Stoic whumpee

Muzzle curses and kicks the suit, then rushes back to 31st, forces his mouth open, and hammers his teeth with pliers, crushing them into sharp shards. If 31st had his voice, he'd be howling. A relentless pulse beats through his jaw, and his own breath feels like liquid nitrogen on his bare nerves. He tries to clear his nostrils of blood clots and revert to nose breathing, but his nose is swollen and it doesn't help.

And then there are his ribs. And his hands. And his scalp. And his ear. And his shoulders. He smiles at Muzzle anyway. His teeth are bloody spikes of a well-fed shark—a smile that doesn't belong on his wrecked body. Gotcha, motherfucker. The triumphant adrenaline flow feels strangely similar to a med stim shot.

"Now you have… something to lose too." Domenic sobs hysterically and pretends it's laughter. "Perhaps it's time t… to get nicer with me."

"I'm gonna fucking torture you to death," Muzzle says quietly.

"Can't wait."

The gangster picks up the spoon and heats it on the blowtorch. "You asked if I was gonna spoon-feed you? Well, yes. I'll scoop your eyes out and make you chew them."

Muzzle called him out on hiding behind bravado. Bloody damn right. "You can't make me do shit," 31st says.

The spoon is red and radiant. Muzzle holds him by the back of the head, and it feels like sandpaper on his burns. Looking at the spoon is terrifying, and 31st looks into Muzzle's eyes instead. I, Domenic Leerman Junior, he thinks, take the duty of a Police Officer of the City of Moreany. Muzzle brings the spoon so close to his left eye that he can feel his tears evaporating. I swear to protect its citizens and to serve the law with all means I have. Muzzle bares his teeth, his eyes hot and glaring.

He presses the spoon to Domenic's lower eyelid; it steams and hisses. 31st shakes so hard that Muzzle loses the grip on his lymph-sticky scalp. The spoon leaves a deep burn under Domenic's eye socket. He can't see the mark, but the pain tells him it looks like a blazing moon.

31st drops his head. Squeaks and wheezes come out of his bloody mouth.

"Ah, dammit… Hang on." Muzzle pulls him up and gets him off the hook. Domenic collapses on the floor, still cuffed. After showering him generously with kicks, Muzzle turns him face-up and sits on his chest. 31st thought he had become familiar with the pain in his dislocated joints, but they are now being reintroduced.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Muzzle snaps his fingers and reaches for the pliers. 31st feels his weight distributing into his screaming shoulders. Then the gangster rips out his piercings. One from the eyebrow, two from the ear. 31st trembles beneath him, but there's no pulling away now. Good call, buddy, he thinks to himself as he remembers the tracker.

Does it even work? the voice of doubt adds.

Muzzle lights the torch again and locks his target between his knees. Domenic's chest, weak with fear, feels like a hollow basket.

"Alright, stop-stop-stop. Stop! I'll give you the code."

"Been there, heard that," Muzzle says, his tone a mix of threat and boredom.

"This one works, I promise!"

"You promise, huh?"

"Yes! This time, a real code! I've kept my promises so far!"

Muzzle shuts the blowtorch down, turns to the side, and sits on Domenic in silence for a long minute. When he speaks, he measures every sound. "Give me your word that this is the real override code, and that it will undo the stasis mode."

31st holds an even longer pause, tears cutting paths across his temples and down into the wounds on his ears.

"I hate you so fucking much," he finally says, so quietly that Muzzle leans closer.

"Goooood."

Domenic sighs. "927-273-012"

"All digits?"

"Yes. This is the real one. You have my word."

Muzzle gets up, and 31st notices how unsteady his hands are. He makes Domenic repeat the code several times. Then he walks to the suit again and opens the keypad.

"9. 2. 7. 2. 7. 3. 0."

"One more thing, Muz." Domenic hopes Muzzle can hear him.

The gangster's finger freezes.

"Please… move ten feet away from me. Out the door, preferably."

Muzzle slowly turns his face to 31st.

31st meets it with a shark smile.

"What is this supposed to mean? You gave me your fucking word!"

"I did. Go on, two more digits," he coughs.

Muzzle's lips move soundlessly.

"Oh, you little bitch! This code… Maybe it overrides the stasis mode, but you never said what happens next. Is this a self-destruction protocol or something?"

The gangster turns back to the keypad. "Where's the fucking backspace?"

"It's disabled." A light chuckle starts an avalanche of shivers rolling through all his muscles. "It gets disabled… the moment you put a digit… instead of a letter. I gave you a very real and a very special c…code."

Muzzle locks his head between his knees before Domenic even finishes the sentence. The spoon quickly turns from red to white. 31st thought he had made peace with it, but the prospect isn't any less frightening. Worth it. Still worth it.

This time Muzzle acts fast. "Told you," he hisses and digs into Domenic's eye socket.

Unbelievable pain drills into his head. His legs kick uncontrollably. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, and then everything goes black.

31st wakes up from another shot of med stim. Muzzle squats over him.

The picture looks flat and incomplete. The pain… The pain doesn't even make sense anymore.

"Good morning, asshole. Breakfast is ready." He drops an eyeball into Domenic's mouth and punches his jaw shut. "Now chew."

31st locks his gaze on the enemy. He can feel every nerve in every tooth. He spits the eye into Muzzle's face. "Can't make me… do shit… can you?"

Muzzle gets up, grabs the suit, and walks out the door without a word, leaving 31st with his pain. The lock clacks. Domenic cries again. The loss of an eye feels so vast, he almost forgets about his fingers.

He carefully rolls over and lies face down, giving his shoulders a rest. It's not ideal—they're still dislocated—but it's better. Then he drags his legs and tries to get on his knees. Maybe he can even stand, and then… Then what, you stupid useless punching bag? Karate your way out?

He laughs to himself. How much time does he need to buy? How much more? Still, he gets up, walks to the stool, and sits.

Muzzle comes back, bringing two people with him.

"No, you motherf—" Words die halfway out of 31st.

The two people, a young couple, both cuffed, their mouths taped. The asshole brought new hostages.

"How about this, June? Convincing enough?"

"It's between you and me, you filthy son of a—"

Muzzle punches the woman in the stomach. She's sobbing; the duct tape doesn't really block her moans. Her boyfriend is yelling something illegible.

There is another vow 31st swore. I will put myself between those who mean harm and those who don't. Domenic throws himself up off the stool and steps toward Muzzle.

"Bitch, please." The gangster rolls his eyes.

A single kick throws Domenic back to the floor, and he can't get up. He can barely grasp the scale of his exhaustion.

"I am sorry, Muz," he whispers. "I truly am. It's irreversible. You can only proceed or deliver the suit to the manufacturer."

Muzzle thinks. Then he turns the switch to minimal mode and fires at both hostages. Both collapse with muted screams.

I will put myself between those who mean harm and those who don't.

"Please! It's really irreversible! You're right, it's a self-destruction protocol. You've lost the suit, it's over. Now please, I beg of you. Let me pay for this. Let them go. I'll eat the fucking eye. I'll eat the second one. I'll do anything."

"Now we're talking! Finally, some real begging. You know what? If the suit is gone—"

Muzzle switches his paralyzer to lethal mode and throws Domenic the suit. "Get in. Step back, into that corner. Blow yourself up. Do anything—anything!—suspicious, and the bitch is dead."

More time. More time. Just a little more.

31st thinks in pieces. I'm an ugly mofo now. Wire cutters. The smell of his burnt hair accumulates under the ceiling. They cut things. Pain accumulates in his body, even where he wasn't hurt. He's gonna cut something. He's delirious, but not delirious enough to give up. 

“Got you good, eh?” he breathes out. 

Dumbest self-defence mechanism, utterly suicidal. Sergeant would have beaten his ass for being so reckless. Sergeant never got anywhere near Muzzle's lair. The spoon. What the fuck is the spoon for?

“You? You got me good?” Muzzle shakes his head in disbelief. He spins 31st over, grabs his hands and clips off a pinky without warning. 

After everything, the pain isn't even that bad. 31st doesn't quite understand why he's shaking so hard. Maybe Muzzle's right about the sense of loss.

“This was an introduction.” Muzzle throws the finger away, and only then does Domenic register how thickly the floor’s painted with his blood. “Next I'll chop your thumb off, try holding a gun then.”

Domenic coughs. “Moron. I use neurocontrolled gauntlets.”

Muzzle does as he said. A terrifying sense of emptiness hits hard. It's irreversible, and it makes 31st want to mourn. He trembles and it takes him a few seconds to realize he's tearing up again. Doesn't matter. 31st uses the remains of his hand to give Muzzle a middle finger. 

The asshole clips it too and walks out without saying anything. Domenic hangs kneeling, listening to blood droplets tapping quietly on the floor behind his back. He can't stop shaking. He can't tell if he's sobbing or not. 

Muzzle comes back with a suit and a bowl of ice. “I can put them in the ice, you know. They can still be sewn back if you don't waste much time. Give me the override code, and I'll let you walk away with your fingers.”

“God, I want to…” 31st can barely hear himself, and what he's hearing sounds pitiful. “But you know I can't.”

Muzzle cuts off the other thumb, making both of Domenic's hands dysfunctional now. Pain grows slowly, merging from cut to cut. He can feel his pulse in the wounds. 

He stands up again. “Make it even,” he dares Muzzle and gives him another middle finger. 

Instead, Muzzle cuts off the tip of his ear. This stings more and he hisses. Blood comes running down his neck. The tool is so quick and efficient, 31st begins truly fearing it. He thought he was afraid before, now he really is. He flinches when Muzzle clanks it in the air behind his back. He tenses when Muzzle touches his hand. Muzzle seems to notice the shift. 

“Well-well, who would’ve thought. You're OK with getting burned, but this little thing suddenly works?”

“Come on,” Domenic begs soundlessly, “Get it over with, just fucking chop them all and end this.”

“Are you asking? I can’t hear you asking.”

31st fights himself in silence.

“The code, and we call it a night.” Muzzle presses. I'll let you go, for real.”

“Ah, fucking hell…” it was easier when he thought he'd die here. Putting the tracker, locking the suit, telling himself he needs to hold, all this time the bug at the back of his mind was whispering that he dies today. 

And now, with the prospect of actually getting away? 

31st stands silently for ten long seconds, mourning his hands’ capability and then replies: “No.”

Muzzle doesn’t hesitate. One by one he cuts off all the remaining fingers and drops them on the dirty floor. By the end of it Domenic is ugly crying. Why? Why the fuck, of all things today, this one got to me? 

Muzzle takes the blow torch and fries one of the pinkies. The smell pulls a voiceless wheezing moan out of 31st.

“So. What do I do with the rest of them? The code and I ice them. No code and I fry them. And don’t fucking feed me the false code, I’ll be testing it right in front of you.”

“Please,” he squeezes out of his throat. “I can’t do this anymore.” 

Muzzle’s face lights up as he grabs another pinky. He pauses for a moment, unclips the radio off of Domenic’s cheek and turns it off.

“This seems to be the right moment to stop our little live stream. You were saying?”

“I’m so fucking tired Muzzle…”

“Good. Good! The code then?”

Tears run down his face freely. “No.”

“No? Again? Bitch, I thought you found some common sense?”

“S… sike…” it took him so much strength to say this word.

Muzzle sighs. “That’s alright. The uglier your corpse arrives at your daddy’s, the better.”

“You were going to… let me go.”

“You were going to give me the code.” Muzzle’s voice hardens as he fries the pinky.

“No, please, please.”

“Code.”

“Please!”

“Code.”

Finger after finger gets destroyed forever. Time after time Domenic keeps the code. A sinkhole of grief in the middle of his chest soaks up all his hopes, leaving only duty and loyalty afloat. He swore his oaths when joining law enforcement. Everyone did, but he thinks he’s the only one who still believes in them. They wouldn't be calling him an idealistic baby if it wasn’t for his loyalty to the oaths.

If it wasn’t for his loyalty, Muzzle would have been breaking into MPD wearing the suit. 

The last finger dies in fire. Domenic feels crushed but surprisingly clear-headed. “What now?” he asks. His words are soundless and Muzzle leans forward to read his lips. “Nothing more to th…reaten me with.”

“You know what else won't grow back, June?“

“Your…authority.” 

A lazy slap comes. 

“Your teeth.” Muzzle says, playing with the pliers. 

This is scary. 31st expects it to hurt more than fingers. “Get this one first, it’s broken.” he whispers with a crooked smile and opens his mouth. Another tiny claw of desperate wit that he uses to drag out his courage.

Loss, and pain, and fear, all come together screaming inside him, as he cannot scream himself. The tooth clacks on the floor. This new pain feels so close to Domenic’s brain. His whole head aches inside and out.

“The code?”

He has to hold. He must. Yes, his team is eventually coming here. And yes, he probably won’t get to see them. But where's the guarantee the gang won’t relocate the suit? They’ll wanna try to crack it, and this place doesn’t look like it has a proper lab. The suit stays close to the tracker as long as Muzzle thinks he can get the code from 31st.

“No.”

Muzzle reaches for a molar. 31st realizes just how firmly human teeth can sit in the bone. He wants to cry it out, but a long, hoarse breath is all he’s got. Gangster’s sleeve is wet and red.

“Hey, Muz.” Consonants whistle in a weird new way. “How am I to tell you the code if I can't articulate it?”

Muzzle grabs him by the jaw and clips the pliers on another tooth. “You’ll figure it out,” he says and pulls.

An aching gap in his gum tastes like metal. Another wave of violent shivers sends a stabbing pain in Domenic’s shoulders. Each time you bother a dislocated joint, you complicate the healing, he remembers from the first aid lecture. He kicks his legs in a bloody puddle, searching for balance. Muzzle elbows him in the back and laughs, watching him drop. What healing, you idiot. You’re dead.

Muzzle yanks him up by the jaw again, pliers open like a hungry crocodile. 

“Alright… Okay… The code…” 31st lets out.

“Finally! See? I told you, everyone breaks.”

Domenic holds a long pause before speaking. “401-223-ypu.”

Muzzle taps him on the top of the head, then wipes his hand on Domenic’s clothes. He rushes to the suit, happy as a kid unwrapping a birthday gift. “Four… Ow-One…Two-Two-Three…Y-P-U… Aaaand…”

“Stasis mode: active. Insert the override code to unlock. Two attempts left.”

“What the fuck is this?” Muzzle kicks 31st in the chest with full force. 31st swings away, spinning, and back to Muzzle. Back to another brutal bootkick. The gangster takes the knife again, catches Domenic by the chopped ear and slices it off, leaving it attached by a small strand of skin. Then he pulls it downward, tearing it through the skin of Domenic's neck, and rips it off.

The pain is unbearable. The pain is everywhere. The pain is… too much. Just too fucking much.

“No, no, no, sorry… please no… It’s 233, not 223…”

“You know what happens if you lie again?” Muzzle waves Domenic’s ear in front of his eyes, a long tail of skin still attached to it. The ear looks like a newborn mouse.

“It’s 233! Please! I just wanna die, ok? I want it to be over!” Domenic sobs and rushes out his words. “Just take the fucking suit and end me, please!”

Muzzle measures him with a long, attentive gaze. 31st is a teary mess. 

Muzzle gets back to the suit and slowly taps in the digits.

“Stasis mode: active. Insert the override code to unlock. One attempt left.”

31st tries to peek around as they cuff his hands behind his back and walk him off the platform. He doesn't want to reveal he got most of his vision back. The gang's hideout is smaller and filthier than Domenic expected. Packs of dry rations and empty cans litter the corners. A dusty web of open wires hangs from the ceiling. The air is thick and stagnant.

Muzzle glances his way and backhands him with his reinforced glove. "Quit the bullshit, I know you can see." Blood runs out of Domenic's split eyebrow.

He shrugs and walks as steadily as his broken rib allows him. "I wish I couldn't. Do you pigs ever clean this place?"

Muzzle responds with an annoyed smile. "Nice coping, June. Give me the codes and you won't need to hide behind bravado."

"Do I look like someone who's hiding?"

Domenic grows serious and stops despite someone jabbing him in the back. "OK, listen," he says to Muzzle's scarred face, "I don't care, I'm gonna be straight with you. Yes, I'm scared as hell. I'm counting minutes till you hang me somewhere and torture me. Maybe I'll beg for you to end my life. Quite likely, actually. But I'll never tell you the code."

"Said everyone who ever ended up breaking under torture."

"You're too confident for someone who's been played twice in ten minutes."

Muzzle doesn't have an answer to that. A shot to the knee sends 31st to the floor. Heavy boots kick him in the guts, slam against his broken rib till it cracks again.

The pain is more than him and he lets it out with a loud growl.

"Get up and walk," says Muzzle, catching his breath as if after a good jog.

Getting up while cuffed, with a broken rib, is quite the challenge, and 31st takes it. Slowly and awkwardly, he stands—a stupid little act of strength that doesn't change a thing.

They shove him into a small room. It's a weird one, barely any furniture, barely any lights. Muzzle picks a metal stool and sits, as his pups suspend Domenic to the ceiling by the cuffs.

He's forced to bend down. It feels frightening in a way he'd never imagine.

"You got a room with a hook?" He builds a shield of words between himself and his fear. "What kind of a gang are you? Gonna put on the leather bra now?"

This time Muzzle doesn't bite. He looks calm, but his eyes blaze with excitement. He picks a small knife out of his boot and cuts Domenic's shirt off.

"Domenic. Leerman. Junior." A satisfied sigh escapes Muzzle's mouth. "Not only have you personally sent God knows how many of us to court, but your daddy sent even more to prison."

31st waits.

"One last chance, June. The override."

31st waits, bracing himself.

Terror finally has a hold of him; everything feels more real than ever. Cuffs rub against his wrists, already bleeding from when he'd been beaten on the ship. He looks at how pale his stomach is; he rarely ever sees it exposed. He trains every day, his abs can take a metal bat strike if he expects it. But somehow the warm, poorly ventilated air feels violating, caressing his last armor, gentle and repulsive like a touch of an elderly murderer. The floor under his socks is way too cold for such a warm room. And death. Death awaits.

He takes a deep breath. "No."

"Fantastic. You know, I'd fuck you up even if I didn't need the code."

Muzzle fires his paralyzer to Domenic's gut, then again without a pause, waits for him to scream and puts it in his mouth. Grabs 31st by the hair and pulls the trigger. He keeps holding, and Domenic chokes on his screams, gritting his teeth against the weapon. This is worse than being shot; a singular charge comes and goes, but a continuous shockflow multiplies the pain with each passing second. It radiates through his head, all the way down to his feet, which can't hold him anymore.

Pain lingers with him long after Muzzle lets go. And when it finally goes, 31st realizes his shoulders have snapped out of their sockets, and he dropped to his knees, his weight pulling on them. He gets his feet under him somehow and stands. Shoulders don't get any better, but at least it feels like dignity.

Come on, brothers, he thinks, sending his prayers with the tracker. Come fast, I need you. Muzzle doesn't get to hear this. Not yet.

"Honestly, I've tasted better. You got whiskey to wash it off my tongue?"

Muzzle chuckles. "So talkative. Why don't we talk about that suit of yours?"

"Yeah, no."

Muzzle shrugs and shoots Domenic's shoulders.

"Not as bad as I expected," 31st exhales after another round of excruciating pain.

"Oh shut up," the gangster rolls his eyes and holds the weapon to Domenic's neck.

"Why so shy? Come on, give it to me," 31st taunts him and opens his mouth.

The pain sets his neck on fire; he bites his tongue. But he notices Muzzle confused, so he forces out a mocking laugh.

"Funny how you can neither make me talk, nor make me shut up. You are an amateur, Muz. I'll be the end of your authority in this gang."

"Alright. Let's raise the stakes, shall we? This thing?" he spins the weapon on his finger, "Is painful. But not really scary. How about we make you lose something? Stay here, ok?"

Muzzle walks away, carefully closing the door behind him. 31st tries to find a posture to rest his shoulders. The more he stands there alone, in silence, balancing, the more damage to his body he becomes aware of. Half a tooth is missing. His face feels wet with blood, and he can map his wounds by where the sweat salts them. Another side of the rib cage aches too; there could be another crack. His chest and stomach ache from that lashing with a wire. Pretty fucking clever. He can tense his abs all he wants; that can’t stop the surface damage to the skin. And the headache, oh the headache…

He can do it. He just needs to hold some more.

The asshole comes back, and the sight of what he brought with him lifts up the hair on Domenic’s neck. Pliers, a blow torch and a wire cutter. And a spoon. What?

“You’re gonna spoon feed me now?” he asks with a daring grin, utterly terrified by the fact that he doesn’t understand the spoon.

“Oh I will. Eventually. And you better give me the codes before I do.” Muzzle smiles gently and picks up the pliers. Then walks around Domenic and grips his pinky nail. Pauses, waiting. 31st doesn’t speak, and Muzzle slowly pulls.

The pain of something getting ripped off him feels visceral in its own way, a whole new level of nakedness. Domenic lets out an involuntary frightened gasp before he screams. Muzzle throws the ugly red scale on the floor in front of 31st and grips the next nail. He doesn’t ask for the override code; he just pauses.

“Go ahead,” 31st forces out as soon as he finds his voice, “I’ve got some more of these.”

Nine more times he gasps, and screams, and laughs, and dares Muzzle, and somehow the worst thing about it all, is that he can’t see his hands. He’s shivering, and he feels it deep in his shoulders. Tears run down his face—when did they even start?

Muzzle walks in front of him—bloody tool in a bloody hand. “Are you crying, June?”

“I sure fucking am, bitch. I’m kind of in pain here, in case you didn’t notice.”

The gang leader throws the pliers on top of the small pile of nails and picks up the blow torch. Domenic squints shut and digs deep for more courage before opening his eyes and standing straight once more.

“Look at me.” Words come out weak, and he clears his throat. “Look at me, Muz. You’ve beaten me. You’ve pulled my nails out. You’ve made me cry. And you still ain’t got shit. Do you really think I can’t take some more? Just let me go and give the suit to your tech guys.”

“What happened to ‘Just kill me?’”

“Ah fuck, whatever. Kill me if you will. It doesn’t change anything.”

“It does.” Muzzle says. “It’s not just about the suit, Mr. Leerman. You were right about my authority. Let me get it back.”

Muzzle pulls out a pocket radio. “Listen up, motherfuckers! I give you Domenic Leerman’s baby boy, screaming for our brothers!”

He flares the torch and puts it to Domenic’s hair. Bloody and sweaty, it dries and curls first, spreading a nauseating smell. And only then does it catch fire. Muzzle doesn’t let the fire go wild; he burns the hair spot by spot. “For Jesse. For Princess. For Tommy Lowe.” Names keep coming; 31st even remembers some. All those bastards he brought to justice.

He groans through closed lips as long as he can, but eventually screams again. After a long while his vocal cords tear, turning screams into hoarse wheezes. Muzzle then clips the radio to his cheek like a fishing hook. His legs give up—Why would they give up now?—and he just hangs. His vision narrows to a tiny dot.

He feels a pin on his shoulder. “We don’t want you in shock now, do we?” he hears Muzzle say, as the med stim sends a refreshing chill through his veins, bringing him back to his senses. “For Carter. For Onion.” The gang on the other end of the radio cheers.

Finally the names end. “There. You'll never look in the mirror and see the same little bitch again.” Muzzle says.

“Tony Lowe,” 31st picks a random name to whisper and deliberately gets it wrong.

“What?“

“I remember… Tony Lowe.” He barely finds enough energy to speak. “Got what he deserved. No regrets. 10/10, would do it again.”

Muzzle drops the theatrics, roars and reverts to beating. "Tommy! It's Tommy!“ he yells as he keeps punching Domenic in the face. Then collapses on the stool, exhausted.

"Fine. You can grow these back, they don't count as a valuable loss." Muzzle kicks a nail away and picks up the wire cutter.

31st cannot laugh anymore, but he can rejoice. How's your authority doing today? Another stupid win that drags him closer to his grave.

Hurry up, Sergeant. Hurry fucking up. I don't know if I can do it.