FIC: Promises: Short Circuit (18/?) Part B
Part B - somewhere in Victor's head
*
He couldn’t move his arms or legs. Victor lifted his head but something strong was gripping him around the neck, forcing him to stay in one spot. He panted, then tried to shake his body. It failed to respond to him. His claws were useless, his strength was useless, and nothing was right. His senses were confused, telling him of presences he knew weren’t there, or scents conflicting with information his eyes were telling him. At one stage he had been struck by the scent of Wade’s blood, but that had been over in a mere second. At others he could sense Jimmy close, but his brother was always just out of his grasp. Was that intentional? He didn’t know. The only thing he knew now was the darkness.
Victor snarled helplessly and pulled again, as hard as he could. Nothing. He stared around him, waiting for the men he had killed again and again and *kept coming back*. Wade would have said that was overkill and getting boring, but Victor couldn’t fight the need to destroy every single last one of them, regardless of the fact he knew something was fucked up. Men died. They bled. They screamed. The normal human body was a delicate thing indeed. They didn’t keep coming back, over and over, whispering their thoughts and deeds to him. There was no longer any satisfaction in slamming his claws through them anymore, simply the desperation to get them away from him long enough for him to recover his mind.
He knew they didn’t exist, but seemed powerless to escape its hold. His personal reality and the world’s seemed to have parted company a long time ago, and although the images were slowly becoming less frequent he still couldn’t manage to break out from the unfair hold they had over him.
The men of his youth hadn’t been the only ones who had appeared to him, which had partly been the reason why he had been so confident in his assertion. Scenes came to him but many had never been real, often a simple daydream or lustful thought which had passed his way over the years mixing in with other visions of truthful if sometimes embarrassing situations.
Victor had noticed that the visions had gone from the alarming to the comforting, which he assumed meant that whatever was happening was trying to wind down. His lip curled, and his eyes flashed with a murderous anger. If they were hoping that showing him tender moments between himself and his brother would somehow calm him down, they were in for a seriously vicious shock. The only thing he now cared about was the ability to look deep into their eyes before he slid his claws deep into their midsection and yank out their inner workings. It wasn’t just the capture that angered him, but the knowledge that they would have all of the details of the private moments that were his own business, no one else’s:
Here was the memory of being on the battlefield, his uniform half torn off his chest from a direct hit from a cannon and Jimmy hugging him tight as they waited for the worst of the damage to heal.
Here was the lustful daydream he had had when he had first seen his younger brother in uniform, Jimmy sliding his palm over his body as he tested how loose the material was in order to loot from the battlefield. What Jimmy hadn’t realised was how tight the fabric pressed against his rear when he did so, clinging to his buttocks and thighs as he so innocently asked his elder brother whether he thought it was going to be enough for their purposes. The daydream had taken that thought and altered it, allowing Victor the pleasure of taking it further; the way his own palm would slide over the material before creeping over the belt and slipping underneath it to touch the smooth, hot flesh. He had imagined the wide eyed, surprised look that his brother would give him before Jimmy would ultimately agree to properly ‘test’ the clothing and end up, half naked and trembling, sitting on Victor’s lap with Victor’s hard erection buried deep in his virgin channel. The image of Jimmy’s head tipped back was beautiful, his throat exposed and his dark hair draping over his features as they rocked together, his brother panting out his lust.
Here was the memory of Wade turning up at his door at Team X, dressed in hot pink lace knickers, tight stockings that encased his smooth, surprisingly pretty legs, high heels, and wearing bright red lipstick that Wade had managed to paint on disturbingly accurately. Victor had yanked him into the room so quickly that Wade’s feet had momentarily lost contact with the floor, slamming the door swiftly to avoid the others in the team ever seeing that particular sight and assuming things about Victor’s personal tastes. The younger man had spent the whole damned evening talking in a soft, phone-sex voice that purred depraved suggestions as Wade performed a little dance to show off his rear to its best advantage. Victor hadn’t known what had been worse; the fact that Wade was pretty damned good at his feminine impression, or the fact that Victor’s groin had appreciated it much more than Victor had ever wanted to admit. Wade had ended up face down on the bed, his expensive knickers around his ankles as Victor had fucked him into next week.
Here was the daydream of taking full command over Team X, one that often turned up whenever Stryker had once again failed to take something further, and one that always managed to make Victor throb harder than ever at the freedom that it would give them. He could imagine the fights and the blood already, finding better profits as they seized the position in the world that they truly deserved.
Here was the memory of ‘Logan’ showering after a long mission in the desert, trying to rid himself of the sand that seemed to be stuck to him. Jimmy had spent a good month trying to prove he didn’t need Victor’s help, that he was no longer a child, and finally had to admit defeat in scrubbing his own back. The embarrassed, sulky expression that had turned to him as the man asked for assistance had been exactly the look in his brother’s eyes that Victor had imagined when he would ask to enter Victor’s bed. In the end, Victor’s own impatience had ruined that situation, but he knew that would have been the look he would have received had it gone to plan. And fuck, was it beautiful.
Here was the memory of Wade tied to the wall with iron shackles, long before his experiments had been done; blood had trickled down his chest in little streams of colour from the slash wounds that Victor had inflicted, and yet all the other man had done was laugh and ask for more. The scents of blood and lust mixing in such a small room had been so intoxicating that Victor was amazed he remembered it at all.
Over and over, again and again, the little memories both true and false whispered to him. Of gentle touches from his brother, their purrs mingling in the darkness. Of cheerful banter with Wade, followed either by a fight or a fuck. Of blood, wet on his hands. Of deaths by his claws, the satisfaction burning through him. So many good things, but nothing that would alter his mind. They had made him vulnerable, and for that he would take a long, bloody revenge.
For a long time nothing spoke and nothing moved. He was alone in the darkness, barely conscious of anything other than the rasping sound of his own breathing. Victor bared his teeth, snarling in sheer anger. He had fought too long and hard for this weakness to happen, and yet his body still refused to obey his orders.
And then, finally, something happened.
“Can you hear me?”
The voice seemingly came out of nowhere, soft and strained. Victor’s head lifted sharply as he tried to sense where the man stood. There were too many mixed signals for him to identify, and none of them seemed correct. He *knew* that voice. It was not a voice he really wanted to hear, but it could have been worse.
Victor snarled and tried to move away again but it was refusing to let him. He growled softly.
“Where are you?”
“I am here. You cannot see me?” the soft voice had picked up the Cajun accent that Victor had been expecting. His eyes studied the room that he could see, and then he grunted dismissively.
“No.”
“I am next to you. Can you feel this?”
Victor waited, but nothing happened. On the other hand, his whole body seemed to be asleep, none of his nerves properly working. He growled again. The Cajun was playing his tricks again.
“No. And why is there a smell of burned flesh?”
“Dat does not matter,”
“I disagree,” Victor shifted, and failed to get anywhere again. He growled helplessly. “I can’t move,”
“You have been shot with some sort of dart, and have shackles on your limbs and neck.” The soft voice supplied helpfully. Victor snarled.
“Well, *get it off*,”
“I cannot.”
“Fuck that. You can blow things up. Do it,”
“It will not work,”
“Try it.” Victor ground out through gritted teeth, his frustration and discomfort clashing badly with his inability to move.
“No. I am not able to move my hands.” came the soft voice, almost reprovingly. Victor stared into the darkness.
“If you can’t move your hands, exactly what were you using to touch me?” he said dangerously. There was a soft noise of amusement.
“Nothing too bad,”
Victor snarled again, not wanting to think of what else the man was going to poke him with. On the other hand, LeBeau’s presence was a nod to the outside world, a world that was surviving without Victor’s interaction. Bastards.
“Where’s Jimmy?” he demanded.
“Logan? I don’t know. Sounds like he and Wade escaped.”
Victor’s mouth curled upwards in a smirk. You never pissed off Jimmy and turned your back on him; that was just asking for a massacre. He would get control over his body and he and Jimmy would act as one once again in their joint anger against the base. Oh yeah. The future might not be as bleak as it appeared. All their enemies had to do was assume a few things and Victor would seize the opportunity to paint the base with their enemies’ blood.
Now that was a thought that beat the nightmares.
TBC
*
He couldn’t move his arms or legs. Victor lifted his head but something strong was gripping him around the neck, forcing him to stay in one spot. He panted, then tried to shake his body. It failed to respond to him. His claws were useless, his strength was useless, and nothing was right. His senses were confused, telling him of presences he knew weren’t there, or scents conflicting with information his eyes were telling him. At one stage he had been struck by the scent of Wade’s blood, but that had been over in a mere second. At others he could sense Jimmy close, but his brother was always just out of his grasp. Was that intentional? He didn’t know. The only thing he knew now was the darkness.
Victor snarled helplessly and pulled again, as hard as he could. Nothing. He stared around him, waiting for the men he had killed again and again and *kept coming back*. Wade would have said that was overkill and getting boring, but Victor couldn’t fight the need to destroy every single last one of them, regardless of the fact he knew something was fucked up. Men died. They bled. They screamed. The normal human body was a delicate thing indeed. They didn’t keep coming back, over and over, whispering their thoughts and deeds to him. There was no longer any satisfaction in slamming his claws through them anymore, simply the desperation to get them away from him long enough for him to recover his mind.
He knew they didn’t exist, but seemed powerless to escape its hold. His personal reality and the world’s seemed to have parted company a long time ago, and although the images were slowly becoming less frequent he still couldn’t manage to break out from the unfair hold they had over him.
The men of his youth hadn’t been the only ones who had appeared to him, which had partly been the reason why he had been so confident in his assertion. Scenes came to him but many had never been real, often a simple daydream or lustful thought which had passed his way over the years mixing in with other visions of truthful if sometimes embarrassing situations.
Victor had noticed that the visions had gone from the alarming to the comforting, which he assumed meant that whatever was happening was trying to wind down. His lip curled, and his eyes flashed with a murderous anger. If they were hoping that showing him tender moments between himself and his brother would somehow calm him down, they were in for a seriously vicious shock. The only thing he now cared about was the ability to look deep into their eyes before he slid his claws deep into their midsection and yank out their inner workings. It wasn’t just the capture that angered him, but the knowledge that they would have all of the details of the private moments that were his own business, no one else’s:
Here was the memory of being on the battlefield, his uniform half torn off his chest from a direct hit from a cannon and Jimmy hugging him tight as they waited for the worst of the damage to heal.
Here was the lustful daydream he had had when he had first seen his younger brother in uniform, Jimmy sliding his palm over his body as he tested how loose the material was in order to loot from the battlefield. What Jimmy hadn’t realised was how tight the fabric pressed against his rear when he did so, clinging to his buttocks and thighs as he so innocently asked his elder brother whether he thought it was going to be enough for their purposes. The daydream had taken that thought and altered it, allowing Victor the pleasure of taking it further; the way his own palm would slide over the material before creeping over the belt and slipping underneath it to touch the smooth, hot flesh. He had imagined the wide eyed, surprised look that his brother would give him before Jimmy would ultimately agree to properly ‘test’ the clothing and end up, half naked and trembling, sitting on Victor’s lap with Victor’s hard erection buried deep in his virgin channel. The image of Jimmy’s head tipped back was beautiful, his throat exposed and his dark hair draping over his features as they rocked together, his brother panting out his lust.
Here was the memory of Wade turning up at his door at Team X, dressed in hot pink lace knickers, tight stockings that encased his smooth, surprisingly pretty legs, high heels, and wearing bright red lipstick that Wade had managed to paint on disturbingly accurately. Victor had yanked him into the room so quickly that Wade’s feet had momentarily lost contact with the floor, slamming the door swiftly to avoid the others in the team ever seeing that particular sight and assuming things about Victor’s personal tastes. The younger man had spent the whole damned evening talking in a soft, phone-sex voice that purred depraved suggestions as Wade performed a little dance to show off his rear to its best advantage. Victor hadn’t known what had been worse; the fact that Wade was pretty damned good at his feminine impression, or the fact that Victor’s groin had appreciated it much more than Victor had ever wanted to admit. Wade had ended up face down on the bed, his expensive knickers around his ankles as Victor had fucked him into next week.
Here was the daydream of taking full command over Team X, one that often turned up whenever Stryker had once again failed to take something further, and one that always managed to make Victor throb harder than ever at the freedom that it would give them. He could imagine the fights and the blood already, finding better profits as they seized the position in the world that they truly deserved.
Here was the memory of ‘Logan’ showering after a long mission in the desert, trying to rid himself of the sand that seemed to be stuck to him. Jimmy had spent a good month trying to prove he didn’t need Victor’s help, that he was no longer a child, and finally had to admit defeat in scrubbing his own back. The embarrassed, sulky expression that had turned to him as the man asked for assistance had been exactly the look in his brother’s eyes that Victor had imagined when he would ask to enter Victor’s bed. In the end, Victor’s own impatience had ruined that situation, but he knew that would have been the look he would have received had it gone to plan. And fuck, was it beautiful.
Here was the memory of Wade tied to the wall with iron shackles, long before his experiments had been done; blood had trickled down his chest in little streams of colour from the slash wounds that Victor had inflicted, and yet all the other man had done was laugh and ask for more. The scents of blood and lust mixing in such a small room had been so intoxicating that Victor was amazed he remembered it at all.
Over and over, again and again, the little memories both true and false whispered to him. Of gentle touches from his brother, their purrs mingling in the darkness. Of cheerful banter with Wade, followed either by a fight or a fuck. Of blood, wet on his hands. Of deaths by his claws, the satisfaction burning through him. So many good things, but nothing that would alter his mind. They had made him vulnerable, and for that he would take a long, bloody revenge.
For a long time nothing spoke and nothing moved. He was alone in the darkness, barely conscious of anything other than the rasping sound of his own breathing. Victor bared his teeth, snarling in sheer anger. He had fought too long and hard for this weakness to happen, and yet his body still refused to obey his orders.
And then, finally, something happened.
“Can you hear me?”
The voice seemingly came out of nowhere, soft and strained. Victor’s head lifted sharply as he tried to sense where the man stood. There were too many mixed signals for him to identify, and none of them seemed correct. He *knew* that voice. It was not a voice he really wanted to hear, but it could have been worse.
Victor snarled and tried to move away again but it was refusing to let him. He growled softly.
“Where are you?”
“I am here. You cannot see me?” the soft voice had picked up the Cajun accent that Victor had been expecting. His eyes studied the room that he could see, and then he grunted dismissively.
“No.”
“I am next to you. Can you feel this?”
Victor waited, but nothing happened. On the other hand, his whole body seemed to be asleep, none of his nerves properly working. He growled again. The Cajun was playing his tricks again.
“No. And why is there a smell of burned flesh?”
“Dat does not matter,”
“I disagree,” Victor shifted, and failed to get anywhere again. He growled helplessly. “I can’t move,”
“You have been shot with some sort of dart, and have shackles on your limbs and neck.” The soft voice supplied helpfully. Victor snarled.
“Well, *get it off*,”
“I cannot.”
“Fuck that. You can blow things up. Do it,”
“It will not work,”
“Try it.” Victor ground out through gritted teeth, his frustration and discomfort clashing badly with his inability to move.
“No. I am not able to move my hands.” came the soft voice, almost reprovingly. Victor stared into the darkness.
“If you can’t move your hands, exactly what were you using to touch me?” he said dangerously. There was a soft noise of amusement.
“Nothing too bad,”
Victor snarled again, not wanting to think of what else the man was going to poke him with. On the other hand, LeBeau’s presence was a nod to the outside world, a world that was surviving without Victor’s interaction. Bastards.
“Where’s Jimmy?” he demanded.
“Logan? I don’t know. Sounds like he and Wade escaped.”
Victor’s mouth curled upwards in a smirk. You never pissed off Jimmy and turned your back on him; that was just asking for a massacre. He would get control over his body and he and Jimmy would act as one once again in their joint anger against the base. Oh yeah. The future might not be as bleak as it appeared. All their enemies had to do was assume a few things and Victor would seize the opportunity to paint the base with their enemies’ blood.
Now that was a thought that beat the nightmares.
TBC