NOTE FOR THE SENSITIVE READER!

This chapter of Angel Wings will include some pretty heavy torture scenes. We're not talking Resivoir Dogs here, but it is pretty graphic. So for your own sanity and mine...if you are sensitive to that which is gorey, violent, and graphically icky...please...wait a chapter or two. We'll all let you in on the secret. Squall's getting tortured. We'll tell you when it's okay to come back!

Enjoy!

Noa


darkness again

"MOVE! GET OUT OF THE WAY!"

speeding bulletpictures flashing slow steady silent -- swirling colors

burning numbing

cliff ocean roses

drop

sudden sharp

crystalline shimmering penetration -- breath? no

drowning? no tears, no rain, so tears?

black dark

silent

empty

noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

" -- OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!"

Darkness. Upright... He was standing -- no. Held. Restrained. Held up. Held, by what? By his arms. But what? His arms, but by what? By whom? Where? When? Fuckin' why not? Why?

He wasn't always -- he was... laying. Laid. Laid on a -- a who?

dark again

CRACK


Pinwheels of light behind his eyes. In front: nothing.

-- white. Hot burning white.

"Good morning."

Him. him the voice, him the him.

CRACK

more dancing novas

and more dark

"Let's try this again: What is SeeD? What is its true purpose?"

why is the what what why

why you why him

"What the fuck did you just say?"

CRACK

dark again --

and again


again and again


How long did this go on? How long could it? How long before his body and mind would deliver him to the welcoming darkness for good? Sleep... He longed for it. Sleep, long, forgiving sleep. A midnight of awareness, relentlessly eternal. Please, give me sleep.

A confusion of opaque dark and hot white light and the incessant thundering rain of blows marked his time. When he could see, he couldn't see anything -- when he saw light, he saw nothing by the light and nothing but it. And the fists, which blackened his vision anew, until all he saw was puffy, red-rimmed dark again.

Voices he knew. A voice. A voice repeated in ears, mind, heart -- questions he couldn't answer, couldn't hear. Couldn't see.

and darkness

Days went by, he was sure of that. And as he slipped less and less frequently into the constant darkness, he began to understand more of his situation. He was being tortured, that much was certain. He'd been transported from somewhere to here and was being beaten for information. This he knew.

He also knew by whom. Not all the time. There were stretches of time when the voice he knew wasn't shouting expletives and questions... time when the voice was gone, though the blows came just as hard by quiet and anonymous hands.

CRACK

and the voice

"Just answer the god damned questions, pal. What is SeeD's true purpose?"

"Don't make me keep this up. Look at you... your poor raw, swollen hamburger of a face. Why are you making me do this to you? You know what I want to know; tell me what I want to know!!!"

CRACK

"You're making me take extreme measures, old buddy. You're to blame for this."

CRACK

He couldn't look up. Couldn't see through the haze of pain, couldn't hear through the blood that screamed in his ears, couldn't lift his shattered head. All he knew was that the darkness returned and The Voice didn't.

And that was fine.

The darkness fed him, kept his knotted stomach from withering to a hardened nut. Small, furry hands out of the darkness shoveled scraps of rotten meat into his mouth, sometimes he chewed, sometimes he swallowed -- most times he vomited it all back up before it had time to settle in his burning guts and nourish him.

Yet he lived. He even managed to keep a meal down long enough to defecate a dribble of it down his leg. And that was fine.

A taste. A taste he knew. Curative potions... elixers he'd gagged down in the hospital wing on occasion. Sense memories of sickbay beds, warm poultices, and calloused, uninterested hands traveling over his body... he knew these familiarities as he knew The Voice that had hurled invectives at him, knew the fist that curled into the splintered bones around his eyes.

He was being healed. Being... strengthened. He was taken down and changed out of his shit-smeared and mildewed clothes. Tended to. Hands from out of the darkness -- small hands with needle-claws and velvet-padded fingers -- tended to his battered body, covered it with salves, bandages. The hands chirped and chittered to each other in the impenetrable dark and managed his recuperation.

He tried out his voice and it came to his ears as an incomprehensible whine, the rusty squeal of an unused machine. Later. He'd try again. He had the time.


Days. Weeks? Months? Years?

He ate, fetid meat and pungent water, left in the dark by his unseen and chattering nurses. He ate. He ate and kept it down.

And that was fine.

He spoke occasionally to the hands. They chirped back. He recognized his own voice again, not strong -- no -- but audible and human.

And that was fine too.

He slept and dreamt of ice and cried in his sleep, but didn't know that he did and didn't know why.

In his sleep, he'd been moved again. Upright, strapped up again. So it began again. The Voice again. And the horrible white light that burned his unused eyes.

"I've brought someone to meet you, pal. He's gonna help me open you up and spill out all your dirty secrets."

A new voice. A sluggish voice. Thick. A gravy voice, a tar voice.

"Good morning."

"I'll let you two get acquainted."

A door hissed open and slammed shut. A long silence. The burning light.

The Tar Voice: "I don't like the smell of wax. I don't like the heat. I sleep on my side. Now that we are acquainted, I'm going to fill every crack in this room with your screams."

Sounds. Sounds with purpose. Sounds pregnant with menace and the Tar Voice's promise:

THUNK

click

snap

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

A machine screamed

-- the world exploded and he screamed too.


Author's Notes!

Well, I have to give a HUGE thanks to my hubbie, who we shall refer to as Scott, who actually wrote this chapter! NOT ME! I MUST INSIST THIS WAS NOT WRITTEN BY ME! However, I did have a good bit of input on this, though it was all from Scott's brain. Hey, I'm not this cool. My idea of torture stuff is whip walls and that just ain't cool. Scott, he gets the mad props. Sorry 'bout the lateness. We were toiling with how to post this, being a bit unconvential in terms of layout. Unfortunately, we couldn't do it the way we wanted. Lovlerly all the same though. Okay, not lovely. Icky and horrible but wonderful in its own strange way.

Oh, and as for next chapter...prepare for some intense fun.

Until then!

Ciao!

Noa