Work Text:
It reeks in here. Like a men's locker room flushed with raw sewage then set to burn. Blood, sweat and fuck knows what else caked so thick it's eating away the cement. Worst of all is the humidity made purely from too many bodies breathing in and out in a cramped cell block. Where Miles wanted to gag the second he stepped in, minutes later he's so used to the acrid scent it's normal. Seeping into his clothes, becoming part of him. He feels like he's walking through a morning mist made of pure filth.
Not bad. Maybe it'll go in my article. Remember that: "morning mist made of pure filth." Make the audience sympathy-cringe.
He keeps reminding himself of the report because if he starts thinking he won't get out, he sure as fuck won't. Already he's picturing the sunlight on his face, warm and inviting. Or the night, cool, fresh air and the sense of quiet solitude he'll finally be rewarded with after his little trip to Hell.
Mumbles over there, yeah, the bondage bitch who wanted to toddle after him and try to have a conversation with dry-rot leather in his mouth, he's still ghosting behind Miles after he climbs a stack of something-square and ascends to the first floor. Because the stairs are broken. Figures. Miles hazards a glance down at the series of straps resembling a man, and he gives him a little nods. Can't even see it, and probably can't hear Miles getting away with all the clamor going on above his head. At least the poor soul can't climb.
Miles makes his way down the line of cells and almost slips in something. Probably a leak. Or urine. There's guys bashing at their bars, trembling in corners, jerking off into the toilet - that one gets him to pause. This dude's going to town. Miles zooms in with his camera, and he can catch pathetic whimpers of bliss coming from this depraved piece of shit. He bets he molested a sibling or two, then moves on.
That was terrible. These people are fucking tortured. Miles has something of a morality crisis. Then, But some of them actually came from prison. So screw it.
There's a predictable crack in the floor, the support beams bent in alarming directions like a giant decided to punch through the ground. Miles slides across it, nice and slow. Good thing he's so damn lean. Imagine that burly fuck trying to tiptoe across a three-inch ledge. Chris Walker, literal walking pig-man. Miles can't wait until he inevitably sees him again. There's a whole lot to catch up on. Miles distracts himself from the constant jab of the gash in his calf by thinking up an actual conversation with Walker. Comes up with inappropriately well-spoken dialogue for the other man while remnants of glass, little slivers of pain, grind deeper into his elbow. Adrenaline must be a hell of a drug to make him blind to all these injuries until minutes after he narrowly escapes the next psycho.
Things get freaky when he wanders his way up to the third floor. First of all, someone isn't in their assigned cell. There's a gangly shadow trudging the opposite way he's going, head bowed. The inmate pauses at the wall and seems to lean his hairless skull against it, stopping completely. Well, that might almost be funny if Miles wasn't certain he'd have to somehow scurry past this obstacle rather than becoming a ninja and parkouring his way to the top. Mount Massive: a laugh a fucking minute. Secondly, after surveying the place from the ground with his camera, he became aware of one particularly pissed-off looking inmate grasping the bars of his cell and staring directly at him about five minutes ago. And he's on this floor. Miles chances raising his camera again, zooming on the man he could see from the ground.
He hasn't fucking budged. Still got his fingers wrapped around those mottled bars, still staring at him, his broad frame swaying back and forth ever so slightly like he just can't wait to tear out of his cell and chase after him. It's never easy and Miles figures he's just gotten incredibly lucky up until this point. Terror overtakes him in a wave, quick and painful before he buries it. Puts it on mute. Time to deal with it and keep getting the hell out of here.
Miles walks. Random hands jut out to try to grab at him but he's learned to press his hips against the railing by now. Cat calls, threats, pleas for help all go ignored as he continues forward, a tight ball of tension pretending to be calm. Too fucking scared to do anything but move on autopilot. He's getting closer and closer to the man who seems to be wilting against the wall at the end of this walkway, and once he's only a few feet away he stops. Tries to get a feel for the situation. Sometimes, the psychos don't want to kill him. It's fifty-fifty with these lunatics. As Miles debates quietly sliding past him and his still-trapped friend, the guy eyeballing all hungry like he's fresh off the spitroast, the one walking free turns around.
Miles' stomach flips at the sight. A huge, clumsy stitch straight down the middle of his face, separating two glassy eyes and not much else. Where the fuck is his... everything? Cracked teeth bursting outward from what was once a mouth sewn-over with wrinkled flesh; it's beyond sickening. Miles briefly wonders how the guy's even standing before he catches it. A tiny whistle of air, a gleam of wet where the nostrils should be - replaced by these snakelike slits. The relentless drone of noise around him seems to drown out as he stares, morbidly awed, and all he can hear is this poor bastard breathing in and out.
"Pretty pussy, look at me! Fucking look at me!" The nearby shout rattles him from his trance and Miles swings to look at Big Ugly, he's not much better; flesh torn and healed-over and torn again until his face seems to be losing a war with his own skin. The nutjob grins at him, exposing gnarly teeth crowned with a harelip to make UNICEF cry. Miles finds himself focusing on that as the mutilated patch of skin moves, stretches grotesquely with his mouth:
"Yeah, I saw you down there, fuckin' prick tease! I'm comin' for you!" Harelip's laughing this throaty laugh that reminds Miles of something he saw in Deliverance. Next thing he's gonna be going on about pigs and squealing. Miles opts not to test him, and simply backs up. The gap is hazardously skinny right in front of Harelip's cell and, guess what, he'd rather risk breaking a leg than getting any closer. His mouth dries up as he watches Harelip press his face against the bars, lick his tongue up and down one, still glaring at him with his off-center cyclops eye.
That's great, thanks for sharing. He backs away from what he can only assumes is a barely-contained rapist, feels one heavy bead of sweat trickle down his back with such force he jumps. This makes someone else cackle behind him, catch his coat sleeve in a hooked index finger. Miles panics and lunges forward, right back where he came from, turning to see whoever the fuck it was who nearly had him. Too fucking close. How'd he lose his wits like that, forget to keep his distance from the bars?
Miles watches the perpetrator. Christ, he's ugly - they all are, but each one is like some new fucking species - this one's got a lumpy head, somehow his eyes've gotten knocked askew and there's burn marks everywhere, cigarette-filter brown and black pockmarked with shiny pink. Staring at that mass of pink, it's like he's observing whatever he's got left of a brain. Like fresh chewed-up-and-spit-out bubblegum stamped into a city sidewalk. Miles can't tear his gaze away as this monster of a human being grins at him just the same, his lower lip hanging like a dislocated arm. Pinky's snorting at his finger, sucking on it obscenely. "Ohh, it tastes good. Hey, c'mere..."
Don't look. Stop making eye contact, you fucking idiot. Miles can't. He stares into those bloodshot, misshapen eyes and they stare back, and he's rising now, and opening his fucking cell somehow and, yeah, this was a mistake. Miles turns to bolt. He grabs the railing like he's going to vault over it and take the plunge to the first floor, except he's on the third and seeing that height makes his head spin. Thinking about the angle his leg would twist if he did it gets him to back away. Or maybe he'd just land on his back and slowly suffocate while the human cocoon stood over him and rambled about silky--
Pressure that feels like a hand slides onto his shoulders. Miles doesn't even turn to see who it is. He bursts forward, blind in his panic, then nearly slips and falls on his ass as he immediately brakes. Apparently his mute friend's been working the lock to Harelip's cage and Miles watches as he shoves his way out with enough force to send his liberator stumbling back.
His fear is an ice bath. Something about this guy commands subordination, moreso than most of the other patients he's run across. It's prison hierarchy in the asylum, and sometimes you can just tell which ones run the place. The way they walk, the way they seem like they've got just the tiniest little scrape more of sanity than the others, and the shape of their manhood still in their pants. Yeah, he's already noticed one of the more disturbing aspects of what counts for a society at Mount Massive. The dickless are powerless, either punching bags or cum dumpsters or both. He's seen them sprawled in wheelchairs, tucked under beds, a thick wad of scar tissue in place of their masculinity. Seen the way packs of their still-endowed brethren prowl the halls moving from one to the other, ravenous fucking piranha. It's amazing just how much corruption this place packs in, what he's seen in stealth mode, holding his breath from the cover of vents or under unwashed patient beds. With the anarchy of escaping their cells came freedom but none of these fuckers know what to do with it. And after what they've been through, it's difficult for Miles to really blame them.
But the moment one's loping out of his pen and looking at him like a dripping piece of meat, all he wants is for a bomb to spontaneously detonate, to nuke this fucking pit into oblivion.
"The key, the key, who's got the key..." A voice rasps into his ear from behind and Miles turns his ass around and runs. Pushing past the burn victim or whatever the hell he is, suddenly immune to the fear of hurting himself as he charges up a small flight of stairs, and he bolts for an open cell. A lit area means jack-shit around here aside from him being able to save his batteries. It's temporary safety.
Extremely fucking temporary, Miles thinks, as he pauses to double over and catch his breath. Because he can hear just how much he's pissed off his pursuers down below. Harelip's voice is still branded into his brain, and he's shouting - "Get that motherfucker!"
Hole in the floor. Miles doesn't stop to question what might have burrowed under the concrete like that; he literally dives for it. Falling face-first, he lands on his shoulder and groans at the cracking sound he hears. Teeth grit and he pushes himself up. It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt. It'll never hurt as much as getting pummeled to death, so buck up and move your ass. Miles is primed to do just that when he hears a crash above his head. A clatter of the cell door, and suddenly movement. The variants. They've already caught up.
He can't see the thick puddle of blood on the floor when he sprints forward, just feels the way his chest locks up as he starts to fall. It's slow-mo, it's dizzying little dots in his vision as he crashes to the slick floor again. They're coming. He tries to get up and slips again, shoulder slamming into a locker. Someone bled someone else dry right here and it's all set up to fuck him over. Miles can't move, can't barely breathe as his eyes flick to the hole. To the variants, hopping down to his level, and heading his way.
Harelip's picked up a plank with nails hatefully driven through the end, apparently, because he's walking toward Miles and slapping it against his hand like he can't wait to use it. And there's Pinky, like some sort of phantom from a firefighter's post-traumatic nightmare, his stupid slack-jawed grin leering Miles' way like he's smug. Miles doesn't feel sorry for either of them in this moment, doesn't give a shit what they've suffered as Harelip nearly drools:
"Got ya now, little whore..."
There's a worse fate than being beaten to death. It's being raped, then beaten to death. At this point in time, Miles is sure one of the two is going to happen to him.
He breaks for the right to try to run again. They're quicker, and they grab his jacket, their combined strength dragging him back under fluorescent lights. The showers are out there. He's about to get fucked in a prison shower. The irony would make him laugh if he weren't about to cry. "Nooo no no, nope!" Pinky snickers and shoves Miles down onto the floor. His ass hits the blood puddle and he feels it soaking through his jeans. A hollow sound escapes his lips, raising a trembling hand at the two variants. He's always made it a point not to engage these psychos, but he does now, pleading:
"Please. I-I'm not a doctor. I want--"
"Did I say you could talk to me?!" Harelip's screaming down at him, simultaneously smashing the poor imitation of a nailbat he's got into Miles' thigh. A sharp sound escapes Miles, leaning up to grasp his hands around the weapon as Harelip's chuckling at him. "Fuck, I was aimin' for his dick." He yanks it out, prompting another howl. Miles blinks through the throbbing pain to see Pinky stroking at the front of his crotch. Nausea hits him as the man's burnt fingers fondle some sort of lump, watching him intently. "Make it screech again, I like that..."
Harelip shoves the plank at Pinky's chest, grinning toothily down at Miles like a wolf as he suddenly descends. Miles scrabbles backward instinctively, only to get grabbed, forced back-down against the grimy tile floor. Fuck. Fuck. He's gonna do it. Never in his life has Miles feared getting an unwanted cock up his ass, but now that the idea's implanted like a seed, the terror comes like a storm. Like nuclear winter. He freezes, eyes wide as the bastard twists him harshly, forces him to get on his belly and then climbs on top of him. The big fuck's still chortling to himself, sounds like a fucking boar as his fingers worm around Miles' jeans. He's just trying to yank them down without bothering with the button, the zipper. Miles lets out a grunt at the treatment, attempting to claw forward in an effort he knows is futile; Harelip grabs him by the shoulders and tugs him right back into place.
"Wanna run away, bitch? Heh-- wanna run away? Nowhere to run..." Disgust rises in Miles' stomach like a physical form as he realizes the more he struggles the more it gets them off. He can feel it already. There's something big, hard, and pressing against the crack of his ass. Three layers of separating fabric isn't nearly enough. "Bet you want my fuckin' prick. Bet you're gonna take it like the fuckin' slut you are," Harelip's growling at him as he forces Miles' jeans down to expose his ass, tearing the thick fabric. He can see Pinky stepping around the side, still touching himself in this shameless, almost pathetic way, like he's home alone jerking off to a porno.
"I want its mouth! I get its mouth," Pinky's squawking at his buddy, but Miles' current rapist doesn't seem to care. Too focused on yanking his prison slacks down, and that's when Miles starts to thrash. One bump of a hard dick against his ass cheek and he's a freshly-caught fish thrown onto the deck of a boat. No. Fuck no. This isn't fucking happening--
Imagination can't really save him because Pinky's crouching, shoving his hand into Miles' hair. His fingers scrape the scalp, twist up a patch of hair and tug it upward so Miles is not only trapped there, but forced to look up at his hideous mug. It's even worse under this light, the rosy incineration-boils erupting all over his skin glistening under the bulb.
Miles swallows a knot in his throat, whispers as sweet as he can, "Please. Please don't." Somehow, Pinky seems like the one to plead with.
All it does is make the bastard laugh. And hock, and spit directly in Miles' face. Feels about the same as getting shot, Miles figures, appalled. Pinky takes the time to reach out with his free hand and smear his mess all over Miles' comparitively smooth skin, then try to thrust his thumb into his mouth. Miles is already gagging, tasting dead, blackened skin flaking off and down his throat. "It's pretty... h-hey, gimme a smile..." And he's snickering as he glances away from Miles, watches his accomplice line up. Miles feels it. Feels the man's hands tighten on his bare hips. But what he really feels is when he abruptly shoves himself inside.
Miles wails. There's no other word for that noise that bursts from his mouth, seeing white as something big, something angry and feeling like a blunt knife rips its way through the inside of his ass. It literally feels like his lower intestine are being scrambled and rearranged as Harelip groans a revoltingly pleasured noise, then starts thrusting full-force. No time to get used to it, baby? At least Miles is able to think his hate, if he can't vocalize it. At least it's not that bad yet. At least he's gotten to the fucking bottom of the barrel, and he can only go up from here.
"Ugh, he's fuckin' tight-- !" Harelip's panting at nobody, and Miles can hear the saliva dribbling out of his mouth as he starts up like a jackrabbit, in and out like he's stabbing him. Pinky seems content to just watch, still rubbing at himself, still a vicegrip on Miles' hair. Just when Miles thinks he might be getting out of this with just one part of his body ruined, Pinky's shoving his crotch forward, forcing Miles' cheek over the stiff bump. "That's right..." the man's thumbing the waistline of his pants, seeming to play with the elastic in a way that sickens Miles before he shoves them down just the same. His cock is scorched too. Miles stares at it, wincing, tenser than wrought iron as Pinky grabs the base. Strokes it. Miles can hear the scratch of charred skin as his fingers run up and down the length.
I'll take mine well-done, sir. No, no, you know how I like it. Burnt to a crisp.
"Open wide," Pinky giggles, then forces Miles' mouth open himself. He's so rough, jerking on Miles' jaw that he wonders if it might break. Whining as Harelip keeps wrecking his ass, in such pain that it's almost dulled, like the variant's dick's already eroded every nerve inside of him. Like cranking the tap with the red sticker and holding your hand under it until it feels cold. When that crusty thing shoves its way past his lips, Miles wonders if he can bite it off. He chokes and splutters, his body alive with tremors of pain, nausea, and a panic response. "Watch the teeth! Or I'll rip 'em out, one by one!" Pinky snorts, wrapping his nasty hands around the back of Miles' head and opting to hump his face like he's a living Fleshlight.
"Silky... mmn, silky..." Pinky's purring and it hums in his lower belly. Miles can't breathe. He's struggling to angle his head so he can let the burn victim fuck him how he apparently wants to but his cock's blocking his throat and his lower belly's smashing his nose closed. And the stupid fucker won't let go. Miles raises his hands to try to shove Pinky away, crying out as Harelip rams into him. He's slowed down. Taking his time, savoring this little treasure they've both stumbled upon, no doubt.
"Miles Upshur Takes A Mean Dick." That'll go on the plaque in my office. The one I get after all those promotions. He's disassociating, feeling like laughing weakly at his own head-joke as blackness starts to cloud his vision. There's a ringing in his ears, and the grunts of the two variants turn into echoes as he realizes he's slowly passing out. He can't breathe. He can't fucking breathe.
There's a weird jump in time from that point to being slung back into reality. Like jolting up from a sudden, short dream. He must've fainted, must've gone limp and less fun to play with because Pinky's shrunk back and he's smacking his face hard, backhanding him once then twice.
"Wake up, wake up!" He's jeering at him and Miles feels nothing but repulsed loathing as he looks his second rapist in the eyes from below. Harelip rams him again, extra-hard, and Miles feels himself moan feebly. Everything hurts to the point of this buzzing nothing and, with horror, he realizes that isn't enough for the variants. They want more. They want him to scream and suffer.
Sadistic pieces of shit-- Miles barely has time to think of something wittier when Harelip's pulling out, flipping him over onto his back. Miles gasps - at the release of his cock from inside of him, at the brightness of the light above. His eyes, against his will, slide down to catch sight of Harelip's disgusting excuse for a cock. It looks slimy, like a slug's trailed all over it, glinting in the light. Miles nearly gags again as he wonders how much of that is precum and how much of the rest came from him. "What's wrong, whore?" Harelip starts, and Miles locks his gaze with him. Stares into that one eye Harelip's got left, his lower lip shaking as his fingers try to dig into something for security and hit only bloody tile. "Want me to touch ya? Heheh..." And Harelip's grabbing for his flaccid dick. Miles squirms; his thighs tighten and close as he tries to scoot backward on his elbows. Not this. Not this.
"Watch this," Harelip spits like he's about to put on a show, wraps his scarred hand that much tighter around Miles' cock and starts trying to jerk him off. Miles couldn't be less turned on. But he can't control a soft moan that escapes him. Not one of arousal, but of anxiety, of despair. Of course Pinky takes it the wrong way, giggling freakishly as he strokes Miles' face from behind. "It likes it! It's a fucking pussy!" he adds, and Miles can feel his eyes threatening to roll back into his head. The room's starting to spin. Circling a big, threatening drain.
And then Miles shrieks. Yeah, he actually makes a noise that could be considered a shriek as Harelip abruptly shoves into him again. He drives the thing in like he's trying to hit gold. What's worse is he hasn't released Miles' cock yet. There's a clammy feeling as Harelip strokes him up and down, his grip rough but surprisingly controlled enough not to tear it off of him. Miles considers this a blessing. His head rests, defeated, against Pinky's thigh as the variant seems to watch his friend work at Miles and fuck him at the same time, fascinated. Miles closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see that half-burnt dick, still hard as a rock, waving far too close to his temple.
"You like that?" he hears Harelip murmur at him, tighten his index and thumb around the head of Miles' cock. Against every muscle in his body shouting denial at him, Miles feels his hips raise. He moans again, strained, hating himself and the fact that he hasn't slept with a woman in years.
It doesn't feel good. Bile's rising in the back of his throat. But he can feel himself, involuntarily reacting to stimuli, to that startlingly soft touch. Maybe the rush of fear and adrenaline's helping. "See, the pussy cat wants it! I wanna hear it squeal again..." Pinky's grabbing his jawline and twisting his head back, angling Miles' face so he can thrust himself back in, start choking him all over again. Miles chokes, he spits, he feels saliva and precum leak out of the corner of his mouth. Pinky's brutal, pounding himself in and out, threatening to break Miles' neck in the process.
"Good boy, good boy," Harelip's leaning down close over Miles, whispering like they're fucking lovers and his tongue goes out to lick at Miles' neck. Miles manages a whimper, feeling his cock jump in the most uncomfortable way, and he writhes as the variant's hand jerks him up and down. This is infinitely worse than just being raped. Now he's being raped and they're trying to force him to blow a load. It has to be a power thing, has to be only to humiliate him further. He gurgles against the dick in his mouth, eyes squeezed shut as his fingers dig white into the floor, entire body being shoved back and forth from the force of his assailants. Harelip's snorting as Miles gets rigid in his grasp, and Miles feels the man pushing his sweat-soaked shirt up over his chest. Grabbing one of his nipples, tugging at it so hard Miles wonders if he's trying to sever it. The cry it forces from him is drowned by the dick trying its damndest to tunnel its way down his throat, and it makes them both laugh. Miles is reeling. Barely a coherent thought, nothing aside from - why the fuck aren't they done yet?
"It's so silky!" Pinky's barking, placing his hands on Miles' chest and running his hands down to his stomach. Up and down, and it lights up nerves and tickles like thorns. Miles becomes a worm being poked with a stick, trying to avoid the heinous treatment while simultaneously dealing with the fact that he's got this unforgiving dick swollen in his mouth, trying to make out with his esophagus. He feels another whine ripple from his throat as Pinky digs his claws into his sides, drags them up and gropes at the taut skin. Without warning, Pinky loses it. He's pitching forward, grunting like a fucking animal as he shoots hot, thick liquid straight down into Miles' stomach. Miles is almost grateful he can't taste any of it, at least until Pinky slides out and some of the vile shit leaks onto his tongue.
Tastes like chicken.
Miles vomits. It's instantaneous, projectile, and it burns. He wrenches the top half of his body off the floor, up on an elbow so he doesn't drown in it. Every orifice on his face seems to be spilling something: tears, snot, puke, saliva and cum, the whole nine yards. He strains, struggles as his body wracks from the force and Pinky barely makes an effort to move out of the way. Must be past the point of caring. The thought makes Miles want to regurgitate more but he's got fuck-all left.
"Aww, it doesn't like me... c'mon, can't be that bad," Pinky taunts, reaching a hand up to scratch at the collection of coral he calls a face. Miles can only stare at him for a moment, half-bewildered and half-the-deepest-fucking-animosity-he-never-thought-possible, before Harelip makes him pay attention to him again, suddenly jerking his semi-hard cock that much harder. Miles moans for him. He doesn't want to sound like he enjoys it but at this point it's automatic and he's given the fuck up.
His cheeks feel torn. Feels like he's scooped a nest of hornets into his mouth. Rubber bands about to snap. Defeated, he starts to rest his skull against Pinky's lap again, but the variant's shoving him right off and standing up, pulling his pants back into place as he does. Miles sags into the tiles again.
"Cum for me, baby," Harelip's cooing as he leans his bigger body down over Miles once more, and Miles shuts his eyes again. Doesn't want to see that hideous mess of a face, the muscles on his arm flexing as he pumps his cock up and down. His hole's searing, and everytime the mangled son of a bitch moves it's like shards of glass being shoved up in there. Over and over. Hot breath hits his face and Miles turns it to the side defiantly. Why aren't you done. Why aren't you done. Get it the fuck over with, you living abortion.
It becomes obvious the variant's holding back as he slows down, starts trying new techniques for jerking Miles off. All in the span of seconds that feel much longer, and Miles lets out a frustrated noise, squirming, bucking his hips again as he hatefully tries to get himself to do it. To cum for him. Fucking motherfucker. "Yeah, yeah," Harelip's mumbling, and just like Miles predicted, speeding up. The pain's getting old. His brain's tired of processing it and at this point Miles is numb down there. He tries to focus on whatever trickle of unwanted pleasure the variant's giving him. Imagines a scenario in his head that doesn't resemble anything going on. "Like my fucking cock, don't you..." Miles feels Harelip lick at his ear, lick inside his fucking ear, and he shivers like it's below zero. Let him believe whatever the hell he wants. Just end this.
Miles spurts without warning, and it's the weakest orgasm of his life. There's something resembling pleasure, and even his nerves seem terrified; tentative and fleeting as they creep, rather than explode from his groin. It's all washed away with revulsion, with agony as quickly as it's felt. Because doing that apparently lit the variant's fire, and he's thrusting with new vigor. The impact is knives. Harpoons. Over and over again. Miles gets stuck in a limbo of torment as Harelip cums forcefully, filling each cut and tear with his seed. Miles' mind is blank. Words can't describe. The back of his head scrapes the floor and he sees Pinky's feet upside-down, standing, watching eagerly.
"Fuck-- !" Some violent shout shakes him back to the situation. His cellblock stud's finished. Finally. There's no real relief as he waits for this scum of the fucking earth to pull out of him. Especially since, just seconds later, there's hands at his throat. Harelip, still embedded inside him and making this nasty groaning noise like he's still in the midst of emptying his load, is choking him out. He's pressing down on the bone and threatening to crush it, grinning wildly at Miles from above, that one eye of his widened in excitement. And his stupid fuck-buddy's cracking up too, grabbing the previously-dropped plank and starting to make a slow circle around the both of them. "Lemme hit it, I wanna hit it..." Pinky's chattering on and Miles can't even care as his hands reach to frantically grab at Harelip's wrists, try to scratch him off. He coughs the last bits of his oxygen out, murky dots multiplying in his vision. And honestly, at this point? Miles wants to fucking die. He struggles out of instinct, straining silently against the variant, but he's already dead inside.
Everyone knows what losing air feels like, but Miles has never been in a situation where he was forcibly denied any more. He's thinking about falling off monkey bars at recess, shocking his lungs empty when he slammed down onto his back. That time he was at a bar, and, in the midst of trying to make a move on a stranger, lodged an ice cube in his throat. It's not just alarm sirens, it's something excruciating. It hurts. Surges over his chest and into his head.
Rapidly enough to jolt him back, one blemished hand slips off his neck and Miles sucks in a sharp breath. Harelip's grabbing the plank from Pinky and twirling it around, still all smiles. "Ooh, little whore's not done yet," he's snickering, still half-strangling Miles' flailing form. "Still hungry? Then fucking eat!" Raising an arm, the variant brings the sharp side down directly into Miles' mouth.
A bomb detonates. When the rusty nails lodge deep into his chin, his lips, his tongue and gums, it's an explosion. Noiselessly, he screams. It comes out a hiss, and his body starts to contort into some slow fetal position. It's excruciating. So severe he's disassociating again, thinking about tetanus shots. Doesn't hear the other one shouting, "No, make him feel it... !" Or that Pinky steals the plank back and smashes it into his jaw.
That's when his brain checks out. Miles goes unconscious almost instantaneously, and slipping into that unfeeling bath of nonexistence is more welcome than anything he can possibly want.
Except he's not dead. That much is evident when he wakes up an unknowable time later, coughing thick blood from the back of his throat, reflexively rolling over onto his stomach and spitting it out. Agony hits him like a semi and Miles yells a string of curses as every nerve screams back at him. He's got holes in his face and a new one in his ass, he's pretty sure, and he's also pretty sure that this is exactly what being birthed is like. Thrust into brightness, into cold pain. Miles doesn't stop to think he might still be in danger, at least until he realizes he's not alone. There's someone sitting nearby.
It's that dentist's wet dream, the freak with no face anymore save eyes dead as an antique doll. He's staring, cockeyed, at Miles from only feet away. Arms wrapped around his bare legs and head lolling to the side like an alien lifeform. Adrenaline floods Miles and he grunts to a crouch, ready to run. With hostility his gaze darts to variant's crotch in dread, wondering if this guy's next in line. But there's nothing there.
Good. He's a bottom-feeder. Lowest of the low. Piece of shit's probably too broken inside to fuck with me. Miles shoves himself up to his feet and then wishes he hadn't done that. Feels like he just walked through a firing squad. The lone variant's watching him, unblinking, and Miles is about to flip him off and do some sort of Limp of Shame before the variant uncurls his legs. Something catches the light in his lap and Miles' heart stutters. It's his camera. This thing has his fucking camera. Unable to suppress a violent shudder, Miles watches the variant slowly, almost carefully, rise to his feet.
And then outstretch his arm, holding the camera out. Silent and still, and Miles is incredulous. Even more astounded when the variant allows him to take it. When Miles snatches it it's lightning-fast, like he's not sure the variant won't flip his shit and turn on him. Instead, all he gets is more of that thousand-yard stare.
The more humane part of him feels some sense of regret. Against every goddamn odd, he feels bad for this husk of a man. He remembers why he came here, why he's kept going. Yeah, part of it is just because he doesn't want to die in this shithole. But another part...
"Thanks," Miles manages. His voice cracks and it's barely heard. But he doesn't want to talk. Fingers raise to rub over the fresh puncture wounds that dot his jawline, his chin, his lips. He tastes copper, still flowing onto his tongue. He backs away from the variant, because even if he pities him, they're rabid fucking animals. Unpredictable and dangerous. The terror and stress pumping through him is anesthetic, but it's on a timer. He needs to get the fuck out of here. He can deal with his trauma, with therapy and hospital bills and whatever the fuck else awaits him outside this septic tank of an institution, but only once he gets out.
Fuck it. Fuck it. Keep going.
So he does.