cw: violence, slavery, eye injury (non explicit), implied fear of noncon, crude language
previous // Masterlist //
∆•∆•∆
The arena was a mockery of the wastes.
Sure, the city-dwellers probably didn't see it that way, but as soon as Judd's eyes landed on the cracked orange dirt that made up the floor, it was all he could see. Wastedirt, spectators all seated in shining viewer boxes, high above where the dust would cloud and the blood would spray. Watching and laughing from above like they always did.
A snarl pulled on Judd's mouth as he took in the crowd. Dressed up and clean, laughing and drinking with their eyes on the dirt below. Some looking bored as they waited for the fun to start. The sight of wine in a few of their glasses turned his stomach, nausea competing with nerves and anger for his attention.
Judd was the first event of the night by the looks of it, the heavy hand of Burke's guard shoving him forward so that he was walking alongside the barbed-wire fence that walled off the pit. The crowd erupted into cheers when they caught sight of him, the sound hitting him like hot oil on a sunburn.
Fuckers. He hated the thought of doing anything that excited the citydwellers, but right now he had no choice. If he did good now, maybe Burke would keep him in the pits, and if Skye was right, that meant more freedom. Training to get stronger, proper rations, no Compliance. It was his best chance for escape, a chance he refused to lose.
The guard stopped him just short of the gate, taking off Judd’s cuffs before giving him a shove forward, metal clanging behind him as he was shut inside. Judd fought the urge to cling to the fenceline, seeking what distance he could from the hoards of citydwellers, all with their eyes on him, calling for action, jeering.
“Wasteland bastard!”
“Desert dog!”
A hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the arena, another gate swung open, and Judd was suddenly face to face with his opponent.
Big guy, shaved head, maybe a foot taller than him. All muscle and scars, the look of a bastard who spent a lot of time fighting.
There were dogfights in the waste cities. Judd wasn’t big on those events, but he'd caught one or two after making a sale. Pit dogs were bred for power, made to survive in the tiny, dirt-packed arena, but for one fight the runners had tossed in a desert dog; a scrawny, yellow-eyed jackal. Poor mutt was ripped to shreds in the first minute.
The crowd roared as his opponent stepped into the ring, and Judd was struck with a sharp awareness; he was the jackal.
Not meant to win, just here to be a spectacle. Meant to bleed, to fall.
He'd fucking show them.
The big brute strode towards the center, pacing around like he wanted to circle Judd, never taking his eyes off him, looking like a predator about to strike. Fuck, he was big. Judd wouldn't stand a chance fighting fair, he'd have to use every dirty trick he knew just to stay up.
Some officiator was shouting above them both, but Judd didn't care to listen. He waited until the brute was a shade closer, and he lunged.
The crowd erupted as he shot forwards, catching onto his opponent in a flying leap and wrapping both arms around his neck. The brute rolled with Judd's momentum, dropping onto his side and crushing his chest under his weight.
All the air left Judd’s lungs, his arms going slack just long enough for his opponent to shrug him off. Two meaty hands clamped on his shoulders and suddenly he was airborne, the ground rushing up to meet him for a second chest-rattling blow.
He struggled to his feet before the air could return to his chest, wheezing, hitting the ground for a third time to avoid the swing of a fist.
Fuck, fuck.
He wasn't quick enough getting back up. The brute grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking him backwards, a hand catching his throat and a knee catching his gut.
Judd doubled over, a dazing blow striking him as he fell, sending shooting stars across his vision.
Had he already lost? Would they let him die if he lost now? Or would that only seal his fate as a pet? A bedwarmer for fucking Burke?
He grit his teeth, managing to roll away as the brute aimed a kick at his chest.
He had to get the fuck out of here.
Judd forced himself back onto his feet, ignoring the building nausea, the blood streaming from his nose, the sudden dizziness. He staggered towards the brute, somehow ducking under another punch, somehow closing that distance and toppling the bigger man. His fingers dug into the skin of his opponent's neck, one hand clamping onto his ear if only for something to hold on to. The brute’s fist came down again and again on Judd's ribs, pounding into them like a blacksmith's hammer, but he held on, a scream building behind his teeth.
How did he win this? When would they call it? No one had told him shit, he'd just been shoved in here and expected to lose.
With a deathgrip on the man's ear, Judd's other hand shot up to his face, thumb finding the soft flesh of his eyelid and pushing, all of his strength behind it as the brute screamed, grabbed at his hair, hit him, anything to try and shake him free.
A sound like a horn cut through the arena, but Judd barely heard it. Blood was oozing around his thumb, the ear shredding in his other hand.
“Stop! Get him off, the fight’s over!”
Over?
Someone grabbed him from behind, hauling him off the brute and forcing him into the dirt. Panic seized Judd for a moment, arms lashing out at his attackers, legs kicking, until they slammed his face against the ground and slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists.
Over…
He'd won. He won the fight.
But no one was cheering. The crowd was whispering amongst themselves as the brute was dragged off, some medic tending to his eye. As Judd was pulled back towards the gate, they began to boo.
Music to his ears. He hoped they were all betting against him. He hoped they all lost a fuckton of money.
He was pushed back through the gate, marched back the way he'd come, and shoved into the waiting arms of Burke. His so-called master let him drop, foot coming down between Judd's shoulder blades when he tried to get up.
“What the ever-loving fuck was that, ‘27?”
The fuck did he mean? He'd won, hadn't he? Wasn't that a good thing?
“False start, ear grabbing, eye gouging… all illegal moves.”
Illegal? “I won,” Judd protested, and Burke's heel cut across his face, reigniting the pain there with a new fury.
“You cheated. That's an automatic forfeit.”
He hadn't cheated shit. No one had told him. How else was he supposed to stand a chance against a fucker like the one he'd just met in the ring?
Anger dissolved into fear as Burke hauled him onto his knees.
The rules were unfair, all of it was unfair, but pointing that out wouldn't save him. If he'd cheated, if he'd lost, what did that mean? Would Burke ever throw him into another fight? Or was he doomed to become something else?
“Sir—”
“Shut up.” Burke's hand fisted his hair, keeping his skull in place. “We'll deal with you later. I still have one more dog in this fight.”
Skye.
Burke wrenched Judd's head towards the arena, where, sure as shit, Skye was being shoved through the gate.
He barely kept his footing as he hit the dirt, face locked in a wince as he staggered forwards. Some of the lash marks crossing his back had already re-opened, and Judd's stomach twisted at the sight of them.
It was better this way, it had to be. If he'd taken even half of the punishment, he would've been slower. He might be dead right now if he hadn't made the choice he did.
But what about Skye? Burke hadn't paid for him, hadn't planned for him. Was he meant to die tonight?
Reluctantly, his gaze went to Skye's opponent. Another big guy. Not nearly as hulking as Judd's challenger, but did that really matter? Skye was moving stiff and slow, he didn't stand a chance.
The officiator started to speak, and this time Judd listened.
“Fighters to the center.”
His eyes fell back onto Skye, that slow, painstaking limp to get into position. He wouldn't want him die, would he? It was Skye's choice, Skye's mistake that landed him here, but he'd made it for Judd. Tried to save Judd. He couldn't—
“Begin!”
Skye darted forward with a startling speed at the command, taking his opponent by surprise as he wrestled him to the ground. The other man recovered quickly, throwing Skye off before he could get in a hit, but the smaller man dove under his counterattacks, getting in a gut punch of his own.
He was… he was good. Even wounded and beaten and half-starved, Skye seemed to have the upper hand, practically dancing around his opponent.
He was a pit fighter the last time he'd been taken, wasn't he? He had to be.
He moved like a man half his age, quick and agile and light, but after only a minute, Judd could see he was wearing out. Skye hadn't taken a single hit, but his opponent was far from finished.
A backwards dodge that was a shade too slow and he was caught across the mouth with a fist. It only slowed him down a hair, but it was enough. His opponent caught his wrist, swinging him into the dirt and dragging a bitten scream from Skye as he dug his knee into the wounds on his back.
Somehow, he wrung himself free, taking a few blows to the ribs as he pulled back, unsteady on his feet. A lunge from the other man and they were on the ground again, a tangle of limbs, the crowd cheering with the fury of their movements.
When at last it came to a standstill, it was Skye on top, panting heavily and bleeding, his opponent's arm wrenched behind his back.
The horn sounded again, and Skye let the other man up, shakily getting to his feet to the roar of the crowd.
He'd won. In spite of everything against him, he'd won.
Burke’s hand tightened in Judd's hair, and he coughed out a wince.
“See that, ‘27?” his master said. “That's how you win a fight.”
He shoved Judd forward, and he barely managed to catch himself on his hands before his face could smash against the concrete.
“Bring him back to my rise,” Burke instructed a guard. “A proper lesson should teach him not to screw up the next one.”
Judd choked down a cry as he was hauled to his feet, the movement jostling his bruised ribs. Of course he was getting fucking punished for something that wasn't his fault, but his anger felt dull next to his relief.
He was gonna be a fighter.
The next one. Burke was gonna run him again. He still had a chance.
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cw: hand whump, gore, brief emeto mention, this one gets kinda graphic so be warned :)
"Pick a hand."
James eyed his captor, sullen and silent. For two days, he'd been a prisoner in the brig of his own ship. No food, no water, no idea if the men still loyal to him were even alive. Kept chained to the wall, bound in a bent position by rough rope.
His body ached, his head was pounding, his mouth felt swollen, and here was Peter, first mate turned mutineer, giving him stupid orders.
"Pick a hand," Peter said again, sounding annoyed.
"Why?" James spat out, his voice rasping. "Why should I do anything you ask of me?"
Peter clicked his tongue. "Well now, you don't sound like someone who wants a drink of water."
James scowled. So this was how it was going to be. He'd have to play Peter's games, cave into his demands, just for the pleasure of keeping himself alive. Fine. His life was worth more to him than his pride.
"Left," he said, and Peter's face broke into a smile.
"There we go!" he said, producing a small flask from his hip and unscrewing the lid. He pressed it to James' lips, and he drank, unable to grasp it himself with his hands tied behind his back. It was taken away too soon.
"Now, you said your left hand?" Peter asked, moving behind him. James tensed as his former first mate cut the hand in question loose in such a way that the other was still tied firmly in place. Traitor or not, Peter was skilled with rope tricks. He gripped his wrist tightly, and James winced as his arm was straightened for the first time in days.
Even with one hand freed, the rest of his body was practically immobilized. Trying to fight back at this point would yield only failure. His best hope was to entertain Peter's wishes until the traitor let his guard down.
"Left hand, left hand. Good choice," Peter said, tracing a finger along James' palm. "Now, will you let me cut it off?"
James clenched his jaw. Even though he'd suspected this was the way things were headed, hearing the words spoken out loud sent a shock through him. "What?"
"I want to cut off your hand," Peter said. "But only if you tell me to. Will you?"
What kind of game was he playing now? "No. Why would I?"
"Okay!" Peter said brightly, releasing his arm. James watched him stride out of the room, flexing his fingers. Was that it? Was Peter just trying to mess with his head?
He took a shaky breath as the other man returned a few moments later, carrying what looked like a small anvil.
Of course not. Peter's games were never so simple.
The anvil was placed a few feet to James' left, and he felt a shudder run through him when he saw the metal cuff welded to the top. He was too weak to pull away when Peter grabbed his hand, and could do nothing as he was dragged from the wall, body stretched as far as his restraints allowed, left wrist locked into the anvil.
"I'm going to ask again," Peter said. "Can I cut off your hand?"
James' heart was pounding in his ears, worsening his headache. Should he just say yes? Get whatever Peter had in store over with? Or would he really be spared if he denied the request? He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of climbing the rigging, steering the ship, engaging in battle. All things better served with two hands intact.
"No," he said at last.
"Okay then," Peter said cheerfully, drawing a small knife. Its edge was polished, razor-sharp. James felt his blood run cold as Peter brought it down to trace the outline of his hand.
"That means I get to convince you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter started with the ring finger. One long deep cut along the inside of it, a few more around the circumference, and he was able to set to work on removing the skin.
No amount of screaming, begging, or threatening would stop him, James found that out within a few minutes. He'd tried to clench his hand into a fist, but Peter struck him against the knuckles with the hilt of the knife and threatened to take an eye if he made this difficult, so he'd given up on that and took to screaming instead.
"Cut it off, cut it off!" he'd screamed as the finger was reduced to bone and muscle, and then not even that as Peter began to slice away at the tendons.
Peter had responded in a calm, friendly voice as he dug the point into the first joint, began to pry it away,
"It's too late for that. You can only tell me to cut it off when I ask you if you're ready for it to be cut off."
So James could only wail helplessly, straining against the bindings that held him in place until his skin burned and bled wherever the rope touched it. He'd be sick if his stomach had anything to give up.
Peter hummed as he carried on, removing more and more of the finger until it was down to the knuckle. He paused then, looking at the bloody space thoughtfully, and for a moment, James dared to hope he was done.
But then Peter jammed the point of the knife into the wound, and James' vision went white with pain. For a blissful few seconds, he knew nothing, felt nothing. But when the world came back to him, Peter was holding his thumb.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He didn't know how long it took as the process was repeated, the slow filleting of each finger, the piece-by-piece removal of bone. James' consciousness felt like it had melted into the pain, each new excruciating stroke indistinguishable from the next as he faded in and out of consciousness, barely able to do more than whimper as his body shook and his hand was taken from him one cut at a time.
Eventually, he opened his eyes to see everything gone, the remains of his hand sitting amid discarded flesh and gore. Peter was carving the skin off his palm, still humming a carefree tune. James let out a sound that was something between a sob and an animalistic whine, and Peter's gaze flicked down.
"Ah, you're awake!" he lifted the knife, twirling it between two fingers. "Now I hope you remember the rules, because it's your turn again."
James couldn't speak, couldn't even nod. It had to be over. He couldn't take any more of this slow slicing. It had to be over.
"I think you know what I'm going to ask you," Peter continued.
James only stared up at him. His vision was swimming. He had to stay conscious long enough. He had to be able to say the word, just one word.
cw: torture, interrogation, broken bones, hand whump, psychic whump
previous ///// masterlist ///// next
§•§•§
The Shadow King was strung up like a puppet when Nisha came to fetch him; a body hanging limp, suspended by chains. Even as seasoned a warrior as Nisha was, the sight of the gauntlets—the thought of his mangled hands being crammed back into them—turned their stomach. They'd be having a word with the guards about that.
Cerus was unconscious, and remained so as he was transported to the chamber where the interrogation would take place. Somewhere a little warmer, a little cleaner, for the visiting priests.
He was sat in a heavy iron chair, wrists and legs secured with embedded manacles. Once properly restrained, one of the holy mages woke him with a spell, and the silence of the room was broken with a gasp and an utterly pathetic whimper.
"Cerus Hollowthorn," the elder priest began. "You stand accused of forbidden magic. It is impossible for you to deny your use of necromancy, but the alleged blood rituals have yet to see evidence. What say you?"
The Shadow King took his time responding, perhaps catching his breath. Perhaps dragging out a scant moment of peace as long as he could.
"I see even a war at their doorstep does not stop the people from gossiping," he said at last, in a voice that sounded like it had been torn to shreds, then haphazardly sewn back together. Nisha frowned.
"Answer the question, Cerus," they said coldly.
"I have," he growled in response.
Without a glance at either priest, Nisha planted a sharp kick in Cerus's left shin, right above where they'd brought the cudgel down not four nights prior. The resulting scream felt like a reward, and the look they received from the holy mages was not one of disapproval.
The elder cleared her throat, trying again. "What blood rituals have you completed, Shadow King? This is your final chance to give us an easy answer. You surely know how mind magic can break a man."
Cerus's head hung as he panted for breath. A tremor had enveloped his body. "Y-you won't believe me. Whatever answer I give."
He cried out as Nisha backhanded him, but this time the elder held up her hand.
"Enough. He's made his choice."
Nisha nodded, taking a step back so that the priests could make their preparations. The younger of the two drew incense from a deep cloak pocket, lighting it with a whispered word. As the rich-smelling smoke clouded the air, the elder began to chant, and Nisha watched as her eyes took on a white glow.
On the iron chair, Cerus gave a jolt, as if he'd been dealt a blow.
Even rendered unable to cast by his broken fingers and the runes engraved on the chair, Cerus's psyche seemed intact. The elder priest was visibly struggling to breach his mind, the light emanating from her eyes flickering with the effort.
Nisha elected to help her.
Nothing dramatic. They simply took hold of Cerus's right hand and began to squeeze. Bones shifted and clicked in their grip, and Cerus screamed. They kept going. Tighter and tighter, until Nisha's own hand hurt from the pressure, and the noises pouring from Cerus's throat no longer sounded human.
Beside him, the glow of the elder's eyes had redoubled in strength, though a disturbed expression had settled on her face. Cerus collapsed as soon as Nisha let go, sinking as far forward as the manacles allowed. He'd broken out in a sweat, pale skin gleaming in the cool light of the chamber, the muscles in his shoulders spasming.
The general took a step back, thinking their work done, but it seemed the man in the chair didn't know when to call it quits. The elder priest gave a small cry, stumbling, and when Nisha glanced back at Cerus, they saw that though he trembled, every muscle was taut, and his face was locked in a concentrated grimace.
Damn the fool.
They seized his hand once more, the same one as before. Cerus let out a strangled cry the moment their skin brushed his, the sound shaping itself into an agonized howl as Nisha applied pressure. This time, they didn't let go.
"Suh–stop! Oh gods, o-oh g—stop!"
They didn't, squeezing ever tighter until Cerus's pleas were unintelligible. The desperation in his voice built, until even the elder priest's trance broke and she looked at the Shadow King in pity.
"General…" she warned, and Nisha let go, turning their back on a now-sobbing Cerus.
"This is the only way to forge a path through his mind," Nisha said. "Broken though his body is, his will is strong."
She pursued her lips, concern still plain on her face, but nodded. They all had a job to do. The people of Feyadel were their concern, not the well-being of a fallen tyrant.
As the glow began to seep back into her eyes, Nisha reached for the Shadow King's quivering hand.
cw: medical whump, implied/aftermath of torture, a variant of institutionalized slavery, starvation
The reason behind the empire's medical excellence was an open secret. The kind that everyone knows and nobody talks about.
After all, the best doctors were the ones with a lot of experience.
So the empirical medical academies sought to give them that experience.
Medic had known what would await them at the intensive school for combat medicine. In their two years of rigorous training, they'd already worked on victims of gunshot wounds, amputations, severe burns, and worse.
Every single wound had been inflicted by the instructors. Medic told themself that they had no problem with this.
The patients were all volunteers. Criminals opting to lose an eye, a hand, a litre of blood, instead of pay an egregious fine. Prisoners after a lighter sentence. Murderers who'd rather lose a limb than their life. Everyone here, one way or another, had signed up for this.
And it was good. Right? These people were furthering medical research with their misery, suffering so that others would live. And the students were well trained before being given a live casualty. The majority of the volunteers lived, took a pension, and were free to go.
Do no harm, Medic thought, a tinge of bitterness around the words. But they knew they could push it all out of their mind soon. They had one final exam and then they'd never have to think about this system again.
Rumors from previous students said it was the hardest yet, but Medic was ready. Ready to graduate and join a unit and save people and make it all worth it.
They lined up alongside their fellow students as instructors began calling names and leading them into a hallway one by one. When at last Medic's turn came, they followed their instructor, waiting to hear the rules for this last test.
"Welcome to your final," the instructor began. "All of you have worked hard to become the best field medics in the world. But there is one last trial you must face to prove yourself."
Medic nodded, listening eagerly. Almost done.
"When you're working with a combat unit, there is always the chance you'll be tasked with caring for a rescued hostage or prisoner. You may have to keep them alive for days without reinforcements, sometimes in a hostile environment."
"I understand, sir," Medic said. They knew what would be expected of them.
"Then you understand your final test," the instructor said with a smile. "In a few minutes you will be dropped off in the wilderness. After three days, we will pick you up and the test will be over. If you feel unable to complete three days, you can call the academy at any time to terminate the exam, but please understand that this will constitute as a failure."
Medic nodded along, though their mind was racing. Their final test was to survive? What did they know about finding food in the wild? Water? What if they got hurt? They knew they'd have to try. They'd made it this far. It couldn't be for nothing.
"Yes sir," they said. "I'm ready."
"Not so fast," the instructor said lightly as they came to a stop in front of a closed door. "That's only half of it." They turned a lock and pulled the door open.
Inside, an emaciated man shrunk away from the light that spilled from the doorway, ducking his head and raising bound hands as if to shield his face from a blow.
Medic felt their mouth go dry as they took in his form, years of training kicking in automatically to catalog his wounds. Bruises in various stages of healing littered his flesh, alongside scattered cuts. It looked like he'd been beaten with something heavy enough to break skin. On more than one occasion. His right leg looked to be the worst; darkly bruised and swollen at the knee. Likely sprained, if not broken.
"Wh-what is..?" they heard themselves say.
"You never know what condition you'll find a hostage in," the instructor said. "Along with yourself, you must also keep him alive for the three day duration."
The man flinched as the instructor stepped inside, frantically murmuring something that might've been a plea for mercy. Medic cringed as the instructor seized a fistful of the man's hair and threw him into the hall.
They felt like they were going to be sick.
Instinctively, they knelt at the man's side, ready to start their procedures, but the instructor's hand on their shoulder stopped them.
"You're not on the clock yet," he said callously. "Don't try and get ahead."
Medic stood slowly, feeling like the room was spinning around them. All this for a test.
They'd starved this man. Beat and terrorized him until he was too afraid to even look up. And it was all for an exam.
Criminal or not, he didn't deserve this. Criminal or not, it felt wrong.
But they said nothing. Just boarded the transport they'd been assigned to as the man was thrown into the back. Sat in silence as they watched the road, on the way to who-knew-where to try and keep this stranger alive, to try and pass this damned exam and pretend it was all worth it.
Medic wondered how many students before them had felt the same.
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One of the men holding James clamped a hand over his mouth on Peter's orders, so he couldn't sway her decision. And she chose the knife.
He let out a muffled cry as Peter picked up the blade and pressed it into Jeddy's hand.
"Are you an artist, Esme?"
"No sir." Her voice was flat. Emotionless.
"What about writing then, do you know your letters?"
"I do, sir."
Peter left her standing there, wrenched James' right arm away from his side.
"Hold him down."
James was forced onto his stomach, one of the men digging a knee into his back. He cried out at the sudden pressure on his ribs.
Peter stretched his arm out.
"There we are. Now Esme, I'd like you to write your name."
"My name, sir?"
"Yes." He smiled. "I want you to carve it into his arm."
James thrashed, though he knew it was pointless. Peter had the power here. He could do whatever he wanted, including shatter one of his few remaining solaces.
Jeddy seemed frozen in place. "Sir, I-I can't."
"I'm sure you'll find that you can," Peter said, clapping her on the shoulder. "Now go on."
"Sir–" she stopped short as Peter leaned in.
"It's going to be either your name or mine, Esme. And only one of those choices ends with you still onboard. Do you understand?"
Jeddy clenched her jaw. "I… I understand."
She knelt beside James, as she'd often done before. Only this time she wasn't feeding him, wasn't cleaning a fresh cut. This time, she was the one who wielded the knife.
He understood, told himself he understood, though his chest hitched and he squirmed under the weight of the men in a weak attempt to get away.
It would happen either way.
It would happen either way, and at least this way, only one person had to hurt. Only him.
But why did it have to be her?
The point pricked against the soft skin of his forearm and she pressed in, making the first line–
"Deeper," Peter said. "Or it won't scar right."
Jeddy nodded, silent as ever, and James tried to hold back from making any sound, more for her sake than his.
Compared to Peter's other ideas, this was tame, he told himself.
It wasn't his hand.
He'd be okay.
If nothing else, he could pretend it wasn't her doing the damage, pretend it was only Peter–
"James, open your eyes if you'd like to keep them."
And so he did, a gasp escaping him as she began a second line. A third, a fourth. A bloody 'E' cut into his wrist.
The shine of tears in her eyes was the only thing that betrayed her neutral expression.
He breathed through it as best he could, unable to look away as she carved each crimson letter.
E-S-M-E
He wanted to tell her it was okay. That she had no choice, and it was okay, but he couldn't open his mouth. Couldn't form the words.
Peter examined James' arm for a moment, jabbing a cut with his finger to draw a cry from him before releasing his wrist and letting the limb fall back to rest on the deck.
"I don't like it," he said.
"Cut it off," he said.
Cut it off. The skin, or the hand, or the arm? What did he mean? Would she obey?
The image came to his mind, Jeddy gently sawing through his wrist with that same stony expression, and it was all he could do to hold back another sob.
"Captain…" her voice was quiet, the single word sounding like a plea. Who was it for? For Peter to show mercy? For James to forgive her?
"Esme," Peter replied in the same tone. "Will you do it?"
She shook her head, and Peter clicked his tongue, picking up the bloodied knife and sliding it back into his belt.
"That's okay," he said, taking the whip in hand as well. Letting it uncoil.
"It's time for James' pick anyway."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He'd felt the bite of the whip once, years before his days aboard the Merry, and though it had hurt, the welts had healed swiftly, not even having broken skin.
But that had been only five lashes, and not a cat-o'-nine.
James didn't struggle as they bound him to the mainmast, the rope digging into the fresh cuts on his forearm. Peter had known what he wanted from the start. No matter the choice James or Jeddy made, he'd been destined for both torments the moment he was dragged into the daylight.
He didn't try to look back. Didn't want to see whether it was Peter, or Jeddy, or some other crewmember who would be the one to swing the whip.
He heard it drag towards him, the lead bits scraping along the wooden deck.
"Do you want to hear the rules of this game, James?" Peter's voice came from a few feet behind. "Because if you win…" he trailed off. "If you win, I'll let you go."
James didn't believe him. Not one bit, but what else did he have but the faint hope that Peter might follow through?
"Well?" Peter said. "Aren't you going to ask what the rules are?"
"Wh…what are the rules?" James mumbled, resting his forehead against the mast. His arms were already beginning to lose feeling from being strung up.
"If you can stay awake through a certain number of strikes, you're free. Doesn't that sound fun? Free." Peter leaned in close, right by his ear. "So how many will it be, James? How many do you think you'll make it through?"
James knew how this would go. Too low and Peter would laugh afterwards, say he didn't quite earn his freedom. Too high, and he wouldn't stand a chance. If Peter was feeling particularly cruel, he'd call any number too low, forcing him to raise the count until he bled out right here.
"Ten," he said through gritted teeth, hoping it was enough to satisfy Peter.
"Ten," the other man repeated, sounding surprised. "I would've wagered five! But I like your pluck. Ten it is."
James' heart sank. A part of him knew Peter would say that no matter what he chose, but it still felt like he'd duped himself. Ten.
But maybe Peter would be true to his word. Maybe ten lashes were all that stood between him and freedom. Maybe he'd finally be released from this hell.
And what then? Would Peter set him adrift in a rowboat? Let him run into the forests of the mystery island? How would he survive, broken as he was?
No matter how he looked at it, whatever path he was thrown down, every option seemed bleak. Hopeless.
"Let's begin."
James tensed, already shaking with anticipation of the pain that was to come.
The first strike hit right in the center of his back, pain spiking through his body, bright as lightning. He didn't even have time to cry out.
The next one hit to the side, lead tips colliding with his bruised ribs, and this time he did scream, a horrible, ragged sound.
Third. His head was already swimming, and he clenched his jaw. Seven more. Such a small number and yet it may as well be infinite.
"Hh–Aughh!" Four.
Five. His vision was splotched with white. Stay awake. Push through.
"Halfway," Peter sang out. "And just think, that could've been the last one if you weren't so ambitious."
The sixth came down, dragging out another hoarse scream.
Seven.
Eight.
His vision was fading in and out, his body shuddering with pain and fatigue. Hold on. Just hold on.
Nine. His back had been set ablaze, the fire reaching up to take him…
Ten. His body jerked under the final stroke, the only sound escaping him a choked whine.
Over. It was over it was over it was over. He was conscious only by the most base definition, seeing but not aware, hearing but not processing. Feeling the pain roll through him like the tide. Nearly unbearable, threatening to smother him, to drown him, but he fought it, no matter how much he wanted to sink beneath its waves and cease to know the world around him.
"Well done!" Peter's voice rang around him. "Didn't think you had it in you."
Hands reached up, cut the ropes, let his body hit the deck limply, his eyes staring emptily at the horizon.
"You've impressed me, James." Peter and his smile were over him, silhouetted in blue. "I think you deserve more than freedom. I think you may even deserve to be captain again."
Captain? James thought, the word spinning in his head. Peter wouldn't step down. He wouldn't allow things to be as they were, and even if he did, nothing would ever be the same. James couldn't just walk off the last month, couldn't bury everything he'd suffered, and he knew his crew would never forget how he'd groveled and begged after one whispered threat from Peter.
"What do you think? Captain of your own ship again."
Of his own ship.
James winced as Peter grabbed him by the hair, lifted his head just enough so he could see the crowd part for a pair of men carrying a large barrel. It took him a minute to comprehend, to realize what was going on. He took in the broomstick tied to the barrel in a mockery of a mast, the bit of canvas that stood for a sail...
"Beautiful, isn't she? About to take her maiden voyage." Peter released James, and his head dropped.
He'd been brought back up to die after all. It had been hopeless from the start.
"And what's a captain without a first mate?"
And Jeddy was brought forward, tearstains on her cheeks.
"S-sir, I don't—"
"You don't what?" Peter said, and his voice was measured. Cool. "You don't think I know everything that happens on my ship? You don't think I know the signs of scale use?"
No…
"You've disobeyed me once. Failed to prove your loyalty when I gave you the chance."
Jeddy's shoulders shook. "Please. Captain. Don't make me leave her."
"Leave her? You ought to count yourself lucky I didn't throw you in the brig when I found out."
"Peter…" James' voice came out more whimper than word, barely audible. "L-leave her be."
The other man shook his head, putting a hand on Jeddy's shoulder in such a way that it almost looked friendly. "Don't tell me how to run my ship, James. You can call the shots once you're aboard your own," he said with a wink, waving on the men with the barrel.
Scene from a rp with @turn-the-tables-on-them , featuring my boi Wes from The Riot Kings. For context, it's set in a futuristic high fantasy au and this is basically just me being self-indulgent lol.
cw: beatings, language, noncon drugging
It was obvious Wes wasn't gonna get much sleep during his stay here.
Winter was in full throttle, and the stone cell he'd been thrown into didn't offer much protection from the chill. All he could do was curl in on himself, shivering and cursing his situation.
He'd stolen from royalty, killed guards, ambushed rich assholes, and gotten away scott-free, but somehow couldn't walk away from a single act of petty theft.
Wasn't his fault lord whats-his-face couldn't hold on to his wallet. Wasn't his fault the guy's kid was sharper than he looked and prone to snitching. And it certainly wasn't his fault that such a small offense could get you locked away to freeze to death.
Wes clenched his jaw to try and keep his teeth from chattering. He guessed he was still sorta lucky though. At least no one here seemed to recognize him as one of the rebels terrorizing the upper class.
Hopefully it stays that way, he thought as he finally sank into sleep.
When he woke, it was late in the day. He was aware of being hungry, of a dryness in his throat, but he couldn't do shit about it except hope someone came by soon. Night fell, and he tried to sleep. Not like there was anything else to do, and he had to conserve energy if they weren't going to fucking feed him.
It was well past morning the next day when he heard someone outside his cell. Fucking finally, he thought, but when the door swung open it wasn't food on the other side. It was a pair of armed guards. He cursed under his breath as they seized him by the arms, cuffed his hands behind his back, and began to march him down the stairs.
He decided not to struggle, despite really really wanting to. If he were about to be released, he wasn't gonna make trouble, and even if he weren't, the last thing he wanted was to be thrown down the fucking stairs.
They brought him to what he assumed was their main base, leading him down a corridor and into a small room. Inside was a single metal table and chair.
Fuck.
The guards pushed him into the seat, securing his ankles with a pair of handcuffs that had been bolted to the floor. As they left, an older man in an officer uniform stepped inside.
Fuck.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as the man moved to stand across from him. His name tape identified him as 'Nault'.
"I'm sure you already know why you're in here, boy," he said. "It'd be in your best interests to make this easy for me. We'll start with something simple." He leaned in. "What's your name?"
Wes didn't answer, keeping his eyes glued on the table in front of him. It was probably just a ploy to get him to crack, and he wasn't falling for it.
Beside him, Nault shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're only making this harder on yourself, Wes."
The surprise must've shown on his face, and the other man chuckled. "Like I said, that was something simple. We already know who you are. Got profiles on dozens of you rebel delinquents." Nault moved to stand behind him. "Never would've known you boys were on this side of the realm if you hadn't been arrested. How's that feel?"
Shitty. Absolutely shitty. Not only did they know who he was, they knew the rebels were on the move, and it was his fault.
Whatever. They would've found out sooner or later. All he could do now was not let anything else slip.
He swallowed nervously. No matter how hard that might be.
"Still not talking? Alright, but at least answer this: what's your band doing this far North?"
Silence was a good strategy, right? If he didn't talk, they couldn't learn anything from--
The blow caught him off guard, Nault's hand seizing him by the hair and slamming his face into the table. Pain exploded in his skull, making his eyes water.
"Fuck!"
"Not the answer I hoped for, but I suppose it's something. Now about the rebel movements--"
"None of your fucking business," Wes snapped, the pain overshadowing his reason.
"That so?" Nault replied, voice level. "Maybe you're right, but we'd like to make it our business. Can't have rebels terrorizing the kingdom, after all. So I'll ask nicely one more time. What are you doing in the North?"
That was nicely? Wes spat a glob of blood onto the table. "Eat shit."
Nault sighed. "Fine. I see you've made your choice."
He left the room, and before long, the pair of guards who'd brought him here reappeared.
For all of a second, Wes was able to entertain the idea that he was done here, and they were taking him back to the cell. That happy thought died as soon as they drew their batons and closed the distance on him.
Blows rained down hard and fast. He couldn't move away, couldn't even raise his hands to try and shield his face. Best he could manage was to tuck his chin into his chest and hope they got this over with.
It wasn't long before he was thrown from the chair, hitting the ground hard enough that it knocked the wind out of him, the first boot to the gut compounding the feeling. Wes choked on the air, unable to even find the breath to cuss them out as the blows kept coming, boots colliding with his stomach, his ribs, his back. One kick caught him in the jaw, dazing him, but they didn't stop. His will to stay awake was rapidly failing, and after a few more well-placed kicks, he blacked out.
He came to back in the tower, hurting like hell. His head was pounding, and every little shift of movement sent a wave of pain through his body.
When the guards returned, he couldn't even find the energy to try and get away, but this time all they did was throw him a water bottle. It wasn't until he'd chugged the entire thing that he noticed the bitter aftertaste.
Fucking drugging him now? Didn't they have some kind of code?
Apparently not, he thought as the room started to spin around him, a weird haze clouding every thought. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the guards dragged him back to the room.
And so the cycle continued. The guards brought drugged water, or shitty food, or escorted him to the next interrogation.
If you could even call them that. He had only a vague idea of what happened in the room, forgetting each question almost as soon as it was asked. The only thing he knew for sure was that they always hurt him.
Wes wasn't sure if he'd given anything up at this point. Whatever drug they had him on made it hard to think, but he couldn't just start refusing the water. He doubted they'd give him anything else, and he was still determined to survive, even if every day brought on some new hell.
He had no idea how long he'd been there. Everything blurred together, and it wasn't like he was scratching fucking tally marks into the wall of his cell. Maybe he should, just for a single bit of clarity. But in the rare moments he was left to rest, he couldn't find it in him to get up off the floor.
Everything hurt. He was almost certain he had a few broken ribs with how painful it was to breathe, and a few of his joints weren't feeling too hot either. To say nothing of the bruises, the burns, the cuts... Fuck. They liked getting creative, and he was so fucking excited to see what tomorrow would bring.
He'd probably die here. They didn't seem to care how much they hurt him. All they wanted were answers, and whether he gave them up or not, it was only a matter of time before his body gave out.
With that cheery thought in the forefront of his mind, Wes did the only thing he could:
Curl up against the chill and try to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(in-play he got rescued right after this by @turn-the-tables-on-them 's OC Aliyah so no worries lol)
It was dark, dark enough that he could hardly tell where he was going, branches cutting his hands, his face, as he pushed through the brush. He couldn't see, but he wasn't lost.
Peter knew the island too well to ever be truly lost.
He had to get to a clear spot. He had to find an area to take off, to fly, and maybe he could get away.
But get away from what?
It had started with a chill down his spine, a whisper that told every instinct to flee, and he did.
He knew the darker side of the neverland wasn't something to be taken lightly.
So he ran and ran and ran, though he heard no crashing through the trees behind him, though he saw no sign of an enemy. The presence, whatever it was, was after him, and he couldn't stop.
He made a sharp left, tumbling into a familiar clearing and taking to the air with a flying leap that turned into just plain flying.
Whatever it was, it couldn't follow him up here. Unless—
Something seized his ankle in a bruising grip, cold as ice, and he looked down and saw nothing but he still couldn't escape it.
Fae magic. It had to be.
He kicked at it, trying to shake loose, but the nothing wouldn't budge. And of course it wasn't just nothing, it was darkness. Shade. His mind raced, poring over his recent interactions with the fair folk. Had he done something to offend them? Likely. Fae were finicky creatures, easily upset over trivial matters.
After a brief internal debate, he let himself sink to the ground, into the icy embrace of his own shadow.
If the fae sought his attention, they'd get it eventually, one way or another. Best to have it over with. Try and talk his way out of it.
The darkness was quick to seize him, his shadow moving on its own, wrapping frozen arms around his torso and hauling him back into the treeline with enough force that he could barely form words.
"Enough. I'm going willingly, you—" the shadow squeezed him as if to shut him up. "Enough!"
But it didn't seem to hear. The cold of its grasp was starting to seep into him, making him shiver, but all he could do was wait for it to reach its destination.
Eventually they came to another clear spot in the woods, this one softly lit by luminescent mushrooms. Or moss. It was hard to tell which was providing the glow. The faint light silhouetted three tall figures. Peter failed to catch a glimpse of their faces before being thrown at their feet, but he already knew they were fae. He stood up, making a big show of dusting himself off despite shaking with cold, and faced his hosts.
"Well that was unnecessary, don't you think? What happened to an invitation?"
The one in the middle stepped further into the glow, a faerie he knew as Locust. The light made their face look ghoulish, and were he not busy making polite conversation, Peter might've laughed.
"You are undeserving of our hospitality, Pan," Locust said, using the name he'd given them.
Pan. The old god of the wilds. He'd thought it fitting, and besides, even a child would know to never give one's true name to a fae.
"And what have I done to… not deserve this?" Peter questioned, and Locust sighed in exasperation.
"You and your crew were the first humans to set foot on this island in centuries. Your men are satisfied with merely dwelling here, but you've sought boons from us."
That he had. Flight. Safe passage throughout the island, so he might explore. His boys were daring, but only a handful of them were bold enough to follow his lead. He wondered if the faeries had staged similar meetings with those few, or if he was special.
"And I am grateful for your kindness," he replied with an easy smile. "But I don't see what this has to do with–"
"You've taken our gifts, and yet you convene with the merfolk. So tell me, Pan, are you our friend, or our enemy?"
"Why your friend, of course," Peter replied. "I had to speak with the merfolk you see, as they've been convening with my enemy."
"And who is your enemy?"
"A pirate captain," Peter said, flourishing his hands. "He prowls the island's waters, hunting me and my band."
"And you consider him a threat? You cannot die, boy."
"It's a sort of game we play. One day we may yet kill one another," he said casually.
"A day I've yet to see in all my life," one of the faeries behind Locust muttered. "The island refuses to let go of those who've tasted its lifeblood."
"Quiet, Wisp." Locust looked down at Peter. "If you wish to stay a friend to our people, conspiring with the mer is out of the question."
"Oh you know I'd never conspire–"
"Speaking then."
"Mhm." Peter's smile grew thin. Rotten luck that someone had seen him leaving the cove at all. Why should the fae get any say in his comings and goings? "I take it you'll snatch your gifts right back if I were to–"
"What is given cannot be ungiven," Locust said with a scowl. "Which is unfortunate. But should it happen again, you will be punished."
Through his dismay, a bit of glee shone through. A punishment from a faerie! He wondered what sorts of oddities they could come up with. He'd heard stories; children forced to count every leaf in the forest, unable to sleep until their task was complete; mortals bound to an eternal dance.
Locust must've caught wind of this, as they stepped in closer. "And nothing so trivial as a hundred years serving in our halls. To take our gifts yet disregard our wishes is to spit in our face, to incur our wrath." They leaned down until their face was inches away from Peter's. "Say another word to a mer and I will break every bone in your body, Pan. That is a promise."
They didn't wait for a response, vanishing back into the shadows almost immediately, Wisp tight on their heels.
Breaking bones wasn't quite as whimsical as counting leaves, but it didn't seem too awful. After all, a sip from the fountain and he'd be good as new, and even if he did go back to the cove, who was to say he'd be caught?
"Pan," said a soft voice, and he looked up. The smallest of the trio was still standing there, another faerie he was familiar with.
"Bell," he replied. It was the name she'd given him. Who was to say if it was anything like her true name? Who was to say what any fae names were really like? That particular curiosity of his would take a great deal of trickery to satisfy, but he was sure he'd get there one day.
Bell was fond of him. At least as fond as a faerie could be for a human. She was the one who'd given him flight in the first place; after he'd charmed her with a story or two, all he'd had to do was ask nicely.
"You know Locust means it," Bell said. "They made a promise. Such a thing cannot be taken lightly."
"I know," Peter replied, if only to placate her. Sweet Bell, to worry for him when there was nothing to worry about.
"You don't. I know you, Pan. Heed their words. Stay away from the cove, or you will be found out, and Locust will make good on their promise."
"Alright, alright, I will."
He wasn't sure if she truly believed him, but she gave him a smile, then turned to follow the others into the shadows.
Peter supposed it was a little childish to have crossed his fingers behind his back when he could've simply lied, but the little trick made him feel like it didn't quite count for a lie. Maybe that mattered.
He oriented himself quickly and took to the sky. It was a clear night, stars speckling the dark blue. The Scarlet Merry was just visible on the horizon, and he thought briefly of paying James a visit. Dispel the nervous energy he'd acquired from the meeting with a friendly skirmish.
But no, a warm fire and tall tales passed between him and his boys sounded far more inviting right now. Home it was.
As he flew, he was aware of his shadow, mirroring his movements far below. He tried to push that awareness down. To be followed by one's shadow was nothing new.
To be watched, however, was a different story.
tag list: (tagging the same group from Never. Feel free to PM me if you'd like to be removed! Planning on this being a three-parter, but we'll see where it goes)
