black_cigarette (black_cigarette) wrote,
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Interregnum One: Screaming Doesn't Help

TITLE: Interregnum One: Screaming Doesn't Help
CHARACTERS: Wilson, five OMC
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
SPOILERS: No.
SUMMARY: Wilson considers.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: Takes place during Bad Company.


Main Entry: in·ter·reg·num
Pronunciation: "in-t&-'reg-n&m
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural -nums or in·ter·reg·na /-n&/
Etymology: Latin, from inter- + regnum reign -- more at REIGN
1 : the time during which a throne is vacant between two successive reigns or regimes
2 : a period during which the normal functions of government or control are suspended
3 : a lapse or pause in a continuous series

—from Merriam-Webster's Online Dictionary


Interregnum One: Screaming Doesn't Help

The leather cuffs are hot and damp and tight, and Wilson can't help thinking—I'm trapped in some goddamn bondage porn flick here.

They've been beating him for hours. He doesn't know how many because (a) he can't look at his watch, and (b) he has no watch. Tweedledum had taken it from his wrist when they'd strung him up like a side of beef, unsnapping the stainless steel band and slipping it into his pocket.

Fuck him, stealing his watch like that.

Wilson knows his watch should be the least of his worries right now, but it's easier to focus on the little things.

Like drawing his next breath.

Everything hurts. It hurts so badly. And it's just continuing. There's no stopping it. Nothing he can do or say will stop it. This will just go on, and on, and on, until he's dead, beaten to death in this lonely barn in the middle of nowhere.

No. Don't think like that.

He'd tried to resist at first, tried to struggle and yank himself free from their grasping hands, their open arms that drew him in.

They'd just held on tighter, forcing his hands above his head and chaining him to this damn post. No defenses left. Helpless to guard against the blows to his face, his chest, his belly, his exposed groin.

And through it all that bastard's been watching.

At first Wilson had screamed when a particularly brutal punch had connected, sending exquisite shockwaves of agony throughout his body. His assailant had grinned then, stepped back for a moment, watched his frantic efforts to wrench his wrists free of his restraints, kick his ankles free from the belt.

Then Pugilist (or Tweedledee, or Tweedledum) had wound up, gathering enough kinetic strength to launch a small orbital satellite, and had landed another punch on him, in exactly the same spot.

Except "punch" wasn't exactly the right word.

Maybe "pile driver." "Sledgehammer."

After a few of these crushing blows, Wilson has learned not to scream.

What does it matter anyway?

There's no one there to hear him.
 
 
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