[fic] Only Animals
Feb. 26th, 2010 11:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeTitle: Only Animals
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Guerrero, Chance
Word Count: 1,005
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Guerrero's in the hot box. This is not a drill.
A/N: Torture porn. Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dubiousmethods
"I hold at your neck a gom jabbar. This one kills only animals."
-- Dune
It was probably a good thing Guerrero was as small as he was. Chance would have found this kind of prison uncomfortable. Winston would have found it excruciating, but then Winston never went out and got his hands dirty, did he.
The mercenary folded his fingers together over his knee and scowled.
He had to give them that: being locked in a very small box suspended on heavy chains from the ceiling of some big open building or another was a pretty innovative torture. He didn't even know how they'd gotten him up there. He'd heard clanking, metal on metal on tin on metal, and felt the box swinging ever so slightly. Swinging, not swaying on a ship. That felt different.
They'd grabbed him coming back from the meet. He still didn't know how they'd known. Or what they knew, too, he had to remember they hadn't interrogated him yet at all, he didn't even know what questions they wanted to ask, let alone the answers they were looking for. He didn't have any information except that they were well trained, well armed, and they had someone with a twisted imagination running the show. Guys like that didn't think of prisons like this. Guys like that had had the thinking trained out of them, like what had almost happened to Chance.
Vegas dollars would go in on this being connected to what had almost happened to Chance. That was what he'd been working on, even if the poor guy hadn't known it, and that was what had gotten him into this mess.
He kind of hoped Chance wouldn't come looking for him, although knowing Chance, he would. But that didn't mean he liked what his friend would find.
Guerrero sighed, leaned his head back against the wall of the box, and shifted to keep from getting too stiff. He was getting irritated, and he was getting sweaty. How long had he been in here, anyway? Long enough for the air to get stale? Given the air holes, that would have to take a while.
No, it wasn't the air going stale, it was the air heating up. He realized it the first time he took a breath and it seared down his windpipe and into his lungs. Something had gone down, something was heating up the box and, what, burning the warehouse or shipping hold or whatever it was he was in? With him inside of it. Even the metal at his back was starting to heat up.
Oh hell no.
"This is not happening," he muttered, starting to kick at the walls in case they could be buckled and maybe he could squirm out. "Dude, this is not happening. I am not going out like this."
They'd taken his guns. They'd taken his knives, they'd taken everything except the clothes on his back. Which they had put back on him, thanks for that, but it still bugged him. They'd been thorough. Invasively thorough. He had nothing left with which to fight back except maybe the buttons on his jeans and that in and of itself was a kind of mental torture. There had to be something, his mind insisted, there was always something he could use to get out of any situation he always had a way out but now there was no way out. There was no conceivable way out. He had gone from total freedom to locked in a slowly heating box.
He wasn't going to go out this way. He'd be damned before he went out this way, and he started kicking harder at the walls. He had nothing to brace himself up against but the wall behind him, that was starting to heat up, first the fabric of his jacket crisping, then his shirt. He leaned forward to keep himself away from the wall but there was no away from the wall. He leaned forward and rose up on the balls of his feet, crouching, squatting, really, and banged on the walls. Pulled his jacket down over his hands (the fabric tore surprisingly easily, as frayed as it was from the scorching) and wrapped them around his fists and banged at the walls. He imagined he could smell his own skin crisping. He'd smelled burning bodies before, but this felt different.
Eventually it did get so stuffy in the box that he was having trouble breathing, and resigned himself to staying as still as possible and hoping the heat receded. Hoping, not praying. Guerrero had never been a praying man and if there was a god, by now, after all the things he'd done, he figured he wasn't on very good terms with him.
Just, hoping. That something would happen. Even if he shouldn't, by now, hoping that Chance would find him. That he'd be lucky. The air turned stale and the oxygen heated up, seared his pipes, and Guerrero closed his eyes and stayed as far from the metal walls as possible as his skin began to burn.
Air. Oxygen. Flowing through his lungs.
Everything hurt, but it didn't hurt. His nerve endings in some places had been seared off. In other places, the pain was excruciating. He'd scar. Again.
Someone was wheeling him down a hallway. Not as bright or as populated as a hospital, good. Didn't smell like one either.
A familiar face loomed or leaned over him. Stared. "Hey there, Freddy Krueger. Back with us?"
"I never left," Guerrero grumbled. "You shouldn't have come."
But Chance always would, because that was what Chance did.
"Stop complaining for five minutes and get some rest. Everything's going to be okay."
Guerrero would have flipped him off if he could. The ferocity of his blue eyes did it for him. Chance only chuckled quietly, reached out to pat Guerrero's... well, his bandages. He didn't have much of a touchable hand left.
"I'm serious, okay? Rest, get better, and you can shoot people later."
He did close his eyes, at least. "You promise?"
"I promise."
"... 'kay."
Fandom: Human Target
Characters: Guerrero, Chance
Word Count: 1,005
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Guerrero's in the hot box. This is not a drill.
A/N: Torture porn. Written for
dubiousmethods"I hold at your neck a gom jabbar. This one kills only animals."
-- Dune
It was probably a good thing Guerrero was as small as he was. Chance would have found this kind of prison uncomfortable. Winston would have found it excruciating, but then Winston never went out and got his hands dirty, did he.
The mercenary folded his fingers together over his knee and scowled.
He had to give them that: being locked in a very small box suspended on heavy chains from the ceiling of some big open building or another was a pretty innovative torture. He didn't even know how they'd gotten him up there. He'd heard clanking, metal on metal on tin on metal, and felt the box swinging ever so slightly. Swinging, not swaying on a ship. That felt different.
They'd grabbed him coming back from the meet. He still didn't know how they'd known. Or what they knew, too, he had to remember they hadn't interrogated him yet at all, he didn't even know what questions they wanted to ask, let alone the answers they were looking for. He didn't have any information except that they were well trained, well armed, and they had someone with a twisted imagination running the show. Guys like that didn't think of prisons like this. Guys like that had had the thinking trained out of them, like what had almost happened to Chance.
Vegas dollars would go in on this being connected to what had almost happened to Chance. That was what he'd been working on, even if the poor guy hadn't known it, and that was what had gotten him into this mess.
He kind of hoped Chance wouldn't come looking for him, although knowing Chance, he would. But that didn't mean he liked what his friend would find.
Guerrero sighed, leaned his head back against the wall of the box, and shifted to keep from getting too stiff. He was getting irritated, and he was getting sweaty. How long had he been in here, anyway? Long enough for the air to get stale? Given the air holes, that would have to take a while.
No, it wasn't the air going stale, it was the air heating up. He realized it the first time he took a breath and it seared down his windpipe and into his lungs. Something had gone down, something was heating up the box and, what, burning the warehouse or shipping hold or whatever it was he was in? With him inside of it. Even the metal at his back was starting to heat up.
Oh hell no.
"This is not happening," he muttered, starting to kick at the walls in case they could be buckled and maybe he could squirm out. "Dude, this is not happening. I am not going out like this."
They'd taken his guns. They'd taken his knives, they'd taken everything except the clothes on his back. Which they had put back on him, thanks for that, but it still bugged him. They'd been thorough. Invasively thorough. He had nothing left with which to fight back except maybe the buttons on his jeans and that in and of itself was a kind of mental torture. There had to be something, his mind insisted, there was always something he could use to get out of any situation he always had a way out but now there was no way out. There was no conceivable way out. He had gone from total freedom to locked in a slowly heating box.
He wasn't going to go out this way. He'd be damned before he went out this way, and he started kicking harder at the walls. He had nothing to brace himself up against but the wall behind him, that was starting to heat up, first the fabric of his jacket crisping, then his shirt. He leaned forward to keep himself away from the wall but there was no away from the wall. He leaned forward and rose up on the balls of his feet, crouching, squatting, really, and banged on the walls. Pulled his jacket down over his hands (the fabric tore surprisingly easily, as frayed as it was from the scorching) and wrapped them around his fists and banged at the walls. He imagined he could smell his own skin crisping. He'd smelled burning bodies before, but this felt different.
Eventually it did get so stuffy in the box that he was having trouble breathing, and resigned himself to staying as still as possible and hoping the heat receded. Hoping, not praying. Guerrero had never been a praying man and if there was a god, by now, after all the things he'd done, he figured he wasn't on very good terms with him.
Just, hoping. That something would happen. Even if he shouldn't, by now, hoping that Chance would find him. That he'd be lucky. The air turned stale and the oxygen heated up, seared his pipes, and Guerrero closed his eyes and stayed as far from the metal walls as possible as his skin began to burn.
Air. Oxygen. Flowing through his lungs.
Everything hurt, but it didn't hurt. His nerve endings in some places had been seared off. In other places, the pain was excruciating. He'd scar. Again.
Someone was wheeling him down a hallway. Not as bright or as populated as a hospital, good. Didn't smell like one either.
A familiar face loomed or leaned over him. Stared. "Hey there, Freddy Krueger. Back with us?"
"I never left," Guerrero grumbled. "You shouldn't have come."
But Chance always would, because that was what Chance did.
"Stop complaining for five minutes and get some rest. Everything's going to be okay."
Guerrero would have flipped him off if he could. The ferocity of his blue eyes did it for him. Chance only chuckled quietly, reached out to pat Guerrero's... well, his bandages. He didn't have much of a touchable hand left.
"I'm serious, okay? Rest, get better, and you can shoot people later."
He did close his eyes, at least. "You promise?"
"I promise."
"... 'kay."