An overthrown rebel leader is finally captured by his enemies--after he’s been thoroughly broken by someone far more dangerous than him.
Total $hit$how
Total $hit$how AUs
cw: blood, violence (last updated August 2nd, 2025)
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cw: violence, gore, implied noncon (last updated June 10th, 2025)
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cw: gore, body horror
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cw: pet whump, blood, violence, non/dubcon (not explicit), some dehumanization. (last updated February 04, 2023)
A darker take on Wizard of Oz characters. The Wizard proves to be a cruel master to Tinman, Lion, and Scarecrow.
Abi and Reggie
cw: violence (last updated January 22, 2022)
Rich boi gets kidnapped by rebels who want to use him against his father.
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cw: fantasy pet whump, nonhuman whumpees, institutionalized slavery
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cw: intimate whumper, prelude to noncon, noncon drugging, forced arousal (non explicit), recorded torture, adult language, death threats, emeto mention
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~×~×~
Vic returns to awareness sitting up.
He keeps his eyes closed, breaths slow and measured as if he still hasn’t resurfaced, something he always plays at when he knows things have gone wrong, when he knows he’s been taken prisoner or otherwise incapacitated. Gives him time to think. To listen. The habit is one of the few things he’d consider thanking Nichols for.
His first observation is the restraints. There’s always a complete lack of surprise at being restrained. Anyone who takes his physical state for granted and leaves him unbound dies a very quick death for their stupidity. The positioning is a little odd though. A little unique, like whoever put him here thinks they’re special or clever or some bullshit.
His arms are pulled upwards and away, about as stretched as they can be, shaping his upper body into a stiff “Y”. Manacles dig into his wrists, and when he twitches a finger, he can feel it, which tells him he hasn’t been in this position for too long. His back is nearly flat against a stone wall, rough unfinished concrete, and his legs are spread in front of him, held apart by cuffs of their own.
The pose feels too deliberate, too obvious, like his captor wants to unsettle him. He’s naked, of course, the nice linen shirt and tailored slacks he’d changed into after the mission no doubt cut off him and thrown away. It’s expected, it’s something he’s lived through dozens of times, but recurrence doesn’t make his chest any less tight.
It’ll be the same as always. Wait. Endure. Take his vengeance in blood before getting the hell out of dodge. With the way his arms are chained, he’ll have to fuck up his left hand to make any headway. Just a dislocation if he’s lucky. Some skin with it if not. He isn’t gagged or blindfolded. Not that either of those matter in the scheme of escape, but he can’t deny the relief of the absence. There aren’t any consequential injuries on him either, besides the handful of bruises he got on his most recent mission. The picture is almost complete. Now for the final piece: how did he get here?
The last thing he can clearly remember is going to that restaurant. Nice place, a treat to himself after finishing his last job quicker than anticipated. He’d dressed up, gone in, took still water instead of wine. No one approached him. No one so much as brushed against him on the way in. So what went wrong? He’d clearly been drugged somewhere between the hotel and the check, he can still feel the waves of it in his head, the odd dryness on his tongue. He just can’t pinpoint how, unless…
The waiter.
“I know you’re awake.”
Through stubbornness and a great deal of practice, Vic doesn't react to the voice that seems to be just a few feet away, even though he didn't hear anyone approach. Has its owner been sitting here the whole time? Just watching him in complete silence?
“Come on Vic, don't play hard to get. Open your eyes. Say hi, if you feel so inclined.”
He doesn't want to, not when it's an enemy demand, but that's part of the game, isn't it? Give in to the little things. Swallow your pride for just a short moment.
He needs to determine the layout of the room he's in, anyway.
“There he is,” the enemy says when Vic raises his head slightly, eyes blinking open. They appear to be a younger man, at least a few years younger than Vic, wearing a plain t-shirt and a ski mask. Alone. No weapons Vic can see. Blank concrete beneath them both, small room, single door. No windows, bright lights, metal cabinet.
Camera.
His jaw clenches when his eyes land on it. Right behind his captor, pointed Vic's way, red recording light steadily blinking. He finds a second one in the corner, smaller, filming him from the side, and a third directly above him when he glances up. Fuck. Cameras are never a good sign. Cameras come with a purpose, a motive that goes deeper than finding out what Vic came for, who hired him, what he knows. Is it a live feed? Someone watching from behind the lens, patron of the young man in front of him?
His last mission went smooth. He was in and out, no one saw him, nothing went wrong, so this has to be something else, some older grudge or grievance. That's not a good sign either.
“I know, I know. You're not the chatty type. That's okay. Honestly, if you were, I probably would've gagged you, but given your track record, I can trust you to hold your tongue unless it's important.”
Track record. He's pretending he knows Vic, and even Vic can't deny that he seems to know more than most. Not that it matters. Of course he won't let someone stupid enough to catch him in a trap and brag about ‘understanding him’ live. The cuffs will be tricky, and he appreciates that his captor tried to take his capabilities seriously, but as soon as he leaves him alone for a moment he'll be out of the restraints. Kill the enemy, break the cameras, maybe take their memory cards to see if he can learn more about whoever's behind this and kill them too. Easy. He's done it a hundred times before.
The young man stands and struts over to the cabinet. Vic can read confidence in the way he moves, see the muscles in his forearms and under his shirt. He's either a professional or he's way too cocky, but when Vic shifts his foot, scraping a cuff against the floor, his captor doesn't flinch at the sound. Doesn't even look back.
Someone who's at least pretending he's done this before. In any case, Vic knows better than to underestimate an opponent.
The enemy opens the cabinet, and Vic grits his teeth when he draws out a capped syringe.
A further complication, but it's not as if he's never been drugged. His captor waited for him to wake up, so he doubts whatever's in the vial will render him unconscious, but it'll probably fuck with his head. Something that makes him more woozy and disoriented is his best bet, but he's encountered other experimental shit in the past. Hallucinogenics, wannabe 'truth serums', substances that only serve to make everything hurt worse, doesn't matter. Vic can work around anything, endure anything, and this man not accounting for that will be his downfall.
He doesn't move when the enemy kneels beside him, injecting the stuff into his neck. Vic knows there's no stopping it, and he's not about to put on a show for the cameras by trying to make things difficult.
“There we go. That'll take a few minutes to kick in, but I'm in no hurry.” He returns to his spot in front of Vic, sitting cross-legged with his chin balanced on his knuckles. Vic sneaks a glance behind him, but the cabinet has been closed. No previews of what's to come, unfortunately. Not that it matters.
“Vic Shepard. We meet at last. How was your dinner?”
Vic doesn't answer, of course, doesn't even grace his captor with a reaction, despite how much he hates to hear his name coming out of an enemy's mouth. It's rare, but it's happened before. He thrives on secrecy, on being a living shadow, more myth than man, but he's not so deluded to think it's impossible some snooping asshole could figure out who he is.
“Right, you won't answer that. Sorry, it's just hard to find the words to say. I wasn't sure I'd be able to catch the Black Kite—or, well, at least the only Black Kite that's still alive.”
Another name Vic wants to bristle at, but he keeps it contained, certain the man is trying to get a reaction out of him. Some know Vic, some know Black Kite, but only a handful of people have ever connected them, and fewer still know enough to drag Nichols into the moniker. Who does this enemy work for? What does he know? If there's someone out there tracking his movements with such scrutiny they know about Nichols, he has no choice but to find them and take them out. He can't move with eyes on him like that.
And he can't just let that information be recorded either, not without consequences.
“I thought about killing you, you know. There's a part of me that keeps insisting it would’ve been easy. Just open your throat while you're unconscious, right? You didn't fight me when I stripped you, or when I chained you up like that. You couldn't. You were out cold. Fuck, maybe I could've killed you. Maybe I still can.” He laughs. “I'm not really sure what happens when you pin a Kite down like this and snap its neck. Will the roof come down on me in an act of God or fate or sudden bad luck?”
What the fuck’s he rambling about? He probably could've killed Vic, but he didn't. It's the mistake they always make, leaving him alive and whole enough to seek his retribution and keep moving. The day someone gets wise enough to take him out quickly is the day Vic dies. It's that simple.
“I think I know how it works,” his captor carries on. “The only one in the last thirty years who's been able to kill a fledged Black Kite has been another Black Kite. I'm not sure I'm willing to risk what happens when you challenge the mark.” He leans in then, tapping the tattoo on Vic's chest, and this time he nearly flinches away, mentally cursing himself for the urge to do so.
Don't be a coward. What his captor is saying is senseless, even if he's gotten a few odd details right, even if he knows, somehow, that Vic is the one who took out Nichols.
What else does he know then?
Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. All the fun little facts and batshit theories will die with the man before too long. Besides, he has more pressing issues than the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist. There's an odd, tingling warmth that's beginning to spread through his body. It turns the edges of his thoughts hazy. Not enough to render them incoherent, no, the effect is far more physical than mental. Almost pleasant at first, then rising to an insistent warmth in his core, in his groin. Uncomfortable. He doesn't look down, doesn't break the cool stare he has leveled at the enemy, but he can feel heat pulsing through him, building.
“I was there when they cut Castor Nichols open, you know. You could trace scars back to sightings and piece things together. It's hard to piece things together with the Kites.”
On about Nichols now. Vic doesn't want to hear about Nichols, especially not when he's chained up and exposed like this, but he's not even gonna dignify him with an insult. The gravity of what he's saying, cut him open, traced scars, is lost for now, buried under the haze and the spite.
“You kill everyone you meet, or at least you try to. But there's always a few stragglers who've seen you in action. And Vic Shepard, oh I've looked into you specifically. You were a lot sloppier six years ago. That was right after Castor died, hm? You went all wildcard. A lot of the people you worked for aren't the tight lipped type if you toss them some paper, you know? I have to wonder if the mark was still watching over you then, or if it didn't count you as a Black Kite anymore. Black Kites aren't sloppy, Vic.”
He nearly says something at that, a snapping curse, something. He hates the rising burn in his gut and he hates the enemy's voice even more, talking like he's giving Vic a lecture, like he knows everything when he doesn't know shit. Talking about the mark, talking like there's some supernatural bullshit embedded in Vic. Is this guy a wannabe cultist or is he just stupid? Deluded by tv shows and forum posts, projecting his ideas onto Vic's lived experience. He keeps himself reigned in by imagining killing his captor, killing him slow. I kill everyone I meet, don't I? How's this for sloppy?
“I guess you self-corrected in the last few years though, huh? Maybe that was the mark's doing. Maybe it starves without a Kite to do its bidding.”
Batshit crazy. It was Vic's doing, everything has been Vic's doing. He survives and kills because of his own damn choices. But he doesn't say that, instead digging his teeth into his tongue and trying to hold as still as possible.
The enemy pauses for a moment then. Gives him a knowing look that lingers too long on his body. Goes to the cabinet and comes back with a bottle that could be lotion or something worse.
“You want to kill me, don't you?”
Vic glowers up at him as the man encroaches.
“You do. I know how you operate. Your mission comes before everything else. You'll sit still and let yourself be tortured, sweet little lamb, then sink your teeth in as soon as I turn my back. It's the same story from any straggler. Some assumed you'd shut down completely, some thought it was just pride, but in the end it was always patience. You're patient now, aren't you? Waiting for me to make a mistake you can use.”
The drug makes him want to respond with rage, to beat the shit out of this guy while the cameras are rolling, but he knows he should try to be logical instead, try to roll with the punches. The enemy knows his routine, somehow, and Vic needs to adapt to that, but his thoughts are about as easy to hold onto as the end of a hot poker. Frustration and this stupid animalistic need are muddying his head, there's just the heat and the twitching skin and the weight in his core that's steadily becoming unbearable. He almost screams when his captor starts rambling again, almost thrashes against his chains like a madman.
“You know, the oldest account I have of you is from years ago, almost twenty years, can you believe that? Some tussle over the Russian border. Do you remember it? They let you go. They most certainly could've killed you, but they let you go. Dumped you naked on the side of some country road.” He leans closer, close enough that Vic could throttle him if his hands were free.
“What did you think of that? Was the mark protecting you then? Did you feel lucky?” That last word is breathed across Vic’s throat in a way that makes his body shudder, hips shifting involuntarily.
Fuck giving no reaction, he tries to headbutt his captor with all the force he can muster, but the man only moves back.
“Do you feel lucky now? I do wonder what all I could do to you. What it would keep you alive through.” He laughs. “It's tempting, trust me, but I've already laid my plans.”
Attempting the attack only seemed to heighten the sensation of the drug. It's all Vic can do to not writhe in his restraints, but his empty mask is broken now, teeth bared as his captor sits back on his heels, fingers fiddling with the bottle’s fliptop cap.
He's more aware than ever of the cameras on him right now, recording the way he sweats, shudders, and pants against the drug's effects. Recording whatever comes next. He knows what comes next.
“Of course, I'm sure you'll find your way to freedom by the end of the day. The Black Kite always makes his escape. But not yet. Not before I'm through with him.”
Stop fucking talking, stop fucking acting like you know some big secret, stop.
“I know that much,” the enemy says. “I know you can't kill a Kite.” The bottle is set on the ground, his hands moving to his belt, and his tone, his words, make Vic want to vomit.
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cw: intimate whumper, prelude to noncon, noncon drugging, forced arousal (non explicit), recorded torture, adult language, death threats, emeto mention
T$$ Masterlist
~×~×~
Vic returns to awareness sitting up.
He keeps his eyes closed, breaths slow and measured as if he still hasn’t resurfaced, something he always plays at when he knows things have gone wrong, when he knows he’s been taken prisoner or otherwise incapacitated. Gives him time to think. To listen. The habit is one of the few things he’d consider thanking Nichols for.
His first observation is the restraints. There’s always a complete lack of surprise at being restrained. Anyone who takes his physical state for granted and leaves him unbound dies a very quick death for their stupidity. The positioning is a little odd though. A little unique, like whoever put him here thinks they’re special or clever or some bullshit.
His arms are pulled upwards and away, about as stretched as they can be, shaping his upper body into a stiff “Y”. Manacles dig into his wrists, and when he twitches a finger, he can feel it, which tells him he hasn’t been in this position for too long. His back is nearly flat against a stone wall, rough unfinished concrete, and his legs are spread in front of him, held apart by cuffs of their own.
The pose feels too deliberate, too obvious, like his captor wants to unsettle him. He’s naked, of course, the nice linen shirt and tailored slacks he’d changed into after the mission no doubt cut off him and thrown away. It’s expected, it’s something he’s lived through dozens of times, but recurrence doesn’t make his chest any less tight.
It’ll be the same as always. Wait. Endure. Take his vengeance in blood before getting the hell out of dodge. With the way his arms are chained, he’ll have to fuck up his left hand to make any headway. Just a dislocation if he’s lucky. Some skin with it if not. He isn’t gagged or blindfolded. Not that either of those matter in the scheme of escape, but he can’t deny the relief of the absence. There aren’t any consequential injuries on him either, besides the handful of bruises he got on his most recent mission. The picture is almost complete. Now for the final piece: how did he get here?
The last thing he can clearly remember is going to that restaurant. Nice place, a treat to himself after finishing his last job quicker than anticipated. He’d dressed up, gone in, took still water instead of wine. No one approached him. No one so much as brushed against him on the way in. So what went wrong? He’d clearly been drugged somewhere between the hotel and the check, he can still feel the waves of it in his head, the odd dryness on his tongue. He just can’t pinpoint how, unless…
The waiter.
“I know you’re awake.”
Through stubbornness and a great deal of practice, Vic doesn't react to the voice that seems to be just a few feet away, even though he didn't hear anyone approach. Has its owner been sitting here the whole time? Just watching him in complete silence?
“Come on Vic, don't play hard to get. Open your eyes. Say hi, if you feel so inclined.”
He doesn't want to, not when it's an enemy demand, but that's part of the game, isn't it? Give in to the little things. Swallow your pride for just a short moment.
He needs to determine the layout of the room he's in, anyway.
“There he is,” the enemy says when Vic raises his head slightly, eyes blinking open. They appear to be a younger man, at least a few years younger than Vic, wearing a plain t-shirt and a ski mask. Alone. No weapons Vic can see. Blank concrete beneath them both, small room, single door. No windows, bright lights, metal cabinet.
Camera.
His jaw clenches when his eyes land on it. Right behind his captor, pointed Vic's way, red recording light steadily blinking. He finds a second one in the corner, smaller, filming him from the side, and a third directly above him when he glances up. Fuck. Cameras are never a good sign. Cameras come with a purpose, a motive that goes deeper than finding out what Vic came for, who hired him, what he knows. Is it a live feed? Someone watching from behind the lens, patron of the young man in front of him?
His last mission went smooth. He was in and out, no one saw him, nothing went wrong, so this has to be something else, some older grudge or grievance. That's not a good sign either.
“I know, I know. You're not the chatty type. That's okay. Honestly, if you were, I probably would've gagged you, but given your track record, I can trust you to hold your tongue unless it's important.”
Track record. He's pretending he knows Vic, and even Vic can't deny that he seems to know more than most. Not that it matters. Of course he won't let someone stupid enough to catch him in a trap and brag about ‘understanding him’ live. The cuffs will be tricky, and he appreciates that his captor tried to take his capabilities seriously, but as soon as he leaves him alone for a moment he'll be out of the restraints. Kill the enemy, break the cameras, maybe take their memory cards to see if he can learn more about whoever's behind this and kill them too. Easy. He's done it a hundred times before.
The young man stands and struts over to the cabinet. Vic can read confidence in the way he moves, see the muscles in his forearms and under his shirt. He's either a professional or he's way too cocky, but when Vic shifts his foot, scraping a cuff against the floor, his captor doesn't flinch at the sound. Doesn't even look back.
Someone who's at least pretending he's done this before. In any case, Vic knows better than to underestimate an opponent.
The enemy opens the cabinet, and Vic grits his teeth when he draws out a capped syringe.
A further complication, but it's not as if he's never been drugged. His captor waited for him to wake up, so he doubts whatever's in the vial will render him unconscious, but it'll probably fuck with his head. Something that makes him more woozy and disoriented is his best bet, but he's encountered other experimental shit in the past. Hallucinogenics, wannabe 'truth serums', substances that only serve to make everything hurt worse, doesn't matter. Vic can work around anything, endure anything, and this man not accounting for that will be his downfall.
He doesn't move when the enemy kneels beside him, injecting the stuff into his neck. Vic knows there's no stopping it, and he's not about to put on a show for the cameras by trying to make things difficult.
“There we go. That'll take a few minutes to kick in, but I'm in no hurry.” He returns to his spot in front of Vic, sitting cross-legged with his chin balanced on his knuckles. Vic sneaks a glance behind him, but the cabinet has been closed. No previews of what's to come, unfortunately. Not that it matters.
“Vic Shepard. We meet at last. How was your dinner?”
Vic doesn't answer, of course, doesn't even grace his captor with a reaction, despite how much he hates to hear his name coming out of an enemy's mouth. It's rare, but it's happened before. He thrives on secrecy, on being a living shadow, more myth than man, but he's not so deluded to think it's impossible some snooping asshole could figure out who he is.
“Right, you won't answer that. Sorry, it's just hard to find the words to say. I wasn't sure I'd be able to catch the Black Kite—or, well, at least the only Black Kite that's still alive.”
Another name Vic wants to bristle at, but he keeps it contained, certain the man is trying to get a reaction out of him. Some know Vic, some know Black Kite, but only a handful of people have ever connected them, and fewer still know enough to drag Nichols into the moniker. Who does this enemy work for? What does he know? If there's someone out there tracking his movements with such scrutiny they know about Nichols, he has no choice but to find them and take them out. He can't move with eyes on him like that.
And he can't just let that information be recorded either, not without consequences.
“I thought about killing you, you know. There's a part of me that keeps insisting it would’ve been easy. Just open your throat while you're unconscious, right? You didn't fight me when I stripped you, or when I chained you up like that. You couldn't. You were out cold. Fuck, maybe I could've killed you. Maybe I still can.” He laughs. “I'm not really sure what happens when you pin a Kite down like this and snap its neck. Will the roof come down on me in an act of God or fate or sudden bad luck?”
What the fuck’s he rambling about? He probably could've killed Vic, but he didn't. It's the mistake they always make, leaving him alive and whole enough to seek his retribution and keep moving. The day someone gets wise enough to take him out quickly is the day Vic dies. It's that simple.
“I think I know how it works,” his captor carries on. “The only one in the last thirty years who's been able to kill a fledged Black Kite has been another Black Kite. I'm not sure I'm willing to risk what happens when you challenge the mark.” He leans in then, tapping the tattoo on Vic's chest, and this time he nearly flinches away, mentally cursing himself for the urge to do so.
Don't be a coward. What his captor is saying is senseless, even if he's gotten a few odd details right, even if he knows, somehow, that Vic is the one who took out Nichols.
What else does he know then?
Doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. All the fun little facts and batshit theories will die with the man before too long. Besides, he has more pressing issues than the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist. There's an odd, tingling warmth that's beginning to spread through his body. It turns the edges of his thoughts hazy. Not enough to render them incoherent, no, the effect is far more physical than mental. Almost pleasant at first, then rising to an insistent warmth in his core, in his groin. Uncomfortable. He doesn't look down, doesn't break the cool stare he has leveled at the enemy, but he can feel heat pulsing through him, building.
“I was there when they cut Castor Nichols open, you know. You could trace scars back to sightings and piece things together. It's hard to piece things together with the Kites.”
On about Nichols now. Vic doesn't want to hear about Nichols, especially not when he's chained up and exposed like this, but he's not even gonna dignify him with an insult. The gravity of what he's saying, cut him open, traced scars, is lost for now, buried under the haze and the spite.
“You kill everyone you meet, or at least you try to. But there's always a few stragglers who've seen you in action. And Vic Shepard, oh I've looked into you specifically. You were a lot sloppier six years ago. That was right after Castor died, hm? You went all wildcard. A lot of the people you worked for aren't the tight lipped type if you toss them some paper, you know? I have to wonder if the mark was still watching over you then, or if it didn't count you as a Black Kite anymore. Black Kites aren't sloppy, Vic.”
He nearly says something at that, a snapping curse, something. He hates the rising burn in his gut and he hates the enemy's voice even more, talking like he's giving Vic a lecture, like he knows everything when he doesn't know shit. Talking about the mark, talking like there's some supernatural bullshit embedded in Vic. Is this guy a wannabe cultist or is he just stupid? Deluded by tv shows and forum posts, projecting his ideas onto Vic's lived experience. He keeps himself reigned in by imagining killing his captor, killing him slow. I kill everyone I meet, don't I? How's this for sloppy?
“I guess you self-corrected in the last few years though, huh? Maybe that was the mark's doing. Maybe it starves without a Kite to do its bidding.”
Batshit crazy. It was Vic's doing, everything has been Vic's doing. He survives and kills because of his own damn choices. But he doesn't say that, instead digging his teeth into his tongue and trying to hold as still as possible.
The enemy pauses for a moment then. Gives him a knowing look that lingers too long on his body. Goes to the cabinet and comes back with a bottle that could be lotion or something worse.
“You want to kill me, don't you?”
Vic glowers up at him as the man encroaches.
“You do. I know how you operate. Your mission comes before everything else. You'll sit still and let yourself be tortured, sweet little lamb, then sink your teeth in as soon as I turn my back. It's the same story from any straggler. Some assumed you'd shut down completely, some thought it was just pride, but in the end it was always patience. You're patient now, aren't you? Waiting for me to make a mistake you can use.”
The drug makes him want to respond with rage, to beat the shit out of this guy while the cameras are rolling, but he knows he should try to be logical instead, try to roll with the punches. The enemy knows his routine, somehow, and Vic needs to adapt to that, but his thoughts are about as easy to hold onto as the end of a hot poker. Frustration and this stupid animalistic need are muddying his head, there's just the heat and the twitching skin and the weight in his core that's steadily becoming unbearable. He almost screams when his captor starts rambling again, almost thrashes against his chains like a madman.
“You know, the oldest account I have of you is from years ago, almost twenty years, can you believe that? Some tussle over the Russian border. Do you remember it? They let you go. They most certainly could've killed you, but they let you go. Dumped you naked on the side of some country road.” He leans closer, close enough that Vic could throttle him if his hands were free.
“What did you think of that? Was the mark protecting you then? Did you feel lucky?” That last word is breathed across Vic’s throat in a way that makes his body shudder, hips shifting involuntarily.
Fuck giving no reaction, he tries to headbutt his captor with all the force he can muster, but the man only moves back.
“Do you feel lucky now? I do wonder what all I could do to you. What it would keep you alive through.” He laughs. “It's tempting, trust me, but I've already laid my plans.”
Attempting the attack only seemed to heighten the sensation of the drug. It's all Vic can do to not writhe in his restraints, but his empty mask is broken now, teeth bared as his captor sits back on his heels, fingers fiddling with the bottle’s fliptop cap.
He's more aware than ever of the cameras on him right now, recording the way he sweats, shudders, and pants against the drug's effects. Recording whatever comes next. He knows what comes next.
“Of course, I'm sure you'll find your way to freedom by the end of the day. The Black Kite always makes his escape. But not yet. Not before I'm through with him.”
Stop fucking talking, stop fucking acting like you know some big secret, stop.
“I know that much,” the enemy says. “I know you can't kill a Kite.” The bottle is set on the ground, his hands moving to his belt, and his tone, his words, make Vic want to vomit.
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I wonder how well a digital trading marketplace would fare as a replacement/alternative for generative ai
people who use genai tend to fall back on the excuse of being too unskilled to make the thing but too broke to commission it, so what about accessible trading? Exchanging a short story or editorial work for a book cover design, a piano melody for custom album artwork, website graphics traded for some voice acting, beta reading for character portraits. Even just having someone draw a background for you and you draw a dragon for them
really funny to me how the entire conflict of T$$ depends on Vic being a piece of shit
- he (unintentionally) gave Tom Beck the idea to start a spy team in the first place
- got so pissed Tom actually made a spy team that he kidnapped Ander Sahota and ruined his life
- kidnapping directly resulted in said spy team being disbanded, and Tom instead focused on interdimensional technology
- Tom then created the sixth sense project which failed miserably except for Hunter who is probably slowly dying of extradimensional radiation poisoning
- and then the Reality Cage after the previous project was covered up
- and then ofc all the events of t$$. Like if Vic wasn't involved at all it probably would've gone a lot smoother
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