Aura's Project hole

At first, she had just assumed he'd spent the night at his mates house, and was just sleeping in with a hangover he'd, no doubt, gotten; a plausible explanation to why he hadn't come home. But as the day dragged along, Madeline was sure there was something else going on.

“You really need to relax, sweet’art,” Vivana sighed, walking up behind the other and placing her hands atop Madeline's shoulders. Madeline had been sitting on the porch for half an hour now, nursing a mug of tea which had likely begun to go cold, waiting for him to return. “I'm sure he's fine. He's with his friends, and I bet with the worst hangover of his life. He's okay.”

Madeline just grumbled, though the tenseness of her shoulders dwindled under her beloved’s hands.

—> —> —>

Rayan had been brought out of the basement. After his beating the previous night — his back was still aching from it — he had learned that it'd be best not to get on Foster's nerves. It was clear that, no matter how hard he tried to bite and scratch, they'd overpower him one way or another.

But fuck, was the urge hard to resist sometimes.

“Get in,” Foster sneered, pushing their limping captive through the doorway of the upstairs bathroom. Rayan stumbled at the push and straightened himself up, albeit with the support of the doorway. But then he stopped. The pocketknife Foster had used to herd him upstairs raised to the side of his neck, grazing his skin. “The bathroom window’s locked. If you even try to get out or hurt yourself, I'll cut you up and feed you to my mate's dog. Just do what you need to do. Got it?”

Rayan's mind blanked. It wasn't too surprising; it was hard for Rayan to think coherently when a knife was all but kissing his skin. “I—”

“Am I speaking French to you?”

“N-No. No. I got it.”

The knife retracted, and Rayan was shoved inside. The door shut, and he locked it.

Sliding the knife into their pocket, Foster opened their phone, steely gaze flicking through their contacts. Despite their short list of contacts, her name seemed to be lost in the numbers and names.

“Where the fuck is she…”

Their thumb stopped its mindless scrolling, cursing themself for going past her number more than once. They rang her and placed the phone to their ear. Foster knew she'd respond.

“I’ve got a problem.”

The voice on the other side crackled through, amused. “Car broke down again?”

“No, summat else. You free soon?”

“Dunno. I'll check my calendar, tell you later. Why?”

“I’ve.. got somethin’, and I need your help because havin’ this is more difficult than I thought.”

“What did you get? Is it like.. a technical thing you need help with? ‘Cause you'll have no luck with me.”

“No, ‘m not that stupid.”

“...Don't tell me you got a pet.”

“No— Can you not jump to conclusions? I'm never planning on getting a pet, this is somethin’ else. Just.. Just let me know when you're free, okay?”

“Fine. Why are you so desperate to be in my amazing company any—”

Foster ended the call out of spite. While they waited, they leaned against the bannister, looking down on the stairs sprawling out below. The carpet really needed improvement. It was an ugly colour, aged and weathered.

Soon enough, Rayan was done. Foster wasted no time in dragging him out and grasping the back of his shirt. They wielded the knife again.

“Didn't take you too long.” They remarked, but Rayan just swallowed and kept his eyes straight ahead.

“Who were you talking to?”

“Not important. Just move.” Training the tip of the knife on the back of Rayan's neck, they led him back downstairs. Silence met their footsteps; Rayan was nervous, terrified even, and Foster knew it.

They made it downstairs and, with a warning glare not to make a move, Foster crouched down in front of a black backpack. Meanwhile, Rayan glanced around.

It was jarring how normal his captor’s house seemed. Early morning sunlight filtered in through the living room window, though one curtain was drawn to. An assortment of items were sprawled across the windowsill with a radiator perched underneath. The walls were mostly bare, save a clock on one wall; a nice plush sofa atop carpeted floors faced a television on an oak cabinet; a bookcase lined one wall, stacked with knick knacks, the occasional book, and photographs in dark frames. On a small, stained side table was a potted plant, clearly fake (Rayan wasn't all that surprised to see that they couldn't even tend to a plant) although rather pretty. A small note laid beside the rich red pot, seemingly discarded and forgotten about:

‘From your bff Ivy’, it read in neat, fine script.

Rayan was surprised to see that his captor had friends, however. It sickened him how normal this place seemed; that his captor would wake up in their bed, watch TV on that sofa, read those books, with the rhythmic ticking of the clock in the background. He felt bad for this ‘Ivy’ person, unknowing of the horrors that dwelled in their friend's basement.

Foster pulled him back to his side, the backpack slung over their shoulder. They hissed, “Stop staring,” as they shoved him forward, pulling him up from his train of thought. With a begrudging grunt, he walked down the old, worn steps to the basement. The steps wailed and groaned under the weight of their footsteps.

“You're awfully quiet today,” Foster said, rummaging through their pocket for the keys to the basement. With their spare hand they retrieved the knife again from their pocket. Rayan remained quiet by their side, hardly daring to move a finger. The cold, sharp metal on the back of their neck sent goosebumps raising across his arms, a haunting reminder of what would come if he tried anything stupid.

Momentarily, they struggled to open the door, grumbling a curse under their breath as they jostled it around. But eventually, inevitably, it unlocked and was kicked open, hinges screeching in protest. And Rayan was shoved in.

“Don't get comfortable just yet,” Foster followed moments after, bringing out their phone. They closed the door, not bothering to flick on the light. Rayan was momentarily alarmed, before he squinted and shielded his eyes from the glare of their phone torch. “Oh, don't be dramatic. It's just a phone torch, not the end of the world.”

“Easy for you to say,” He grumbled, watching as Foster propped their phone up against the wall, illuminating the room in an ugly white light.

“Stand over there.” They pointed to an area near the centre of the room, a joist of sorts on the ceiling.

“Why?”

“Just fucking do it.” Foster sounded exasperated.

Rayan’s eyes narrowed in reluctance, but he complied anyhow. Moving to the centre of the room, the bulb dangled overhead like a man on a noose. After a few moments of rustling and rummaging, Foster walked up behind him, a line of rope in hand. “Arms up, Immortal.”

He raised his arms. “You know my name.”

“That doesn't mean I have to call you by your name.” They retorted, tying each of his wrists together and to the joist, making the knots tight, unnecessarily so.

Eventually, they left the remaining line of rope to hang behind him, standing back to admire their handiwork. Rayan, however, raised an eyebrow.

“Am I supposed to be scared?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh,” He scoffed. “How frightening. My hands are tied, whatever will I do? Y'know, I'm shitting myself over here—”

His mocking fell short as Rayan turned his head, seeing his captor pick up his bat. His eyes widened. “Wait- no, wait wait wait wait, hold on—”

The spiked bat smashed into the back of his knees with a crack and a thud, knocking him off balance. His knees buckled and yet the wire held him up, shoulders straining. He yelped in pain, gritting his teeth.

“Ooh, I heard somethin’ break! Now,” they hissed, “say you're sorry, and mean it this time.” And they hit his legs again. Another yell, and Rayan rocked forward as if he were no more than a punching bag.

Another swing. Another yell, another choked up attempt at an apology. A mocking complaint of how ‘they couldn't hear him’, and they'd swing again. They seemed adamant on targeting his legs, but occasionally hit his torso and ribs.

Another swing. Another yell. Another swing. Another yell.

Another swing. Another yell.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

At some point, Rayan couldn't even talk through the pain, unable to string a series of words together and keep it coherent. With every swing of the bat that hit his legs, his apologies turned into nothing more than pained grunts.

“I'm— I'm sorry!” Rayan hissed out, his pleas drifting into a strained, inhuman noise when the bat slammed into his ankle. Head bowed, he watched through eyes glistening with tears as his captors trainers came into view.

“What for?”

A finger and thumb gripped his chin, tilting it up so they could meet eye-to-eye. Foster was no longer smiling. “What are you sorry for, Rayan?”

Rayan's mind blanked again; perhaps it was the pain clouding his thoughts this time, the blood trickling down his legs. He'd focused so much energy in apologising, and yet had never wondered what for.

Perhaps he should apologise for teasing them? For… For…

Oh, crap. The picture.

That was a shitty idea, wasn't it.

A sharp backhand interrupted his train of thought. His head whipped to the side, and Rayan gritted his teeth as his cheek burned in pain.

“It isn't that hard, Immortal,” Foster said, a faint sneer in their tone. “Or do you want a little reminder?”

Rayan didn't want to admit it, but it seemed the choice had been made for him. Foster walked away, to the dreaded cabinet and opened one of the drawers. They picked out one of many, holding it between their index and middle and waving it in front of Rayan's face.

This one was different. Two figures; one, a girl with fluorescent blue hair tied up in two space buns, curls framing a smiling face. The other, a boy with black hair that draped over shoulders, hunched over with his knees to his chest, a lit cigarette in hand. They wore matching bracelets. The boy looked roughed up; bruised knuckles, remnants of bloodstains on his shirt and nose, and a nasty scratch splitting the corner of his lip. His eyes, mismatched blue and grey, stared right back at Rayan.

“That's me,” Foster said. “That picture from yesterday was also me.”

“Look, I'm- I'm sorry—”

“Good. You should be, Rayan,” Foster flashed a smile. “I'm glad your kind knows what remorse is.”

Rayan stared at them, incredulously. His kind? Surely there wasn't much difference between mortals and Immortals; besides uncanny healing abilities and the wretched markings on their bodies, what other differences were there? “I'm as human as you are.”

“Hmm, whatever makes you feel better,” Foster placed the picture aside. Rayan noticed how their eyes lingered on the picture, before ripping away to glare at him. “I'm done for today.”

They clutched the bat in both hands, knuckles whitening.

He watched, helpless, as the bat lifted, its rusted nails splitting the bark, dripping with crimson.

“Sleep tight now.”

Thud.

—> —> —>

Rayan awoke to a splitting headache. Scrunching his face at the ache, he felt dried blood cracking on his face. His legs seemed healed for the most part; only a dull throb remained, his blood already dry on his jeans. It was dark without their phone’s torch blinding him, and for once Rayan was thankful for that. He didn't want to see himself, didn't want to see his own battered body.

He hung from the rope, wrists straining against it. There was a tingling sensation in his hands, no doubt from a loss of circulation. Rayan knew Foster wouldn't have considered his comfort. Why would they? After all, this is a captive situation; he wasn't just staying over for a couple days.

It was cold. Goosebumps prickled on his arms as he hung, swallowing down a lump in his throat. He wanted to go home. To see Madeline, his friends — anyone. Anyone except that smirking, scarred face who had mocked and, for lack of a better word as much Rayan detested the thought, tortured him for…

For…

How long has it been? There wasn't a clock in here. Rayan always told the time by his phone; which was useless now, a consequence from his thoughtless, stupid actions. Perhaps it hadn't even been that long; maybe a day or two, and the hours were just dragging along. Maybe.

Hopefully.

Creaking footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Fuck. He didn't want to be hurt again, but fighting back was futile. Pleading wouldn't work; he'd tried that already, and all he gained from that were a few mocking sneers and continued abuse. So… what could he do, to at least delay the inevitable for just a minute longer?

The footfalls grew louder, and then stopped.

Rayan heard a jangling of keys.

The lock in the door turned.

The door was opening, creaking in protest of the hand moving it.

Perhaps on instinct, or because there was no option left that he could think of, Rayan went limp like a ragdoll and closed his eyes, praying that his captor was thick enough to believe he was still unconscious.

—> —> —>

Foster entered the basement and flicked the light on. They gave Rayan a questioning glance, smirked in amusement, and shook their head.

The poor man was panting like a dog, but they'd humour him for now.

Foster strode past the sagging figure of their captive, opening the drawer and picking up the pile of pictures. They meticulously checked each and every one for any sign of damage, lest the Immortal had gotten his grubby little hands on any of the others prior to yesterday. All seemed perfectly fine, but they shoved them into their pockets just in case. For safekeeping. In hindsight, it was a bad idea to keep sacred items in the same vicinity as their teeth-bearing prisoner.

They spared another glance over their shoulder at Rayan. Unmoving, swaying lightly, his hands a faint, purple colour. But Foster couldn't miss the tremble in his body, the frantic breathing of their dear captive.

Foster's hand absently found the adjacent drawer. They slid it open and brandished a small knife. One of many they'd collected over the years, a coat of aged blood upon its blade. Won't make much of a difference either way.

Foster's footsteps were quiet. Masking their intentions by making it as if they were simply strolling about, though it was horribly executed. Excitement was at fault, but was Foster to blame? Absolutely not.

A hand coiled round to clamp over Rayan's mouth as the knife was stabbed into his side. Rayan “awoke” with a jolt, and his scream was muffled by their hand.

“Ah, there you are,” Foster tutted into his ear. “Thought I'd lost you there. Nevermind.” Their grasp on his jaw tightened when Rayan thrashed about, throwing his head back and grunting out a muffled curse. Foster removed the knife, and a circle of crimson grew steadily around the man’s wound.

Foster sighed, thoughtfully. “I'm really gonna have to do somethin’ about that mouth of yours. Can't have the neighbours know my little secret, eh?” Smirking as Rayan shook his head in protest, they simply patted his cheek. “Too bad. My house, my rules, Rayan.”

Foster's hand slipped away, and Rayan hung his head again. There was no point in arguing back. Whatever snappy remark he had bubbling in his chest diminished when Foster held the knife up; a silent warning, perhaps a challenge. As if they're saying, don't you even think about it.

Rayan watched onwards as Foster wiped the knife clean on their jeans, returning it to its original place in the drawer. “You're a good actor, y'know. I almost believed you.”

“Fuck you,” Rayan hissed.

A scoff. “You were panting like a dog. I'm not braindead, if you're wondering.” They reached forwards and Rayan instinctively flinched; he heard Foster chuckle, as they undid the rope. Once it was fully undone, Rayan crumpled to the floor like nothing more than a piece of paper.

Foster nudged him onto his back, eliciting a grunt from the man. He clutched the wound in his side, wrists rubbed raw. “You've got quite the foul mouth,” They mused in a sickly sweet voice. “I wonder how quickly that'll change.”

Rayan squinted up at them, his head pounding. He'd been hit pretty hard, huh. “You're sick,” He grunted. Foster just smirked in reply, and walked away.

Rayan watched them leave. Keeping a trained, glaring eye on their back, as they looked over their shoulder to meet his gaze. They gave him a once-over, flicked off the light, and shut the door.

“Pussy,” He hissed, as the sound of the door locking reached his ringing ears.

—> —> —>

“I'm free,” The voice on the other end declared in a sing-song voice. Foster had returned to their phone buzzing madly, and multiple missed calls from the same contact. Annoying little shit.

Foster hummed, sitting down on the sofa. “Now?”

“Yep!”

“Alright then,” They sighed out, sounding more than a little exasperated. “Just- don't stall on your way ‘ere. I know what you're like.”

“I never do that.”

“Sure you don't.”

After an exchanged goodbye that dragged on for far longer than it should've, Foster glanced out the window. It was early afternoon, sunlight filtering in through the blinds. The house was quiet, quaint; only the ticking of the clock interrupted the empty silence. At a glance, nobody would think there was a man, bleeding and possessing abilities of which almost everyone would dream of having, right underneath the floorboards.

Foster was grateful for that. That, in the public’s eye, he was a normal person. Sure, one who was given curious stares and scrutinising glances when they went out, but they couldn't help that. Their scars hadn't come from anything that wasn't absolutely necessary.

Their gaze turned to the potted plant on the side table, vibrant but fake. And then to the note. It was one of the few gifts Foster had actually kept, hadn't been pushed into the attic to collect dust and be forgotten about. At this point, Foster was glad they'd kept her around for so long.

—> —> —>

WE ARE SO FUCKING BAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. AAUATGGJRJRHRHRHRJCIM IM SO HAPPY AND EXCITED IM SO GLAD IVE FINALLY PULLED THIS OUTTA MY ASS NOW. AAAHWHWSJ!!!!!!!!?! LETS GO. LETS FUCKING GO.

I have a lot planned for the next chapter :33333 a new character as well!!!!! let's just hope it doesn't take like. eight months to post it though

In the meanwhile, he thought over… everything, really. What could've happened if he hadn't gone on that walk, hadn't sauntered down that street, had called for help when the blade of a knife pinched the back of his neck instead of blindly following the orders that got him here. He wondered if his friends were searching for him already.

Perhaps Madeline had gotten notified of his absence, or maybe even Vivana, and they'd called the police. Maybe his captor had been arrested already, explaining their absence, and now he just had to wait for the police to find him in the basement and bring him out. He could go back home, instead of staying another night in this place.

Yes. That seemed like a plausible explanation. So, he waited.

And waited.

And waited again.

—> —> —>

Most likely, Rayan had fallen asleep again; but when he came to, there was no difference in the stale air of the basement, no light to allow him to see. Except the gentle noise of the floor creaking from above, which could only mean they — whoever they were — were home. The aged building groaned beneath the weight of his captor as they traversed the house, but unfortunately he didn't hear any other footsteps. The person lived alone. Dammit.

He listened intently to the floorboards, trying to listen out for any changes; whether that be them getting louder as his captor approached the basement, or quieter as they left the house, he didn't really care. On one hand, he was starving and knew damn well they were the only one who could feed him, but on the other hand he needed them gone — or at least asleep — so he could try and figure out how to get out of here.

With time, he found that their footsteps began to fade after a faint sound of a light switch, ascending up what Rayan could only assume was a staircase. Had he already been here for a day? Sure, he had slept through most of it, and he was only assuming it was night, but… the fact that he'd been here, alone, in this cold and dark Hell on Earth for at least half a day made his skin crawl.

Rayan tested how tight the rope was around his right wrist, tugging on the bonds and gauging how likely he'd be able to escape them. From what he'd seen beneath the light above his head (when it was on, at least), the rope work was shit, but it was extremely tight nonetheless. If he could just shuffle his way to the switch, flick it on, find something sharp and cut through the rope, then maybe…

After Rayan was certain that his captor, whoever they were, was asleep or at the very least occupied, he racked his mind on a way to get out. He knew the door was locked, but he could faintly remember learning how to pick locks in highschool — a talent used specifically to piss his siblings off from time to time, and his parents when they were… nevermind. He still had his phone, but it was in his pocket; until he got out of his restraints, he couldn't call the police.

It was decided. Rayan didn't even care if he was caught in the act by his captor. He'd take what would come next if he were to get caught in a metaphorical stride, and then wait for another opportunity to escape. Trial and error, over and over again, day after day, until somehow, someway, he got the fuck out of there. He could. He would. He hoped.

After a long while of hesitation, Rayan made his first move; shuffling and squirming forward and trying to get this damned thing to move. If this worked, and he could turn on the light, freedom could be his; which, really, was the only thing motivating him. The chair legs moved ever so slightly, dragging across the ground with a sort of groan that made Rayan wince. He supposed being quiet was no longer an option.

One small jump after the other, forward, left or right and forward again, inch by inch, one grunt, squeal and groan of the chair legs squeaking across the ground as the light seeping in from the crack in the bottom of the door grew ever closer. He had no clue how his captor hadn't gotten suspicious of how much noise was coming from the basement yet.

He only stopped when he'd manoeuvred the chair so that it was to the left of the door; hopefully, the lightswitch was somewhere here, too. Chest heaving as he gulped in breath after breath, he pressed his forehead to the startlingly cold wall before him and began feeling around. Left, right, up, down, until — somewhere to the top right — he bumped into the edge of the lightswitch.

If Rayan hadn't known better, he would've yelled in joy. But he knew for certain that any kind of noise now would get him caught by his captor, and Rayan had no clue what would happen to him after; he didn't really want to know, though. Straining to reach the actual switch, he leant out of his seat, the rope on his wrists chafing the bruised skin beneath. Until eventually, after a couple attempts that left the man a bit irritated that it'd taken so long, the light turned on with a soft click.

Light flooded the room so suddenly that Rayan had no time to prepare, gritting his teeth and screwing his eyes shut. A faint hum of the fluorescent light filled the silence of the basement, the pure white light beginning to flicker with time. Once having gotten used to the sudden, harsh light, he inspected the Hell he was trapped inside.

The majority of the room was bare, greying walls adorned with cracks and strange, brown-ish stains — Rayan blocked out the thought that it might be dried blood — but to his right was a cabinet. A pile of boxes had been stuffed into the adjacent corner, most stuffed full of things his captor wanted to keep. For whatever reason.

But either way, the cabinet is what drew his attention. Again sticking to his irritatingly loud technique, it took him quite a while to get in front of the cabinet. It helped, at the very least, that he could see where he was going; though sometimes the light would flicker or cut off for a few moments entirely, which wasn't exactly helpful, but he couldn't complain much, especially when he could complain about the damn racket he was making instead. It was a miracle that the person keeping him here hadn't gotten suspicious.

At this point, Rayan was exhausted, grunting as he made the final effort to get in front of the cabinet. He was unsure if he could reach the drawers, but he at least had to try. It wasn't like he could use his hands at the moment, so that was really the only choice he had to go about this.

At first, he had doubted he'd be able to lean down enough to reach the drawer, but he quickly proved himself wrong; soon enough, albeit after a lot of strain and discomfort in his back, he grabbed ahold of the handle, managing to slowly pry the drawer open. There was nothing particularly interesting in the drawer, just a few childish trinkets and overturned Polaroid photos which Rayan couldn't see. It piqued his curiosity, but until he got out of the rope, he’d leave the contents be. Instead, he nudged the drawer shut and turned to the adjacent one.

Leaning awkwardly to open the drawer this time, clenching the handle between his teeth, he was met with a sight that made relief bubble in his chest, but also sent the hairs on his arms standing up on end. The drawer contained numerous knives and almost.. scalpels, some pristine and razor sharp, others blunt and aged, even rusted. After careful consideration, and a lot of reluctance, he dipped his head into the drawer and picked up one of the knives, the hilt held in his mouth.

Rayan sighed in relief, though the sound was quivery, moving the handle of the knife with his tongue so that the sharp, shining tip was facing directly away from him. Gritting his teeth to tighten his grip, he leant down to his left wrist, and began to awkwardly cut the rope.

At this point, the back of his neck had begun to ache and, as much as he tried to ignore it, it irritated him. He wasn't even that old.

Still he continued on, and after what felt like an immeasurable amount of time the rope had been severed enough for him to slip his hand out. Nasty red marks adorned his wrist, and he shook out his hand in discomfort. Switching the knife from his mouth to his now freed hand, he worked on removing the rest of the bonds.

With time he finished severing the final piece of rope around his ankle, he stood and dragged the chair back to the centre of the room . That was.. rather easy. Maybe he'd go home soon after all.

The thought of his phone having slipped completely out of his mind, he returned to the cabinet and closed the knife drawer, slipping the one he'd ‘borrowed’ into his pocket. Instead, he opened the other one, rummaging through the little sentimental things this monster had kept until he reached the photos. He turned the largest one over.

The picture was simple; on the right was a woman with aged, fair skin and raven black hair that rested upon her shoulders. One arm was raised up to the camera, hinting that she was the one who had taken the picture. On the left, partially hidden from view, a man stood, smiling down at a child he held with one arm, centred in the picture. The boy seemed six or seven years old, with a wide, impish grin on the kid's face. The child's gender wasn't quite distinguishable, fluffy black hair outgrown and resting down their neck, almost covering their eyes; one was a steely grey, the other a light, lovely blue. Rayan turned the picture back over; on the back, in a bottom corner, read:

‘mum, dad and me! — Jan. 7th, 2005’

Rayan couldn't blame his captor for wanting to keep such a thing. In a way, it was cute.

As the man was about to place the Polaroid picture back in the drawer, someone cleared their throat behind him and he froze in place. He hadn't heard the door open.

He could hear the grin in Foster's voice. “Whatcha doing, Rayan?”

—> —> —>

Foster had heard banging coming from the basement for around five to ten minutes now after preparing some microwaved leftovers for Rayan, and they were more amused than anything. Rayan really thought he could get out of here, huh.

They'd waited patiently by the door of the basement, bat in hand, until they thought the time was right to catch him in the act. Taking time as not to jangle the keys in their hand, they unlocked the basement door with utmost care. They'd much rather take their little captive by surprise.

Thankfully, Rayan hadn't seemed to notice them as the door slid open. He'd even managed to get the light on and get out of the rope; Foster couldn't deny that they were impressed. They'd watched him for a few moments before making their presence known, the bat slung lazily across their shoulder.

Now, the older man stared at them with the same intensity of a deer gazing at an onlooking car, still having not let go of the picture as he backed away from the cabinet. Placing the bowl of food on the same surface, Foster closed the door behind them as they entered, gaining on him with each step he took back.

“Get- Get away from me,” Rayan rasped out, clutching the picture in a vice-like grip. Foster didn't respond until Rayan's back hit the wall, and they were practically breathing down his neck.

“Give me the fucking picture,” they said slowly, almost threateningly so, “and I might consider leaving you alone.”

Something seemed to click in Rayan's mind, a sort of light flickering in those evergreen eyes of his. Foster was confused by such a strange change of demeanour…

Until they heard the ever so faint noise of something ripping.

It started slowly, almost taunting Foster; gently ripping the Polaroid picture into half. Rayan hadn't even finished ripping before the bat, adorned in bent, rusted and bloodied nails, swung right at his knees. A strangled, pained yelp got caught in the Immortal’s throat and he used the wall to steady himself, but after another hit he toppled to the ground. The ripped picture fell out of his grasp, split right through the child’s face.

Hit after hit Rayan was bombarded with agony, rusted nails ripping through unprotected flesh. Foster seemed quite eager to injure his back more than anything, mindlessly swinging down as if they were chopping wood. With each particularly hard attack, Rayan couldn't help but scream until his throat was sore, instead curling into a ball to shield himself from the brunt of the beating.

But Foster didn't give up, instead aiming for his face; which was even more painful. Rayan had tried to squirm away, but a foot pressing down on his chest quickly stopped any attempts to escape. All the while, he was bombarded with insults, or just general ramblings with Foster swearing to kill him somehow for ruining such a thing.

Foster only stopped when exhaustion rendered their movements lethargic and sluggish, blazing rage changing to an expression almost crestfallen. Heaving for breath, bat dripping with crimson, they walked past the trembling body of their captive to pick up the ruined picture. It was a bit bloodied, but Foster prayed they could fix it. They had to.

“Pathetic,” they sneered, kicking Rayan in the side — which just elicited a soft, frightened whimper — and walking back to the cabinet, placing the picture on top of it and picking up the bowl. Did Rayan really deserve it now? Foster was quite hungry, after all…

Shrugging, Foster leaned against the wall and began to eat the leftovers themself, purposefully scraping the fork against the ceramic surface as if to piss Rayan off. Watching the man as they ate as if they hadn't just beaten the crap out of him.

The sound of the bowl seemed to gain Rayan's attention, who turned over to stare incredulously at them. One hand was pressed against one half of Rayan's face, a bit of blood trickling between his fingers. “...What the fuck?”

“Wot?”

“This.”

“Oh yeah,” Foster glanced down at the bowl as if seeing it for the first time, shrugging. A hint of a smirk tugged at their lips. “You really think you deserve this shit?”

“It's better than starving.”

“Isn't like you're gonna die from it, mate.”

Rayan's words fell silent on his tongue, gaze drifting to the infinity symbol on his other palm. Immortal. Perfectly Immortal, actually. To be honest, Rayan was beginning to consider whether this trait was more of a curse than anything.

“Whatcha looking at?” Rayan heard their faint footsteps before he could even respond, hissing in pain when Foster nearly twisted his wrist to take a look. “Oh, yeah, those. We'll ‘ave to get rid of them soon.”

Rayan's heart skipped a beat. “Excuse me?”

“What, are you deaf, old man?”

“I'm only thirty years o—”

“I know!” They snapped, dropping his wrist, which fell limply to the floor. “Ever heard of a fucking insult?”

“Oh, I have. Bet you're an insult to your little family over there—”

“SHUT UP!” Rayan flinched at the sudden display of emotion, whimpering as he was kicked twice in the ribs as if Foster wanted to accentuate their point. He curled in on himself again. “I'm gonna fucking kill you for ripping it, y'know.”

“Good luck with that.”

They smirked. “Luck seems to be on my side recently.”

Rayan just glared in response, eyes narrowing as they inspected the scarred figure before him. The same heterochromic eyes, though the once unkempt hair was parted neatly in the middle. Foster held his gaze, before letting out an irritated huff and walking away.

The Immortal watched their every move, watching them hold the blood splattered, ripped picture, seeming to focus more on the child in the middle, whose face had been ruined from Rayan's thoughtless act. A look in their eyes hinted to something almost tender. They slid the thing into their sleeve, picking up the bat and deciding to leave without the bowl.

“Hope you're fuckin’ happy.” Foster hissed beneath their breath, though Rayan could somewhat discern what they were saying. “Keep the light off this time. I'm not wasting the electricity bills on you.”

With that they slammed the door shut, locking it before trudging up the stairs to the hallway. They'd gotten blood on their socks; they didn't care to clean up their bloodied footprints right now.

—> —> —>

Rayan sighed, plunged back into darkness as he listened to the faint footsteps of his captor. Moving to lay on his stomach — his back had taken the brunt of the attack, so he was reluctant to put pressure on it for now — he was, at least, thankful he was out of the rope, had some food on the cabinet..

..and had a way to piss off that kid. To be honest, it was amusing how sensitive they were to even mentioning their family, for whatever reason. He could use it to his advantage.

—> —> —> —> —> —>

FFUUCUCKFICK FOSTER'S SUCH AN ASSHOLE I LOVE THEM!!! anyhow! chapter two yippee!! it took so long but I'm super proud of it 😭😭

There was only one problem, however: Foster had no bloody clue where to actually find the Immortal. The only reason they'd even become aware of the thing's existence was after they'd seen him walking down the street. They recognized almost immediately after that it was an Immortal — the vibrant, almost inhuman, green hue of its eyes and the darkened infinity symbol mark on his palms gave it away. They didn't know the Immortal's name, nor where it lived, where it was born, etcetera. And, quite frankly, they didn't give a shit. They just wanted to get the damned thing off the streets.

Prowling up and down the street they'd last seen the creature, Foster hid in the shadows of their hood. Although they weren't hiding from anybody in particular, it was a comfort to know that they wouldn't stand out too much. And despite the fact that they had an inkling of a doubt that the man would show up here again, they couldn't help but try anyway.

Lost in thought, eyes fixed onto the cracks in the pavement, they didn't notice a figure walking by until their shoulders collided. Snapping out of their trance, they looked up to the man they'd bumped into.

“I'm sorry,” Foster started, taking a moment as they mumbled the apology to assess the man's face. The stranger stood at around 5’7, they guessed, with ivory skin, brown hair and… green eyes.

Startlingly green. Almost unnaturally so.

Oh.

Successfully masking their expression of triumph, they kept their face neutral as the Immortal responded. Meanwhile, Foster clutched the small knife in their hoodie pocket even tighter. It may come in good use if he didn't come quietly.

“It’s okay. Wasn't your fault.” With a strong, Northern Irish accent, the damned creature replied casually. Shrugging, it turned to leave, before Foster's scarred hand grabbed a hold of his forearm.

“Aye, I've seen you somewhere. Yesterday.”

The Immortal raised an eyebrow, and Foster cursed themself as his expression turned to one of suspicion. “And what's making you stop me again?”

Crap. Thinking of an explanation, Foster tried to lengthen the time they had, even just by an inch. Then again, they doubted this excuse would be effective. “You.. erm, you look like an interesting guy?”

“Thank you?” The Immortal shuffled on the spot uncomfortably, gently prying its arm out of Foster's grasp. As the thing turned to leave again, much to the dismay of Foster, they realised they just had to get on with it and make their intentions known.

As soon as the tip of a knife, cold and dangerous, touched the back of his neck, the Immortal stopped in his tracks. Foster spoke again, “Listen ‘ere you little shit. You're gonna be coming with me, and you're gonna do everything I say. Otherwise, this—” They accentuated the word by pressing the pocket knife into the Immortal's skin, eliciting a whimper from the creature— “Is gonna end up three inches into your neck.” Foster grinned, though the expression was grim. “But I doubt it'll kill you.”

Foster relished in the fearful gaze meeting their own, the creature’s reaction priceless. “Huh—?”

“Come with me, Immortal.”

The Immortal begrudgingly nodded in response. His reluctance was evident. Foster's grin only widened, turning the Immortal around and beginning to lead him down the street. They shifted the position of the knife to a more subtle place, against the creature's lower back, digging the blade in if the vile thing moved too slowly. “Tell me your name.”

“Fuck you.”

Foster just pursed their lips, grip on the pocketknife tightening with their horribly disguised irritation. That was fine. They'd find out eventually. “How old are you?”

The Immortal hesitated, mumbling his response. His age wouldn't reveal too much, right? “Thirty.”

Foster frowned in suspicion. “You look too young to be thirty.”

A hint of a smirk involuntarily tugged at his lips, despite his situation. “Should I be flattered?”

The smaller mortal scowled. “Just keep fucking walkin’, Immortal.” They emphasised the last word as if it were an insult, pressing the blade of their knife further into Rayan's jacket until he fell silent and continued down the street. The road was quiet as dusk arrived, the only noise being the echo of their footsteps down the road.

The Immortal's fear was palpable, and Foster could practically taste it in the air. An icy, frigid feeling. It gladdened them to know that they were the one instilling this fear into such a ‘powerful’ creature.

With some time, Foster managed to track down where their parked car was, unceremoniously shoving open the car door and pushing the Immortal towards it; a silent command to get inside. They doubted they’d need to tie him up, given how compliant he was already.

But it did seem they overestimated him. Defiantly, he stood up again, standing quite a few inches taller than Foster. It was as if he was mocking them. “Look, I'll give you whatever you want. Money, or whatever,” the Immortal leaned closer, voice quivering, betraying his thin facade. The Immortal was terrified, but stood his ground, “I'm not getting in there.”

“I don't want money. Get in the car.”

“No, not until I—”

“Get in the car.”

“No—” his protest abruptly turned into a strained grunt as Foster's hand wrapped easily around his neck, and the mortal grinned at the quickening pulse under their palm. Lifting his hands to grasp their wrist, attempting to pry his captor’s hand off once realising he couldn't breathe. “Get off of me!” He rasped, sinking his chipped black nails into the flesh of their wrist, earning a pained grunt from the mortal.

The mortal scowled, an expression riddled with disgust, as they slid the knife back into their pocket to hold him down against the car door with their other hand. Squeezing tighter, they watched in sick, grim satisfaction as the creature's pleas turned into gasps and whimpers for air.

The Immortal’s pitiful noises soon subsided after a couple minutes, movements weakening when his consciousness began to slip. Foster watched, hardly fazed by the scene, instead squeezing tighter until, finally, Rayan was unconscious. They placed him down on the backseat, leaning over his unconscious form.

“Thank fuck,” They whispered, quickly checking nobody had watched the ordeal before grabbing the bundle of rope from the passenger seat. Roughly binding the Immortal's wrists and ankles together, they wasted no time in instead shoving him into the boot of the car. Just in case he woke up and decided to cause trouble.

—> —> —>

Foster had been driving for a good fifteen minutes now, lost in the winding roads outside of Durham. Thankfully, if the vile Immortal was even awake now in the first place, the thing in the boot was silent.

They pondered over what they could do now. Chaining the guy up in their basement is really the only option they have; they can't exactly kill him, can they? Foster lived alone, which they were infinitely thankful for, but they had to put into consideration that their neighbours might grow suspicious if they were to hear him. Scaring them into silence will have to suffice if they grow too curious.

With that thought, they pulled into the driveway of their house. It wasn't too much of a noticeable building, quite mundane compared to some of those around them. But they enjoyed the simplicity, the neatness. Boring to some, perfect to them.

Striding out of the car and to the boot, they hesitated. They were conflicted; they didn't want anybody witnessing them dragging a tied up, thirty-year-old man into their house, but then again they didn't want to risk leaving him unattended for too long. Foster didn't trust that the Immortal wouldn't try and escape once left alone.

They checked their phone. It was nearly midnight. They doubted anybody would be awake at the time, so Foster was sure they'd be fine.

Fuck it. What did they have to lose, anyway? Certainly not much. Gloved hand opening the boot of the car, they were amused to see the Immortal, bound and distressed, staring up at them with teary eyes. They almost felt bad for the vermin. Almost.

“Out you go,” Foster grunted, holstering the man up into their arms despite the height difference, slinging him over their shoulder and wasting no time in getting inside. They'd worry about closing the boot in a moment. Until the damned thing stopped squirming in their arms, they weren't going anywhere.

“Let go of me—!”

Foster ignored the pleas from the damned thing, throwing it inside before it could make even more noise and, most likely, alert anyone nearby. They smirked down at the Immortal as he squirmed on the floor of the hallway, attempting to at least stand up. Foster just pushed him back down with the heel of their boot, adding an uncomfortable amount of pressure that stopped his struggling entirely.

“Now,” Foster sighed, in almost a bored tone, “you are gonna stay right here whilst I lock the car. If you do so much as move an inch, I'll remove your ability to move entirely. And I don't mean by restraining you. Understood?”

The man nodded in silence, most likely too frightened to speak. Good.

With a small, amused chuckle at the sight of the Immortal's terror, Foster shut the front door once more. They didn't lock it, knowing that they'd scared the Immortal into compliance for a little while. They hastily locked the car and carried in the spare rope they had, returning to the doorway after a few moments. As expected, the Immortal remained in place.

Finally entering and locking the door, they set the rope aside and grabbed the Immortal by the back of his jacket, dragging him down a nearby staircase to their basement. It was only a place for storage, the only interesting assets being a couple cupboards and boxes of old things they wanted to keep, but it would suffice for now. They ignored the pained grunts and occasional thuds as the Immortal's restrained body was dragged down the staircase.

Swinging open the basement door, a loud creak splitting through the air as it swung on rusted hinges, the Immortal was thrown into the basement. A small grunt of pain followed the thud of his body hitting the frigid ground.

“Welcome home, Immortal.” Foster sneered, slamming the door shut.

—> —> —>

Rayan was freaking out, to be honest.

He had believed — how stupid he was to believe — that taking an evening walk would soothe his mind, at least temporarily. He had believed that the cool, crisp air was all that he needed. Just some time on his own, to ground himself and take in Durham when there wasn't activity buzzing around him. He'd been proved wrong.

And now, here he was: hands tied by uncomfortably tight rope, still fuzzy and disoriented from being choked until he was unconscious, locked in a pitch-black basement. He didn't even know who his captor was — didn't recognize the scarred, grinning face that had watched with glee as he struggled for air, and had happily dragged him down a flight of stairs and locked him in this… place.

He took a moment to attempt to look around, but all he saw was black. Lifting his hands, he hardly saw them in front of him. Great. From what little he'd seen before the door had closed, the room only held a couple boxes and dusty cabinets, none of which would be particularly useful unless one of them held an item which could assist him in escaping. But right now, he just needed to calm the fuck down.

He didn't like the dark. He didn't like not being able to see what's around him, what's behind him, and every little creak of the floorboards above him as his captor moved around upstairs made his skin crawl.

He shuffled back until he hit a wall, the sudden impact making his heart skip a beat. With something to assist him, he lifted himself to his feet. He didn't know why he decided this was a good idea — his ankles were bound together after all — but he did it anyway.

He suddenly stopped, glancing up as he heard footsteps. He had no doubt that his captor was returning, and he could only imagine what for. He sank to the floor again, trying to make it seem he wasn't trying anything, as the door creaked open again and he gazed, terrified, up at the silhouette of his captor.

“I bet you have a lot of questions,” They started as he was about to open his mouth, striding inside and dragging an object with them. A chair.

What would they need a chair for?

“And, to be frank, I'm not giving you any answers,” They placed the chair in the centre of the room, then walked back to the door. Flicking a switch on the wall, a single light bulb lit up the basement in a flickering yellow light. Rayan was, at least, thankful there was a light source in here in the first place.

His captor returned to him, crouching down to be level with him. They grabbed his wrists, tracing a thumb across the infinity symbol across his palm, etched into his flesh. “All you need to know is this: I know what you are, Immortal. And soon, I'm gonna figure out who you are.”

Leaving Rayan to figure out what this could imply, they made another trip back to the door. They turned back as Rayan finally had the courage to speak.

“You're.. not gonna kill me, right?” The question seemed almost childish to Rayan as soon as he uttered it, knowing that the answer was obvious. He couldn't die.

Hopefully.

“You and I both know I’d love to.” And with that, the buzzing light flickering off and plunging the Immortal into darkness, the door slid shut again.

—> —> —>

Rayan Cruz Hyacinth. Or, Cora Cruz Hyacinth — but that was his deadname, so Foster ignored that. Born in Dublin, Ireland, on the twenty-sixth of October, 1994. He has an older sister — Madeline Osoro-Hyacinth, around thirty-nine years of age. He had Imperfect Immortality, whereas Madeline had Perfect Immortality. Madeline is married to a woman by the name of Vivana. The Hyacinth’s parents are deceased.

Interesting.

Foster shut down their laptop, letting the soft whirring of the fans inside diminish as they closed the top. They knew this sort of stuff was illegal, but technically all of this was. There was no going back now, and it wasn't like they had much to lose anyway if they did get caught.

Standing up out of their seat at the kitchen table, they relished the tranquillity of the silent house around them. It was as if there wasn't a man in the basement in the first place! They were glad that he wasn't making any noise. It would be unfortunate if he was causing trouble; they didn't want to use their bat too early on, after all.

Speaking of, they decided to check up on him before they went to bed. Just to make sure there was no chance he'd escape during the night.

They'd taken off their trainers after they brought the chair to the basement, so their footsteps were much quieter as they descended down the steps that led to the basement. Letting the door creak open, marking their arrival, they clicked the flickering light on again.

Rayan had found refuge in one of the empty corners of the basement, wide eyes red from crying. He looked up, shuddering in fear of the silhouette staring down at him with a cruel, mocking grin. “I see you've made yourself comfortable,” Foster stated, walking casually inside and crouching down to the Immortal man’s height.

Rayan scowled, a pathetic attempt at defiance. “As comfortable as I can get in here. It's cold.”

His captor just pouted sarcastically, grabbing the rope around his wrists and dragging him out of the corner. “Too bad.”

Rayan couldn't help but grunt, scrambling to his feet. He didn't want to be dragged across the dusty floor. Begrudgingly, he followed Foster as they led him to none other than the chair, pushing him down onto the cushioned seat.

“I'll have to remove the cushioning somehow in the future,” Foster mused, much to Rayan's dismay, as they picked up the bundle of rope from the nearby cabinet. “Stay still.”

The process was painful, but more so in the way it was awkward. The rope around his wrists and ankles were uncomfortably tight. It didn't seem to help how his captor was whistling a merry little tune during it, silencing his complaints with a hard glare.

Eventually, strapped to the chair, Foster stepped back to admire their handiwork. It.. wasn't the best, but it was good enough. “I'm sure you'll be comfortable enough. I hope you like the dark.”

“I- I really don't—”

“Too fucking bad.” They said cheerily, though through gritted teeth, as they turned on their heels and walked to the door. Flicking the basement light off, they glanced over their shoulder before they shut and locked the door.

“Sweet dreams, Rayan Hyacinth.”

—> —> —>

CHAPTER ONE OF HTKAI IM SO PROUD OF MYSELF!!!!! this was. actually longer than I expected. uh. anyhow!