Light and Pain (FF7:AC [PG-13])
Title: Light and Pain
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Tseng, Yazoo, Loz, Elena
Summary: "Tseng and Elena... They were brought here half dead."
Warnings for: Torture
Light and pain-his head is swimming and he can’t seem to set the world straight. Rough hands grab his chin, careless of the two days’ stubble there. “I think he’s beginning to comprehend,” a slick voice like oil says. It echoes harshly in his ears and he can only hold back a groan.
Sight comes slowly-deathly slow. He fears for the interim that he has gone blind. But no, not quite yet. He can still see. The image that greets his battered eyes is not encouraging in this aspect.
“How are you feeling…Turk?” That voice says, slim fingers jerking his face up to meet eyes that seem half-sane. That mouth is moving, those lips are speaking-but he cannot focus. His brain pounds against his skull for escape, escape from this hell.
“… Broken already?” A voice, a different voice asks and a foot slams into his side. He topples over like a ragdoll, vomits his insides on the floor like a dog. He has nothing left to give and still he heaves, throat burning from the stomach acid. “Not yet Loz. Let me play with this one,” the first voice says, teasing, mocking-somewhere deep down where it will never show on his face he hates that voice.
“But the other one’s asleep Yazoo,” the second voice-the deeper, gruffer voice that belongs to ‘Loz’-answers, almost whining. “Don’t cry Loz… She won’t mind if you wake her up.”
The conversation he is hearing is insane. His fingers itch for his gun-he knows who they mean. And Elena-Elena!-he heard her curses in his sleep. Strangled, high curses intermixed with cutoff screams and broken sobs.
A door opens, closes, and those fingers seek him out again, lift him from the floor where he’s attempting to drown in his own bile. “Are we having fun?” That slick, slick, cannibalizing voice-words eating one another as they scramble for his flesh, undertone snapping away at the smooth overtone to reveal the carnage lying beneath-says.
“Not quite yet,” he murmurs through bruised and bloody lips. His tongue is thick in his mouth, swollen and ungainly. The words are hard to form, coming slowly, dragged from his esophagus by some higher power, he does not know which. His will, duty, God, the spirit of the Planet-maybe it’s that stick up his ass Reno’s always telling him he has. It doesn’t matter. He cannot let this lie. The taunts and the teasing-it’s only worse, he’s found, if he does not reply in kind.
“You will be,” that voice-and if he survives this he will have nightmares of this voice drawing and quartering him with sadistic delight-informs him. The voice-the man, the man with the half-sane eyes-continues, “Soon. Unless…”
And he knows what’s coming next. The velvet touch to his head, quiet fingers twining in his unbound hair with angelic ease-the hand clenches and drags sharply. “Where is she?” that voice asks. “Where did your friend take her?”
The pain-his scalp is on fire, he can feel the hair tearing free of his skin-this is nothing. He knows there’s worse to come. This is only the opening round-nothing, but flashy calisthenics. “Who? You need to be clearer than that. You’re interrogation teacher was a poor one,” he says, throwing in half a theatrical sigh. Half because it is interrupted by a shove that knocks him back into the hard, stone wall.
“Mother,” the voice-and he wishes he could stop seeing that silver hair, those Mako ridden eyes, all too reminiscent of a monster two years gone-informs courteously. “You took her. We want her.”
A foot comes to rest on his hip where an ugly gash festers under a bandage made from his own coat. The heel slowly presses down, grinding into his torn skin. Excruciating-his nerves are exploding as the boot strives to osmoses through the bandage and explore his insides in shamelessly intimate detail. Blood wells up to kiss the black sole. He hisses, but he doesn’t scream. If he screams it’s over. If he screams he will break.
“I…know many…women,” he breathes, tries to maintain his façade of ignorance. The room is spinning, the room is spinning so damn much, he’s going to fall-
“But you remember Mother,” that voice-it claws at his hearing, rips at his senses-that voice belonging to ‘Yazoo’ states. Those hands that won’t keep to their owner grab him again. They dig into his shoulders painfully, pull him to a sitting position by his skin, which should be an impossibility, but is in fact a painful reality. He feels his flesh tear and holds back a ragged gasp. “You saw her just the other day. When you were running away. Remember?”
He tries to focus. His eyes are wandering. Shadows, light, silver hair-Mako eyes that stare through him to all his vulnerable organs. “That one? My…apologies…she was not much of a looker,” he murmurs, stiff upper lipping it-the display of bravery lasts only until a hand closely examines his broken nose. His vision goes white, he is drowning in a pounding sea as his face becomes inflamed.
“Don’t talk about Mother like that,” ‘Yazoo’-he focuses on that, Yazoo, there is a name, a name attached to the voice, a name to his hatred-says, angry sorrow burning away at the edges of that smooth voice. “It upsets me.”
As if planned for pure irony a tightly spat curse filters through the wall. A second follows. A broken scream. The sound of splintering wood. He wants-he needs-so desperately to know what is going on in the adjacent room. He closes his eyes to the violent sounds of torture. He knows from experience that ‘Loz’ is far less gentle than Yazoo. Even though he’s only been here two days he knows already the only pro to a visit from Loz is the lack of conversation. Yazoo attacks with questions and biting mockery; abusive slaps to his mind as well as his body that alternate in a sickening pattern.
As if on cue he hears a soft, disgusting laugh. “She plays a good game,” Yazoo says and he hears the rustle of leather. He opens his eyes to find himself staring into his captor’s face. “Let’s hope she doesn’t break before you do. That wouldn’t be very fun,” those carnivorous lips framed by silver locks murmur kindly.
“One last chance. Where’s Mother?”
He looks up calmly into those deep eyes that threaten to devour his mind. His head is swooning merely from the motion of rising to meet that gaze. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I can only say she mustn’t love you very much to leave without informing you where she was going,” He says, the one weakness he has found in these silver haired, Mako eyed men so far. It’s his only card to play. It’s the only way he can think to buy time for the President. He does what he can and Yazoo takes the line with a tight smile as Elena’s angry, sobbing curses play like ambient music in his ears.
“Say what you like, Tseng. You’ll regret it in the end.”
A fist slams into the Turk’s head and knocks him to the floor again. On to business.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Tseng, Yazoo, Loz, Elena
Summary: "Tseng and Elena... They were brought here half dead."
Warnings for: Torture
Light and pain-his head is swimming and he can’t seem to set the world straight. Rough hands grab his chin, careless of the two days’ stubble there. “I think he’s beginning to comprehend,” a slick voice like oil says. It echoes harshly in his ears and he can only hold back a groan.
Sight comes slowly-deathly slow. He fears for the interim that he has gone blind. But no, not quite yet. He can still see. The image that greets his battered eyes is not encouraging in this aspect.
“How are you feeling…Turk?” That voice says, slim fingers jerking his face up to meet eyes that seem half-sane. That mouth is moving, those lips are speaking-but he cannot focus. His brain pounds against his skull for escape, escape from this hell.
“… Broken already?” A voice, a different voice asks and a foot slams into his side. He topples over like a ragdoll, vomits his insides on the floor like a dog. He has nothing left to give and still he heaves, throat burning from the stomach acid. “Not yet Loz. Let me play with this one,” the first voice says, teasing, mocking-somewhere deep down where it will never show on his face he hates that voice.
“But the other one’s asleep Yazoo,” the second voice-the deeper, gruffer voice that belongs to ‘Loz’-answers, almost whining. “Don’t cry Loz… She won’t mind if you wake her up.”
The conversation he is hearing is insane. His fingers itch for his gun-he knows who they mean. And Elena-Elena!-he heard her curses in his sleep. Strangled, high curses intermixed with cutoff screams and broken sobs.
A door opens, closes, and those fingers seek him out again, lift him from the floor where he’s attempting to drown in his own bile. “Are we having fun?” That slick, slick, cannibalizing voice-words eating one another as they scramble for his flesh, undertone snapping away at the smooth overtone to reveal the carnage lying beneath-says.
“Not quite yet,” he murmurs through bruised and bloody lips. His tongue is thick in his mouth, swollen and ungainly. The words are hard to form, coming slowly, dragged from his esophagus by some higher power, he does not know which. His will, duty, God, the spirit of the Planet-maybe it’s that stick up his ass Reno’s always telling him he has. It doesn’t matter. He cannot let this lie. The taunts and the teasing-it’s only worse, he’s found, if he does not reply in kind.
“You will be,” that voice-and if he survives this he will have nightmares of this voice drawing and quartering him with sadistic delight-informs him. The voice-the man, the man with the half-sane eyes-continues, “Soon. Unless…”
And he knows what’s coming next. The velvet touch to his head, quiet fingers twining in his unbound hair with angelic ease-the hand clenches and drags sharply. “Where is she?” that voice asks. “Where did your friend take her?”
The pain-his scalp is on fire, he can feel the hair tearing free of his skin-this is nothing. He knows there’s worse to come. This is only the opening round-nothing, but flashy calisthenics. “Who? You need to be clearer than that. You’re interrogation teacher was a poor one,” he says, throwing in half a theatrical sigh. Half because it is interrupted by a shove that knocks him back into the hard, stone wall.
“Mother,” the voice-and he wishes he could stop seeing that silver hair, those Mako ridden eyes, all too reminiscent of a monster two years gone-informs courteously. “You took her. We want her.”
A foot comes to rest on his hip where an ugly gash festers under a bandage made from his own coat. The heel slowly presses down, grinding into his torn skin. Excruciating-his nerves are exploding as the boot strives to osmoses through the bandage and explore his insides in shamelessly intimate detail. Blood wells up to kiss the black sole. He hisses, but he doesn’t scream. If he screams it’s over. If he screams he will break.
“I…know many…women,” he breathes, tries to maintain his façade of ignorance. The room is spinning, the room is spinning so damn much, he’s going to fall-
“But you remember Mother,” that voice-it claws at his hearing, rips at his senses-that voice belonging to ‘Yazoo’ states. Those hands that won’t keep to their owner grab him again. They dig into his shoulders painfully, pull him to a sitting position by his skin, which should be an impossibility, but is in fact a painful reality. He feels his flesh tear and holds back a ragged gasp. “You saw her just the other day. When you were running away. Remember?”
He tries to focus. His eyes are wandering. Shadows, light, silver hair-Mako eyes that stare through him to all his vulnerable organs. “That one? My…apologies…she was not much of a looker,” he murmurs, stiff upper lipping it-the display of bravery lasts only until a hand closely examines his broken nose. His vision goes white, he is drowning in a pounding sea as his face becomes inflamed.
“Don’t talk about Mother like that,” ‘Yazoo’-he focuses on that, Yazoo, there is a name, a name attached to the voice, a name to his hatred-says, angry sorrow burning away at the edges of that smooth voice. “It upsets me.”
As if planned for pure irony a tightly spat curse filters through the wall. A second follows. A broken scream. The sound of splintering wood. He wants-he needs-so desperately to know what is going on in the adjacent room. He closes his eyes to the violent sounds of torture. He knows from experience that ‘Loz’ is far less gentle than Yazoo. Even though he’s only been here two days he knows already the only pro to a visit from Loz is the lack of conversation. Yazoo attacks with questions and biting mockery; abusive slaps to his mind as well as his body that alternate in a sickening pattern.
As if on cue he hears a soft, disgusting laugh. “She plays a good game,” Yazoo says and he hears the rustle of leather. He opens his eyes to find himself staring into his captor’s face. “Let’s hope she doesn’t break before you do. That wouldn’t be very fun,” those carnivorous lips framed by silver locks murmur kindly.
“One last chance. Where’s Mother?”
He looks up calmly into those deep eyes that threaten to devour his mind. His head is swooning merely from the motion of rising to meet that gaze. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I can only say she mustn’t love you very much to leave without informing you where she was going,” He says, the one weakness he has found in these silver haired, Mako eyed men so far. It’s his only card to play. It’s the only way he can think to buy time for the President. He does what he can and Yazoo takes the line with a tight smile as Elena’s angry, sobbing curses play like ambient music in his ears.
“Say what you like, Tseng. You’ll regret it in the end.”
A fist slams into the Turk’s head and knocks him to the floor again. On to business.