Took The Dollpill

Matthew Wilson took a big stretch and rubbed his eyes. The first big stretch that he had in lord knows how long. The last thing he remembered was being in hospital after his doctor diagnosed him with intracerebral hematoma. He had slow bleeding in his brain from a combination of a recent malignant tumor, and years of heavy drinking. 

The more he thought about it the more he could recall. He remembered that it all started when he collapsed on stage while giving a presentation on his new AI software package from his company, Pythia. When he was rushed to the ER he found out about the tumor, the internal bleeding, all of it. He was told there was nothing to be done. Not letting a little thing like impending death stop him, and decided that if doctors of this time couldn't help him, then doctors of the future certainly could. He gave his husband temporary control of all of his assets, and signed the papers to be placed in a cryogenics pod.

And now that plan had paid off. He yawned and finally opened his eyes to a new glorious future. He found himself in another hospital room, however the interior was much different than the sterile white, medical look of his prior accommodations. The walls were a soft yellow, with real wood accents, and a number of plants that livened the room up. He could see light streaming in from a window to outside, but the angle was such that he couldn't see outside. His bed felt soft and plush, not the usual stiff, hospital kind. He also wasn't in a private room, he was sharing it with two women, one a rather attractive long haired blonde, while the other had half of her head shaved and the other half bright neon green. While the blonde looked certainly to be the type to be placed in a hospital room with him, the punk did not. He would have to bring that up with management. 

A door on the other side of the room swung open and a nurse walked in pushing a cart. There was something slightly off about her. Unlike most of the nurses he had had in his life, she seemed downright cheery. She was also wearing a choker or something similar around her neck. Very unprofessional.

The nurse started going towards the punk first. Didn't she know who he was? He certainly deserved priority service. “Nurse! I demand you come here first!” 

The nurse smiled as she looked in his direction, “Oh! I hadn't noticed you were awake! I'll be there right after I check on this one first. You can wait your turn.” 

And she went back to what she was doing as if he didn't just ask for her attention. “Listen here, I will get you fired if you don't come here first.”

The nurse just laughed, “Oh that would certainly be something. You can wait your turn.

The nerve of this woman! How could she so easily ignore his demands? “Don't you know who I am? I’m Matthew Wilson! CEO and founder of Pythia? The fastest growing AI startup this side of the USA? I got contracts with the government for heaven's sake! The threat about getting you fired wasn't just me blowing smoke! I demand to know your name!”

“That's nice dear.” The nurse simply replied. 

Oh that nurse was simply infuriating. If she wasn't going to come to him, he was going to go to her. He attempted to get out of his bed but outside of his face and head, he found he couldn't move. Wait, did some future quack doctor mess up his surgery? Was he paralyzed? 

He called out to the nurse again, this time in actual desperation. “Nurse! Help! I think I'm paralyzed! I can't move my body!”

The nurse didn't look up from the tests she was conducting on the punk, “You’re not paralyzed silly, you're just on some class M’s. It's nothing to worry about.” 

“What the fuck is a class M.” Seriously, he had never heard of that kind of drug before. 

“Just a drug that prevents patients from moving until we want them to. It's nothing permanent.” The nurse moved over to the blonde and started to do the same tests. 

“Oh great, like that makes it any better. What kind of fucked up hospital is this?” 

The nurse didn't answer at first. She merely finished up her tests and finally moved onto him. 

“So are you going to answer my question?”

“Matthew, do you know what year it is? Much has changed since you were frozen. I’ll answer any questions you have now as truthfully as I can.”

“No, I don't. And I don't frankly care. I shouldn't be treated like this.”

“Like what? Like you're the most important one in the room?” 

“Yea exactly!”

“Well, you're not the most important one in the room right now. All three of you had some pretty serious conditions that the V.. doctor fixed up nicely for you. You're currently the most recovered! Therefore, you are not the priority. Now, since you don't seem to have questions, let me ask you questions instead. What year do you think it is?” 

“Now how the hell do I answer that? I don't know what fucking year it is. It's the future! It could be any year!”

“Hmm, let me rephrase that, what year was the last year you could remember it being.”

“The last year I remember was 2031.” 

“Good, now this is going to come as a shock to you, so I'm going to give you a mild class E, alright?” 

“What the hell is a…” and he felt the nurse pinch his arm and stick a needle in it. From the spot where the needle had entered him he felt a calmness spreading through his body. His anger and his confusion were all still there yet, they felt inaccessible to him. 

“We are currently a little over five hundred years into your future. The year is 2552. You can hold my hand or hug me if you wish if that will bring you comfort.”

That was a lot longer than he expected. That meant that his husband was long gone, unless he froze himself too. He was five hundred years in the future. And he was alive! It meant that all of his assets would still legally belong to him! And this far in the future he could imagine they all were worth significantly more. He could grieve for his husband later. He needed to know about how his company fared. 

“That's okay! Now what I really need is a phone, or a newspaper or whatever you have! I need to check in on my investments! I need to know how my company is faring.” 

The nurse stifled a giggle, “Well, haha, I don't know about a phone or newspaper, but I can certainly bring you a datapad.”

“What's so funny?” 

She wiped a tear from her eye, “Oh nothing. Just I think you're going to be in for a surprise.” A ding came from her back pocket and she pulled out what looked somewhat like a computer tablet or a large phone. She looked at it for a moment and quickly text something and sent it off. “Alright I've been told that I need to mention something important. We're not on Terra. I don't know how much you knew about that cryo program but they put you in space to ‘keep fresh’, and well, we're a very good distance away from Terra right now.” 

“So, like we're on some kind of distant planet? I always knew if the government defunded NASA and allowed the corporate sector to take over space flight that we'd get out this far eventually.” 

“Again, not exactly.” 

What did she mean exactly? He could see sunshine shining through the window! “You can't mean we're on some kind of space station.”

“Starship actually.”

“So, some kind of luxury liner? Well, if we're on a cruise, I would like to speak to the captain then. I'm sure he could make some time for me.”

“Oh she already did. She and the communications officer are the ones who brought you all in. But, umm there's some other things you may need to know first.”

Oh, a lady captain, how woke. “Well, I'll have to personally thank her. What is it that I need to know?”

The nurse got another message on her tablet, “Alright, since you seem to be in good shape, it's better to show you. Your doctor would like to see you.”

“Well, then bring them in!”

“They'd prefer it if you came with me. They're just in a waiting room outside.” 

The nurse pricked him again with another needle. This time the effect was instantaneous, he went from not being able to move, to feeling coming back. He could wiggle his fingers and his toes. As he got himself up, the nurse quickly left and returned with a wheelchair.

“For now.”

He consented and allowed himself to be helped into the wheelchair. He was then wheeled out of the room and into a much, much larger waiting room. It was practically the size of an aircraft hanger, with giant chairs and tables. And the most shocking thing about it, was the three trees lounging on some of the chairs. One resembled a large bush of pink and white carnations in a vague humanoid shape, another resembled a mass of vines with little blueberries and flowers hanging off of it that resembled a blouse, the last vaguely looked like a tree at all, but instead took a feline shape but not at the same time; it has a large swishing tail. That one looked as if it was made of reeds and cattails. 

The one that resembled a humanoid made of carnations talked first in a weird layered voice, “Thank you Annette,” that must have been the nurse's name! “We can take it from here, go back and look after the other Terrans, they’ll probably be waking up shortly.”

“Yes of course Miss!” Annette turned back and went into the room where Matthew had just woken up. 

Matthew couldn't take his eyes off of the talking plants. Just what the fuck were they? If it wasn't for that class E or whatever the nurse had given him he would have been terrified. What happened in the last five hundred years? 

The blueberry plant talked next, “Oh would you look at that, it seems our rather demanding little Terran has all frozen up. How adorable~” 

The cat-like plant replied, “Truly adorable, it's good to see you doing well, little Matthew.” 

Annette had said one of these plants was his doctor, he had to be assertive. “Umm, thank you, which one of you is my doctor? I have some pretty serious complaints I want to make.”

The carnation plant thing spoke again, “Oh, is that so, little one? Well, you may address them to myself. My name is Diantha Caryophyllus, 7th bloom, she and her pronouns please. I'm the veterinarian who looked after you during the unfreezing process.”

Veterinarian? What the fuck? He didn't have time for that, he had to make his demands, “Now, I don't care what you are. Ever since I woke up I've been treated to indignity after indignity. First I should have gotten my own private room! And if I had to be placed in a room with someone else, it shouldn't have been with the riffraff. Second, I've been treated horribly by your nurse. She refused to give me the service my station in life affords me! She laughed at me and mocked me the whole time. I demand her reprisal, if not firing!” 

The plant things all looked down at him as if he said the most adorable things. He could immediately tell they weren't taking him seriously. 

This time the mass of blueberry's spoke again, “Feisty little one, isn't he?” 

“Oh very feisty,” replied Diantha before turning to Matthew once again, “Is that all?”

“No! It's not! Given how even you are treating me with condescension, I'm going to go over your head. I know we're on some kind of luxury liner, so I demand to talk to the captain!”

“Demand? Well, Flower, you found her. Captain Vivinium Boreale, 12th bloom, She and her pronouns if you please.” Came a response from the blueberry. 

“Oh, well. I still demand…” he was cut off before he could continue. 

“Demand, demand, demand; and nary a please or thank you.” Vivinium added something in a language that sounded like wind chimes, “You are quite the interesting one. Before we go any further, Petal, I suggest you change tactics.”

The future had started to feel far less glorious, “Okay, fine. Please could you all stop with the condescension. You may be a giant plant alien thing, and the captain of this ship, but economically and socially, my standing is far beyond yours. You should be taking orders from me!” 

The captain plant thing laughed uproarishly, “Petal, flower. I really don't think you understand the position that you're in. This isn't the Terran Accord, or what did you call it? The USA? We were going to give you a whole talk about how things have changed since you were last awake. But then you came in here demanding things angrily as if you were still someone important under a capitalist system. So, perhaps little one I should set you straight. You are now a citizen of the Affini Compact. Myself, Diantha, and Typha here are all from a species known as the Affini. We are not from this galaxy. We do not believe in the capitalist systems you hold so near and dear to your heart. Everyone within the Compact is well looked after, everyone’s material needs are met. Money doesn't exist anymore.”

That struck home for Matthew. All of the hopes he had for this future world were gone. Whatever money was locked up in his investments would be gone. His company must have been subsumed by this foreign state. Was he really penniless? “That's not fair! I earned my status as CEO! I founded my company Pythia on nothing but a billion dollar loan from my father! I earned the right not to be condescended to! You can't just tell me that, oops, because I was saved by a passing ship of woke alien plant communists that all of that has been taken away and given to some freeloaders! You mentioned this Terran Accord, I want to be sent there.” 

Vivinium answered again, “The Terran Accord won't exist in the next couple of years. It's been slated for domestication for exactly the reasons you just stated. We cannot sit by idly and let all those adorable Terrans be abused by such an unjust system. If you were to go there now, you'd just be delaying the inevitable. It's best you stay with us, little one.”

“Then you shouldn't have revived me at all. What's life without purpose? My purpose was growing my company. We were going places! Pythia was on track to become the largest AI threat prediction company in the world. What will I do? How will I live? There is no challenge without the competition that capitalism provides.”

“Oh I have a few ideas, my little CEO,” Vivinum’s lips curled into a vicious, predatory smile, showing rows upon rows of sharp needle like teeth, “I'll just have to provide that meaning in your life myself.”

At that point the world turned to a colourless void and Matthew Wilson collapsed into a deep sleep.  

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How did you get so many dolls?" You ask.

"I collect them," replied the witch. "Sometimes I buy them from other collectors, sometimes I find them abandoned in mysterious places. Most, however, are from visitors who come here."

"So they give you dolls?"

"They become dolls," the witch corrected. "Would you like a demonstration?"

"Perhaps." You admit you're very intrigued.

The witch opened a drawer underneath a shelf and took out a large wind-up key, smoothly inserting it into your upper back as if you had always been meant to receive it. The sensation sent spikes of pleasure throughout your body.

She rotated the key one quarter-turn clockwise and your right arm went limp, still knowing it's there but unable to move or feel it.

A second quarter-turn and your right leg went limp.

A third quarter-turn and now your left leg went limp.

One final quarter-turn and you were unable to move any of your limbs, unsure about what was going to happen next.

Sensing your trepidation, she leaned in and whispered, "It's going to be ok. You don't have to worry anymore."

She gave the key one full turn and all thoughts disappeared from your mind. You gazed at her blankly. You were hers to mold.

"Now repeat after me," she said. "I am a good doll."

"I am a good doll," you repeated. You wouldn't dare defy her.

She gave the key another full turn. You could feel your body slowly regain energy.

"My purpose is to serve Miss."

"My purpose is to serve Miss."

She gave the key another full turn.

"I will always be obedient to Miss."

"I will always be obedient to Miss."

She gave the key another full turn. Each rotation made you feel happier.

"What Miss wants makes me happy."

"What Miss wants makes me happy."

She gave the key another full turn. It felt so right to be like this.

"I am a good doll."

"I am a good doll."

She rotated the key a few more times before removing it. You looked down at your hands, now porcelain with ball joints. You could sense a faint ticking sensation from inside you that felt calming.

She looked down at you, smiling. "You are such a beautiful doll."

The car arrives. Feliks doesn’t need to say a thing–the gun does the speaking. His grip on Victor’s hand turns into a guiding hand, pushing Victor gently toward the car. Against his better judgment, Victor follows. His legs feel like jelly, carrying him toward the waiting Mercedes. His shopping bag bumping awkwardly against his thigh with each step. He can still feel the gun pressed against his abdomen. The crowd buzzes around them, oblivious to what is happening in plain sight. To anyone passing, it looks like a man helping his pale looking friend get into the car.

The rear door swings open with a quiet click. Victor hesitates for a split second before the hand on his back pushes harder. As if he enters autopilot mode, Victor lowers himself into the leather interior, head bowed. The bag crumples slightly against his lap and cold sweat forms on his temple.

“Scoot,” he hears Feliks saying, not realizing that he’s been motionless on the rear seat. He does so wordlessly, making a space for Feliks, the shopping bag dragging with him. With the vampire promptly sitting beside him, Victor’s chest tightens.

The door shuts with a soft thunk, sealing Victor’s fate. The car glides smoothly and the first thing he notices is how silent the vehicle is. The hush is unnerving, immediately isolating him from Nevsky Prospekt’s bustle–it’s like he’s being ferried with a sealed capsule. The pleasant, relaxing lavender car perfume scent does nothing to calm his panic.

As the car accelerates silently, Feliks converses with another man in the front seat in Russian, seemingly neglecting Victor for the moment although he still has his gun pointed at him. Victor is frantically trying to absorb as much information as he can. Sitting on the front seat are the driver and another man, tall and bulky–mercenary build, Victor assumes. He can’t tell whether they’re humans or vampires yet he’s certain they’re all armed.

All of the seats are wrapped in polished leather, supple and cool against his skin. Victor grips his own coat subconsciously, trying to make himself as small as possible. In theory, the seat’s softness should bring him comfort. Victor can feel the subtle give of the memory foam as it molds around him with every nervous adjustment of his posture. Ambient blue lighting runs in ribbons along the doors and dashboard. The car’s interior screams luxury.

Swallowing, he tears his gaze away and looks through the tinted glass. They’re still on main city avenue. His thoughts race. He misses US soil already and more importantly he misses his Glock. Were his gun on his side, Victor would be able to blast Feliks’ head off without hesitation. Another voice inside him mocks himself for being kidnapped by a vampire for the second time. Perhaps this is why Vasha (allegedly) planted spyware on his phone.

“Aren’t you going to ask where I’m taking you?” Feliks breaks the silence between them.

“And risking getting shot?” Victor asks back, gripping his coat tightly. He doesn’t dare glance his way.

“Clever cat.” He sounds satisfied as he slides the gun back into his pocket. “You must be used to this.”

Victor stills. What is Feliks hinting at? Memories flood his brain, overwhelming and unwelcome. His fists curl tight.

“I have nothing personal against you, Victor Arnault.” How does he know my name? Feliks continues, “It’s strictly business with your Vasily, you’re a mere collateral damage.” He says it in a strictly professional manner, something that feels disconnected with the act of kidnapping a human being.

Victor’s brain works hard, piecing together information he has gathered from his interaction with Feliks. Seeing how easily Vasha accumulated a number of enemies over the years, it's very possible that Feliks belongs to the long list of people Vasha has crossed. Feliks is likely to take him because of his association with Vasha.

“Feliks, you don't have to do this. Whatever Vasily has done, you're better than him.” Damn this is fucking cliche.

The vampire's fingers readjust his glasses, his eyes narrow in amusement, “I am.”

Fuck this posh vampire. As a vampire he doesn’t even need to wear glasses yet he does for vain reasons like adjusting the damn glasses. Also fuck Vasha for making enemies. And fuck him for travelling alone right into a vampire’s territory.

“Do you want to be placed on the trunk?”

“What?” Victor asks in exasperation.

“Figures as much. You’re doing all of us a service.”

Before Victor can say another word, the man on the front seat extends Feliks a piece of black cloth and a thin dark object. When Victor focuses, the other object turns out to be a ziptie.

Feliks turns back to him. “Hands on your back, darling.”

Victor’s body just stops moving, arrested mid-breath. He neither resists nor follows Feliks’ order. His arms remain weak and useless at his sides, they don’t feel like his arms at all. He focuses on the leather’s seats’ faint citrus scent instead. God, help me.

After waiting for a second too long, Feliks roughly guides Victor’s wrists behind him–a sharp contrast with his demeanor. The contact with Feliks’ cold hands sends him shivering yet his body limps. The ziptie closes with a small click.

Victor can feel his stomach drop as the plastic bites into his skin immediately. His fingers twitch in discomfort and he’s only rewarded by thin, sharp plastic digging into skin. He hisses in pain.

The black cloth comes afterward, it presses against his eyes. Knot tightens at the back of his skull and total darkness engulfs him. With no sight, the world shrinks to hearing and tactile sensory. Everything feels heightened. Something in the bag beside him—a box of tea or chocolate, it’s hard to tell—shifts with a rattle every time the car takes a turn. Victor recites Our Father in his mind as he tries to steady his breathing.

He shifts in the seat, his shoulders pulled by the ziptie. More movement means the plastic will only dig into his skin, leaving marks. Victor forces to still himself.

As darkness is his only company, it leaves him too much space to think. First comes his daughter. Oh God no, Ecclesia! It breaks his heart that he’s probably not going to see again, never to hear her laugh. His congregation comes next, those fine folks who will not even notice his absence until a week pass by. The thought about Vasha follows. Oh God. Vasha. Loud, obnoxious Vasha, who will never know where he has gone. His thoughts spiral. Dearest doctor. Stupid Graham. The list grows longer. Victor imagines them looking for him, contacting the police, only to find no trail.

He feels his calves tense and as if on cue, a hand touches his ankle. His whole body stiffens, half-expecting physical escalation.

“A little treat from me,” he hears Feliks murmuring. Victor’s heart races again, every sensation becomes a threat when he’s without sight.

Feliks’ hand slides lower, guiding his legs. Victor is alerted but lets the hands touch his legs. A mechanical click follows. The footrest beneath him shifts, rising, and his calves lift.

“Comfortable, innit?” There’s smugness in his tone.

Victor nods in silence, realizing that Feliks just casually places his hand on Victor’s thigh. He pushes down the urge to thank Feliks. His throat feels dry even though he just drank refreshing lemon tea. He swallows. Victor imagines Feliks crouched beside him, watching his every reaction. What if he wants to have his way with Victor? He brushes that thought quickly, irrationally fearing the bloodsucker can read it.

“Are you going to kill me?” Victor musters the courage to ask since Feliks doesn’t seem in a bad mood. The combination of blindfold and ziptie means that it’s less likely for Feliks to shoot him since Victor is basically incapacitated.

“We’ll see.”

Despite the answer, Victor theorizes Feliks is not going to kill him, not in the near future at least. If Feliks bothers to orchestrate a smooth kidnapping due to Vasha crossing him, then Victor is a bargaining chip. He'll be more valuable alive than dead. Yet there's no guarantee what this vampire can and cannot do.

The silence that follows is heavy. A leverage. A bargaining chip. That’s all that he is now.

When Feliks talks again, it’s almost friendly, disarming Victor, “Don’t waste your energy guessing.”

Music then spills into the car–some 90s pop song that he half remembers. He hears Feliks singing along, occasionally drumming against Victor’s thigh. The casualness unsettles Victor. Instinctively, he tries to close his legs.

“Are you planning to ransom me to Vasily?”

There is a soft huh before a laughter bursts. The worst thing is that it doesn’t sound mocking, the baritone laugh genuinely sounds amused. Victor can picture Feliks’ visage, dark curls that frame his forehead tilts as he laughs, lips upturned and fingers wiping tears from his eyes. It’s not a bad picture if only he’s not a sick fuck of a vampire and this is not a hostage situation.

“Do you think I need money from Vasily?” He stifles his laugh.

Once again, fuck him. Then it gets him pondering, if financial gain isn’t Feliks’ objective then what else can it be? A hostage trade, perhaps. Or a favor, that also makes absolute sense. His organ being sold in black market is out of the question since he’s not in his prime anymore. Victor shudders as he imagines being tortured for information about Vasha.

Victor retreats to his thoughts and he finds it better than panicking. He decides to ask the thing has been concerned with, “Are you with the Bratva?”

Another laughter, short and wheezing, this time. “Are you done insulting me?.”

Heat creeps up to Victor’s face, “You seem to be in a good mood.”

“That I do. Why wouldn’t I? You basically walked straight into my arms. I am a very lucky man.”

Victor is quiet for a while. He presses, “How did you know I’m in the city?”

“My men saw you in Istanbul. You were quite the sleeping beauty then.”

Ah, so Victor has been followed since he was dozing off in Istanbul airport. The realization makes Victor’s stomach turn.

Feliks continues, “And even if you had landed in Moscow, my men would bag you here.” There’s no answer from Victor. This holiday is doomed from the start.

Their drive is quite uneventful. Nothing but darkness, engine hum, and blood rushing in Victor’s ears. Another song blasts into the car, upbeat in a language Victor doesn’t recognize, and Feliks is singing along like he’s having the time of his life. The man in the front sings along as well. Feliks nudges Victor to sing along. When he doesn’t comply, a gun is pressed against his temple. In the end Victor sings whatever refrain he can manage–just “cha cha cha” over and over.

Their twisted car karaoke session ends after some time. Time passes. Minutes stretch until they no longer feel like minutes at all. Victor has no idea how long he’s been in this car. His body looks for cues; changes in motion, car turning left or right, or shifts in the pitch of the engine. He can’t tell whether he’s still in a city or Feliks has brought him to a rural area. The car could be going anywhere.

Eventually the car slows. Tires crunch on gravel, the road is no longer paved. The car tilts upward slightly. Victor’s chest tightens. He exhales sharply, only then realizing he has been holding his breath.

The car’s vibration eases as it slows and turns, he can feel the vehicle is being parked. Victor’s heart pounds, preparing for the worst. The car engine cuts out. Doors click open one by one, cool air rushes in. They have arrived.

Victor feels Feliks get out of the car first. Then a rough hand clamps around his upper arm and drags him sideways. His body is hauled toward the open air. He yelps as his shoulders twist painfully because his wrists are bound behind him, the ziptie bites deeper with every movement. The blindfold proves to be a great handicap. Victor nearly loses his balance before the hands steady him. One wrong step and he might be falling face-first. 

The hands keep pushing him forward. He can feel grass beneath the shoes. His gait is clumsy, half shuffling. Each step is a stumble and the firm grip on his arm keeps him steady.

A door opens ahead, heavy wood, by the sound of it. The hands on his body guiding him into a building. The atmosphere changes as he enters, he can’t feel outside air anymore. As the door is closed behind him, his shoes strike a new surface, hard and flat–it doesn’t feel like concrete nor floorboard.

Victor orients himself, remembering the turns he takes–straight, left, right, right again. Another door opens again before him. Small gasp escapes his mouth as he realizes he’s at the first step at a staircase. The hand at his arm shoves him downward. He breathes shallowly, trying to focus on each step so he doesn’t fall down.

They descend slowly. The air grows colder. Trying not to panic, Victor counts the stairs but loses track halfway.

His shoes strike a solid ground and Victor knows their descent has ended. He’s hauled across the floor of what feels like an interior chamber. Behind him, the shuffle of footsteps signals that Feliks and the driver have finally caught up.

Feliks mutters something low and in an instant a blade cuts the ziptie at Victor’s wrists. He hisses as the knife also cuts shallow into his wrist, not much from pain but from the suddenness of the sharp sensation.

He hears Feliks saying something again and two pairs of hands push him to the floor. Those hands seize him, attempting to take off his coat roughly.

It's vain and pathetic but Victor is thinking about his coat. Screw them, it's brand new! With the ziptie gone, his courage comes back, not caring whether his captors are armed or not. Victor thrashes, trying to kick aimlessly, only to pull a muscle on his leg. As he winces, the two people work with ruthless efficiency. First, his coat is yanked back off his shoulders. Victor tries to bite one of the men like his life depends on it.

His shirt comes next, pulled upward in one swift motion. The shirt’s collar catches Victor’s chin before it’s wrenched free. Each layer gone leaves him barer. He clings and clutches his undershirt as if to shield him to no avail. 

Hands find his waist. With a click, his belt is unfastened and his trousers are being unzipped. Fabric slides down his legs despite his effort to fight the assailants, then being yanked away in one merciless pull. Heat crawls up to his face, contrasting the cold air that hit his bare skin. Now his brief is the only thing that protects his dignity. He closes his legs, cheeks flushing in humiliation.

“Kneel,” Feliks doesn't bark orders but he conveys authority. 

Victor spits blindly where he thinks Feliks is–earning a slap in retaliation. It's not a hard one, but enough to sink his self esteem. He feels utterly defenseless and exposed.

Gritting his teeth, Victor shifts from a prone position to kneeling. Hard, cold tiles feel oppressive below his knees.

With a sharp tug, Feliks removes Victor's blindfold. Bright light sears his eyes. He closes his eyes, acclimating to the sudden light after hours being in the darkness.

“Hell, you look good, Victor,” he yanks Victor’s hair from the roots, forcing him to look at Feliks.

Victor winces, the corner of his mouth turning into a smirk, “I’m aware.”

With his blindfold gone, Victor observes his surroundings. He expects a rotting underground dungeon but this is beyond his imagination. Before him is a lavish chamber, modern and luxurious bedroom suite. The room is spacious and uncluttered. A large bed with crisp white bedding and warm accent pillows is positioned in the corner. Behind the bed, the wall is covered in marble tiling–high-end and polished. The floor is such a show stealer; parquet wood, polished and reflective. The resin and paint hides the nature of a floorboard. Without visible wooden texture, its appearance is more akin to a granite instead.

He inhales, dragging his attention back to Feliks. The man and the driver stand by the door now, preventing Victor from escaping.

Feliks draws his revolver and spins the cylinder casually. “Since I'm in a good mood,” he curls his lips, “I want to play a game.” His stomach knots. What kind of sick Saw reenactment is this. Victor’s gut tells him nothing good will come out from this situation.

“You know Russian roulette, yes? We’ll play it on easy difficulty–only half of the chambers are empty.” He tilts the revolver in his hand, the gesture is playful

Victor shakes his head violently.

“As your host, I’ll play first.” Feliks cocks his head and flashes a boyish smile before putting the barrel inside his mouth. Victor finds himself holding his breath. The trigger snaps, a click echoes–Feliks is unscathed.

“Wow, fortune is on my side,” Feliks kisses his revolver before spinning the chamber once more. “Your turn, Father.”

No, no. 

“Is that a no?” The vampire watches Victor lazily, “If you don’t want to pull the trigger yourself, I can pull the trigger for you.”

“I can do it myself,” Victor steels himself. God, save me.

His eyes water as Feliks hands him the revolver. Is this the end? He witnesses his life flashes before his eyes.

Victor’s fingers curl around the grip. The barrel hovers in front of him. For a split second, he considers aiming it at Feliks instead. But even though he managed to shoot Feliks then what? It doesn’t mean he’ll die from it, not to mention he still has his henchmen and Victor is guaranteed to receive a retaliation. Victor decides not to aim the gun at the vampire.

His fingers tremble as he presses the revolver against his temple, the barrel still slick from Feliks’ spit. Victor is visibly hyperventilating, his chest growing tight as bile rises. Pins and needles crawl over his palm and his vision swims at the edges.

He breathes shakily. The faintest shudder breaks out over Victor’s bare skin as he recites Our Father in his mind. He closes his eyes before steeling his grip on the trigger, cold sweat forming on his forehead.

Victor pulls the trigger. 

The chamber is empty. Victor sags, his hands tremble.

Feliks cheers and picks the gun from the floor, he seizes the moment to kiss Victor’s forehead. The priest is too shaken to resist the kiss.

The vampire then ruffles Victor’s hair as if soothing a little kid, “That was a great show.” He lingers just a moment, watching the priest’s chest rise and fall. 

He let silence fill the room and for the priest to compose himself. Once Victor steadies his breathing, Feliks continues casually, “We’re not done for today.”

Victor looks at him in disbelief. What else does he want?

The vampire caresses his cheek, “Open your mouth.” His forefinger rested on the revolver’s trigger.

“Feliks, Feliks, please,” Victor doesn't care how desperate he sounds as he clenches and unclenches his hands. He’s had it enough, he’s so exhausted. His chest feels constricted, the air feels too thin. All he knows is that he needs to get out of here, far away from this deranged vampire.

“You can call me Zima,” the vampire eventually corrects him. “I think you’ve earned that.”

“Zima…”

A pause. His mind goes blank. Victor is running out of words. Closing his mouth, he thinks harder but nothing good would come. His pleas fall on deaf ears.

“Continue begging, I like the sound of it.”

Motherfucker. Anger flares despite his exhaustion. Victor was going to say “pozhaluysta” to appeal to Zima's sentimental side, perhaps throwing him off guard by the knowledge of Russian words but nope. Nothing will be said to satisfy this sick fucker.

Victor goes still as the revolver’s barrel scrapes his nipple before lingering on his collarbone. The barrel traces Victor’s cheek before eventually reaching his lips. “Open your mouth,” the vampire repeats his previous order.

Swallowing, Victor forces his mouth shut. Zima, surprisingly, softens and coaxes him. His head feels like spinning and Victor focuses on the gun instead. Nagant M1895 revolver gun, most likely custom made, with elaborate engravings that offer no tactical advantage. Vain bastard.

Zima doesn’t need to do anything, the mere sight of his index finger resting on the trigger was enough. Victor breathing becomes ragged in panic. The vampire, in absolute control, watches Victor in amusement.

“Lick it.” 

Every fiber of Victor's being screams in protest but with no other option, his tongue begins to lick the barrel. The cold taste of metal and oil fill his tastebud alongside dread. His stomach churns.

“Faster.” The vampire’s voice is low and demanding.

Victor’s tongue movement turns frantic. He practically laps on the cold steel. The rhythmic, desperate sound fills the room. Victor knows the taste of metal will haunt him long after the act is done.

Zima’s free hand promptly pinches Victor’s nipple. Half pained, half surprised, Victor yelps and the barrel makes its way inside his mouth. Bastard! Zima’s free hand then holds the back of Victor’s head, steadying him. Victor's eyes dart past Zima's shoulder and his heart sinks. He realizes that two of Zima’s henchmen are still in this room, making him a spectacle in this debauchery. Victor closes his eyes, wishing the ground would just swallow him whole.

Steadily, Zima pushes the barrel down, past his teeth, past his tongue, straight to Victor’s throat. Victor forces himself to shake his head but Zima’s grip keeps him in his place. His eyes start to water again, the scent of metal polish overwhelming him. He can hear himself moan, guttural and humiliated.

“Consider this a warm up, Victor.”

Victor opens his eyes and he can see Zima playfully tapping his index finger in the trigger and his eyes widen in terror. Stop this, stop. The vampire shoves the barrel even deeper, slowly edging towards the back of Victor’s throat, nearly triggering his gag reflex. His throat is heavily stimulated, it feels like he's tasting his own death.

Trying his best to not choke, Victor pushes the barrel with his tongue to no avail. Defeated, the only option is maintaining his breathing through his nose while at the same time concentrating on relaxing his throat. The barrel performs a back and forth movement, probing Victor’s boundary. 

After what seems like forever, the barrel finally withdraws from his mouth. “Great job,” he hears Zima purring, praising him and slides the revolver back into his pocket.

Zima then leans forward to kiss the heavily breathing Victor, but this time Victor lashes out first. He slaps the vampire before the kiss lands–sending his glasses to the floor with a loud clatter. The two henchmen shout in Russian, preparing to intervene but Zima halts them with a single gesture. The vampire mutters an order and both of them obey at once, retreating through the door.

Now it’s only Zima and him in the room.

Victor feels like he's going to pay for this dearly.

Note: the song they're singing in the car is this one! Please give it a listen