’t read the message. You didn’t think you needed to, because you already know everything. Surprise!”

There was another silence, as Dottie re-assessed the situation. Peggy wondered what was going on in her head.

“You won’t take me back,” Dottie said. “You’ll have to kill me.”

“You didn’t read the message,” Kay repeated. “Do you want to know what it said, or are you just going to lie there in a puddle of your own piss trying to pretend you know what you’re talking about?”

Peggy really did rather wish she could see the expression on Dottie’s face. It was probably well worth seeing.

“What did the message say?” asked Dottie.

“That I have no intention of turning you back over to them,” Kay reassured her. “I want you and I to go back together, and we’re gonna burn the place down.”

Dottie laughed. “That’s exactly what you would say if you were here to drag me back, because it’s exactly what I would say to you if our positions were reversed.”

“You don’t trust me?” asked Kay. “You sure do seem to trust Peggy Carter, and I’m pretty sure she wants to see you rot in jail for the rest of your life.”

“Peggy thinks she’s one of the good guys,” Dottie snorted. “She keeps her promises even when they’re stupid. If you’re anything like me, you don’t know what a promise is.”

Peggy decided that was her cue. She came and stepped into Dottie’s field of view. It had clearly been a rough night for Dottie in the trunk of the car. She’d evidently struggled quite a bit, trying to loosen the tape, and had not succeeded. There were red marks on the visible skin of her arms and legs where it had dug into her flesh. Her hair was in disarray. She did look momentarily surprised when Peggy came into view, but hid it quickly.

“Peggy, Peggy, Peggy,” she said, clucking her tongue “You of all people should know better than to partner up with one of us. We’re bad news.”

“I decided I needed some expert advice,” Peggy replied. “Despite what Chief Thompson thinks, I am not nearly deranged enough to think like you do.”

“I’m not deranged,” said Dottie. “I know exactly what I’m doing. You just can’t believe that because it doesn’t align with your goals.”

“You want revenge,” said Kay. “You want to get back into the USSR un-noticed and destroy the people who made you. You don’t want another little girl to ever become what you are.”

“I’m not that altruistic,” Dottie replied. “I was seven years old when they put me and my best friend in a ring together and told us that only one could leave. I just want them to suffer.” She smiled tranquilly.

“So do I,” Kay promised.

“I don’t believe you,” Dottie told her flatly. “What’s in this for you, Peggy? Or are you the altruistic one?”

Peggy decided on the truth. “Kay has informed me that one of Captain America’s men is a prisoner in the USSR,” she said. “I want to help rescue him.”

“Aw, you’re doing it for love,” said Dottie. “That’s cute. So what makes you think I have any idea where to find him?”

“Because the same place that made us is also working on him,” said Kay. “He’s part of the Winter Soldier program.”

“And you don’t know where to find that?” Dottie asked suspiciously.

“My information is out of date,” Kay replied.

“I promise,” said Peggy. “I will not return you to your masters. I’m not sure what I am going to do with you, but I know to give you back to them would mean your death.”

“Oh, no,” Dottie shook her head. “It would be way worse than that.”

“I will rescue Sergeant Barnes, and you two may do what you wish with this Red Room and the people in it,” Peggy said. “But I promise that when I leave Russia again, I will take you with me.”

“What happens if I refuse?” asked Dottie. “Are you going to send me back to jail to have you hanged for treason, Peggy? I know you’re not going to kill me… that’s not your style.”

“No, but it’s mine,” said Kay. “And I doubt she’ll shed a single tear.” She took out a pocket knife. “I know you’re thinking of how you’re going to run away, or how you’re going to betray us both, but keep in mind. I know all your moves. I know all your hiding places. There is nothing you can do, and nowhere you can go, that I cannot anticipate. Do you understand?”

“Oh, yes,” Dottie said. “I understand perfectly.”

“Do you agree, then? You will help Peggy to find Sergeant Barnes, and in return I will help you to destroy the Red Room?”

“Absolutely,” said Dottie.

Peggy knew they couldn’t trust her, and realized she was counting on Kay to make sure they could keep Dottie under control. Kay had asked Peggy to trust her, hadn’t she? Now there was no choice. Was there a chance this still might turn around? That Kay might turn out to be the enemy after all?

It didn’t matter. Peggy was already in this too deep. Sunk Cost might have been a fallacy, but when the cost involved was one’s freedom and reputation, there wasn’t much to be done.

“It’s a deal, then,” said Kay, and started cutting the tape off Dottie.

“So,” said Dottie, entirely too casual. “It’s Kay, is it?”

“It is,” said Kay. “And what are you calling yourself these days, Olga?”

“Not Olga,” Dottie replied. “Olga Barynova died years ago. I like the name Peggy uses for me. After all, I am quite dotty, and I tend to do things under the table.” She looked at Peggy and smiled.

Peggy did not smile back.

“Then that’s what we’ll call you,” said Kay. She finished cutting the tape, and began peeling it off. “You’re hungry and dehydrated after being in that trunk all night. Come inside and we’ll give you something to eat.” They’d saved some of their own breakfast for her. “And you can tell us everything you know about the Winter Soldiers.”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Dottie wagged a finger. “I’m not stupid. I’m not telling you anything until you’ve held up your end of the bargain. When we’re in Russia and haven’t been caught, then I’ll tell you where we’re going.”

Peggy would have protested, but Kay just shrugged. “That sounds fair,” she said.

“And how are we supposed to know what part of Russia we’re going to?” asked Peggy.

“That I can tell you after breakfast,” Dottie said. “Don’t worry about money, I’ve got some stashed away for the occasion. Now where’s that food. I’m starving.”

The two women sat and watched Dottie eat her breakfast, and Peggy’s misgivings only increased. Talking to Dottie had reminded her rather sharply that Kay was a master manipulator… she’d manipulated Peggy when Kay had been the one in prison, and now she’d managed to play Dottie, too, something Peggy would have thought was next to impossible. Now it was her, of all people, whom Peggy had to trust with her life, because the only alternatives were jail or Dottie.

Somewhere along the line she’d made a terrible mistake. In fact, the longer this went on, the more Peggy was sure the whole thing had been a series of terrible mistakes, right back to…

… well, no. Not staying in New York wasn’t a mistake, because if she’d done that, Steve would still be frozen in the arctic ice right now. And anything she’d done after that… no, there was really no point at which she could have extracted herself from this and not gotten in trouble for it. Not unless she was willing to admit that getting Steve back at all was a mistake, and she couldn’t possibly say that. Or could she? When Kay had told her outright that this wasn’t how history was ‘supposed’ to go, maybe it was a mistake.

It didn’t matter now, did it? The future was already changed, and they couldn’t go back and fix it.

Dottie devoured the breakfast they’d set out for her without the slightest thought of table manners, stuffing so much in her mouth that Peggy was afraid she’d choke. Once she’d satisfied her hunger, she asked for some twigs from the woods. Peggy sat with her while Kay brought back an armful they’d already gathered up, intending to use them as kindling. Dottie selected the ones she liked the shapes of, and arranged them into a map of the USSR.

“We won’t get in from the west,” she said. “They watch that too closely. To go from the east, we’d have to pass over Chinese airspace and that’s just as risky. From the south we’ve got the Himalayas blocking the way, and I don’t think any of us are crazy enough to try to go from the north. Not even me.” Dottie glanced up at her companions and smiled as if this were a very funny joke.

Peggy did not smile back, but Kay chuckled a little.

“The way in,” Dottie went on, “is through Turkey. The area is mountainous and difficult to patrol, but the locals know their way around I have some things prepared. It’ll be a long hike, but we can take the train from Tbilisi to Stalingrad…”

“Volgograd,” said Kay under her breath.

“… and from there, I’ll tell you where we’re going next,” said Dottie.

“Mm-hm,” said Peggy. It seemed straightforward enough, though Dottie was right – it would be a very long walk through some hostile terrain. “You said we’ll need that money you mentioned… where have you got that squirreled away?”

“Nevada,” said Dottie. “Joseph’s hanging on to it for me.”

The first Joseph Peggy thought of who might have anything to do with Dottie Underwood was Josef Stalin, but that could not possibly be right. “Who is Joseph?”

“Joseph Strieber.”

It took a moment for Peggy to remember who that was, and then it seemed almost as unlikely as Stalin – perhaps more so. “The Governor of Nevada?” she asked. “He’s the one who wants you caught! The mafia is breathing down his neck after you robbed the Toucan Hotel!”

“Plausible deniability,” said Dottie. “If he’s the one shouting that I need to be in prison, the mob won’t realize that he’s the one who let me into the Toucan at their grand opening. I was his date for the evening.” She smiled. “And now I can make him do anything I want.”

“So we’re going to Carson City,” said Kay.

Peggy thought she’d better make sure Governor Strieber didn’t get a look at her during this visit… she had enough problems right now without a desperate politician getting any leverage over her. “Then we need to catch up with Steve,” she added.

“Steve?” Dottie cocked her head and smiled. “We’re taking Captain America with us?”

“It’s his friend we’re rescuing,” said Peggy.

“Well, if you’d told me that from the beginning, I might have agreed to help without all the threats!” said Dottie, delighted. “He’s a dish, isn’t he?”

“So people say,” Peggy said. People who’d never met Steve, and didn’t realize that he was so much more than that. But she had another worry now, she realized… Dottie liked to know people’s weaknesses, and now she already knew what Peggy’s was.

#fanfic #captain america #agent carter #peggy carter #steve rogers #steggy #fix it fic

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tolkienhorror · 3 years

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In Sauron’s Lab: File #5

Another oneshot about one of Sauron’s torture methods.

Warnings: Abuse, torture, non-con, flaying, public humiliation, cannibalism, medical torture.

Please note: This was created on a tumblr prompt given on my main blog. Prompt: Fingon/Sauron, Audience, Crying, Collaring, Public humiliation

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I asked for a King to replace the one you lost, Lieutenant, and all you bring me is this, Morgoth had told Sauron when the orcs had dragged Findekáno into the throne room of the enemy’s base.

You have a week to break him, the Dark Lord had told his minion, interrupting Sauron’s almost nervous sounding explanations about how very useful the son of the new High King would be in their hands for their cause, black eyes uncaring, greyish skin glowing like the destructive flash of lightning in the shine of the Silmarils wrongly crowning that terrible, hollowed face. You make him kneel for me, or you can go right back to that mountain I pried you and feed another of your bodies to the crows.

Then they’d taken him away, and Findekáno remembered wondering if it would even take him a week at the mercy of someone who’d long given up on all empathy along with his sane mind, only to serve this monster who didn’t even bother caring about him in the presence of a prisoner, before he would wish for death. For a quick end, rather than clinging to the foolish hope that someone would come to find him here.

No one would. No one even knew he was here and they wouldn't for several weeks, not before he was expected home from his journey to Himring to surprise his husband. By the time, they would start to wonder in Hithlum, it would be too late.

Maitimo would probably learn last, and even he would not come. Findekáno had made him promise, made him swear on everything safe for what would have bordered on an oath that neither of them needed another one of. More than that, Maitimo would know, better than anyone, that Findekáno had been lost the moment his escort and he had been overwhelmed with the help of countless black arrows and half a dozen of fiery whips from behind. A year, he had once told Findekáno. If you could hold on to your will to live or your sanity or both for a year of being a prisoner in Angband, you were counted among the lucky ones.

As it turned out, for Findekáno, it was two days before he started to regret that he hadn’t tried to bite through his own wrist arteries in these few minutes that he’d spent alone in a pitch-dark, moldy cell, damned to wait for whatever what was to come. And that was before anyone had even touched him.

Findekáno had no doubt that a lot of them wanted to. Two of the boldest creatures reaching out for him had died already when another of Morgoth's highest ranking Lieutenants had dragged Findekáno from his cell to lead him towards a huge hall at the end of the dungeon wing that had already echoed with the screams of more than one of his people at that point. And dozens orcs more were very clearly waiting for their chance, lurking in the corner of that torture chamber, scarred faces distorted into sneers. The scornful whispers about all that they would love to do to their most precious prisoner given half a chance were only interrupted by the occasional brawl or by the sounds of two or more of those despicable bastards starting one of their perverted, brutal mating rituals, high on watching their master use his songs and evil instruments and cruel skill on yet another elvish prisoner.

But they would not be allowed to approach. And the one person Sauron would not lay hand on, was Findekáno himself. The former maia might long be beyond a sane mind, but if there was one thing he was not, it was stupid. Very well aware of Findekáno's relationship to the prisoner that Findekáno had robbed him of under his very nose not too long ago, not least thanks to everything Sauron had seen in Maitimo's mind in decades of not only physical but also mental torture, Sauron must know that there was very little he could have threatened Findekáno with that he didn't expect. Spending night after night with talking Maitimo through his nightmares and memories had made sure of that. Repeat performances were very obviously not among the maia's twisted preferences. So he chose to confront Findekáno with the only thing he could truly hurt him with: the suffering of his own soldiers. Which would have been bad enough on its own, but it still wasn't the worst.

Findekáno would gladly have borne every pain, every humiliation if he could have saved any of his warriors by that, even if it was only by the blade to their throats. The uncertainty of what would come for exiles like them afterward was better than even an hour under the clawed hands of Morgoth's lapdog. If they'd let him, Findekáno would have taken the place of every single of the elves and she-elves he had to watch scream their lives out and yet not being allowed to die in the first days of his captivity; and that, too, was something Sauron knew, of course. The worst was that being the only choice Findekáno could not make. This was the promise he had given his husband in return. That he would not give in. That he would not trade his soul for a couple of lives that were forfeit anyway, weakening his own mind by letting the cunning spirit of the maia enter it to rip it wide open and put into it whatever Sauron thought suited to bend Findekáno to his will. They could not have him as long as he did not give himself to them, they said, Maitimo said, so he would endure. For he knew, if his mind would no longer be his own, if he would go back to his people in the fashion Morgoth doubtlessly wanted him to, no longer himself but merely a vessel … A vessel like they had had to eliminate so many who had allegedly escaped their thralldom, coming to either his father's or Maitimo's doorstep for assault rather than refuge … Then the first person they would set Findekáno to kill would be his own husband. By refusing to give his enemies this chance, therefore trading the life of the person he loved most for the one of dozens – almost a hundred, in the end – other elves, Findekáno thought, maybe he had actually sold his soul already.

A high-pitched yell, quickly cut off by the choked gurgling of blood blocking the throat it had emerged from, tore him from the useless circle of self-hate that was his mind.

"As I was saying before you so rudely started to disassociate," Sauron sighed in that honey-laced voice of his while throwing the tongue he'd just cut from his victim's mouth in a bowl nearby, "I'm starting to think, that useless husband of yours made the wrong choice, relinquishing his claim to the throne. If all people from your side of your kin are as breakable as your unit, Your Highness, the Noldor might have been better advised living even under those kinslaying, crippled hands of your lover. Or rather, the one you haven't cut off when you were too weak to break a single shackle, that is."

Findekáno still did not give the bastard the satisfaction of an answer. He hadn't addressed the maia a single time since they'd taken him and very carefully avoided even regarding that black-clad, delicate shape with more than a fleeting glance from the corner of his eyes. It was better, not staring into those flaming eyes for too long, Maitimo had used to tell him, for you never knew what might stare back at – into – you. Besides, he was too busy, trying not to throw up when his torturer yanked the head of that elf who was firmly chained to a narrow wooden table, to the side by his red-matted blond hair, catching the streams of blood from the victim's mouth in that same bowl before handing it to one of the orcs without even looking twice, leaving the delightedly screeching creatures to fight over their breakfast. Once more, Findekáno wished he could have told the elf – his captain – that it would be over soon, at least, but judging by the last three scenes of this kind he'd already had to watch, chained to a chair of metal himself in a way that left no inch of a room to try and free himself, that would have been a blatant lie.

Sauron hated being distracted by too much talk when he was working but he very much enjoyed hearing his victims scream, that was all. So this was always how he started. "Let's see if we can get a little more fight out of this one, shall we? It would be a shame if you had to do without the leader of your escort once you'll promise yourself to the Lord of this world."

The Never was on the tip of Findekáno's tongue, but it never came, and maybe not only because he refused to acknowledge the numbing poison that was Sauron's words with anything but a blank stare. It was hard, holding on to resistance when you had to watch your enemy reach for a diamond-sharp knife and put a first clean, deep cut to his newest victim's body, right around the wrist, in front of the broad shackle holding the captain's arm in place, and then start to peel off the first layers of skin inch by inch, finger by finger, more patches of flesh and skin carelessly thrown towards the drooling audience. It was a mercy, one that Findekáno shouldn't be half as thankful for as he was, that the elf's voice was soon too sore from screaming to produce more than a hoarse noises, hardly even able to drown out the mirthful whistling on Sauron's lips that was a most basic healing spell to keep blood loss and infections at bay. And it was an irony that wasn't lost to Findekáno, that he'd spent almost two years, trying to convince his husband that he had no reason to hate himself for what he'd seen and been forced to do during his own captivity, and that he could feel the same blackness of loathing wash over his own soul now; thick acid trying to bury every memory of light and love and friendship especially to these people he had to see suffer right in front of his eyes, maybe never to be revived. It was far easier to believe in innocence when you weren't the one watching silently. That heaviness of shock and any missing rest for days, that had started to take hold of his soul, was spreading, creeping over his skin in droves and leaving it numb, so that he did not realize, there were tears rolling down his cheeks, until Sauron was suddenly standing right in front of his chair and grabbed his cheek to slowly lick the salt off his face with his forked tongue, laying hands on him for the first time. The nausea grew instantly, a gagging sitting in the back of Findekáno's throat that he didn't want to let his enemy hear either, so he just jerked his head away and bit his tongue bloody to keep silent.

"You taste sweeter than your lover, little Princeling," Sauron murmured huskily, blood-covered, spidery hands brushing through Findekáno's messy hair. "You might want to rethink your priorities. You could have a life so much better by my side than being the useless son of a lesser King. The only thing you're doing right now is hurting everyone in this room." Findekáno's ongoing silence seemed to be loud enough, because he backed away with a shrug. Ridiculously gentle for what he'd been doing to every of Findekáno's soldiers for a few days now, he tugged two of the golden ribbons from his braids and went back to his current victim. After handing his minions another bowl full of red to slurp that had been filled by that skinned hand of a barely conscious elf in the last few minutes, he wrapped the ribbon around the mess of twitching, bared muscle and pressed the captain's wrist down against the table with his elbow while reaching for a long nail and a hammer. "Now, now." An admonishing noise came from Sauron's cherry-red lips when Findekáno turned his head away, unable to stand the sight of that nail being pressed right in the middle of that ruined palm, with only the fabric of the ribbon between, the sight of a usually so proud, brave warrior arching up against his chains in fear. "Is that a way to honor your people's sacrifice for you, Your Highness? You won't even look at them while they're suffering for you?"

A sob that he could no longer hold back came from Findekáno's lips but could never make it past the echo of the new, broken scream from one of his oldest friends when the hammer drove the nail through his flesh in a single strike.

It didn't last long, because the elf had finally blacked out which didn't stop Sauron from repeating the same cruel process on the other arm so that his victim came to even more inhuman pain. With the second nail in place, the chains were no longer necessary to hold that marred, infection-weakened, writhing body in place as Morgoth's butcher reached for his knife once more. "Did you know, my precious Prince," he said calmly while he put the blood-smeared tip to the elf's left side, right under the ribcage, "there's at least four organs a Firstborn body can survive without? And a dozen others of which you can take at least half away before you need to sing the rest back together to function? You should know. I've fed a couple of your husband's parts to my wolves. I think they might get some more elvish dinner tonight." The knife started to cut. With a disgusting, meaty sound, a mess of red and yellow was dropped in a bucket below the table.

But this time, it wasn't the captain's scream that filled the room the loudest but a sound Findekáno hadn't known he was about to make before it came, his resolve shattered into pieces.

"What was that?" Now it was Sauron, not even looking up but reaching for needle and thread instead to close the crude cut he'd just made before his victim could bleed out on him. "Anything you want, my precious Princeling? All you have to do is ask, you know."

"Please." This time, the word came quietly, but clear and unmistakable. Apparently, after all this time that Findekáno had thought he would be the rock in their relationship, had to be, because Maitimo didn't have the strength anymore, it was time to admit, that his husband had been the stronger one between them from the start. Perhaps, when it came to it, if Findekáno would only ever leave this fortress again an enemy of his own people, no longer the master of his own mind and thoughts and will, his husband would even be strong enough to kill him before Findekáno could beat him to it. "Stop. If it is me you want, release my people."

"Is that an order, Your Highness?" Wholly unimpressed, Sauron moved to his victim's other side and caressed the quickly, panicked heaving chest with just the tip of his knife, as if trying to make out the best spot to continue his gruesome work. "I do not need more food for my troops and beasts. I need a servant loyal to me and my master. Is that what you want, Prince of the Noldor? To serve the Dark Lord?"

"Yes." It became easier, Findekáno found dully, once you had given in to your fate. He did not even shy away from that triumphing, flickering stare of his enemy any longer. Maybe it would hurt less if he let himself fall for it quickly.

"Yes, what?" His hand wandering lower, Sauron thrust his knife deeply into his victim's loins, spearing a kidney, impatiently wiping blood of his cheek, both from the new horrible wound and from the captain's mangled hand, from its useless, mindless attempt of freeing itself from the nail crucifying it.

"Yes. Master." Findekáno never lowered his head. There was no use, trying to look away now.

"Better. We're getting there." Sauron just left his tool right where it was, impaling his victim's body in a third place, and went to the back of a room to open a silver box with the symbol of his eye on it that had been waiting there from the first hour on. A flash of gold and obsidian shone in the bright candle light as he slowly approached Findekáno, dangling from a lazy finger a broad collar with sharply carved tips at the top and the bottom. In the hand of a fire maia, the horrible adornment quickly started to heat, a dangerous orange glow matching the hair of Findekáno's torturer, pulsating right in front of his eyes when Sauron stopped by his chair and grabbed his chin, forcing him to surrender to that black stare again. "Ask for it, my sweet little pet, then I might think about allowing your incompetent captain over there to die."

The last of tears dried on Findekáno's skin as he left a part of him behind that he knew would not return, no matter how his life would look from now on and for how long. I'm sorry, Russo. "Please, Master, put your collar on me. Let me serve you."

"So easy." With a lazy snap of fingers, the chains holding Findekáno clicked open, allowing his knees to give out under him all by themselves when an ice-cold hand was wrapped around his braids, shoving him off the chair.

He thought, he could fight, for a moment. But he'd also thought that when they had first brought him into this room, and the rest of that day, he'd spent watching fifty orcs raping one of his best friends to death, so that spark died down as quickly as it had come. It had been too late to fight the moment he'd let himself be foolishly raided from behind instead of securing the area well enough.

"Your father should thank me that I'm taking the weakling that calls himself his firstborn from him," his enemy chuckled, a clear hint of arousal mixing into the purr of triumph in his voice as Findekáno winced and gasped for air, in vain, as the collar was closed around his neck. Melted into one by a single hummed tone, the heated metal was scorching his skin, the first exhausted attempts of breathing, of swallowing leaving marks and cuts on him. "This does look a lot prettier on you though than on your lover, my new favorite pet. Why don't you show me how you like to please him?" Under the approving cheers and leering of the orcs, laces were opened without haste. Thick, crooked hardness brushed Findekáno's tight lips, with ridges and barbs adorning the misshaped appendix that he knew he would soon feel somewhere entirely else and be forced to pretend and love it. If nothing else, at least Sauron was predictable.

But Findekáno didn't move, not yet, ignoring that hand in his braids that was grabbing him harsher by the second. His eyes wandered to the table in the middle of the room that was dripping blood on the ground in a slowly growing pool.

The sounds of searing agony from there still hadn't fallen silent.

Sharp fingernails scratched over his cheek, prying his mouth open with ease, the first brutal bump of hardened flesh against the back of his throat cutting off any protest before it could come. "If you worry about him so much, I suggest, you hurry to please your master, pet. It's only up to you how much more your people will have to take before I let them go."

It was another lie, of course, but one, Findekáno thought, he could live with. None of his soldiers would leave this fortress alive. If he could keep Sauron's filthy paws off of them for the rest of what was their ruined life, he would, at least, have done something right in the mess that his life had become. Findekáno had given up.

#Sauron #fingon #sauron's lab #fanfiction #DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

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katianegreyson · 4 years

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Birthday Bash!

[Warning: Contains mild gore and violence. Read at your own risk.]

She had been back in the city for over a week, yet remained homebound. She had watched the fervor of activity from her apartment window. People flowing through the pathways below, growing bolder as the sunset. Nightlife in the Mage Quarter was always questionable. Drunken behaviors that often resulted in walks of shame out of the alleyways. Fights. Loud tirades. Those manicured lawns housed quite the show, one she wasn't always so hesitant to join in some small part.

However, melancholia had taken root, as it often did after her trips to the mountains. Too many memories, not to mention, the painful reminder of someone's absence. It generally took a week or so before the urge to stop staring at the empty pages of a journey book or out a window took hold. A small span of hope and optimism before reality sunk in once more. Not even time spent in her aerial silks sped up the process or eased her state of mind.

She put off rejoining civilization for as long as possible. In the end, it was the barren state of her pantry that drove her to dastardly things like putting on pants and running a brush through her hair. Sadly, society demanded she not be bare-assed and disheveled looking. Well, most of society. She knew a few who wouldn't complain.

It was early morning when she finally left her apartment, the predawn hour promising her the best choices at the city market. What was the saying? The early bird gets the worm.

Well, this bird wanted steak and eggs.

And bacon. Lots of bacon.

As she descended the steps to the small shop beneath her apartment, it was impossible to miss the brightly wrapped package left for her. The bow was enormous and the counter the box rested on was covered in a gods awful amount of glitter.

Kate loosed a long sigh. Of course her birthday wasn't missed by the proprietor. Such information was required in the rental contract. If it were up to her, she would spend the day like any other. Clearly, her landlord had different ideas. It was as if she could hear her voice, telling Kate in a motherly, (nosey) overbearing tone.

"A birthday should be cherished and celebrated."

Knowing she would be faced with far worse repercussions than a mild annoyance if she ignored the box, Kate huffed out a curse and walked over to the damn thing. Lifting the lid, she found the inside stuffed full of tissue paper in the most obnoxious pinks known to man. Shaking her head, she peeled layer after layer, silently cursing the woman until the last piece of paper was pulled free.

A sharp inhale was Kate's only outward sign of the sight within. No fancy bauble or awful outfit she would have to wear. This was far more personal.

The woman she had been cursing moments before stared back at her with milky dead eyes, a look of pure horror frozen onto her face. Jagged shreds of flesh were spread out at the neck, looking as if it was torn rather than cut cleanly off.

The head rested on a pile of roses, a gruesome message she understood all too well.

Why couldn't things just stay dead these days?

Floorboards creaked softly behind her, a moment later, quietly letting her know she wasn't alone and the 'guest' was an amateur.

She should have just stayed home.

The sound of a single shot echoed through the empty pathways of The Quarter. While sound would have been drowned out later in the day, the early hour drew unwanted attention to the thunderous boom.

Standing outside the shop that prided itself on pyrotechnics, Maddox sucked in the last drag of his cigarette, flicking the spent butt away. The sound reached him the moment the occasional vice fled his fingertips. Poor timing, or perhaps perfect, and the man dove for it. He was after all smoking near a place that was combustible.

The sudden boom led him to assume the worst. Moments later, when he realized he was still in one piece, more or less, he pushed himself up and began cursing someone's mother. Grass stains clashed with his token grease stains, not that he cared. The noise wasn't a concern either until the sounds of a struggle carried his way.

Lads being lads, likely. At least that is what he thought until he heard the telltale shrieks of a woman.

"Fuck…"

His apathy was overshadowed by his protective nature in an instant. Taking off in a sprint, he followed the muffled sounds of conflict through the manicured walkways. Twists and turns didn't help. Fucking city layout.

When the noise died down, Maddox feared he was too late. Lost in a maze of purple rooftops and decorative fescue. It wasn't until he skidded around a corner that he caught sight of the group of men, fighting to load a bound and gagged redhead into a wagon.

She was giving them hell, small little thing, covered in blood and full of fight. Every time they got close to loading her, she wriggled in the most awkward way possible, causing one of the four brutes to lose their grip. It wasn't until one genius used the butt of his gun to deliver a well-placed blow to her head. It didn't knock her out, but she was stunned enough to go limp.

Maddox wasn't confident that he could take on four men, even if a pair looked wounded. So, he improvised.

Pulling out a stick of dynamite from the bag at his hip, he lit the long braided fuse and shouted to bring attention to himself.

"Oi! How about we put the lass down, eh?" He was walking closer, slowly. "Nice and easy. Then you can leave with what pieces she left you with. Or… I can blow all those pieces up."

"Got to tell ya, I personally would prefer to not spend the tail end of the morn being scraped into a glass jar."

Waving the explosive, Maddox eyed the dwindling fuse, sparks flying as time ticked away. "Tick tock, lads. What's it gonna be?"

There was no nice and easy as they dropped their prisoner, the lawn doing little to cushion the fall. A glaring sneer came from who he assumed was the leader as he pointed with his chin to the lass on the grass.

"You bought her a day, tops. C'mon boys. We can come back later." Clearly they didn't want to deal with an audience. Though as they left, a careful eye was kept in case they had a mind to beat his ass.

Maddox waited until the last few seconds, after the quad of men was long gone, before he pulled the fuse free of the explosive cylinder. Tossing the sparking twine into the grass, tucking the rest of the stick in his back pocket, he went to see to the woman he just saved. From what, he wasn't sure.

With his luck, she might be more hazardous to his health than the men who tried carting her off. Fate was a bitch that way.

"Did you have to bite me when I pulled the gag free?"

Kate didn't answer at first, walking sorely to her bathroom, the bruises she earned making her body ache with every step. Pulling the length of silk free from the mirror, she looked at the sorry state she was in. Busted lip, bruised and bleeding temple. The blood had already started to cake and congeal in her hair, matting it to the side of her head.

Ripping off the sleeve to her bloodied shirt, she uncovered the bullet hole she had been gifted with, if it could really be called that. The shot hadn't buried a bullet in her flesh, but it was too deep to really be called a graze.

She was going to need stitches. First, she was going to need coffee. The blow to the head hurt worse than the wound on her arm, the pain making her nauseous. That alone was a sure sign of the damage it wrought. Sleep was now the enemy.

Grabbing a clean towel, she ripped the absorbent cloth into a few thin strips, shouting out to her guest or... savior.

"There is whiskey in the bedside table. Bring it to me."

Muttering as he fetched the bottle, Maddox brought it to her, standing in the bathroom doorway as he passed it over. He was older than Kate, his salt and pepper hair cropped short. He didn't boast a beard in the traditional sense. Just a thick stubble that shaded his face.

His skin was weathered, Kate's guess was from the sun or some manner of heat. He carried it well, the deep lines adding character to his face rather than make him look old. His eyes, however, were his most striking feature. Shadowed by his darker brow, the pale blue stood out like pools of ice, yet they held none of the expected coldness. Just warmth and compassion.

"Probably not the best time to drink, lass." He commented, catching the look she gave him in the mirror.

"You're not my father or my husband. And while I do appreciate the assistance, it doesn't mean you're suddenly entitled to tell me what to do." Her tone wasn't harsh, just a matter of fact.

Nodding to her words, he shrugged. "Fair enough."

Despite her pointed remark, none of the whiskey made it to her lips once the bottle was opened. Instead, it was poured over her wound. Kate pursed her lips, but the groan of pain and displeasure was hardly muffled.

When she finally spoke through clenched teeth, it was to complain about the waste of good whiskey. Seems she would have rather drank it than use it as a disinfectant before she worked to bandage her arm.

It took her a few clumsy attempts, her guest clearly knowing better than to offer assistance at the moment. Finally, though, she tied the thin strips in place, tying them off and tightening the knots with her teeth.

As she turned, she nodded her thanks and sighed, knowing she was about to ask too much of a stranger.

"Don't suppose you would be kind enough to not mention this to the guard. Chances are, they were bribed to patrol elsewhere. I have a feeling my landlord's death would be easily pinned on me. Would rather not get thrown in The Stocks."

Maddox furrowed his brow. "Dead landlord?"

"Yeah. Her head is gift wrapped downstairs. Literally." She admitted honestly.

Scratching his stubble jaw as he grimaced, he shook his head. "Lass, I don't know what you're into. But smells like deep shit. You sure you don't want to involve the authorities?"

Kate nodded but it was clear the movement brought on a wave of discomfort. Gingerly touching her temple, she felt the abused flesh trickling with fresh blood. Head wounds were a bitch.

"Alright. I'll keep out of it. I take it you've got things handled now?"

It was a polite way to excuse himself and get the hell out of dodge. One she thankfully indulged.

"Mhm." She hummed, waving him towards the door. "Thanks again…"

"Maddox." He finished when she gave him a look to let him know she hadn't caught his name.

"Maddox." She repeated, following up with her own simple introduction. "Kate."

"Stay out of trouble then, Kate." Pointing to her bloodied shirt. "Not gonna die when I leave, right?"

Looking down, she saw more blood soaked into the fabric. Luckily, it wasn't anything to worry about.

"No. Not mine. Compliments of one of my abductors."

There was a grunt of acknowledgment as he waved his farewell, vanishing through the door and closing it quietly behind him.

Alone again.

She waited until she couldn't hear him beyond the door, wanting to make sure he was gone. The moment silence fell, Kate sank down to her knees, letting the pain that she had hidden consume her. She was too stubborn to show weakness in front of another.

Alone, however, she could be hurt and broken all she wanted.

Introducing: Maddox E. Zale

Following the story arc of #Fallen Roses.

#happy birthday #writings #fallen roses #what's in the box?!

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sending-the-message · 7 years

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I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and would like it back. [Part Three] by PeteTheSeed

Part Two

It’s been difficult to write this third and final part of my tale. Honestly, no matter how I try to write it, nothing truly conveys what I’ve come to experience. I’ll do my best. We left off with Gary and I finding ourselves in Hell, which in itself is a rather precarious predicament. The search for my soul had been a rather tenuous one, and as we left ventured out from that warehouse and into the unknown, I felt a strange sense that everything was going to be okay.

I lost Gary on the first day. We traversed across the landscape of Hell, which is far less ‘pedestrian-friendly’ than you might think. Mountains scoured the horizon, broken apart by deep ravines that disappear into darkness. The sky was ablaze, and the lightning that rained down from its inferno left fissures large enough to swallow you whole. Winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone came and went, and carried with them the howls of those too unfortunate to get caught in its midst. If I’d came here on vacation, I’d give it two out of five stars.

We crawled and stumbled across the cliff face overlooking a vast expanse of land that stretched farther than the eye could see. Wilted forests and bodies of grey water littered the expanse, with figures and shapes darting around wildly. Predators and prey. Whilst we crawled across the jagged and crumbling rocks, lightning struck between us, which sent Gary tumbling down into the chaos. He cupped his genitals the entire fall as he rolled and collided with stone.

So, that was kind of lame. I managed to reach the end of the cliff face, only to find myself staring outwards at another stretch of horrors and obscenities. I was getting the impression that there wasn’t a great deal of aesthetic variance in Hell. I silently wished Gary the best of luck, and continued onwards.

I didn’t really have a plan in mind; Hell, as far as I knew, could be infinite in size, and the likelihood of just stumbling upon my soul could be less likely than two grains of rice adrift at sea bumping into each other. The only thing that was fuelling my soulless being was a pure sense of annoyance at the entire ordeal; I had faced a great deal of inconvenience thus far and didn’t want to admit that I’d wasted the better part of a week.

I eventually found myself a quaint little cavern overlooking what I’m pretty sure was an ocean of faeces, which I decided to use as a temporary retreat from the dreary horrors of Hell. I folded my jacket into a pillow, and sat down to enjoy some quality me time, where I could recoup and gather myself. I’d get some rest until morning, maybe lead a one-man search party for Gary, and plan my next course of action. I was relatively certain that, by the end of the next day, I’d be well on my way home and able to put the entire thing being me.

I was in Hell for over six months.

Less than an hour after settling down in my Hell-scape abode, I found myself being woken with a spear inches from my face. Well, I remember thinking, this is interesting. The man who held the spear was nothing but skin pulled tightly over thin bones, his eyes sunken deep into the skull and his lips well receded, revealing his broken and blackened teeth. Coating his skin was a mixture of bodily mutilations and tribal paint, that I sensed were largely a fashion choice. Behind him stood others, similarly styled and equally deranged. Never having been a ’fight my way out’ kind of lad, I pretty much surrendered on the spot.

Before I could protest the necessity of it all, I found myself bound by my wrists and dragged from my dwelling, poked and prodded with sticks and stones along the way. Outside of the cave stood what I can only describe as a roaming Hellish gypsy brigade; strange, horse-like creatures pulled along obscene carts built from bone and skin. Behind each lay a trail of poor souls bound the same as I, connected in a train and pulled behind each of the carts. My captures had innumerable friends, all of which marched and chanted and yelled crazily, taunting their prisoners as they went. I was attached to the back of one trail, and the gypsy brigade moved onwards with me in tow.

I don’t know how long we marched for; Hell had no day or night cycle, no change in season and certainly no calendars. I marked the passing of time as best as I could. The only real judge I had was the growth of my hair and beard; I’d long since accepted that it would take me at least three months to grow out what could be potentially described as a semi-successful beard, and whilst I was pulled along across Hell I went from clean-shaven to Santa Claus. We would march day in and day out, resting only for a few sparing hours for whatever rest we could get before being dragged along again. We were fed filth coated bowls of a gruel-like substance that I’m pretty sure the horse-creatures excreted; I’ve never been a picky-eater, but it took a few days before I even dared dip into the putrid mixture.

I won’t go into too much detail about my time captured in Hell; truthfully, every day brought a new nightmare, each one grimmer, each one more horrifying than the last. We were led through ceaseless valleys that held grand pits of the damned who writhed in their own misery. We trekked through deep caverns that burrowed into the earth, where spider-like creatures the size of mammoths roamed in numbers unknown. When we reached an ocean, boats were assembled and we sailed through storms across oceans of shit and blood and bile, baring witness to indescribable beasts whose lengths could span cities as they erupted upwards from the waters depths, bringing with them a bellowing cry that could deafen ears. We miserably trudged through swamps of long dead trees with bubbling pools of acid that exploded outwards and coated more than one of us, whom immediately writhed down into a puddle of their own being. If I had a soul, I’d have probably been pretty depressed.

When my ankles could take no more, I crawled. When I could crawl no more, I was pulled until the skin peeled from my back. After a lifetime, we reached our destination.

We were pulled into a grand encampment, a city of skin-forged tents and raging bonfires. Spikes adorned with severed heads were littered like street lights, discarded bones laying like trash. Tribal savages roamed and sung and chanted and danced in every direction. It wasn’t really my kind of scene.

Various other caravans were unloading their own hordes of captives, all lined up and chained like dogs. Forced to my knees, I was made to join them.

We were left there to rot. Occasionally, a savage would approach and inspect one of us; arms lifted and groped, legs tapped and stretched, mouths pulled open and examined. Sometimes they were then ignored, other times they were untied and taken away, not to return. I imagine they went to a happier, cheerier place. Maybe Morocco.

We slept on the floor. We pissed and shit on the floor. Scraps were flung at us, often just out of reach. Dignity was in sparse supply in those moments. As time passed, those who I had been brought in with dwindled one by one; some perished, others were taken. One chewed through his chain, reducing his teeth to broken, shattered stubs. He tried to run, and was ridden down and set alight.

Others came and were chained, but I remained. If they were selling us, my captors would need to offer a pretty substantial discount if they wanted to be rid of my sorry soulless ass, it seemed. I retreated inwards, spending my days staring into space as caravan after caravan rolled into the camp, selling their wares and trading in suffering.

“Psst… Hey! Dude!”

I snapped out of a daze at the words; it was the first language I’d heard since arriving that I understood. I turned my head as best as I could to look behind me, and saw another poor captured man trying to get my attention. He wore tattered, torn overalls and the remains of a black beanie.

“Oh, hey Dave.”

“Hey! It’s you! Remember me? I opened the portal and got us here? Fun times, right? Crazy times. So, how you been?” Dave had seen better days. Ragged, ginger curls hung down from his beanie, matted like a dog. His face was battered and bruised, and he looked as though he hadn’t eaten in a week. Oh, and he had one eye now. Or did he only have one eye already? I couldn’t remember.

“Oh, I’m not bad, myself. Did some sightseeing, worked on my calves, got a bit of a tan. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I’m a slave now, which is something.”

“You got your soul back though, right? Man, look at this place. Craaayzeee stuff, amiright?”

I realised that I didn’t like Dave very much.

“Nope, still soulless. I guess that’s kind of been a blessing, really. Puts things into perspective.”

“Really? The demon I sold it too is, like, right over there.” He pointed off towards a caravan, where a being that was more blob than man sat surrounded by various jars of peculiar glowing liquids. He had small, ill-fitting glasses and four arms, each of which was scratching a different orifice that coated his form. The caravan was coated in ornate, ancient jars, that each radiated a small flicker of light. Each one had a name, and each one seemed to be vibrating furiously, causing a rattle to the cart. “Yeah, that’s the guy. I found him not long after we wound up here, figured he’d help a dude out considering our pre-existing business relationship. The dude sold me for some sheets.”

“Huh. Well, that’s neat. Kind of annoying, what with the whole slave thing that I’ve currently got going for me.” I awkwardly manoeuvred myself into a sitting position, and stared at the caravan. It’s difficult to explain, but now that it had been pointed out to me, I could sort of feel a presence coming from the jars. One jar, in particular; it sat at the bottom of the cart, slightly damaged and it appeared to be leaking, surrounded by a few other equally damaged wares. My soul was in the discount, remainder bin.

That’s when Gary showed up again.

“Where the fuck have you been?!” Was pretty much all I said. I sat there, bound and chained and displayed like a piece of damaged fruit, staring at my spectral companion that I hadn’t seen in what felt like the better part of a year.

My hair was wild, my beard and skin coated in all sorts of filth. My jeans had, at best, a week left of decent use in them. My wrists were cut to the bone from my restraints. But I wasn’t the only one who had a change of appearance; Gary wore a hat now. More of a crown, actually; it looked to be made of bones and twigs. His once perpetually disgruntled expression had softened, seeming sunken with a hint of sorrow. His once proud ghastly erection was now but a humble semi. I dared not think what he had endured those past months, but his appearance said it all. Behind him was a small group of the damned. A baker’s dozen, at most. Each one of them wore strange cloaks that covered their forms, their faces expressionless and gaunt. When Gary stopped in front of me, they fell on their knees, and began to chant and bow clumsily. I guess Gary was their leader now, or their God. I don’t even know. Upon seeing me, Gary turned towards them, made a few gestures and removed his crown, placing it on the ground. A few of his flock began to tremble, a few burst into howling tears. One by one, they all departed. Gary looked at me and shrugged, a single ghost tear running down his ghost cheek. It was all ridiculous, honestly.

“Hey.” I said. Gary nodded.

Gary approached, and began fiddling with my restraints. In a few moments he had freed me, and none of my captors seemed to notice. I stood up, dusted myself off and threw up slightly as blood rushed to my feet. I stretched my back and coughed fiercely.

Gary gestured his head towards the soul-covered caravan. I nodded, acknowledging that I’d seen it.

“Well, let’s just take it and get out of here. Come on, Gary.”

“You can’t steal a soul, buddy!” Dave pipped up from behind. “Oh, and could I get a hand over here, too? Hell is overrated.”

I turned back towards the caravan, and then back to Dave. Then to Gary.

“You know what? I’m done. Let’s just say that we tried, we gave it a solid effort. Fuck this. Fuck Hell. Fuckity-fuck being a Hell-slave. Fuck you, Dave. Fuck the dishwasher. Fuck your god-damned boner, Gary. Fuck you and your boner.”

I collapsed, completely finished. Some may say that I was overreacting, but even a soulless husk has its limits. If only I could just rest.

Gary didn’t react. He looked down upon me, sighed, and disappeared into nothingness as though it was the most casual gesture in the world. I was alone again. I wasn’t counting Dave.

“Fuck this. Fuck whatever that is,” I was walking forward now, my blood boiling. I don’t know if it was down to the proximity to my soul, but I was starting to feel raw, unfiltered emotion seeping in to my skin. “Fuck souls. Fuck Hell so god-damned much.”

“Um, dude? A little hel-“ Daves voice faded into the background.

I reached the soul-trader, stood before him defiantly. He looked a bit confused, and a bit offended.

“Give me my soul.”

He blinked. He itched his slime stained scalp. A strange mucus dripped from one of his many orifices. He didn’t seem to mind. He spoke back in a broken tongue, and then turned away.

“Give me my damned soul, don’t be a douche.” I reached forward and grabbed the jar that was calling to me. It was cold to the touch, and felt far lighter than it should have. The blob guy looked at me, his eyes going wide. He pointed with all four arms and all twenty fingers, yelling. The savages around the encampment had begun to take notice. They muttered and whispered between one another, and began to approach and encircle me. I took steps backwards, gripping the jar close to my chest like a child grasps a pillow.

“Look, things might have gotten a little heated, granted. Now, if you just let me walk away with my soul, we can put all of this behind us-“ A spear flew in my direction, missing my skull my mere inches. “Now, that’s completely uncalled for.”

I ran. I don’t know where I planned and running to, but it felt like the best option at the time. I passed Dave as I went, and shot him the kind of look that said, ’sorry about leaving you in Hell. Oh, and fuck you.’ I left the encampment at full sprint, the savages quickly in pursuit. Nothing but open valley stretched around, the sky still burning and raging and my feet aching and my heart pounding. My brow dripped sweat. My fingers trembled. I was not letting go of my soul.

I fell, hard. I slipped down a small ravine, landing flat on my back. The jar flew off in an unknown direction. I felt warm liquid trickle down my leg. I’ll say it was blood, but it was probably urine.

The Hell savages were on me in no time. They circled like sharks, weapons outstretched. One of them carried a flaming torch. Another carried a barbed whip. I sensed my plan had failed miserably.

I spat out dirt. The jar was a few feet away from me. I began to crawl towards it, as the lash of the whip came cracking down on my back. I screamed, spittle’s of blood dusting the ground. I reached the jar. Another whip; I felt the skin on my back tear open. I raised the jar. Another whip. I felt the barbs crack bone. I brought the jar down to the earth as hard as I could, as I heard the air break as the whip began to bear down again. The jar shattered.

Nothingness.

I was adrift. Somewhere and everywhere. I was nothing and everything and something all at once. I felt no pain or ache, wasn’t tired or hot or cold or stressed or scared. Just complete and pure nothingness. Wherever I was, I felt as though I’d been there before. I could sense nothing, but at the same time everything was heightened and overloading. I have no experience in it, but I imagine it’s what meth felt like.

Then, as though nothing had happened at all, I was back. I felt different, but the same. It was disorientating. I could see nothing but the ground, and slowly the pain that radiated my body returned. I forced myself onto my back, which burned fiercely. I was still in Hell. Great. The savages stood around me now, eyes widened and weapons gripped. A few of them scowled, others looked frightened. I stood up, and waited for the inevitable killing strike. It never came. One by one, they began to turn-tail and run, fleeing back to the encampment. Soon enough, I was stood alone, surrounded by discarded weapons.

Well, that was odd. I guessed it was one of those things you just have to roll with. Exhausted, I scanned the horizon, decided upon a nice-looking hill to walk towards, and set off.

Upon my first step, the ground beneath me crumbled, and I was swallowed by the abyss. I faintly heard Dave’s voice as a whisper in the distance:

”You can’t steal a soul, buddy…”

I could see them beneath me as I fell; thousands of souls, all piled up upon one other, surrounded my nothingness, all reaching upwards towards me. I landed atop the pit, hard. The writhing mess of flesh accepted me, hands outstretching and pulling me inwards. Within moments, I was dragged deep within. I felt the pressure of it all on my chest, the air being forced out of my lungs. I tried to scream, but fingers wrestled into my lips and began to force their way down my throat. With my one free hand, I reached upwards towards the darkness, as I got what I knew would be my last glimpse of anything.

Light exploded overhead. Pillars of brilliantly white fury descended, burning away at the accursed souls who pulled me downwards. A thousand shrieks killed my eardrums, withdrawing. I looked up, blinded, and saw the most beautiful sight that any being has ever bared witness too.

Gary descended slowly, the light radiating from his glorious form. He floated above me, his angelic erection stronger and prouder than ever. He reached out his hand and took mine, and pulled me from perdition.

We rose together, Gary’s hand locked around my wrist as I hung beneath him. We rose and rose until we had left the abyss that I had been called too, until Hell was but a faint glimpse below. We ascended through the infernal sky, and I closed my eyes and embraced every moment of my saviour’s presence.

“Gary… Are you an Angel?” I don’t know whether I actually asked, or whether I merely thought it. Within my mind, a gentle and comforting voice replied. I don’t recall what it said.

The light grew brighter and brighter, until it was everything.

I awoke in my apartment, and that was that.

It turns out I was in Hell for about a day and a half, which is mildly frustrating. I’m pretty sure I have my soul back now, which is cool. I don’t feel as empty any more. I still have the dishwasher, too; I’m not really sure what to do with it. I guess I’ll just sell it for scrap or something. I can dream again, now; I must have slept for the better part of three days after my return. I’m not really sure what to make of my experience; I guess it’ll take some time to piece everything together, and come to terms with what I experienced, if that’s possible. I don’t see the dead anymore, either; the streets are once again only occupied by the living and the homeless. Yeah, that includes Gary, too. That’s okay though, I suppose. I won’t forget what he did, even if I don’t quite understand it. I think he’s still here. Every now and then, I’ll catch a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye, something that looks a hell of a lot like a disembodied penis, and I find comfort in that. He’s my friend.

Kind of a shame about Dave, though.

#reddit #nosleep #scary #story

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